The Saint Dismas Chip

**Editor's Note** What follows is a short story I've had on the back-burner for some time, but now seems like a good time to publish it as I have a buddy of mine doing a short vacation on the county's dime and I think that this might cheer him up a little bit. Also, my buddy Cormac Brown wrote a short story and dedicated it to me and I feel obliged to return the favor. This story is much more along the lines of the excellent crime fiction that he writes, as it involves two theives. I hope you enjoy it!**

"More coffee, sugar?" the pretty waitress asked.

"Sure Debra. Fill it up," Bill said as he slid his cup over with his huge hand. She pours the coffee and walks away with a gate that would make any grown man utter damn under his breathe.

"Sorry I haven't kept in touch Bill, but I didn't want to screw up your parole by sending you letters from another con," the rat-faced little man across the table said.

"It's alright Tony. I know you and me are square. There wasn't anything you could have written that would have made my stay in the joint any more pleasent anyway. I just figured that you were busy making ends meet and chasing girls. I'm sure the way I pictured you was better than what was really goin' on, but no matter. I'm just glad you came to see me this evening."

"Now Bill," Tony leaned forward over his BLT and spoke a little more softly, "I know you ain't been out long but I've got a honey of a job for us. I know you could use some money 'cause workin' in that bookstore can't be bringin' in much dough. Second story, one watchman pushin' eighty, and at least eighteen grand when we're done. It'd take about an hour..."

"Not interested," Bill said flatly.

"What? You have got to be fuc-" Tony's eyes opened wide.

"No, I ain't kidding. I can't do it. I just can't." Bill dismissed the idea with a wave of his large hand.

"Bill, I know it's been a while and I know the joint makes you do funny things, but you are the greatist thief I've ever seen! You got more skill in your little finger than most guys get in a fuckin' life time. Don't throw your effin' gift away man. You could have nine grand for an hours work. I'm tellin' ya, this job is a honey!" Tony implored.

Bill sighed. "You ain't hearing me Tony. I CAN'T. Look," Bill swiveled his huge frame in the diner booth and pulled at his collar. "You see this little scar on the back of my neck? The one right here at the edge of my hairline?"

"Yeah, so what?" Tony said.

"Didn't it strike you funny that I got parole so early?" Bill asked.

"I just figured you was good, kept yer nose clean and played the game. I've seen it done before..." Tony trailed off.

"Not amount of playing the game would have gotten me out this soon," Bill explained, "I did something in the joint-"

"Whoa! You ain't got to explain anything to me-" Tony started.

"Naw, nothing like that man. Nothing like that. I volunteered for an experimental program for cons. The chaplain put in a good word for me, and they took me and two other guys. We went to the infirmary for an afternoon, they knocked us out and we woke up with a bandage on the back of our necks. No pain, no blood, no nothing. Sure, I had a wicked bad headache for a week, but that was it."

"So what'd they do?" Tony was intrigued.

"They put a chip in me. They called it the Saint Dismas chip. Do you know who that is?"

"No, I didn't spend much time in church. Didn't see the point really." Tony admitted.

"Dismas was a thief," Bill explained, "They put him on the cross next to Jesus. Now there were two thieves up there with Jesus and one, I forget his name, made fun of Jesus for being the 'King of Kings' and still having to die with a couple of thieves. Dismas tells him to shut the fuck up and begs for the the Lord's forgiveness and Christ forgives him of his sins and tells Dismas that he will sit at his right hand in heaven."

"Makes for a good bed time story," Tony sneered.

"It ain't just a story," Bill's voice takes on a serious edge. Tony watches as Bill's hands clutch his coffee cup hard enough to make his knuckles show white. Tony has seen those hands strangle the life out of more than one person. He has seen them beat faces to a bloody pulp and cripple big men in their prime. "Sorry Bill," is all he can mutter.

"So what's this chip do? Does it make you lose your hard on or something?" Tony asks.

"No. I just don't want to be the kind of guy I was before." Bill said. Tony screws up his face in a look of confusion. Bill sees his look and thinks a moment. "Think of it like this: you sit down to Thanksgiving dinner and you eat all the food you want until you can't eat any more. Then a switch goes on in your brain and you know you are full. You are ready to get up from the table and go watch some football on TV and maybe take a nap. You just don't want any more. You are content." Tony nods a little as if he gets it, sort of. "The food is all the jobs I've pulled, all the people I've ruined, all the shit I've done. I just can't do that kind of stuff anymore. I'm full. I'm content."

Tony runs this through his mind for five minutes and the two of them fall silent. Tony pokes at his fries but doesn't eat any as this is processing. Bill empties his coffee cup and no sooner does it rest on the saucer than Debra, the pretty waitress, is at his elbow filling it up. "Bill," she says softly, "I gotta work 'til ten, but do you think you could walk me home? It's Friday and all the freaks seem to be out by then. I know it is a lot to ask but-"

Bill cuts her off, "Sure Deb, I'd be glad to. I can wait. That's no problem. I've got a good book I've been meaning to finish anyway. I'd be glad to wait a couple of hours for you, besides, you know I can't resist your good coffee."

"Oh thanks honey. Last Friday a couple of junkies tried to...you know. It ain't safe in this neighborhood any more," she smiled a smile that would have wilted stronger men. "Can I get you a slice of pie? On the house of course."

"No thanks, but you can keep the coffee coming" Bill returned her smile. She headed over to take the order from a couple of drunks at table four who had just wandered in.

