The Stink Of Freedom; FFF #40

I heard footsteps on the wet sidewalk and the sound of keys. Soon we will hear the clump, clump, clump of the guard's heavy soled brogans coming down the cell block. The rattle of keys is our wake up call. No loud alarm or bell to tell you to rise, just the soft jingle-jangle of keys and the slow, steady tread on the concrete.

To some prisoners the sound of the keys is a welcome sound. It meant that soon some food would be thrown into a dirty bowl and served with all the loving care of a backhanded slap in the face. To others the sound was the reminder that they were still alive and still trapped in the same shit hole with no hope of ever having their freedom again.

Either way you looked at it, at least it was better than the night time. The night is when everybody breaks down. There is no way around it. Sure, for the first few nights you might put on a brave face and pretend to sleep like you were at home, snuggled on your own comfy bed. But there will come a night when you just can't stand it any more. When the howls and cat calls of the other inmates won't quit ringing in your ears and they blend with the guttural noises of those who pleasure themselves in the darkness. When you can't stand the smell of urine and sweat and disinfectant and fear one more minute. When it finally sinks into the pit of your soul that you are behind bars and the only relief from this living hell is the painful sting of the needle that will shove the poison into your veins and it will close your eyes for good. Death is the only reprieve. I swear to God, when the fact of what you have to look forward to hits home, you will hang your God damned head and howl like a pup. Everyone gets around to it eventually.

Sometimes the guards will trot some people through the cell block. The people will smile and point at one prisoner or another and laugh and coo. These people will smell of sunshine, smoke, or cologne. Hell, they will practically reek of the outside, where you can feel the wind on your face and feel the crunch of leaves as you walk instead of the dull thud of concrete and the ever present hum of the florescent lights.

These effing people just stink of freedom. And when they have flaunted their free smell long enough, they have the guard drag some poor son of a bitch from his cell. The people will ruffle his hair and ask him if he has been a good boy. That's what they ask, but that isn't what they want to know. What they want to know is if he has been broken yet. Has every shred of his will been ground to a fine dust so that he will always cower when they speak? Has enough of his mind been pummeled to the point he can't even make a squirt of piss without their say so. Sometimes they take the son of a bitch away with them. Sometimes they just turn on their heel and walk away.

The worst ones are the shoppers, the looky-loos. They walk from cell to cell, listening to the hundreds of screaming voices that call out for mercy, clemency, and they act stone deaf. They just go from cell to cell and spew out reasons why this or that prisoner won't do. Every shortcoming or perceived fault is trotted out, one after another, like the devil recounting the failures of the damned.

Damn them. Damn them all to Hell. The guards, the people, the whole lot of them. They've got no God given conscious. If they did, why would they let us rot in these cages for weeks on end before the injection, and the whole time, hold up our freedom like some almost but not quite attainable lottery ticket? Damn them and their stinking false hope.

I am in this accursed cell and doomed because I defended myself and my home. For that, I will be allowed a coward's death. Stupid people. I only bit one guy, and he was a fucking mailman for Christ's sake. Isn't being bit by a dog part of their effing job?

Dear sweet Jesus, I just long to run with my pups one last time.

**Author's Note** My broken leg has been acting up and it helped to form the mood of this piece which is far from cheerful. The wonderful starter sentence that was provided by the good Mr. MaCrum suggested a convict or prisoner to me, but I wanted to give it a bit of a twist. After all, when you've seen Papillon, Escape From Alcatraz, and Murder In The First, there really isn't that much more that this poor country boy could possibly add. But what if the condemned isn't a person at all? What if he is a dog at the pound? Wouldn't he be more than a little bitter at his fate? I would. I've been to jail a time or two (always as a visitor thankfully) and the smell is something that hangs with you long after you return to the bright light of day. So if after reading this you realize that you have a little more room in your home and a little extra love in your heart, contact your local animal shelter or the American Humane Society, Adopt An Animal Canada, Animal Rescuers in the UK, or the Austrailian Animal Protection Society in the grand land down under . There is a furry convict out there who will thank you for it.

