Grab a Cognac and a Cigar, Gents! We're Going to the Loo!

Copyright 2012 Lacy Jo Davis

An Open Letter to Larry Young, CEO and Bungler-in-Chief of Dr Pepper

Dear Mr. Young:

An old show biz adage says you are only remembered for what you did last. If that adage is true, there is only one thing you will always be remembered for in the annals of Texas history: The Death of Dublin Dr Pepper.

When news broke on this story, those of us who grew up in Texas had many thoughts race through our heads. Of course, we will miss the soda, but what struck me most powerfully, as many fellow Texans, was what will happen to the town of Dublin? A town whose entire identity for 121 years was Dr Pepper? And furthermore, how was it even possible that a group of level-headed executives gathered in a board room somewhere in Plano did not ponder the atomic shockwave of disgust, sadness, and anger that would rip across Texas and even the world when this decision was made? It's almost miraculous how you found a way to piss off a million Texans at once. Honestly, before you ended production of Dublin Dr Pepper, I didn't even know it was possible.

It truly doesn't take more than about a third grade education to add these things up:

1. Dublin Dr Pepper is a cherished, venerated, honored Texas institution, a cultural icon only 46 years younger than the state of Texas itself. An icon, no less, which ranks right up there with the armadillo and The Alamo.

2. Ending this or changing it in any matter will do irreparable damage to your company's image.

Is this really that complicated?

As predictable as a windy day in Van Horn, once the news broke Dublin Dr Pepper supporters took to social media to level their backlash at Dr Pepper. Moderators of Dr Pepper's Facebook page initially started deleting comments about Dublin, but then the flood gates opened and THOUSANDS of people showed their support for Dublin Dr Pepper.

In what easily has to be The Most Epic Social Media Fail of the 21st Century, angry Dublin Dr Pepper customers commandeered the Dr Pepper Facebook page and it became a forum for not only displaying their disgust, but for organizing anti-Dr Pepper protests, circulating online petitions (which so far have garnered more than 20,000 signatures) and promoting OTHER soft drinks.

What was Dr Pepper's response to this historical, impossible-to-ignore uprising of its customers? What was their response to this colossal public relations FAIL?

Nothing. *Crickets chirping*

Dr Pepper's response to this cataclysmic uprising against its brand and image was to do and say absolutely nothing, which only fanned the fires of disgust. Meanwhile, people all over the state of Texas were beginning to realize what exactly life without Dublin Dr Pepper means. It's not about a soda - it's about the frightening gap between the way things once were and where they are going. Dublin Dr Pepper was as nostalgic as any product could ever be. We all drank it as kids, we all took the tour in Dublin. Dublin Dr Pepper represented sunny days, childhood, innocence. Dublin Dr Pepper represented everything that was RIGHT about America.

Enter: Corporate Dr Pepper, who dishonorably stole that innocence and expects us to blithely and mindlessly drink their "new" original drink, wrapped in "nostalgic packaging." Can I be honest? Texans don't appreciate having corporate products shoved down our throats. Do you really think some corporate knock off of an impossible- to- replace Texas tradition will suffice? Really?

Well guess what, Mr. Young...IT WON'T.

You see Mr. Young, Dublin Dr Pepper IS Texas, and Texas IS Dublin Dr Pepper. To shamelessly and recklessly try to separate the two for a buck is downright despicable. If you and your cohorts had any sense at all, you would have exploited Dublin Dr Pepper's popularity to your advantage. As my friend Andy Blanchard pointed out, you had at your disposal what every soft drink producer DREAMS of: a unique product with a cult following, whose supporters would drive to the ends of the earth to buy.

And what did you do with this gold mine? You squashed it. You left your brain in baggage claim and decided that ending the production of this product was a good idea.

Let me take a moment to explain some very important marketing concepts to you. When I think of Dublin Dr Pepper's demise I immediately see images of the Kloster family crying as they talk about Dublin Dr Pepper's demise. I see images of people pouring Dr Pepper down the toilet and every Dr Pepper sign in Dublin being painted over or ripped apart.