Tony looks up from his untouched sandwich. "Does this-"

"Saint Dismas chip," Bill offers.

"Yeah, does this thing make you do weird stuff? Is there any side effects? Shakes, nightmares, that kind of shit,"

"I can't seem to drink enough coffee, and I sleep like a baby no matter how much I drink. I don't drink booze any more. Half a beer and I'm ready for a nap. I don't get pissed off like I used to, and my neck gets a little stiff sometimes. Other than that, I feel like I always did. I wear glasses now to read, but I think that is just because I'm getting older."

"Listen, I know this doctor, a surgeon, who owes me a favor. He could pull that thing out if you want. I could call him now and he could get you in on Monday. Tuesday at the latest..."

Bill shakes his head. "You don't understand Tony. I don't want it out. Not now, not ever. This is the best fuckin' thing that ever happened to me. All of the sudden life makes sence. I'm happy. I'm happy like you wouldn't believe! I want to work my nine to five at the bookstore and clock out, go to my little room in the back, settle in to my easy chair and read until ten, have a salad and go to bed. I dream like I never have in my life. I feel like I just want to spend the rest of my life doing this. Maybe someday I'll get married and have a couple of kids, a morgage and a ten year old car, but today, I can't picture doing anything else." Bill spreads out his open palms in a gesture that there isn't anything else to say on the subject.

Tony sniffs and lights a cigarette. "I suppose I could let the Holden boys do this one and just take a cut off the top as the fence is mine," he says as he contemplates his own future.

"They don't let you smoke in here," Bill warns.

"S'okay. I'm just leaving," Tony reaches for his wallet but Bill waves his hand. Tony nods, "Take care Bill. I'll see you around," and with that he is gone.

Bill fishes around in his coat pocket and pulls a tattered paperback out and flips pages until he finds his bookmark. He reads for two hours and drinks six more cups of coffee until Debra is finished with her shift. They walk out into the windy night together and after a block Debra reaches over to hold his massive hand in her tiny one. They walk in silence and Bill thinks about the lie he told.

"Tony would never have belived me any other way," he consoles himself, "and I just didn't have the heart to tell him that the scar was from a shiv made from a sharpened spoon. He just ain't the kind of person that would believe that people change."

Doc

"Give Me Liberty or Give Me Death!"

I feel so silly for having put up the last post for Independence Day. That is totally not what I wanted to write for our nation's greatest holiday. I posted it as a late night one-off and it never occurred to me that it was after midnight on the third. As far as I was concerned, it was a thought that had occurred to me after a long, grueling day at work and a couple of beers. Whizzing on common tools isn't how I want to commemorate The Fourth of July.

Growing up, there were three High Holidays: Christmas (of course, & it was my Dad's birthday), Easter (Mom's favorite, and she always had a beautiful yellow dress), and Independence Day. The first two had their own set of expectations and rewards, but 7/4 was one that trumped every other holiday you could name. As a kid, I'd have traded my birthday for one extra Fourth any year. It was that good.

It was a day that had everything! It had all the feast of a good Thanksgiving without all the stuffiness and there was the collection of relatives that you really liked. There was warm weather with sunshine instead of the typical rain/sleet/snow that usually accompanied most holidays in central Ohio. The real topper was the presents. The presents that went bang.

It was tradition at my house to rise up early in the morning and eat a light breakfast and then hike the quarter mile up the road to the gravel pit that was along the crick and set off a brace of bottle rockets and fire crackers, the kind of stuff that is only really good and safe for children to light in the daylight. I can't tell you the amount of beer cans I've sent to their collective doom, or at least launched several feet into the air.

After that it was home to help Mom prepare the big afternoon meal that wouldn't take place for five hours. At noon, things would be half ready and the family would start to trickle in. Aunts, uncles, cousins, etcetera, would fill the house and then the back yard. We caught crawdads and swam until lunch and then we put on the feedbag. It was grill food, potato salad, and deviled eggs as far as the eye could see.

Then the afternoon got interesting. Now it was time for the annual family skeet shoot. My mother was always the best shot, even though the shotgun was taller then her. Remnants of the clay pigeons would show through the receding snow the next spring to remind me again of the last years holiday and I would smile.

The rest of the day was spent playing games, grazing on the food, and catching up with family. The kids, me included, would keep pestering my Dad to see if it was dark enough to start letting off the fireworks.

To this very day, that is how I think of fireworks, they need to be let off in much the same way a little stream needs to be let off occasionally. Here is this compact bundle of energy that is simply looking for the chance to burst forth and create something bold, brilliant, and brief. Marvelous in it's brilliancy, and impressionable on the mind, much like being a kid.

One of my favorite memories of Independence Day is the cold, wet, rainy day my brother came home from Oklahoma after spending four years working in the oil fields. One the way home, he had stopped at some roadside stand and bought a 500 pack of firecrackers. This was his contribution to our annual Fourth celebration. That year money was tight and Dad didn't buy fireworks. The relatives were all staying home with ailments and there would be no grand party that year. On top of it all, it rained for a week straight and we had record rainfall. The temperature dropped and the crick arose. It got cool enough that my Dad lit a fire in our WWI barracks stove just to drive the dampness from our stone house and left the fire at a slow smolder.

