Dog Tag... The Old Hippie Millionaire Protest Singers Play the Same Old Song!

It seems that old hippies and peaceniks never die; they just keep recording songs that nobody wants to buy.

Take Winston's master, Chuck.

We were both sunning ourselves on the porch the other day when we heard him talking excitedly about a new ani-war soundtrack that a couple of old fossil singers have put out for a documentary about a young soldier, Tomas Young, who was paralyzed in Iraq.

Chuck is an old hippie. He lives alone now, chain smokes dope, and has posters plastered in his bedroom with black lights over them. Chuck tried his hand at living in reality, but couldn't hack it. He married several times. His first wife called herself Fauna, and they named their two kids, Dandelion and Daisy. He has managed to grift several different ways off of the county, state and federal governments, and he hasn't held a steady job in 37 years. Winston doesn't care much, so long as old Chuck can deliver a few bacon treats and some of his favorite steak and lobster Purina Chow.

"Chuck's brain is mush," said Winston, who then rolled over to sun his other side. "Mary Jane did it".

I wasn't sure if it was Mary Jane or not, but was Chuck ever excited about this new album. He was on the phone with Fonda Marx, a really skinny chick with scraggly gray hair and bad teeth. Fonda calls herself his "comrade in arms". Her arms have had a lot of track marks in them over the years, is all I know.

"It's for a documentary called 'Body of War,'"said Chuck. "Bruce Springsteen, Neil Young, Eddie Vedder and Tori Amos have cut songs for it."

We couldn't hear what Fonda Marx was saying, but based on past experience, she was probably shouting "Yes! Yes!" and punching a fist in the air.

"It will be like 1968 all over again." Chuck was shouting now.

"Don't you think you should go and calm the guy down?" I said to Winston. "Go lick his face, or something."

Winston coughed. "Let's not go there," he said. "You do what you have to do to get a trip to Petco."

Chuck had a stringy salt and pepper beard with plenty of food crumbs. I have to admit, when I've been hungry, I've stared down that beard. But even this hound has standards.

I stretched. "Winston," I said, "Do you remember that pack of dogs that strayed into our neighborhood?"

"That's ancient history," said Winston. "You are getting old, repeating your stories."

A pack of wild dogs had decided to come into our yards and alleys and mark their territory and terrorize the poor humans.

"We had to fight them," I said.

"Your point?" asked Winston.

"It was war."

Winston was getting tired of the conversation. "It was...I guess."

"It settled something. We had ---"

"--Right," Winston finished. "We had no choice. Now, did you see that new French Poodle down the block? Doe she think her poop don' t stink, or what?"

"We all think that," I said. "Or why else would we turn around and sniff it?"

Winston just shrugged and raised a lazy eyebrow.

Chuck appeared on the porch. He had on his old tie dyed t-shirt, the one with a big peace symbol in the middle of the chest.

"I'm off to the demonstration," he announced to no one really. He was kind of wild eyed.

Winston rolled his eyes. He had said many times, "You can pick your friends but you can't pick your masters."

He was again talking to Fonda Marx on the cell. "Pearl Jam even covered Bob Dylan's "Masters of War!"

I know what Winston was thinking. It is disgusting when a grown human man is squealing like a little girl.

Fonda Marx finally pulled up in her Cadillac Escalade. It had a "Save the Earth" bumper sticker plastered on the back.

"Let him go," said Winston. "He's happy fighting the last century's battle."

"How do you mean?"

Winston stood and stretched. "Well, I mean, humans are nothing but dumb animals, many of them. He thinks this fighting and this war is Vietnam. Not that Chuck ever served."

I stretched too. It's like yawning. One dog does it and so do the others.

"Same with those old singers," I said. "They're doing the same thing."

"True," said Winston. "But you have the good guys like Gary Sinise, who have some good old fashioned dog sense, who put their money where there mouths are and have gone and done the USO tours and seen the troops. When was the last USO tour that Bruce Springsteen did? He's not left his New Jersey mansion. He cares about the soldiers? And Neil Young? He used to be from Canada. Good thing we don't have to rely on them for winning any battles."

"Or even fighting off the wild dogs, eh?" I was having some fun with it.

"True," said Winston. "But leave the comedy to the pros."

"Chuck's down at the demonstration now," I said. "Let's turn on the TV and see if it's on the news."

A couple of picketers rolled up next to the Federal Building downtown, American Flags mounted on the handles of their wheelchairs. The American Flags were upside down, a sign of distress.

"I'll bet they're distressed," said Winston. "It's past their nap time, and their Depends are probably full."

Dylan's "Masters of War" was being played on an ancient Boom Box. Guess who was holding that on his shoulder?

"He's so embarrassing," said Winston, shaking his head.

"So are those singers," I said.

"Yeah, well you know which singer is not there again? " said Winston. "Right! Old Bob Dylan. He never wanted part of that scene in the 1960's. And he understood a good fight. Kill or be killed."

"Sometimes you've got no choice," I said. "Like those wild dogs."

"Yep, like those wild dogs."

Winston wanted some exercise.

"You're it!" he barked.