On Tuesday, January 10, 2009, New Orleans’ woofers lined both sides of Perdido Street, 6 dogs deep, to witness a most unlikely event; the installation of Lucky Dog as Leader of the Pack.

Every dog, whether black, white, red, yellow, spotted or hairless, watched with bursting pride as Lucky Dog stood in front of City Hall for his Coronation, making him the highest ranking dog in New Orleans.  His rise to the top had not been without obstacles.  Heretofore, and as long as any dog could remember, Lucky’s ancestors had been treated with disdain, hostility, even contempt.  Wrongfully, they had often been regarded as inferior and unworthy, and were never even considered for the ‘Leader of the Pack’ position.  Many were unjustly abused.  Many, also, were slain.  It was unfair but it was real.

The disdain had become traditional.  Misunderstandings and untruths were passed from litter to litter.  Repeated acts of prejudice imprinted themselves onto the genetic code; ingrained hatred evolved, nearly impossible to erase.

Lucky was very special, however, blessed with a nose that could detect mood shifts as well as uncommon scents.   His velvet throat and silver tongue bayed to yearning ears.  Lucky had never led another dog (or cat) down any path but he was somehow able to convince most New Orleans canines to abandon their support for other mutts in the race and vote for him.  Lucky Dog promised hope against hope and change from all ‘bad’ things past.  His message was timely.  The street dogs were hungry.  Past leaders were rebuffed.  Lucky Dog was overwhelmingly chosen Number One; THE ONE.

With his crown in place, he uttered words and phrases from ‘on high’ designed to calm the skeptical dogs of dissent.  ‘We have chosen hope over fear, unity of purpose over conflict and discord.’   ‘We must begin again the work of remaking New Orleans.’   Front page next day US Dog Today pictured Lucky Dog above the sprawling headline

LUCKY PLEDGES TO REMAKE NEW ORLEANS

‘We will not apologize for our way of life nor will we waver in its defense,’ said Lucky.   Really?  Really?

Lucky Dog continued on Coronation Day, ‘Let it be said by our puppies’ puppies that when we were tested we refused to let this journey end, that we did not turn back nor did we falter; and with eyes fixed on the horizon and The Big Dog’s grace upon us, we carried forth that great gift of freedom and delivered it safely to future litters.’

I cried tears of guilty relief.  The underdog had prevailed.  All past inequities, unfairness and injustices were neutralized.   The black dog had risen, no, had been elevated to the top.  The support was unprecedented.  The heartfelt unity was overpowering.  The tears fell and the cheers rose colorlessly together.  It was the moment for which the countryside had waited.  It was magnificent!

New Orleans streets were awash in celebration.  ‘You da Dawg?’ screams careened around City Hall.  Confetti showered down from the rooftops.  Shouts of ‘Greenies for all of dog kind!’.

For days, the dogs of elation wore their cherished garb.  Some donned little doggie caps declaring ‘We were there.’  Others wore red, white and blue collars proudly proclaiming ‘We saw Lucky Dog.’

New Orleans dogs had finally voted for equality.  The hope for this leader’s future was without reservation.

That was then.  This is now.  And these are the lamentations of a Yellow Dog.

What has happened in 12 short months?  Lucky has apologized to the rest of the world for who we are and how we came to be.  He has hung an errant stimulus (debt) over ours and our grand puppies heads.  The World Dog (and cat) Health Plan flies in the face of all who can read or have the spare time to try.  The Lucky Dog Administration now owns car companies & banks.  The Crap, Gas & Trade (CG&T) legislation and its responsible Phart Czar, will raise the cost of electricity in the name of global cooling.  Lucky and his Czars continue their misguided efforts to close Dogtanamo Bay (DTMO).   Guilty terrorist dogs from DTMO are now being given protection under the Constitution of the United States of America while we, the everyday dogs, pay the bills to insure security around the trial court venue.  Leading dogs from other supposed friendly packs now question Lucky’s judgement and strength of will as he waffles and dithers around on enormous decisions; whether to fight or turn tail and run from the usual gang of bully dogs.   The endless apologies for New Orleans dogs’ ways of life; the whimpering, bowing and scraping to dogs from Downtown, Uptown, Mid-City and the rest of Orleans Parish, have become boring and redundant, tedious and trite.  And the eternal blaming of past Leaders of the Pack; great dogs in heaven, Lucky, please stop!

Finally, for now, we will defend our turf for ONLY a designated time.  When that time arrives, win lose of draw, we’ll abandon the fight.  Good grief.

These are but a few of the reasons to mourn and grieve for opportunities lost, for the squandering of hard earned past successes achieved with spilled warm blood and splattered guts.  These are sorrowful milestones.  These are actions of fools and mongrels blinded by ideology, self-interests and the misuse of power.

We the dogs missed the words’ simplistic meanings.  Lucky said them to our face.  They were clearly spoken for us to hear, and written for us to read and understand.  Instead, the pack reacted in unbidden and involuntary trance, swept away by mindless hope and the desire for viable, meaningful change.