My brother arrived and much hoopla was had. "Wait right here," he said with a smile as he ran through the summer down-pour back to the truck. He returned, drenched, and by the front porch light ripped open the package of firecrackers enough to find the main fuse and then dashed back out into the pouring rain long enough to place it on the millstone that was the centerpiece of our front yard, light the fuse and got away.

Of the 500, six or eight went off. It was the biggest let down. It was a few bangs in the rain compared to a day of frolic to a small boy. No comparison.

The next morning I learned the funny side of the tale.

Any fire needs fed, and since my dad retired early and arose early, first thing in the morning, he went to throw in a couple of logs. What he didn't know was that my brother had thrown the 494-492 wet firecrackers into the stove at midnight the night before. They had been drying out for at least six hours, but it wasn't until my Dad lifted the lid of this huge cast-iron Army stove at six in the morning that the aforementioned four hundred and some odd firecrackers decided to go off!

Needless to say he was caught off guard. Let me take this opportunity to mention that my Dad ALWAYS slept in his birthday suit. When he got up in the morning, he was dressed in what he went to bed in. Namely nothing.

Now if you will, picture a 56 year old man, naked, well tanned tall but very skinny, startled by small explosions, who then drops a log on his right foot and in an effort to seek cover from the eruption of flaming coals, runs into the dining room screaming gibberish past his loving family as they are having breakfast.

I have every reason to celebrate 7/5 as 7/4 as who can brag that they have seen this sort of fireworks enacted to such low comedy. To see your father run naked and screaming through the room does tend to make an impression on one.

That my brother is a dick occurs to me first.

The other is that I remember how he would take the time to explain to his fourth child the importance of being a good citizen. How you owed a lot to those who came before you who went to a lot of trouble to insure that we could be free, even to to trouble of dieing for it. He also pointed out our failings, even though we live in a land of law and equality, and we supposedly respect learning.

His lessons stick with me to this very day and I hope to pass them on to my kids. Independence Day reminders me of my freedom, my family, my commitment to be a good citizen, and savor all the good qualities of being an American.

But mostly, it makes me wish my Mom and Dad could have seen my girls.

Your Fellow American,
Doc

Piss On A Screwdriver

In an effort to expand the lexicon just a little bit, might I suggest, "piss on a screwdriver," for your future insult needs. While a bit out of the way for most folks, I think it might cover many conversations with mechanics, repair men, and most any other mechanical fix-it persons that you might encounter. While not as colorful nor representing the shear amount of futility as, "piss up a rope", I feel this phrase has earned a place in our language and needs to be given it's due. Feel free to use it when your brake job or dryer repair amounts to over $800. Let them know how you feel about their mechanical ass-reaming and suggest that their tools could be used to better effect.

No need to thank me,
Doc

ALL HAIL TH' GLORIOUS DEAD!

It's typical in most cultures to raise a glass of something strong n' frothy when things come to an end and just as often when new things begin. It's usual to drink before weddings an' after funerals, and many a man who's just been left, dumped or widowed will be found down at the local pub tossing a few back (but whether it's in a state of dispair or exultation will depend largely on the man and his philosophy).

So in keeping with such ancient traditions, I hereby announce that my Florida Teacher's License expired on th' last day o' June and ask you to join in a toast with me, for I shant be able to get another one anytime soon. Thanks to the rather draconian regulations of the State of Ohio (and of New York, now that I come to thinks on it), I cannot be re-certified in Ohio unless I take "9 or more semester hours from an accredited college in the area of your expertise." To the best of my calculations, that means the better part of at least half a calendar year and about $3,000, at the rate of tuition of most local colleges that have education programs. THEN there's an additional $250 to apply for the license itself and THEN there's the whole royal nonesuch of applying for and getting a teaching position in elementary school (for whereas I was certified to teach K-6 and high school English and Special Education, I'd have to get entire seperate DEGREES in these fields to sassify the state of Ohio's aforementioned draconian licensing requirements).

That, and I don't have a car, so any teaching position beyond the immediate surrounding area is more-or-less outta th' question. I DID have an interview 'bout 2 months ago for a private school for which the licensing requirements are different, but they clearly chose another candidate as I was never contacted (maybe all for th' better as their salary was about 1/2 of what a public school pays).

Most of you know that I don't particular cotton to the profession of teaching, though I did sink over $40k of the inheritance from my Mother's estate into a Master's degree, so this realization that unless I can find a private school w/in walking distance there's little chance that I shall teach anytime soon is what you might call a mixed blessin'. I was willing to corn-sidder teaching and I tried my level best to think of how to get 'round it all, but even if I COULD borrow money for school (already having a Bachelors and a Masters I was rejected for most grants as they're earmarked for students w/o any degrees at all), an' started on it today I'd not likely actually be IN a classroom until the fall term of 2010, a full year from now. I suppose I could shop 'round and find myself a state that has less stringent licensing laws, but th' trubble is where would I LIVE while waiting for that first paycheck to come in? I suppose the archepelego islands of Alaska might be willing to hire me and deal w/the licensing nonsense later, but I don't know anyone up there I can kip with until enuff rent $$$ comes in.

So, raise a glass with me as I sit in a more-or-less state of ambivelance a-wondering what to do next. But you'll have to pay for your own beer.

The Coolest Gift

I often kid my girls that as a child I had both kinds of toys, a stick AND a rock. They always look at me with a mix of pity and disgust. The truth of the matter is most of my toys were hand-me-downs, but I did have one uber-cool toy all to myself, this:





I played with this thing for hours. Somewhere I still have the little green monster that hid in the trash compacter amongst the foam bits of "trash".