These are the lasting images of your actions and consequently, Dr Pepper has suffered irreparable damage to its image and hopefully its sales. What you traded for a piddly licensing disagreement was massive damage to Dr Pepper's image that will take years to fix, if ever.

Was it worth it?

Now, the canned response to all this outcry by Dr Pepper customer service reps has been "The original formula is still available." I would like to repeat this again because apparently no one is getting the message:

THIS IS NOT JUST ABOUT A SODA. This is about tradition, a small town, a way of life - all of which was destroyed by your greedy actions. Until the Kloster family is producing Dublin Dr Pepper again, none of us will be happy.

Oh, and one more thing. By God, it better say "Dublin Dr Pepper" on the label.

I have heard a few people here or there blame Dublin Dr Pepper for being in the wrong. Blaming the victim will never get you far. This was a classic case of a company with an endless stream of revenue and lawyers versus a family owned company that had to start a legal fund. So we all know when Dr Pepper says "we've reached an agreement with Dublin Dr Pepper" what it really means is "we have more money and more lawyers and they waved the white flag of surrender."

So how do you fix this epic public relations disaster, Mr Young? It's really quite simple. You restore the production of Dublin Dr Pepper in the town of Dublin, Texas, and then you try something any Texan could have told you would work.

You embrace Dublin Dr Pepper. You mass produce it. You make it available to the whole country. You help the the whole world realize why Texans have been in love with Dublin Dr Pepper for 121 years.

Lastly, if your company's modus operandi (if you even have one) for this colossal failure is to "wait till it blows over" I hate to tell you this but it won't work. Do you remember the Alamo? That was 175 years ago and last time I checked people are STILL talking about it people and people STILL remember it. This whole "Dublin Dr Pepper" thing is not going away. If anything it's just getting started. The list of notable names who have publicly admonished your company is growing by the day and will keep growing. There's only one way to fix this, Mr. Young. Simply admit you were wrong and BRING BACK DUBLIN DR PEPPER!

REMEMBER DUBLIN!!

Sincerely,

Winston Hall

For All the Saints - The Story of Ben Bohmfalk

Lampasas, Texas - Last Friday, I awoke early and traveled to Texs to attend the memorial service for The Reverend Ben H. Bohmfalk, known far and wide simply as Brother Ben. At and hour and half, his service seemed woefully short. By any other standard, that would be a long service. But not for Brother Ben.

You see, Brother Ben was 103 years old.

I got to know Brother Ben as a child growing up in the First United Methodist Church in Lampasas, Texas. I always had a skewed sense of who Brother Ben was because he was 75 years old when I was born. To me, he was always old. I had no concept of what a young Brother Ben would have been like. All I can do is read about his exploits and hear stories.

Brother Ben was born in April of 1907 during the second Teddy Roosevelt administration. He was ordained as a deacon in 1933. His first ride in a car was a Model T. He lived and preached the Gospel all over the country from Texas to Maine. He was in his thirties when World War II broke out, and he served as a chaplain on military transport ships and all the way to Guadalcanal in the Pacific Theater. He lived an epic life, in measure, when you consider not just how long he lived, but when he lived. His life criss-crossed an era of the American story that the rest of us read about only in history books. Also, unbelievably, Brother Ben was older than the states of Oklahoma, New Mexico, Arizona, Alaska, and Hawaii. When he died, he was a week past 103 years old.

I did the math. If you read the entire book on American history, it would cover 234 years. At 103, Brother Ben had lived through and seen with his own eyes 44.1 percent of everything that could ever be considered American history.

That's epic.

Beyond American history, Brother Ben's life covered the Methodist Church history as well. The United Methodist Church was formally created in 1968, when Brother Ben was 61 years old. Brother Ben was good friends with my grandmother Dorothy Payne, who died in 2004 at the age of 96. "Mimi" was a devout Methodist as well and had been teaching Sunday school since she was 15 years old. She is the only person I knew of, aside from Brother Ben, who had formally taught the Gospel for eighty years.

