My Name Is Linda Poodle

For a dreamy but evanescent moment I got to be one of the 5500 (!) lucky ones who are in the SFShiba conversation on Facebook. The man has a gif or a YouTube clip or a movie title or chesty quote for every situation. It’s such a singular skill he should get paid for it.

I don’t know how I slipped through the Facebook-SF gates, which have broken glass and jaguar teeth embedded along the top. It was temporary of course, but for a minute I got to see what the other 99 percent get from the Big Guy. (see above: gifs, etc.) But if I enter “SFShiba” into the little form at the top of a FB page, I get a lot of names, none of them SFShiba. This fascinates me, this ability to dematerialize and at the same time advertise oneself. I know a little bit about advertising and picking one’s spots – you don’t spit into the wind – and SF’s coy skill fascinates and defeats me. He collected 5500 admirers by doing it his way but I’m not one of them because I am bad. I recognized him. And they’re still calling him “Papa”!

This FB thing has something to do with changing names, so now he’s  So strange, this not naming names, and I love the current trope: we are our dogs. Never give your real name – it’s like something out of an 80’s detective show, or maybe it’s a California thing. Earthquakes and waves and weed and soporific weather that turns everybody into a nasturtium. I did love the nasturtiums, but the swagger seems make-believe to me. Like the tall black man on the beach at Bolinas who stuck his head in our car window to say something strangely fake-friendly and clearly meant to be menacing. But the man had daisies in his hair, which made his whole schtick into evidence of a fundamental misunderstanding about what scares a white lady from Back East. Lose the daisies, dude, and carry a weapon. Then I’m scared.

And I’m personally incapable of calling the man Papa, not that I’d ever have the chance again. And really, do I want a papa who says he “don’t pay to play”? Heh. I just love that. He swishes his carrot hair, pulls himself up to his full 6’3″ (we know because he told us) sucks in the gut and says he don’t pay to play. Gotta love the man.

I was never going to write (or think) about the man and his cult again. I had had enough of the mind-explosions that come with persistent ability of his exponents to unsee the already-seen. Seriously how do they do that? Private emails abound about his hair (personally I think he was doing a carrot citation when he dyed it), for example, but officially Who Cares and If You Do You Should Be Reported. I think it was the recent Canada Day that’s elicited this sad re-blubbering of the insignificant. Because when the puppy cam dogs showed up wearing the blasted maple-leaf kerchiefs BAF had sent, I reverted to a foot-stomping four-year-old. I seriously am still mind-boggled at her ability to do the white-is-black thing. I’ve tried, but I can’t unsee the seen or unknow the known. Those would be such useful skills. Save a person a lot of tsouris.

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