What was you favorite toy as a kid?

Doc

I Have Seldom Been Right

I read once that, "No man is a saint is his own land and no man is ever a hero to his wife." I believe there is a grain of truth in that.

I'd love to kid you and tell you that I once saved Flannery from a ring of white slavers, or halted a war by getting the factions to sit down and drink a few beers together but that would be a lie.

I was right in front of my wife once, and that is like making Haley's comet appear out of nowhere. Gentleman, back me up here...

Flannery and I had only been married a short while at the time and I had whisked her off to my country home in Licking County, Ohio which left her far from the comforts of city life and civilization. We lived in the stone house that I had grown up in and were starting out on our uncertain married life there. We had two incomes, no kids, and life was rolling along nicely.

What she couldn't understand was my evening forays into the woods after work each evening. "What are you doing?" she would ask. "I'm going to go cut wood," I'd respond. "What for?" she asked bewilderly. "I've got to cut wood for this winter," I said with the casualness that this was as obvious as the nose on her face. "It's June!" she remarked. "No better time," I responded as I slipped two beers and a handful of Starbursts candies into my pockets.

After a week of this odd behavior, her curiosity got the better of her. She waited an hour after I had gone and then set out to find me. It wasn't hard. She hiked up the hill across the road and followed the sound of a saw cutting into wood and my swearing. In five minutes time she located me about one hundred yards from the house.

"Whatcha doing?" she queried as she hiked up the steep grade.

I wiped my brow and took a long pull at my can of Budweiser. "Cuttin' wood," was all I could say as I wipped the foam from my lips.

"Huh," she responded, as she was unimpressed by my progress. I had managed to cut through a large tree (19 to 23 inches wide) with only a bow saw as I refused to purchase a chain saw out of sheer contempt and the lack of funds. I hated the noise and even more so, I hated to unleash the fumes on an already beleaguered planet. With the bow saw, I needn't spend money on going to the gym and I could keep us warm this winter. It was win-win.

Flannery's "Huh" was an affront to my ego and my lifestyle. I felt obliged to defend myself and my way of life to my new bride. I had been mildly insulted and I felt that I needed to quell the unrest right here, so I pointed to a forked tree not twenty yards off.

"You see this here dead tree I've been sawing on for an hour?" she nodded her head and appraised the dead tree that I'd been cutting at.

"Do you see that forked tree twenty yards yonder?" she nodded her head.

"I'm going to drop this tree and let it fall to where it is going to strike this second tree in the crotch and split in half, and I can thereby drag it into the front lawn of our yard and cut it up in at my liesure."

"Sure," she nodded as if I told her a tale right straight out of Hans Christian Andersen.

I used a crow-bar that I had to run and fetch to knock over the large tree, but the result was just as I predicted. The tree fell and struck the other as I forecasted and the split of the wood was enough to drive the chipmunks and deer from our neck of the woods for a while.

I smiled a knowing smile and made to move this large boost to our winter heating bill down from the hill and to our front yard with the knowledge that I had interpreted this just as it happened.

I congratulated myself on the fact that I had foreseeen the end result, but more importantly, I had had the chance to show my new wife a thing or two. I lugged the pieces down to my front door with the reassurance that I could cut them later and my wife would respect me as if I knew what I was doing.

Gentlemen, treasure this moment while you can. You will find many occasions when she proves you wrong, but always treasure the one chance you had to prove yourself right.

Doc

The Tragic Tale Of One Ill-Gotten Bottle Of Beer

I work in the bakery of a local grocery store and on Saturday night at 7 PM, I'm headed to the lunch counter to bag and reduce the leftover bagels. I pass two teenage boys. Neither one is particularly striking, but they have a conspiratorial air about them. The tall one is blond, dressed in a long sleeve black T-shirt, black jeans, sneakers, and a winter toboggan cap despite the fact that is is pushing 87 degrees outside. The other is dark haired, with a red pock-marked face, shorts, gray T-shirt and sneakers. They speak to each other in hushed tones and the brunette is listening intently to the blond.

As I round the wine display, I see my buddy the plain-clothes security guard. I nod my hello and rush off to the bagels as I'm in a hurry so I can leave on time. I'm bagging bagels when I hear my buddy Jason from across the room yell, "There he goes!" and I see the brunette kid dash towards the door only to find it locked. He darts back into the store when Jason yells loudly again, "Hey!"

Suddenly, the steam runs out of the kid and he stops and hangs his head. He has no fight left in him. He turns to take a few steps to Jason who quickly puts his arm around his shoulders and leads him away.

I find out later from the girl who stocks the dairy case that they are 12 and 14, and they tried to steal three bottles of Corona Light. The brunette 12 year-old pushed the plain-clothes security guard (who is an off duty Sheriff's deputy) in an effort to get away and that counts as an Assault charge and he will have a felony on his record until he is nineteen when he has the opportunity to get it expunged. He will have to put this on every job application he fills out until then.

To make matters worse, the blond 14 year-old was just spending the night at his place for that evening. He called his mother from jail and she came and picked him up. The brunette called home and couldn't reach his mother. They sent a patrol car to his house and found a note from her. She had come home to find the two of them gone so she had decided to take a vacation in West Virginia and would be back later, if she feels like it.

