Origin of a Canid

This blog is not a personal diary or therapeutic inner-monologue.

The world and people around me are far more intriguing and worthy of perlustration.

However, as this little record of those amazing Others gains quiet momentum, I receive more and more inquiries as to the source of my name, Ravedogg.

Yes, to me, it truly is my name, bestowed with humor and oft-repeated in friendship, the endearment magnified by its decade-long endurance.

You won't find me at Burning Man or any illegal warehouse parties downtown.

And if you ever catch me in fluffy neon-colored vests, big hats, and oversized plastic jewelry, you have my permission to perform a mercy killing.

No... Here's where I began:

One fall evening on a college campus along California's south coast, a heavy metal enthusiast found herself blessed with an empty dorm room.

The Gates of Hell had made another trip home for the weekend, and I was flying high on supreme command of the stereo.

[The Gates involve repeated post-shower, full-frontal encounters with lots of Victoria's Secret body lotion... Please don't ask me to relive that in detail.]

I opened a window, flipped on the blacklights, and cranked Pantera up to 'ear bleed'.

Little did I know, down on the sidewalk leading into the building, stood a girl who would become a life-altering inspiration and dear friend.

She looked up at the window and said, "A real Ravedogg must live there."
And once you've piqued her curiosity - it's on.

So there you have it. One seemingly mundane moment setting a lifetime precedent, creating a new identity.

Thank you, Hezzah, for taking the first step in turning a sow's ear into a black leather purse... with lots of surly silver studs.

Who Spiked the Candy?!

Who doesn't like gummie candies?

People who want to avoid date rape, apparently.

While enjoying the delicious and unusual taste of these German gummies, in the fabulous shape of blood drops and skull-and-cross-bones:





I perused the text on the back.....





Can't read small print? Allow me....





Yup. Rape-seed. Thought I felt a little light-headed.


Hey, little pretty, want some candy?

Unwrapping Santa's Package

When Yolondar of Portland first introduced me to St. Nick, I thought, "What a friendly, open, clean-cut young man."

And then I found out about his luscious past: shake that money maker, soldier boy!

As I forced details out of St. Nick, drooling with eager curiosity about a lifestyle I've never known, he buried his chin in his chest and mumbled, reduced to a blushing schoolboy by my exuberant attention. I believe time proved I was not being judgmental, just a devious tease who would say anything to illicit a smile.

By my last day in PDX, he was sharing the contents of his prized boxer collection: that's my boy! Next time I come across boxers with cartoon animals on the bum, they're all yours.

The subject of strippers brings up a topic which has recently been on the minds of friends across the nation: "Are we sluts?"

Not long ago, a good friend confided concern about what they perceived as their tendency towards excessive promiscuity.

I was floored.

This person is amazing: sexy, friendly, loving, sincere, gorgeous inside and out. I would be blessed to be 1/10 as fabulous. I would probably be a lot more comfortable in my skin if I conducted myself with as much strength and courage.

In the clothed light of day, "slut" and "whore" can be venomous and hollow slurs, most often spouted by the jealous and insecure.

It's one thing to Tarzan yell, "You F**ing Bitch; You F**ing Whore" in the bedroom, quite another to spit these words in passive conversation.

Ironically, the most worldly and confidant fret over the same issues as the shy and inexperienced. Most of us are constantly concerned about our perceived inadequacies and failures, even if the rest of the world doesn't notice.

Have not these modern times evidenced the scientific and mathematical inability to quantify/qualify "Normal", "Average"?

Go ahead, my pretties: bitch-slap self-reproach and self-doubt to the floor. Life is too short and you are too brilliant to hide away.

...And the next time you're in Portland, OR, feel free to show St. Nick a little love: tip his good deeds with a fiver in the Jockeys... or a Voodoo Doughnut.

Counting F**ks

Another from Jewels:



I think my love of flamboyant Goth boys began with the count.

That's hot.
[Copyright; TM, R, Paris can lick my nugget, etc.]

Simple Joys

Encouraged by my September 2006 trip to Portland, I made another visit in January 2007.

While standing in the bar line at Hive, I began conversing with Eshin (those of you 'in the know' will understand the pseudonym). I thought he was a dear, so I willingly parted with my e-mail - the real address, not my "Well, you're SPAM" address.

Digital correspondence and blog-sharing have, delightfully, revealed harmonious demeanors and sense of humor.

I lifted this from Eshin's web journal, and I dedicate it to Jewels, with whom I have spent years watching Muppets and other television intended for children:




Thanks, you two, for giving me reasons to smile.
Yip Yip-ee-I yo mama!