Mimi and Brother Ben came from a different era that no matter how hard we try, we can not fully appreciate. I remember Brother Ben was always dressed formally, even in the summers when I would go with Harry Hollister to his house at nine in the morning. It modern slang, he was "old school." They experienced examples of the rich Methodist history that we never really will, like outdoor revivals and encampments by the river, hearing the Gospel under a shade tree, and being born in an era, unimaginably, when horseback was still the preferred method of travel. During the funeral, I found myself crying more than expected, I think in part because of an incident that happened when Mimi was dying in 2004. Brother Ben, who was 97 at the time, traveled to see Mimi, knowing she was slipping away. There they were, him at her bedside, two aged saints of the faith, professors of the Gospel, and I wondered what they would say to each other. Mimi turned to Brother Ben and with a concrete faith said "I will see you in the Glorious Program." She died several days later.

It was simple, and profound. They both new they were on this side of death, not long to be on the other. That scene has stuck with me for years and I relived it again Friday. I thought about Mimi and Brother Ben together again in the Glorious Program. It is a generation of old, gone forever and it conjures up all kinds of emotions in me, the least of which is an infinite sadness lessened only by the undeniable shoring up it gives my faith.

At the service, the first song they sang was an old Methodist hymn. I feel obliged to include the entire hymn because Brother Ben's wife of seventy years, Rubye, really thought it was not fair to leave out a verse of a hymn. (She would say, "Why are you leaving out the third verse? How would you like it if you were the third verse?")

For All the Saints

For all the saints, who from their labors rest,Who Thee by faith before the world confessed,Thy Name, O Jesus, be forever blessed.Alleluia, Alleluia!

Thou wast their Rock, their Fortress and their Might;Thou, Lord, their Captain in the well fought fight;Thou, in the darkness drear, their one true Light.Alleluia, Alleluia!

For the Apostles’ glorious company,Who bearing forth the Cross o’er land and sea,Shook all the mighty world, we sing to Thee:Alleluia, Alleluia!

For the Evangelists, by whose blest word,Like fourfold streams, the garden of the Lord,Is fair and fruitful, be Thy Name adored.Alleluia, Alleluia!

For Martyrs, who with rapture kindled eye,Saw the bright crown descending from the sky,And seeing, grasped it, Thee we glorify.Alleluia, Alleluia!

O blest communion, fellowship divine!We feebly struggle, they in glory shine;All are one in Thee, for all are Thine.Alleluia, Alleluia!

O may Thy soldiers, faithful, true and bold,Fight as the saints who nobly fought of old,And win with them the victor’s crown of gold.Alleluia, Alleluia!

And when the strife is fierce, the warfare long,Steals on the ear the distant triumph song,And hearts are brave, again, and arms are strong.Alleluia, Alleluia!

The golden evening brightens in the west;Soon, soon to faithful warriors comes their rest;Sweet is the calm of paradise the blessed.Alleluia, Alleluia!

But lo! there breaks a yet more glorious day;The saints triumphant rise in bright array;The King of glory passes on His way.Alleluia, Alleluia!

From earth’s wide bounds, from ocean’s farthest coast,Through gates of pearl streams in the countless host,And singing to Father, Son and Holy Ghost:Alleluia, Alleluia!

Brother Ben was full of suprises, like at the age of 100 when he could still rattle off the Twelve Tribes of Israel faster than I could say "I don't know even ONE of the Twelve Tribes of Israel." Brother Ben even surprised me once when he showed up at my college graduation in San Angelo in 2004 with Harry and Dorothy Hollister. I guess he just wanted to go on a road trip. He suprised me again when he started speaking in German to one of my classmate who was a foreign exchange student from Germany. It was that spirit of adventure and willingness to go and do which I believe made his life all the more amazing. When I received news that he had died, I remembered that Brother Ben was willing to travel for me, so I thought I would return the favor. You know, come to think of it, I never thought he would actually die.