Now our 12 year-old brunette has a felony on his record, no prospects, abandonment by his mother, has become a prisoner of the juvenile system and a ward of the overworked Children's Services, not to mention he has horrible acne to boot.

I can only pray that this kid gets his head screwed on straight early or this is simply going to be the beginning of a long line of incidents to lead from loserdom, to prisoner, to convict. No one could wish such a fate on a 12 year-old kid.

I wouldn't.

Doc

DOC AN' I DO TH' SAME THING

At What Price Sobriety?

***Editor's Note*** The video is provided below for those who don't want to read***

I went to Tiki Wednesday night like I always do. It was good to see everyone as everyone showed with one exception, which is understandable, as he is taking a short vacation at the county's expense.

We all hashed out our woes of the week and caught up on how everyone has been doing. Some fared well, while others not so much. The conversation meandered as it always does as we moved from politics, likes & dislikes, to philosophy. Jerry suggested that our new motto should be, "Solving the world's problems one Tiki at a time." It seemed to have some small ring of truth to it, so we are going to put it on the back of our T-shirts when we make them. As the evening wore on, each member finished their beer, called it a night and headed home toward bed, leaving only Franklin and I to douse the lights and turn the radio off.

It is usually just Franklin and I left at the end of the evening as we have the shortest distance to travel to bed and we treat our philosophical discussions with a trifle more seriousness than perhaps the other members do, so we stay up a bit later than the rest.

"Have you ever considered giving up drinking and smoking?" I asked Franklin.

"Sure, why do you ask?" he queried.

I explained that I have been giving some thought to how much money I spend on beer and smokes, especially since my consumption has increased dramatically as of late. "So?" Franklin said. I told him that I had been considering a hiatus on my vices for a short period of time, if for no other reason than to prove that I could do it, but I was hesitant to go it alone. Would he like to join me in this experiment?

"You want to bet some money?" his eyes lit up.

"Hell Frank, I don't have any money. All I have is an uncashed check for $30 from Grandma for Father's Day." I am NOT a gambling man. I never have been, as the only money that is worth betting is money that you are prepared to lose and it has always been too precious a commodity to just throw it away in my book.

"Well, I've got a $35 check from a client that I haven't cashed yet. I'll put that up. So, no beer, no cigarettes, but for how long?"

"Well, as it is already after midnight, let's start at 12:01 AM Friday and it will run until we get together Wednesday for Tiki. By my count, that's six days. That should be long enough."

"I'll start now," he said as he stubbed out his cigarette and with a grand flourish of his hand poured out the rest of his almost full bottle of beer on the flowers. Then he took my pen and the envelope that I had been taking notes on and jotted down his cell phone number. "Be sure to call me when you crack," he said with a mischievous smile. I finished my smoke, bid him goodnight, and went home with a lot to think about.

All Thursday this ran through my mind. I was a fool to have made the bet as my will power is as tough as warm Jello and I don't really have the thirty bucks to lose. For one small moment I contemplated smoking cigars again and chasing them with whiskey or vodka, as neither one would violate the rules of our bet and I could keep my money without climbing the walls like a patient in Nurse Ratchet's ward, but I knew in my heart of hearts that this would be cheating and I just couldn't bring myself to do that to Franklin regardless the amount of money.

On Thursday night at 11:54 PM, I lit my last cigarette and watched the clock so as not to violate our agreement, and my supply of beer was long since gone. I crushed it out at 11:59 and went to bed wondering what Friday would bring.

That night my back ached and my sunburn from too much time spent in the pool topless grated against me. To top it off, my heartburn could not be quenched with stomach remedies or milk. I thrashed and rolled around until 4:36 AM until sleep overcame me.

I almost didn't make coffee Friday morning from the fear that it would weaken my resolve to not have a cigarette, but my tiredness won out and I drank an entire pot to coax myself to life. I was a lump of pain, discomfort, and grouchitude for most of the day. I envisioned myself praying for strength and resolve for the next five days as I sweated bullets and snarled at anyone who crossed my path. I pictured myself eating nine course meals, six a day, just so I wouldn't run mad down the street to buy Marlboro's and Budweiser's.

I worked my shift and headed home with all the joy of a miner trapped in the shaft and the water was rising. At 9 o'clock I called Franklin, just to see how he was doing. He answered his cell phone and after a few words handed it to his girlfriend Patrice.

She explained that they were at a very noisy birthday party in a swanky bar and Franklin had lasted until 4 o'clock.

All bets were off, and I lit a smoke before I finished the call.

To some degree I was satisfied with my performance although I didn't really shine under pressure as it were. I learned what a slave I am to my vices and that is a tough pill to swallow no matter how much beer I have to wash it down.

I haven't decided whether to take my winnings or not, as Franklin is as hard pressed for cash as I am and it would be rude to press a man for something he said under the influence of alcohol and nicotine. Should he pony up the money or not, I'm going to buy steaks and beer for Tiki anyway and count this as a lesson learned.

Doc

WHY I LOVE MY JOB...

We've got a Keurig B3000 Brewing System with about 8 different types of coffee and teas, including Lemon Zinger and Mandrin Orange Spice.
They also buy us pizza for lunch when phone traffic is high.

Help! Help! I'm Being Repressed!

***Editor's Note*** For those who don't want to bother to read this, an audio version done by the author is provided below. Mind you, the author had had a few beers before recording and does it badly, but it is provided for those with busy lives who can't spend that much time reading.***

Have you ever been discriminated against? I had not. As a white male living in America it just never happened to me, until recently.

