Everything, it’s broken.

There’s this guy that works at Trader Joe’s. He’s usually the only check out guy when they first open in the morning, which is the only time I can deal with the irritation called grocery shopping. He’s oldish. Wears his pants tight and white and pulled up way past his waist. Hair looks like he stuck a finger in a socket, but it might just be self permed or maybe the fiasco when curly hair is whisper thin and not at all healthy. Leathery old skin and a throaty old voice, and man oh man, is the guy addled. Starts rambling on instead of checking out the food, and one of those food commenters, so will tell you a tail about your cereal or how much he likes tangerines and then that gets him off on a tangent about the cops or local politics that just sounds a little bit off. Leans in a little bit too close, over the cash register, starts throaty loud whispering about aliens and counterfit bills, but not in a good way, if you know what I mean.

i guess it’s good he’s got a job. Because he seems like a little bit on the verge of living under a black trash bag under the levee out back of their parking lot. Hollering throaty voiced politics out to anyone that will listen.

The other Trader Joe’s workers, all tatto’ed and horn rimmed glasses and skater shoes, make fun of him under their breaths. Call him mean old names. No one likes him.

He’s broken. The guy maybe can’t help it, had a little too much ’60’s or who knows. But it’s just how he’s ended up.

Stuff breaks. And if you don’t fix it right, ends up like the Trader Joe’s guy. Or worse.

Like my blog. Broken. I won’t tell you about the hoops I just jumped through to so I could give you this important information about a fried hair, croaking, tight pant high waisted wackadoodle. Blogger fixers, help me! Please make my blog work!

Or Gustavo. My brave and fast future champion, he got broken. Started last weekend, wasn’t sure what was happening, seemed ok all week, and this weekend, yeah. He’s broken. What used to be the best thing ever, running with him at his crazy speed, hoping he’d go through his poles and hit his contacts, turned into him having a panic attack just setting foot in the dog show ring. Dunno what did it. I thought it started when his ass got slammed with the teeter. But seems like so much more. Those blowing tarps that kept spooking him? Spending a couple days in an xpen right by a ring and staying wound up all that time? Hammering? Yammering? Watching a dog fight happen right in front of him? All those things implode into the final storm?

It was sad. Tried to just get him in the ring to do a couple easy things, then run out and play and he was fried. Nice start, couple obstacles then bolt for the score table and hide. And hide. He’s hiding under a table. I just wanted to cry.

So he’s going on vacation for a while. Not really sure exactly what broke, or why, but something in there snapped. I staged an intervention and he started agility rehab on Sunday and hopefully his brain mends.

Maybe they fix my blog thing too.