The day after picking Miles up we went to the Prairie Island Deer Park to take him out for a walk. It was snowy and after letting him off his leash Miles disappeared from sight – but only for a few moment, seconds later he was back and that would prove to be his nature for the rest of his life. Never far away. Always with his pack.

Miles had numerous nicknames. You always nickname the one you love and we loved Miles so much. He was known as:

Miles Davios. Milosh. Milosevic, The Budget, The Boo-Gee-Wan, The Mile-la-nator, Miles of Smiles, Smiley, Fatsie, Fats-la-rats, Yoshi, Prince of the Forest, Snort Snoot, Chaz, Caterpillar, Shiz-wan and so many more…

He loved to sing. His favorite song was Love Hurts. Miles’ voice shot out pure and true like a lovely oboe from a Mozart song.

Miles was gentle and a stoic. He allowed many doggy rides from Rhen and always hid his discomfort from us.

During the summer while we would shoot hoops, Miles would chill on the top of our front steps, scenting the night air while watching the cars drift by on our busy street. Miles never needed a leash because he was always about being with the pack.

In the end, Miles succumbed to kidney failure, which is common in Shelties. Two months ago he was diagnosed with pancreatitis which we treated him with a bland diet of boiled chicken and other low fat foods. The numbers after his blood test showed that he had done well with our change of diet however his kidney’s did not fair so well during this times. The veterinarian told us we could run dialysis on him which would buy him approximately 3 days to 5 months. No crystal ball. No guarantees. In the end our vet suspected cancer would be found to be the root cause of it. But once again, no clear answers without running the tests and treatment.

God bless those of the animal health care profession. Our vets were so humane and  kind to us.

Miles, I love you. Go softly baby dog. I will never forget you and all the adventures we had together. Teddy Bear. You are the Prince of the Forest and we will see again one day.

(Love Hurts)

I can’t help to think (and oh, the irony) that this sort of “romantic” idea of activism (I mean, people looked pretty awesome) was packaged and sold in 1 hour infomercial spots by Time-Life Warner and that it never really existed at all.

Like C_ , in less than a month, I too, will enter into the final year of my 30s (RIP YOUTH) but I’m OK with that because I’ve practiced being 44 years old for the past year and I will surely be celebrating my birthday at Jenpachi full of life, steak and sake.

Over the weekend me, Chris L., Rhen and Christi went over to Silver Lake skate park to mix shit up with the groms and locals. I don’t have a deep bag of tricks but Chris can reach into 20 some plus years of skating and pull out tricks that one youngster described as, “180 heel flip up that? Now that’s just crazy. It’s not like you’re on the flat or anything.”

The whole afternoon was general shenangians. There were layback bert slides, a tre flip over the euro gap, sitting down skateboarding races with 6 year old kids and the spiritual implications of skating switch stance (Why would you do that? It’s not right. God does not approve.)

Toward the end of the session Chris and I were sitting on the sidelines resting and planning on packing it up and heading over to the park where Rhen and C_ had relocated. We reflected upon the afternoon. There was Chris’ midlife crisis by the hubba ledges where we continued to ask the question “What is the point?” before each trick that could possibly involve a trip to the emergency room and a cast. There was the teenage girl who evenhandedly insulted me and complimented me in one fell swoop, “The reason why you can’t do it is because you’re old but you’re still a really good skater!”

Like I said, harmless shenanigans (like the dream I had about filling up the Amish’s water jugs) but it all led up to the meeting with the man we refer to as “Tweaker Dude”. Chris says there’s one at every park. A half decent skater filled to gills with meth or speed or whatever you can smoke in tinfoil. Imagine someone speaking with a loud gravely monotone voice the entire time. No nuance. No Pat Sajack smugly completing the puzzle for the confused contestants.

So we’re sitting there, minding our business when Tweaker Dude rolls on. He’s carrying a twelver of Sprite. “DOES ANYONE WANT A SPRITE? I HAVE A SPRITE.”  Chris takes one from him but I decline on the basis that I’d feel like I would owe him something and I’m already getting a bad vibe. I timidly reach for the cooler my wife has lovingly packed for me and pull out a diet Mountain Dew.

“IS THAT A BEER? I’D LOVE TO HAVE A BEER. DIET MOUNTAIN DEW? THAT’S LAME.”  I regret not packing my one can of Four Loko I have chilling in the fridge.

At this point he furiously pushes three hard pumps towards the quarter pipe, five-o’s and reverts out, jumps off his board and begins chewing on the metal coping. GNAR GNAR GNAR GNAR.

It’s a short hallucination and by the time I check back into reality he’s trying to fakie 180 heel flip on the pyramid in front of us. He misses but has enough momentum to kick the board as hard he can toward a bunch of skaters and BMXers. He snaps up his board and proceeds to tells us that his girlfriend is sitting behind us. I turn around to see a lithe fawn-eyed girl with her nose pierced. She meekly smiles back and I assume she’s his drug dealer. Working on the weekends always sucks.