Where is the hope now?  The changes suck!

‘We must begin again the work of remaking New Orleans.’  How did we miss that ominous warning?

And thus these lamentations of a Yellow Dog. . . .

The Wisdom of Willie Bean

Willie ‘Every Dog is NOT a King’ Bean.

It’s time for you to keep what you’ve earned.  It’s time for you to STOP big government from stealing your assets.  It’s time for you to give what you will to the dogs (and cats) you so choose.  The forced imposition of the Share Our Wealth Society is finished.  Ideological inspiration and Socialism are kaput.  Financial redistribution won’t play well at the Kennel Club.   Wake up New Orleans!  Read the Constitution of the United States of America.

Elect the NEW BREED Willie ‘Every Dog is not a King’ Bean Roscoe P. Coltrane.  Get spending under control with Ropes & Chains you can believe in.

Also, send Money and Greenies to Willie’s campaign headquarters…

Lucas (Lukey), a Battles Wharf Designer Dog, has been named PHART CZAR of Fairhope, new Plan Director for the proposed Crap, Gas & Trade legislation designed to establish acceptable future levels of dog poops and toots.   Believe me, he has earned the title.  The PHART CZAR will identify emission offenders, dogs who poop and toot excessively, as well as their compliant counterparts.  The output of non-compliant large emission producers will be averaged with non-offenders to ascertain punishment or reward, depending.  While actual dog crap should be measureable and recordable, gas releases will remain more enigmatic, if not aromatic, and somewhat difficult to quantify.  That will be the PHART CZAR’s biggest challenge, CFM notwithstanding.   

He must hold his head high, nose to the wind and follow each trail every scent of the way.  Even so, the task may still overcome him.

The Dog Czars of Fairhope

The Big Dog Jumps into the New Orleans Mayoral Race

Willie Bean Roscoe P Coltrane, a New Orleans native, announces his run for mayor, bringing with him a fresh approach to politics and a mission to bring economic and environmental renewal to the city.Willie embodies the Spirit of New Orleans in many ways and his leadership is characterized by honesty, loyalty, and integrity. He loves the New Orleans culture and people and strongly believes in being active in the community. Deeply committed to a New Orleans renaissance, Willie only does his business locally. He epitomizes the possibilities of the great American Dream.

Robert E. Lee, a King Charles Spaniel, has been appointed ARF CZAR of Fairhope.  ‘Robbie’ is the overly friendly Greeter at Zia, 300 Fairhope Avenue.  He’s a real big talker, thus ARF CZAR.  He is also a real ‘Piece of Work’ which qualified him for the Fairhope Piece Prize.   Robby has ascended to the heights, nearly, of Lucky Dog, the Leader of the Pack.  The similarities are astounding; a Big Talking Piece Prize Winner.

Robbie’s best friend and playmate, Hope, is a big black cat.  That’s cool…

The Dog Czars of Fairhope

Mmm, mmm, mm!
Willie Bean of Bama

He said that he was just the one
To make Fairhope a bit more fun.
Mmm, mmm, mm!
Willie Bean of Bama.

He ran for mayor, almost won
And Kant you see the job’s not done.
Mmm, mmm, mm!
Willie Bean of Bama.

He said more politics remain
So watch him launch a new campaign.
Mmm, mmm, mm!
Willie Bean of Bama.

Help put this dog back in the fight
And turn all wrongs back into right
Mmm, mmm, mm!
Willie Bean of Bama.

Mmm, mmm, mm!

The Wisdom of Willie Bean.

Basset Hound Ruby Sue, Employee of the Month (again), East Bay Engraving & Gallery, 300 Fairhope Avenue,  has just been appointed TART CZAR for the Lucky Dog administration’s ‘inner circle’.   Ruby Sue’s current job description includes the monitoring of Red Dye #9’s use in red toenail paint production.   As an additional duty, she oversees Fairhope’s banking system.

The Dog Czars of Fairhope

Last evening, I lapped up a remnant puddle of warm beer which had spilled onto the kitchen floor.  As I later relaxed beneath the dining room table, my friends were talking from above; about me.  I heard them use my name.  ‘That Willie, he sure has it good.’  Or, she might have said, ‘Bad Willie, his head is like wood.’   Or, it may have been, ‘Fat Willie, he’d quit if he could.’  Doesn’t matter the context, they were talking about ME.  I loved it!

I listened and smiled to myself,  drifting slowly toward sleep. The last thing I heard was something about a bone in the back yard; digging up a large bone…bone digging….huge…bigger than…laugh laugh…Willie…good night.

I floated dreamily through the back door.  I didn’t remember that it was a French door but it must have been.  Only the top half was open as my cloudlike body glided toward the courtyard behind.  The moon seemed Louisiana.  It illuminated an enormous Cheshire Cat balloon, with purple and gold sparkles for fur, hanging weightlessly above the granite and grass.  The balloon wore Budweiser beads.  Her eyes flashed open.  I was pretty certain she was female.  You can’t be sure about cats.  