Like I said, he was full of surprises.

Before he passed away, Brother Ben said he had more friends in Heaven than he did on earth, and that he wanted to see Rubye and many of the other loved ones he had said goodbye to along the way. He died on April 17, 2010, having fought the good fight and lived a remarkable life. Brother Ben's life's meaure was a simple one, I think. Live well and preach the Word of God to anyone who would listen.

Well done, good and faithful servant. Well done.

"I Was a Ragamuffin Once"

Shreveport, La - This is a poem I originally wrote June 22, 2005 while resting in my bunk at Wind River Ranch in Estes Park, Colorado. I never published it - until now.

"I Was a Ragamuffin Once"

By Winston A. Hall

I was a ragamuffin once

upon a childhood tide

floating and toting the essence of innocence

and doubting not my place in the world.

To bear the cross, the grace no less

of a season born of freedom

To scale limb by limb, onward toward the sky

and then to perch among the banded wings about me and breathe.

I was a ragamuffin once

against a guilded sky

and toward them gazing on eternity.

Knowing but not seeing my God

amidst the hues and painted in the sky.

And then, to plunge into the deep waters

from on high , and oh the exhiliration of stepping out

and falling only so far and rising through the bubbles

always looking toward the light.

I was a ragamuffin once

with feet so scarred and scraped

by missteps and miscues amid thorns

and etched with stone and moss.

And still this day, when

clocks tick on and I, I the aging vessel dream,

I see myself there in that place of shade and stream.

For I, I was a ragamuffin once

young and alone with time to only be.

Soon I will return again - home.

Ang again I will be free.

That's the story of my life...

Remembering a Legend

Girl 1995 - 2010


Shreveport, La - On Friday, February 26, 2010, Girl, the Dog passed away in her sleep. She died peacefully, warm and dry in her doghouse having lived to the full extent of her years and having lived every adventure a dog could ever hope to live. She was a legend in her own time, having crossed paths with thousands of people all over the United States. She will be remembered for her adventurous spirit, toughness, loving nature, and fear of thunderstorms.

Her adventures began on the Bee House Creek fourteen years ago, where she ran and explored with her owner Winston Hall, while he was still a child. While there, she chased rabbits, squirrels, and many other fuzzy woodland creatures. She twiced got attacked by a porcupine, surviving more than 100 quills shot into her face, tongue, and neck. She survived a near death experience with a waterfall, and once clobbered a dog twice her size in a fight.

She accompanied Winston to college, where they spent the better part of four years running and hiking. She spent many nights in the Ram Page office at Angelo State University, where she came to know all the Ram Page staff. She also landed the starring role in the short film Indiana Jones and Chasers of the Lost Dog (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tyn9iAfM3ys) and received acclaim for her acting skills.

After college, she accompanied Winston to Wind River Ranch in Estes Park, Colorado, where she her earned her keep performing as a rodeo clown, herding horses, and guarding the ranch. While at Wind River, she survived getting kicked by a horse and yet another brush with death when a lightning bolt struck fifty feet away on a rock upon which she’d been standing minutes before.

One of her more famous encounters happened at Wind River when she confronted a bear that had been spooking everyone at the ranch. Girl snarled and growled and barked at the bear at which point it retreated into the woods never to be heard from again. She received extra meat scraps for her bravery. During the remainder of her time at Wind River, Girl met hundreds of guests and her notoriety spread throughout the United States.

After retiring from the guest ranching industry, Girl relocated to Waring, Texas, where she was famous for making the rounds around town while her owner was at work. Her favorite places to go included the Post Office, the Waring General Store, the Guadalupe River, Steaknite, and Servpro of the Hill Country. Kelton Fiedler, a Waring resident, noted that Girl was the only dog he ever met who “appeared to have an agenda.” Girl spent many afternoons on the porch of the Waring General Store greeting customers as they entered the store.