Last weekend, I was working in the bakery and the bell rang signaling that the was a customer at the counter who needed service. As the most junior member of the bakery, it often falls to me to handle the counter and the telephone. I don't mind as I have met a lot of really interesting people this way. I wipe the strawberry juice from my hands on the tail of my apron and go out to answer the bell.

No sooner do I round the corner than the lady at the counter yells out to anyone who may be listening, "Oh great. I got a man!" She spits these words out at me as if to instantly suggest that I am an idiot by my gender alone. She shakes her hatchet-shaped head from side to side, as if she knows that she is going to have to suffer through a long drawn-out conversation with a simpleton, namely me. I am the turd in her punch bowl of life.

"I'm looking for a chocolate cake with chocolate icing," she whines to me as if I am a stupid drooling, snot-nosed child. In her hand is of 7" round layer cake.

"Yes miss," she has to be late sixties,"this a chocolate cake with chocolate icing. This is our Snicker's cake with drizzles of fudge and peanut butter with a sprinkling of salted cocktail peanuts and Snicker's candy pieces. It's quite popular." I'm smiling as I explain to this old battle axe that she is holding a chocolate cake with chocolate icing.

"Well, I saw that it said Snicker's but I didn't know what that was," she sniffs. "C'mere..." She leads me over to the cake cooler. "What the hell is this?" she points. There sits a 7" round chocolate layer cake with chocolate icing.

Still smiling, "This is our Ho-Ho cake. It is a chocolate cake with chocolate icing. It has a layer of French cream between the layers cake, and is drizzled with fudge and French roll vanilla icing, and topped with Ho-Ho pieces." I point out each feature as I name it in the vain hope that this woman will quickly exit my life.

"Whut?" No, it turns out this pain in my ass is going to be sticking around. She looks at me as if I have grown another head. I explain again about the Ho-Ho cake. In detail.

"Well, I saw it said Ho-Ho but I didn't know what that was," she sneered.

Her hatchet nose makes soft whistling noises as she shakes her head again. "Poor, silly, ignorant boy," she thinks to herself as she leads me over to the other cake cooler. "What's this?" she points as she growls.

"This is our 8" round single layer cake. It too is a chocolate cake with chocolate icing. The top is covered in melted fudge icing, given five good dollops of chocolate butter cream icing and finished with chocolate Hershey's kisses." She glares at me as if I blatantly lying to her. She is steamed and stomps over to the freezer. She crooks her finger as she does it, as if beckoning a naughty dog who is about to be slapped with the newspaper. "What's this?" She seethes.

"This is our 1/4 sheet almond cake, done in white butter cream icing and decorated with blue and green roses. It's ideal for a man's birthday. Feeds 15 and sells for $15.99. We would be happy to write on it for you for no extra charge."

"Does it have almonds in it?" I think I see her forked tongue lick her lips but it may have been just a trick of the florescent lighting.

"No, it is a yellow cake flavored with almond extract. It is subtle and has a wonderful flavor at the finish and is best served with coffee or tea." I am totally winging it here. I have never tasted the almond cake and have no idea what it tastes like but I am willing to concoct any story I can to send this rude woman on her way. I am trying desperately to be kind and civil to this woman, but her attitude and body language suggest nothing but scorn and disgust. She is revolted by me.

"I'll think about it..." and she dismisses me with a wave of her hand as if she had suffered as much of me as she could take.

I return to the counter and sell a few doughnuts to the fat guys who are waiting patiently there. They say please and thank-you's as I hand them their cruellers with nuts. As they shuffle off to the sea food counter to check out the price of scrod, I see the battle axe load up the Ho-Ho cake, the Snicker's cake, and the 8" Hershey's Kiss cake into her cart and she stomped off down the milk aisle and shook her head as if it was a bad business altogether, much like the time she gave Herbert Hoover a blowjob on the train.

Needless to say, I was miffed.

I was miffed, stymied, frustrated, and more than a little pissed off. I wanted to kick this woman in the shins really hard. I have been called every name in the book and there are a few of them that perhaps I've earned, but I have never been so masterfully scorned before. I t was as if my very presence was enough to make her want to retch.

I returned to my task of making cherry-filled cupcakes and repeated the story to the girls I was working with. I am the only man in the bakery by the way. I tell the tale and they literally gasp and jaws hang slack until I'm finished.

Silence hangs for a moment.

My buddy Phillis pipes up, "You should have told her that the 280 pound lesbian nympho would be more than happy to help her!" I admitted that that hadn't occurred to me.

Doc



Happy Father's Day you Mothers!

D.I.Y. PHILOSOPHY PRESENTS: TRVTH

At some point if you were to mix people and alcohol you're going to get philosophy. Somewhere after a few drinks and a few pauses in the story, someone's gonna say "well, that's MY philosophy" or someone else will throw say something like "ain't that the truth?" I'm sure that this is how the Great Works of Western Literature came to be written-- without television or Britney Spears to befuddle the mind, Plato and Socrates and Hume probably sat around with great orgy horns of wine, beer and mead and just started talking about stuff.