She whispered, ‘Willie, you big beautiful yellow boy dog.’  She then spat.  I floated closer.  ‘Yes?’  The smell of Magnolia perfume screamed about my nose.    

‘Willie, Willie, Willie,’ she purred.  ‘Would you like to see my Greenie?  It may be too much for you.’  

‘No way,’ I thought.  I’d never seen a Greenie that was too big.  Too chewy, maybe, but never too big!  I loved a challenge.  I hoped that we were talking about an actual Greenie and not a cat’s interpretation of a Greenie or a cat’s body part.  Cats are weird, you know.  Anyway, I don’t think cats eat Greenies.  Do they?  She gestured toward the ground below.  I saw what appeared to be the nub of a green bone protruding from the grass.  Thank goodness.  

‘It’s yours if you can chew it,’ she meowed.

I swiped at it once with my right front paw.  The ground opened to reveal the biggest chew bone I’d ever seen.  It barely fit into my dreamlike state.  It was awesome.  How could I possibly drag it into my world.   I could not.  It was too big.  I would take only what I could handle.  I would be conservative.  I would be sensible.  I began biting through the chew, worried that I may be taking on too much; that I couldn’t handle the size of the piece.  What if this self inflicted challenge was too overwhelming?  What if I could not do justice to this piece? What if it got the best of me?  What if I failed?

The she-cat air bag expanded, wildly distorting her features.  She continued to morph, filling the entire courtyard dream scene.  She showed me her mojo root.  I was in a trance now, under her spell.  ‘I’ll do anything you say.’  Rain came down.  Steam rose above iron gates.  Storm clouds raced, flickering across the moon.

Her face twisted.  She laughed with mocking glee… and then she hissed.  ‘Take off a bigger piece, Willie.  You can do it.  Remember Dog Rule #5!’

‘Bite off more than you can chew; then chew it!’   

I awakened; hungry for a challenge but smelling of stale beer.  

The Wisdom of Willie Bean; and Duane

When does the future become the present?  

I know the answer.  My eyes blink in the present then open in the future .  But then it’s the present again.  I amaze myself.

The next example is more complicated.  A $787 billion ‘stimulus’, unread in the past by any representative of us dogs, was reportedly designed to halt the loss of present jobs while creating jobs in the future.   Hasn’t worked yet.  Me and the boys could have done better, at least with the future.  We’d start by appointing an Official Money Counter?  Counting 787 billion anythings would take  a very long time, so we would expect that new job to be permanent.  Then we could say that the Official Money Counter job was actually ‘created’ in the present, for the future.  It didn’t exist in the past.  Now it does.  The score for new jobs creation in the FUTURE would be ONE (1).      

How about an Energy Plan, which presently sits awaiting passage?  Future emissions trading, Crap, Gas & Trade (CG&T), is looming for Fairhope dogs.  Unknown and unaccountable cats will establish acceptable levels for total emissions of dog poops & toots.  Non-compliant dogs, dogs that poop & toot too much, can buy emissions credits from compliant dogs in order to be more non-compliant.  It just takes money…or food.  An emissions offender could trade  a bowl of kibbles and 2 Milk Bones for 1 extra poop in combination with 5 extra toots.   Dog owners will necessarily pay more for kibbles and Milk Bones.  It’s a dubius future, at best.     

Besides, why would cats be allowed to establish acceptable levels of anything?  

Thankfully, no present trader would be allowed to ‘corner the market’ on all future poops OR toots.  After all, dogs need a little of both to maintain a healthy portfolio.   The program awaits approval in the present so that a future Plan Director can be appointed; the Phart Czar.   

Cash for Slackers:  $3 billion earmarked for the future replacement of present non-productive dogs, now already in the past.   If a dog in your pack is not pulling his/her own weight, you may advise the Big House via email, identifying the slacker by name, breed, weight and general physical characteristics, as well as his/her last known location.  A Cash for Slackers  representative will arrive, mach schnell, in a specially equipped truck.  The slacker will be ‘collected and processed’.  A new and more efficient worker dog will be assigned to your pack.  You will be given $4,500 in cash credits against your next visit to the vet, where you’ll be neutered and implanted with your ‘new world chip’ and vaccinated against the old Republic.  Also, you’ll receive prescription drugs to alter your Constitution.  Reimbursement to be forwarded, in the future, following appropriate paperwork.  Don’t hold your breath.  

Health Care:     http://blog.williebeanformayor.com/2009/08/20/world-dog-and-cat-health-plan

Great news for the future!  Dogs will be safe from being shot because people will no longer have guns.  The Blair Holt Firearm Licensing & Record of Sale Act of 2009 (H.R. 45) is set to be the beginning of the end of gun ownership.  Taking off one’s shirt will be the only approved way to bear arms, in the future.  

Are you ready for the future?  Me neither.  Bark up!  Contact your elected officials.   The future is…now.  

The Wisdom of Willie Bean