While living in the Texas Hill Country, Girl also appeared in a photo in the magazine Country Living. The magazine had a circulation of more than 50,000. And her notoriety grew.

After two years, Girl left her beloved Waring and moved to Nashville, Tennessee. While there, she caroused with big wigs who worked on Music Row and explored Civil War battlefields.

Her biggest adventure yet came when she moved from Nashville to Shreveport, Louisiana. Having mysteriously vanished from the back of Winston’s truck in Parker’s Crossing, Tennessee, Girl spent two weeks wandering aimlessly through the west Tenenssee country side before a goat farmer miraculously found her and contacted Winston.

Emaciated and tired, Girl made a new beginning in Shreveport, taking daily trips to the park and playing with her new brother Hart. Having succesfully reached old age, Girl spent many hours basking in the sunshine and then relocating to the shade when she grew too hot.

But her adventures were not over. While visiting her owner’s sister, Emily Sides, in April of 2008, Girl rode out an F2 tornado which destroyed a warehouse a block away. Later that year, while on a trip to her childhood home near the Bee House Creek, in a near-tragic case of mistaken identity, a local rancher confused Girl with a wild dog that had been killing his sheep. Wounded and bleeding, Girl stumbled back to the house where Winston discovered her and rushed her to the doctor. Miraculously, Girl survived yet another brush with death, having come within “inches of dying,” the vet said. The bullet went right between her shoulder blade and spine.

After recouperating from her wounds, Girl then accidentallly swallowed a fish hook while at a local park in Shreveport. One minor surgery later, and the hook was removed. The fish hook proved to be Girl’s last brush with disaster. She lived out the remainder of her days, peacefully, and happily, dying miraculously of old age in her doghouse at the age of fourteen.

She was buried beneath a shade tree at her childhood home in Central Texas, belonging now to the Ages. She lived, by all acounts, an epic life worthy of noting and remembering. She truly was, and is, a legend.

She is survived by her owner Winston Hall, dear friend Donna Chance, and her brother Hart.

Related Articles:

http://www.worldofwinston.blogspot.com/ "Celebrating a Legend" 4 July 2009
http://www.worldofwinston.blogspot.com/ "Goat, Cat, Dogs form Loose Political Affiliation,
Owner Shunned" 31 July 2006
http://www.worldofwinston.blogspot.com/ "Picnic Table Woes Result in Happy Dog,
Social Mishap" 7 July 2006
http://www.worldofwinston.blogspot.com/ "Old Dog Learns New Trick, Master Mourns Loss of Age-Old Colloquialism" 13 January 2006



That's the story of my life...

Midnight Train to Dallas

Shreveport, LA - I consider myself retired from the film industry. The hours are outrageous, and I actually make more money playing the piano five nights a week. But, occasionally there is the allure of revisiting the adventure again. When I worked on The Year One every day was a new adventure. I even ended up in the desert with that production in the middle of several bizarre scenarios/adventures. The most bizarre moment was the time my dad came to visit and ended up sitting at the dinner table at a Chile's with Vinny Jones, of all people. If you know anything about my dad, and anything about Vinny Jones, it was a recipe for a disaster. I sat in bewilderment throughout the entire meal trying to figure out just how the heck that had happened.

Luckily nothing did happen, but it was a testament to the fact that when you work in the film industry you can never be sure of what might happen. So, when I received a phone call the other day from my friend Adam about one day of work, I took the bait. I had a feeling as mundane as the task sounded, it might hold an adventure.

I was not disappointed.

The job was to pick up a man named Avi Lerner from the airport in Dallas. Point A to Point B and back to Point A. Easy cheesey. Avi Lerner just might be one of the most powerful unknown men in Hollywood. He has produced almost 300 movies, and is the head honcho at Millenium Films. His resume on IMDB.com is laughably long. I didnt know much about Avi accept that he once cussed out Robert DeNiro for taking too long to get ready for a scene, which says something about Mr. Lerner.