Of course, one of the big differences between them and me, between then and now is the idea that in the days of the ancient Greek philosophers (and even in the 17th and 18th centuries) is that stuff like philosophy and metaphysics was actively TAUGHT to students, so most everyone at the time (well, those who could GET an education, I guess I should fairly say) had a reasonable understanding of the Big Questions. What is Truth, what is Beauty, what is God were questions that most people could wind up discussing with some depth over a beer or two in a pub or a coffeehouse. Granted, there was and still is a great deal of the population who's too busy turning a buck to CARE about the eternal verities and you're not likely to hear deep discussions about Truth down at Smitty's Pub when the 5:00 work crew rolls in for a boilermaker.

Still, I find myself occasionally astonished at the vast LACK of basic knowledge that I either failed to retain or wasn't even TAUGHT in the first place. I don't ever remember any teacher or professor really doing a cross-reference examination about what truth really is, as seen through the eyes of the world's great thinkers. Oh, I learned about Plato's idea of Truth being absolute and beyond human ability to even grasp, but no one's ever even mentioned the idea of the other substantive theories of truth. About the closest I've gotten to THAT was by watching murder mysteries and cop shows on TV where someone would comment that 2 people witnessed the same event and saw two totally different things, both thinking that they're right and that they've got the truth (usually said with a sort of dreamy or frustrated look over a mug of black coffee, the cop's tie loosened down to the 2nd button).

If we use THAT as a definition of truth, then the truth actually changes over time, doesn't it? It's true that I loved my my first crush, Laura, in Jr High, so much that I was practically sick. That is not true now. It's true that at one point the god Zeus existed but doesn't now (at least not in the same way: the entire society has changed and even modern Pagans don't worship the same way the Greeks did). Truth may indeed be relative depending on human belief.
Actually, if I were having a few beers with Doc as I asked these questions, after asking a question like "Doc, IS truth abolute or relative?" and we had tossed the question back and forth across the net a few times, there would probably be a pause and then I'd be tempted to ask ANOTHER question, more practical than philosophical. Something along these lines:

Doc, when I was in high school biology I had to learn the structures of a frog's brain. A reptile brain and a mammalian brain don't even LOOK alike, and I remember having to memorize the structures of the frog brain for a test whereas the HUMAN brain-- of which I'm supposed to have one-- wasn't discussed. [I'd pause for a sip of beer, here] The question, then, is why was it considered important for a 9th grader to learn the location of the olfactory lobe in a frog but NOT have discussions about what TRVTH is? And furthermore, how did I get to be over forty years of age and not have a good, solid, personal conviction based on previous thinking about the nature of truth and be able to stand up and in a clear voice say, "I beleive that truth is absolute" or "I believe that truth is relative." Is it just me, or does this seem clearly like a failing somewhere along the line?

Up To Speed

I'm sorry I've been away. Just stuff, getting busy, etc. I've accumulated a few stories I'd like to share but I don't have them written yet and I can't do a video blog without a lot of cue cards. I hope the video stuff isn't too overblown as I enjoy telling you my stories, and a couple of buddies of mine have encouraged me to do more, as my writing seems so-so to them to read but to have me tell my own story always gets the biggest laughs. I'll look into it. Right now I have my hands full, such as:

• I have been busy with the house and the yard like mad. The yard has become such a task I almost feel like I'm cheating on my wife with my new wet, green mistress. I have mowed, weeded, planted flowers, pumpkins, hot peppers, watermelon, and stained the deck. I have erected a trampoline, a 13' pool, a swing set, and two sandboxes. Yes, I have labored long and hard to create the ultimate kid-friendly summer backyard so all of the neighborhood kids could come and play at my house. I threw my back out doing it.
• Actually I threw my back out when I took a bad fall recently. I was trying to break a piece of wood for the fire by stomping on it. Unfortunately my shoe was wet at the time and slid off rather quickly leaving me with no balance, no fire wood, and no choice but to strike the ground. I struck it hard and badly. I fell into the basement window well of the guy's house next door. I quickly regained my feet and composure with the reassurance that no one had seen me make this horrendous blunder. I brushed the dirt from my bright orange bathrobe and returned to the party with my unbusted stick. (I was fully clothed under the robe in blue jeans, a T-shirt, and boots. This sounds odd I'm sure, but I was trying to land a new job and you just had to be there) The next day the large purple bruises I found all over my body confirmed that I had once again been an ass.
• I have found a great new beer called Stegmaier out of Wilkes-Barre, Pa. and they make an excellent porter for $6. The fun part is the pictogram under the bottle caps. The hardest one was Panama Canal. They showed a picture of a pan + a ham + AH, then what looked like a sack of tomatoes and an owl. It took me forever to realize the sack was a CAN of tomatoes! After that, all became clear. Also, I've been drinking a lot of Stroh's as it's Flannery's new favorite. It is much easier to justify buying beer if it is a beer she likes as she has had it with my ol' Pabst.
• We've taken in a lodger. One of my good friends found himself between addresses, so we offered to put him up. He has made himself comfortable in our lodge despite repeated offers to sleep in the guest room. Honestly, I can't blame him. The couch in our lodge is perhaps the very best investment we have ever made. It is long, very deep, deep enough for two, and has an ottoman almost as big. It is the Queen size of couches and is truly nap-worthy. Not to mention that our old, surly cat has made a new friend and insists on sleeping with my buddy every night, and he makes good coffee.
• I have built a swamp. Not just any swamp, "The Swamp", like the one from M*A*S*H. The previous owners of our house went to great trouble to build a nice deck next to their hot tub, but they never bothered to put any kind of roof on it, so that meant sitting in the hot sun, squinting and sweating at each other as we sat watching the kids play in the pool and the backyard. "Not this year," I decided. I was just going to set up some kind of simple rain-fly to deflect the water and the sun. I would have been content with bed sheets stitched together but cooler heads prevailed. Some major design and decorative ideas were haggled over, but in the end, Flannery won out and I'm delighted that I had enough good sense to listen to her. After $140 some odd dollars were spent and less than three hours labor we have created a reasonable facsimile of "The Swamp" and the best place to relax in the neighborhood besides the Tiki. (The only thing missing is the gin mill) All the mom's agree that my place is "The Place" to hang out this summer. If you notice a small amount of pride in that statement, you'd be right. Pictures to follow.
• My uncle died this morning. His health hasn't been good for many years and his death probably comes as a surprise to no one, but it still hurts. I choked up today and I had to try to explain to Riley why. The explanation wasn't as good as I would have liked, but who has a ready-made speech to explain grief to their kids? I tried to explain that Uncle Warren had been very good to me and to a lot of other people in his life. For lack of a better explanation, I told her my favorite story about him. As a child, he got the family beach umbrella and jumped off the roof of the barn. Predictably, the umbrella folded and he took a bad fall. While this makes for a cute story, it doesn't quite tell the tale. When WW II came around, he signed up to be a paratrooper and jumped from a plane on D-Day. What I didn't tell her was how he rigged the fancy pistol that Grandpa had sent him to war with to a grenade and blew up a German Lieutenant when he was captured. I didn't tell her how at night a paved road looks like a river and how paratroopers can break both of their legs when they land. I didn't tell her of the agonizing months that he spent in a prison camp starving to death amongst the groans of the dying, and how he came home as 98 lbs of skin and bones. I didn't tell her those stories. I told her of the years he spent on the school board, the Deacon's board, of the high school that he helped build that I attended, and all the cows he milked over the years so growing kids could get their vitamins. I told her these stories, as that is all that I know.

