Outskirts Press, INC.

Dog Man might be the last great Baby Boomer novel.

Dog Man might be the last great Baby Boomer novel. It is the self-told story of Rudi Werner, an engaging Boomer gone bust who learns about change the hard way: He lives it. Battling his demons all the way, Rudi accepts the challenge of opening and operating Dog Man, a kitschy hot dog joint that “serves the best damn wieners on the Jersey Shore.” But Rudi’s fabulous food fling brings him into daily conflict with what he calls The Great American Catastrophe—the election of Donald J. Trump. Rudi gets plenty of help balancing personal and political change from his inspiring love interest, Maria; from his extended Dog Man family; from his quirky, learned “spiritual” advisors, Phillipe and Malachi; and from his loving and loyal Labrador Retriever, Al. The novel provides poignant and humorous insights into modern life, relationships, politics and food, but Dog Man is fundamentally an uplifting tale of personal transcendence for Boomers of all ages.

Excerpts from Chapter One of Dog Man: Change can cause your heart to thump and your imagination soar, or it can grab you by the short hairs and make you want to scream… I could not stop thinking about Maria’s, Al’s and my inaugural stroll on the Point Pleasant Beach boardwalk…That is when the winds of change blew my and Maria’s way. By our second visit the winds had reached gale force. Neither of us anticipated what was about to happen, and we surely had not discussed it… Toward the end of our first boardwalk promenade, I had steered Maria and Al toward Russ’s. A gust off the ocean forced me to attempt another futile hair adjustment. I let go of Maria’s hand because I held Al’s leash firmly in my other. “Do something with that hair, Rudi,” Maria said. “You look like a cross between Betelgeuse and Einstein. Wear a headband or something.” “What, and flatten my flowing golden locks?” “Cut the blond crap, Rudi. Your hair’s as white as the sea foam out there.” “Funny. Very funny, Miss Priss.” If it sounds as though Maria was being a bit short with me, it is because she was. The dear girl has been on edge over the upcoming presidential election and the prophetic letter I wrote to my hometown newspaper. I wrote my missive boldly predicting, against every good instinct of my being, that Donald Trump would be the first third party candidate elected President since Zachary Taylor won as a Whig in 1848. The paper published the damn thing the first week of March. Maria gave me the silent treatment for two full days and she gets miffed at me off and on whenever the November election enters our conversation, most recently as we three board-walkers approached Russ’s. “How do you think the election’s going, Swami?” Maria asked. “It might be close, but I still think Trump’s gonna win,” I said. “Bastard!” I was not sure if Maria was talking about me or The Donald. Russ was nowhere in sight, so I approached the frumpy maid behind the counter and ordered two dogs with mustard, relish and onion. I handed one to Maria and we munched away. Even the copious condiments could not redeem these over-grilled cardboard monstrosities. These wieners had all the taste and appeal of scorched oatmeal. I scowled and grumbled as I finished two-thirds of mine. Maria asked me what was the matter. “This is a poor excuse for a wiener,” I said. “You’d think somebody down here could serve a proper hot dog. A good, simple hot dog restaurant would be a big hit, particularly during tourist season.” I looked at the uneaten remnant of my dog and glanced down at Al. I thought about feeding it to him but caught myself. Al does not eat people food. “Fuck me,” I said as I balled the remaining wiener up in my napkin and tossed it in a nearby trash receptacle. Maria muffled a laugh with the remainder of her dog. “Stop griping and open a place of your own,” Maria said with her mouth still half-full. “What? Where?” I asked. “A hot dog joint, here in Point Pleasant Beach. Maybe off the boardwalk somewhere along Arthur Avenue,” Maria said. All I could say was “Mmm,” but I filed the thought away as I had often done before… I began fantasizing about becoming Dog Man, not a guy who scratches, sniffs, snorts, farts or licks his ass (Though I have been known to perform a few of these canine feats.), but a guy who would serve the best damn wieners on the Jersey Shore, a guy who would put succulent, delicious wieners on just about everything, even the salad. Maria and I did not resume our discussion of the subject until three weeks after our boardwalk stroll with Al, again in Point Pleasant Beach, this time over lunch… The waitress took our order. Between sips of ale, I said to Maria, “You know, I’ve been fixated on this fuckin’ Dog Man.” “What’s Dog Man?” she asked. “And by the way, watch your language. When you get profane you make me think of Trump. Please don’t spoil a lovely day,” Maria added. “Dog Man could be the name of a new hot dog place here at the shore.” Maria smiled, her foolproof way of encouraging me to continue. Before I could say another word about Dog Man, the waitress appeared with our soup. We slurped the heady stew to the last drop. Right on cue, our entrees arrived and we dived in. Maria finally came up for air and resumed the Dog Man discussion. “So, I guess you would be the Dog Man?” she asked. “Well, me and Al.” “Your dog? Interesting.” “Everybody loves Labrador Retrievers, and Al’s perfect--broad head, droopy ears, shiny brown eyes, not unlike yours I might add. The eyes, I mean. Not the ears.” Another kick under the table and Maria asked if I was seriously considering plunging into the restaurant business. “I’m thinking about it a lot, but not too seriously. It’s a big financial risk and I really don’t know a damn thing about running a restaurant.” “But you are smart, you know food and you are great with most people. I say go for it, Rudi...” We drove down Broadway and reached the foot of the Route 34 Bridge before either of us spoke again. “I’m a bit scared of this Dog Man business, Maria,” I confessed. “Don’t be,” she said. She ran the fingers of her left hand down my arm to second the reassurance. “With all the failures in my life, I don’t need another one...” “You know,” Maria said, “Dog Man is a really great name. You could come up with some killer slogans like ‘We Only Rain Dogs’ or ‘and the wiener is…’ How about ‘Put a bark in your bite’?” I took the bait. “How about ‘Feed the hand that bites you’?” “What in hell does that mean?” Maria asked… We had just about exhausted our cache of Dog Man slogans, so Maria said, “We could come up with a clever logo. Maybe a cartoon drawing of a clown face with a big ol’ hot dog for a mouth,” Maria said off the top of her gorgeous head. “No effin’ way,” I said. “What do you mean ‘no effin’ way’? Don’t be so quick to dismiss a good idea.” “Too late; I’ve already thought of the perfect Dog Man logo,” I said. “This is where Al comes in. Picture this: an exact rendering of Al’s big old black head, complete with graying muzzle. For his advertising debut, he sports a snappy, short-brimmed white fedora and bright yellow sunglasses. A tasty Dog Man wienie juts from the side of his mouth like a fine cigar. Al’s mug would appear between the two words ‘Dog Man’ in bright white letters. What do you think?” “Wow! I love it and I’m impressed!” Maria said. She gave me a three-clap ovation and kissed me on the cheek. “You are taking this Dog Man idea a lot more seriously than you are willing to admit,” Maria continued. “We should do some research. If Dog Man looks doable, maybe you will give it a shot.” I flipped on my turn signal and made an uncharacteristically impulsive maneuver, a hard right into Belmar, then another right, back onto 34 South toward Point Pleasant Beach. “Where are you going? What are you doing?” Maria asked. I do not know what I was thinking, but I replied, “Research.” * * *