Mr. Lerner had season courtside tickets for every Laker's game. So, come to find out, he was going to go to a Laker's game, catch the red-eye to Dallas, where I was going to pick him up on Thursday morning and drive him to Shreveport. The problem? His flight was scheduled to arrive at DFW airport at 5:45 a.m. Now if you do the math on that from Shreveport, I was leaving early, no matter how you sliced it.

Production had given me a slick black Suburban with leather seats and a full tank of gas and wished me luck. His flight was coming in Thursday morning, so ultimately I decided the best thing to do was leave as soon as I got off work Wednesday night. So, after I finished playing, I went home, changed clothes, gathered up and drove to Dallas.

As an aside, I have made the run from Dallas to Shreveport....and Im not making this up...probably a minimum of 60-70 times since I moved here. I did it 27 times just on the Oliver Stone flick that I ran film for. Throw in a few holiday trips home and other trips and what you get is an intimate knowledge of every exit, every gas station, even every pot hole. (No lie.) needless to say, I know that road to Dallas.

I arrived at DFW airport around 2:30 a.m. and after some sleuthing and Indy-car type driving, I ended up in the parking garage of Terminal D. I had planned my trip with the intricay of an Apollo moon mission. I was to arrive at the terminal and sleep in the car for two hours, whereupon I was to retrieve said movie producer and return to Shreveport. What I failed to include in my calculations was my hyped Red Bull induced state.

When people talk about thte glamour of Hollywood, no one ever mentions things like sleeping by yourself in a Suburban in a parking garage. That would totally shatter the illusion I think.

Try as I may, I simply couldn't sleep. I finally got around 45 minutes of sleep but then awoke at 4:45 a.m. completely wide awake. I gave up, went into the terminal to brush my teeth. And then was suprised by Mr. Lerner, whose flight had arrived thirty minutes early.

Avi Lerner has a deep, resonant voice. He is from Israel originally, and didnt talke much to me. He has a lot on him mind, I think. In fact, he fell asleep about thirty minutes outside of Dallas and left me in perfect silence, having to drive a perfectly straight rode for three hours having had less than an hour of sleep. Worst of all, he had his arm on the console which prevented me from getting to my Red Bulls. It was one of the most challenging drives I've had in all my experiences as a professional driver.

But I made it.

I spent the rest of the day shuttling Mr. Lerner around to various meetings. I got one thirty minute nap in around 2 p.m. I took him to the Shreveport airport around five, where he was taking a private plane to New Orleans. Then, believe it or not, I showered, changed and went and played the piano for five more hours at 2Johns Steakhouse.

When I finally got to bed, it was around 1:30 a.m. Friday morning. I had gone almost 41 hours on basically an hour and a half of sleep. It was more adventure than I bargained for.

But that's over for now I have returned to my normal routine of playing the piano every night. I have no idea what adventure Hollywood will call with next, but I'm sure by that time I will be ready for another .

That's the story of my life...

Bill Clinton, Memphis, and Ghosts of Rock and Roll

Memphis, TN - In case you missed it, I recently recorded some new music. Last time I recorded, I did it here in Bossier City, but Donna and I wanted to try something different this time. So, with Donna's encouragement, she and I and Jimmy Shanks traveled up to Memphis, Tennessee to record two songs in the famed Sun Studios, otherwise known as the birthplace of Rock and Roll.

In 1953 or so, a no-name kid named Elvis Presley walked through the door of Sun Studios and the rest is history as they say. The studio itself is rather dumpy. It is a small, unimpressive room, but a powerful room nonetheless when you consider the likes of Elvis, Johnny Cash, Jerry Lee Lewis, and others recorded in the same room. Being the musician I am, I and many others hold the place in a sort of reverance.

After the last tour group went through, we went to work recording with producer James Lott. For the first hour or so it was a rather normal recording session.

