“So where ya been Steve-O???” I hear you ask.

“Oh you know, just out doin the Quai Chan Cain thing, stepping on the rice paper, walking the earth, training for a new job…kinda took me outta the loop for a little while.”

“We missed you at The Buzz.”

“Yeah, well I missed Buzzin too, I noticed that during in my absence Art proclaimed that Rock is dead (again), Dave warned us all about identity fraud, and somebody posted a recipe for a nice almond chicken casserole – torrid stuff.”

“You’ve come bearing provocative essays to re-claim the masses then?”

“I have.”

“Got anything Juicy?”

“Always.”

“In a word?”

“In a word my faithful friend…”

“So what’s the good word then?”

“Dog Poop”

“?”

This particular Steve-O Story starts off a little something like this…

Sam aint like the other Dogs in Detroit, Sam is something special.

Other Motor City canines may live full lives, happily cohabitating with their masters and families, and content with nothing more complicated to do then sniff a few butts, eat some shoes, and beg for another slice of Pizza.

But not my Sam.

He’s a different kind if dog you see. Don’t get me wrong, Sam loves pizza and good butt sniffin as much as any other Detroit canine, but he also puts that amazing nose of his to work in an entirely different arena: That’s because Sam is a Bomb Dog.

“What do ya need a Bomb Dog for Steve-O? (good question) “- I thought you were all set to turn the 30 something Rock and Roll world on it’s ear.”

I was, I mean I am, I mean I will.

But in the meantime I still have to bring home the bacon. Now remember Dear Reader, when a few weeks ago I was telling you that my current (and now former) “Employment De Rigueur” (I’ve no idea what the hell I just said) had run it’s course and had deposited me without due severance on the sidewalk?

And remember how I went on to further explain that I could not possibly take serious any boss that would go out of his way to explain to me that he had “F-U Money” and therefore that clumsily blurted statement now obligated me to forever look upon him as a sad and arrogant (albeit proud) social retard?

And remember still how I defiantly declared that the yellow pages would be all I would need to secure a new future and career identity, thereby threatening to likewise reduce myself to the same status of social retardation if I was to fail in my quest for a new pathway to tread upon?

It was within this particular pre-described twist of fate that circumstances would eventually lead me to Sam, the wonder dog.

So how do you go from rock and roll, to the promised untapped resources in the phone directory, to a complete reinvention of self culminating in my entry into the Bomb Dog Business?

Easy, I had a coupon that I had clipped out of the yellow pages.

Bomb Dogs R Us, 10% off your new career training.

Kidding again… man you people are too easy!!!

Although I could indeed have used the “big book” to once more launch myself into the career stratosphere, on a whim I instead opted to contact an old friend with whom I had worked with in the past. In the bomb dog business.

Let me back up just a bit.

Back to Pre-Detroitian Steve-O, still living in the chaos that is Southern California. Back before my days at The Buzz…..

They say that all people are either in a period of stagnation, or forward progression in their lives. And I definitely was not progressing. I was very good at my job, I made good coin, but it no longer provided me with the stimuli needed to feel fulfilled, and I was therefore in a slump. It did however; provide me with ample stimuli to feel exhausted, overworked, underpaid, and unmotivated.

Feeling very close to losing my mind, I decided that I needed a break. I needed change. I needed good old fashioned routine and simplicity as opposed to the high drama of my current situation, where everyone hacked each other’s profit margins precariously close to nothing in an effort to gain the upper hand in the market.

This struggle was a pre-curser to my eventually relocating to this fine piece of landscape you call Detroit, but at that point in my life – the depth of my vision went only as far as a possible career change – although to what career I had no idea.

So fate stepped in and lent a hand.

Allow me to explain:

Three years ago a friend of a friend was sitting on an airplane, next to an extremely talkative businessman, in a long flight, who happened to be a US Navy Vet and entrepreneur. It turned out that this same ex-navy man (pre 9-11 mind you) had recently started a business with a handful of other ex-military entrepreneurs, and this business happened to be the Bomb Dog Business. He had just gotten it off the ground, and was looking for people to train and release into the wild. Being rather selective, and appropriately so, his search for prospective employees would include other vets and servicemen, people of noble character, people looking to make a difference, and people with wonderful tenor singing voices.

Incredibly, I just happened to magically fill all of those particular pre-requisites.

Realizing this and seizing the moment, his business card was soon handed over to this friend of a friend, and consequently this same card was then delivered into my hands a short time later, just as I was considering any and all opportunities for drastic change in my life. Pretty good timing.

Now, one might call this fate, an aligning of the planets, the hand of God, or just plain freaky. But I got the card and figured what the hell, and so I immediately called Mr. Ex Navy, not knowing a thing about this vocation, and we spoke at length, and the next thing I knew I was on a plane to Virginia all set to learn about dogs and things that go boom in the night. Fate’s a funny thing, sometimes it just know better than you do.

After my training I went to work for this man, but the truth was that I was still not yet ready to make a drastic relocation out of California, and most of his contracted work was in the east coast, so I was back to square one: what to do, what to do? Here was an opportunity, a bit risky, and I’d dipped my toe in already and had had a taste of what this new career might be. But I also had my comfort level, and I was gripping it rather tightly. So with opportunity calling on the east coast but familiarity calling from the west coast, I yielded to my comfort level and returned to the land of electrical contracting in California, back to the safety of the grind I hated as opposed to a chance opportunity to really do something different.