I hope you know more than I do,

Doc

QUOTE O' TH' WEEK:

Man is conceived in ignorance and born in doubt, and his life goes downhill from there,” Ray wrote to Dad. “he makes his way from pure foolishness to outright stupidity stopping now and then to do something mean and ugly. And yet to some lucky persons the Lord doles out a modicum of common sense, enough to enable us to know our butt from a hot rock, to not spend all our money or insult our friends, and to sit down and shut up when it’s our time to. Now is the time to sit down and shut up, Walter. The urge to perform is not a sign of talent; greed is not an indication of business acumen. Keep this in mind, it may be helpful in the future. The beauty of retirement is the way it raises your reputation: you keep plugging away and soon you’ll be a ridiculous relic in a back number, but you quit soon enough and live long enough and you’ll come to be regarded as a genius and a pioneer. This is the truth, or otherwise I wouldn’t tell you. The key to a person’s reputation is he knew when to quit. A word to the wise should be sufficient. Good luck, your friend Ray.”

---Garrison Keillor
WLT: A Radio Romance

Doc Sings...badly

This is the one song I know by heart. I catch myself singing it all the time, if I'm happy or have the blues. Do you have a song that you sing all the time?

Doc

SINCE I DON'T HAVE A TRUMPET WITH ME...

Blow the trumpet at the new moon, At the full moon, on our feast day.

---Psalms 81:3

I've been reading The Year of Living Biblically: One Man's Humble Attempt to Follow the Bible as Literally as Possible by A.J. Jacobs, and one of the many rules he's attempting to follow (he himself found over 730 rules when he read the Bible, and apparently there's 613 of them written down in Orthodox Judiasm) is sounding a trumpet on the first of the month in accordance with Scripture.

Mind, the trumpet as we know it didn't exist then so he went out and bought a small shofar, "about three sizes bigger than a kazoo and shaped like an elbow maccaroni; $30 will only get you so much." He notes, even as his Biblical year goes into the 4th or 5th month, that while he blows the shofar on both the Gregorian and Hebrew calendars, it still sounds something like a dying fax machine. Presumably God doesn't mind.

*I* used to play trumpet, and so did Flannery, Doc's goodwife, though there is no doubt that she was far, FAR better @ the instrument than I. I sold MY trumpet ages ago and have neither shofar, trumpet or even a soprano recorder in the house. The closest I can come to right now would be buzzing my lips, trumpet-style, into a cardboard toilet paper tube, and who knows if that would be pleasing to the Lord or not??

SO, instead, it seems to me that the best I can do on this, the first day of June (a month typically associated with summer, though that doesn't officially arrive for a few more weeks), why not have somone ELSE sound the trump for me? And, presumably, for YOU by proxy as well, as I have a vague suspicion that most readers of SZ:tCoB don't have either rams horns nor brass instruments ready at hand.

The first person to come to mind when the word "trumpet" is said is, of course, the great Satchmo. Here he is:

OK, maybe that doens't really count-- he's HOLDING his trumpet but not playing it, and a trombone MAY not quite qualify under a strict Biblical interpretation. Still, the song is so wonderful in and of itself, and I love to watch his face when he sings, it seems a shame NOT to include it herewithin.

Fortunately, though, there is ANOTHER song in which Mr. Armstrong DOES play and sing, and it too is PERFECT for this, the first of June. Sing along with me, y'all...

Louis Armstrong & Ella Fitzgerald - Summertime
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