Until we took our first break.

We wandered over into the gift shop which is next door to the recording studio. While standing there, I noticed a large limousine parked outside. Right when I noticed it, a man in a suit approached the door of the gift shop and began talking to James Lott. The conversation went something like this.

Man: Are you guys gonna be here a while?

James: Sure. Why?

Man: Would you mind having a special guest?

James: That depends. Who it it?

Man: Bill Clinton.

James: Bill Clinton?!

Man: Yeah, he's in town and wanted to see Sun Studios.

So, for a short time, it appeared Bill Clinton was going to drop in on my recording session. But, of course, it was not to happen. The owner of the studio, who as it turns out is a roaring drunk, showed up at the studio about two hours later right when the limo driver came by to see if Bill Clinton could still come by. When the limo driver saw the sauced owner, beligerently asking where Clinton was, I'm pretty sure he went back to Bill Clinton and said "maybe next time."

Perhaps its better that he didnt show up though. After all, we were paying an hourly rate. Had he shown up, however, I would have most assuredly gotten him to play a saxophone solo. I didnt really need Bill Clinton though because a masterful Memphis saxophone player named Jim Spake cut some tracks for us. Jim is well known in the Memphis area and even played with Ray Charles once many moons ago. (Which is more times than I did, for sure.)

We finished the two songs sans Bill Clinton, mastered them, and went and ate breakfast at some 24 hour diner. The two songs we recorded were "New Orleans Girl" which Donna and I wrote, and "Everybody's Dreaming" which I wrote as a testament to all the thousand of people I have crossed paths with through the years who endeavor and dream to do great things.

All in all, the Memphis recording experience was perfect. We had barbecue the next day on Beal Street and headed down the road with the new songs. You can listen to them at www.winstonhallmusic.com and order them at cdbaby.com.

That's the story of my life...

Celebrating A Legend

Shreveport, La - Donna and I made the mistake of watching Marley and Me several days ago. My objective assesment, after seeing it, is that it's possibly the worst movie ever made. I mean, it's REALLY bad. Sure it has a great story, and good acting, and characters that you care about, and conflict, and perseverance, and an overwhelming message of hope about life. I mean, SURE it has all those things. And yes of course the book was a New York Times bestseller, and the movie made million of dollars. I mean, SURE it was widely acclaimed as a GREAT movie, and all the critics agreed it was a great movie. But from where I stand, it was an absolutely awful movie.

(SPOILER ALERT!) Why is it such an awful, pathetic, excuse for a movie? You get to watch the unbelievably bad dog Marley grow from a energetic young puppy to an old, dying dog, who in the last scene of the movie dies a slow agonizing death which left a reported 99.2 % of audience members sobbing like babies or funeral goers when the movie was over. (I overheard one woman who saw the movie say it made you want to "run home and hug your dog." )

I on the other hand, had the wherewithal to leave the room the first time Marley had trouble walking up a set of stairs. Then I had the pleasure of checking my email while listening to Donna sob uncontrollably in the next room.

One good thing did come of watching that awful, awful movie. We felt so guilted, or whatever that emotion is after you see the movie, that we took my dogs for a walk at two in the morning. (We had to wake them up to do so.)

The next day, with the grief and sorrow of Marley and Me still lingering in the air, we decided it would be a great day to celebrate my dog Girl's birthday. I don't know exactly what day she was born, but I do know it was in the summer of 1995. So we piled into my truck and drove out to Wallace Lake for a little celebration. I think the pictures tell the story. A cake made of canned dogfood followed by a dessert of dog ice cream. (Yes, they actually make dog ice cream.)

Those of you who know Girl know how she has been the benefactor of miracles no less than four different occasions, the least of which was surviving a gunshot wound. That's exactly why we celebrated her birthday - the celebration of a truly improbable life. Without question, if she one day actually dies of old age like Marley, that in itself might be the biggest miracle of all.

Happy Birthday, Girl.