But as you already know, the comfort I chose to return to did not sustain me for long, not long enough at least, to stay a Californian.

Back to the present, and the harsh realities forthwith.

Steve-O’s living in Detroit.

With three cats, a tenant, the wifypoo, a mortgage, and a plethora of mounting financial pressures due to my recent foray into at-will employment-less-ness.

Oh yeah, I was broke too. Spent all my money at White Castle, my new vice. Had to do something about that (the money thing – don’t touch my sliders Johnny).

So.

You know all about me and my weird fixation with my destiny inside of the yellow pages. I’m sitting on a chair, it’s (the big book) sitting on my lap. While perusing through all possible futures within it’s vast untouched resources, and about to take the plunge, fate decided once again to right the wrongs of my life.

I heard a voice (if you build it they will come). Sorta. OK not at all, but on a whim I chose to send a hand written fax to the office of my former Bomb Dog constituency in Virginia, just to see what was shakin. I didn’t give it much thought – as I’ve learned over the years that I’m by and large an instinctual person, and therefore too much thought messes up the cloudy muse of my true genius. Anyway – here’s what I wrote by hand on the fax, I’ll give it to you verbatim:

“Nigel, (President of the company) save me from my meager existence! – Steve-O”

Now, I accept that my crude and sometimes adolescent business methods may not be approved by the Harvard school of networking and career enhancement, but the dang guy called me back.

That’s right – if you fax it they will call, heed the voice Steve-O, heed the voice.

Not only did the Prez call me back, but he had a career opportunity opening up Detroit, immediately. And he needed a veteran, of noble character, someone looking to make a difference, and most important; someone with a Latin jaw-line and a wonderful tenor singing voice. “That’s ME!!” I cried! Fate had once again shined upon me, perhaps as a reward for daring to become unconventional, or perhaps it just felt sorry for my sorry ass - but nevertheless Dear Reader, I stand before you now as a changed man, a man re-born from the ashes of his unemployment, a Bomb Dog man, a man who WILL make his mortgage payment.

And Sam (the pooch) is my witness that dreams do come true, even in Detroit. (Sigh).

So I’m kind of attached to the pooch, after all, he only symbolizes my complete re-creation. And instead of heading off to the dreaded office, now I work with Sam everyday, searching for explosives instead of searching for an inside edge on my competition. I never had a dog before, much less a dog that was my partner. We trust each other, it’s a pretty amazing process, and it’s become a true pleasure and friendship along the way.

By the way, the ladies love him too. Sam’s gorgeous, a big 80 Lb. chocolate Lab, strong and agile and very intelligent, and he makes the world a safer place. I call him choco-marvelous. On our days off we go for long walks, and play ball, and not a day goes by when Sam does not go out of his way to give me a big sloppy dog kiss to let me know that we’re family. So if you’re a bad guy and you’ve got a bomb hidden, you’d just better hope that Sam’s not on the case…after all, it was fate that led him here and lord knows you cant fight fate.

The day before yesterday I came home from dinner with my wife and found that Sam had left me a big old poop in the laundry room floor. What could it mean?

Alright fine, I admit that this was less than glamorous and a poop is a bit hard to romanticize. But I’m a big believer in perception. And so here’s what I think about this big old poop that’s obviously some sort of sign from heaven:

Here we go….

In life from time to time we have to clean up and/or step over some turds. It’s ok, we’re all gonna make it in the end, trust your footing. Perhaps what God is really doing is simply honing my particular skills of turd shoveling, in an effort to cause me to widen my eyes beyond the obvious, so that I can actually be more creative in facing down life’s little problems. Sound good? I think so. You know, like God is saying: “Hey Steve-O, now that you’re all comfy there’s a big old unforeseen poop heading your way….how ya gonna handle this one?”

And the more I think on it the more I realize that anybody can just shovel a poop, that aint special, but how many people can actually turn it into a dance, like the over the shoulder scoop, the slap and sling scoop, the shovel twist, and the buttonhook? Ever think about that? And before you know it I’ve discovered that there are a myriad of ways to handle a turd, and therefore I do not have to live as one who is cursed, someone who cannot see beyond the poop, frozen within the dynamics of the poop, confused by the pooperous vapors, instead I can embrace the poop, even love the poop, I can look poop in the eye and say “Let’s Dance”.

Sam taught me this. Sam, the wonder dog.

Oh I almost forgot.

Sam gets the farts too, whenever I let him chew on those rawhide toys. And at my first day of reporting to duty, the dang dog was cutting silent death farts inside the Guards high-tech operating console and it smelled just like you would picture an 80 Lb. Lab’s fart to smell. Bad. I think the guards probably thought it was me who was farting. New guy – stinky guy, trying to blame the dog...riiiggghhhhttt. What’s my perception on this particular challenge you ask? Exactly what you think my perception would be: that’s just nasty, man.

See ya around crime-fighters!

Email our own fearless fighter for truth, justice and the American way here- Steve-O. If he's busy, maybe SAM will email you back.