He reads my Lowcard hat and tells me that “we” were just talking about cards. I nervously laugh and answer that cards are fun to talk about. Tweaker Dude asks us where we are from. Chris responds “Winona. We’re Winona dudes.”  Tweaker Dude is unimpressed and yells, “NO WAY. I’VE BEEN TO WINONA A HUNDRED TIMES AND I’VE NEVER SEEN EITHER ONE OF YOU. SO YOU GUYS LIKE TO COME OVER TO ROCHESTER AND SKATE?” Chris calmly answers, “only when God let’s us”. At his point I can only put my head down and silently roll with laughter. It’s too late for us. Tweaker Dude asks if we’re religious or some shit. I  answer that only when it comes to skating switch because it’s the devil’s work. He’s not in the mood for our shit and proceeds to molest an innocent BMXer making his way to the quarter (I PROMISE I WON’T HIT YOU) The last I see Tweaker Dude he’s sprinting like a hungered wolf on all fours across the soccer fields after a gaggle of Canadian Geese. It’s not unexpected. I sigh a breath of relief.

We have lunch at Chipotle’s and make up more stories of Tweaker Dude. I feel bad for the guy. Shit, like Chris said, there’s one at every park. I don’t think he was intentionally an asshole. Just high. The moral of the story and everything. We made a few skate videos but not worth posting on a blog. One make and two misses on the quarter that Tweaker Dude chewed on. It was a beautiful day and I was not in the mood to capture a day on film when shenanigans, tre-flips over the euro gap and the Tweaker Dude are more than enough.

Surprisingly though, people hang storm doors ALL THE TIME. Progress marches on and people drink Mimosas on Sunday morning. What the hell. It can be done.

Directions, lolz.

At one point the directions ask me to subtract 1/8 from both measurements to “allow space”. Lolz. Allow space? This house was built in 1922. It’s got plenty of space. It’s roomy in the crotch. Let’s not subtract 1/8 of anything and just put our eyeballing skills to good use. Get over yourself Mr. Technical Writer. You’re a dick.

It takes me about an hour to switch the “z-bars” so it opens from the left. It’s confusing. I’m easily confused too. I don’t even know what a z-bar is until my neighbor John points it out to me. He easily saves me three hours of work. Also, there are hinges and when there are hinges mistakes are bound to happen. Figuring out which way the hinge opens is like quantum physics or some shit.

Things are going swimmingly until it asks me to measure point A and point B. Measure for what? I call for help. My lovely wife Christi answers the call. From where to where do we measure point A and B? The diagram might as well be a hieroglyphic. It’s asking me to figure out the slope of the door sill in order to cut the proper length and angle off of the “z-bar”. Whatever. I understand it in some vague abstract way but it is too futile to put the theory into practice. By now I’m on my second PBR and the cursing is flowing but I am nothing short of determined to hang this mofo. I eyeball it and cut away with my hacksaw. Good eyeballing. Christi agrees. Eff you again Mr. Technical Writer. I see your 1/8 and raise you another.

We go off script a little on the assembly steps of the actual hanging of the door. Putting the top z-bar on last seemed like a recipe for disaster so we did it first. That worked out swell. By the time we got to assembling the latch and handle  the instructions asked my to drill three 5/16th inch holes to mount the handles. It seemed like awfully big holes to be drilling considering the size of the interlocking attachments. Christi questioned it but I said I was taking this one on faith. I drilled the holes and it worked out. What else?

Shims. I suppose every old doorway is a little fucked up. We had to shim the strike plate an additional plastic piece so it would reach the latch. I found a quarter inch riser pad for my skateboard and cut it down to size. A perfect fit. That’s how you do it when you own a house built before The Great Depression. Did I tell you that it is also haunted? Yes, it is. His name is John and he hangs in the kitchen. He should be very pleased with the new storm door that enters into the kitchen. It’s a little upgrade for him.

We still have to prime and paint the trim around the newly installed door. Details details details but I’m not going to sweat it. It only took us four hours to put this door in. What’s another two hours painting and installing the other features that came with it? All in good time. I’m just happy we have a new door. It opens easily and closes with a satisfying click. It has a legit lock on it (not a hook) and has sliding window panes that allows air flow to enter the kitchen in a way never possible before. I can FEEL the difference.

Do I advise that you do this? No. Hardly. This is beyond you. The only way we made it work was through brute force and the collective wisdom and patience of 12 years of marriage. We don’t kid ourselves or hold back. Rulers are nice but neither one of us is ashamed to admit what the exact effect of missing an eighth of an inch is going to have on the overall results. It’s a judgement call. It’s eyeballing it. A minor detail in the big scheme of things when hanging a storm door.

Tonight I caught myself singing a verse of Waylon Jennings’ “Luckenback Texas” while putting together hamburger patties.

This successful life we’re livin’ got us feudin’ like the Hatfields and McCoys

Rhen is watching Johnny Test and eating Doritos while he waits for dinner. Thinking back to my childhood and hearing my dad singing those old country songs I now know that this is the sound of security. The sound of a family that is comfortable. Figuring that if your dad can sing country songs while making dinner as the summer dwindles on – things can’t be all that bad.

For one, Independent Trucks are thee best (notice the extra e!).

Two, Pacifico beer is thee best (notice the extra e!).

Three, Lowcard Magazine is thee best (you know, extra e!) skateboard magazine ever.

And yes, I am still obsessed with The Virgin Suicides but I will admit, the last time I watched the Cecilia suicide scene I got extra depressed and I think it stayed with me for a couple days. It’s a heavy movie. Virgins. Suicides. Five of them. Spoiler?

Keep it classy people.