Doc

Johann's Dilemma

This is my FFF #11 entry and must contain these four words: Pater, Pest, Perpendicular, & Schlemiel. This is my offering:

Father Tom settled into the confessional booth and opened his favorite book. It was Friday and there just wasn't much traffic at three-thirty in the afternoon, so why not while away the time with a good read? He clicked on his little reading lamp and opened his tattered copy of "The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy" and found where he had left Arthur and Ford Prefect heading off to the pub. He smiled to himself as he dabbed his tea bag around in his mug.

He welcomed the chance to cover for Father Randal and have a quiet bit of time to himself. Friday afternoon in confession was this close to a day off. The Saturday night/Sunday afternoons were the worst, as all of God's children had to start the work week with a clean breast. The lines were long and the sins were boring.

But Friday afternoon was Heaven. Most people seemed to be lining up their sins at this time, not coming in the seek reprieve. Father Tom sipped his tea and settled in. He stretched his legs as much as the booth would allow and read about the man who pretended to be from Guilford but was really from Betelgeuse.

He was caught totally unawares where the confessional door was pulled open and a large man plopped down. Father Tom was just reaching for his mug at the time and when the door let in the strong afternoon sunlight through the stained glass windows, he was blinded. The hot tea fell in his lap and he leaped up with a yelp and struck his head quite hard against the wall. His glasses fell with a clatter to the floor and joined his broken mug, his ruined paperback, and his tiny reading lamp. He was tempted to use the Lord's name in vain but was too busy holding his steaming hot pants away from his genitals.

"Pater?" said the man. His door was still open and it framed him in a crimson-shaded silhouette as he called out.

"It's alright my son," Father Tom said through clenched teeth as the hot tea headed for his shoes. The man closed the confessional door and Father Tom had to let his eyes adjust to the dark before he could make out his glasses by the lamp on the floor. He settled them on his nose and kicked the book and shards off to one side, and sat down.

The man took this as his cue to begin, "Good night Pater. Forget me for my sins." He spoke each word in it's turn as if he were reading from a foreign language phrase book. "Pardon Pater. Anglish not many good," he sighed. He scratched his head and sat in silence.

Father Tom waited for a bit, then said, "Speak my son. I will help as best I can."

"Pater, me got trouble. Bad trouble. Woman trouble."

"What woman?"

"Brother's woman. Brother dead. Dead year ago. Dead under train," each word came haltingly.

"You brother's woman? Your brother's girlfriend?" then man held up his left hand and clasped a finger, then it dawned on Father Tom, "Your sister-in-law! Your brother's wife!"

"Ya! Ya!" he nodded in recognition. "Sister-law want baby! She spaken want baby now. No brother give her baby. Want baby many bad!" The man shuffled his big frame and seemed to shake the entire booth. He rested his head in his hands and thought. In a moment, he sat up. Very quietly he said, "Sister-law want me good baby. Brother dead. Want me good baby."

"She wants you to give her a baby?" Father Tom asked.

"Bible say law. Genesis. Must give widow baby, keep brother's line going."

"Well, I don't know-"

"She look good Pater. She look good to me. She ubermilf! No woman for Johann since come America. Johann," he pointed to himself, "Johann me. No woman by no many Anglish Pater. Johann is..." he stumbled and tried to think of the right word, "hairy. Many, many hairy!"

"Horny?" Father Tom suggested, and then wished he hadn't.

"Ya! Horny! Me no sleep good. Think all night, give Sister-law good baby, but think of brother in Heaven too. Don't know..."

Father Tom thought a moment, "God tells us to go forth and be fruitful, and the lesson of Onan is to obey God's law but-"

"Danke Pater! Me no pest! Me go give good baby right now!" and with that he dashed from the booth through the blood red light. Father Tom fumbled for the door handle in the sudden glare, and when he managed to get out of the booth, he found himself yelling "Wait!" to an empty church. Father Tom bowed his head, "God protect you my son and keep you from sin," he muttered.

Off and on throughout the next week, Father Tom thought of poor, misguided Johann. He watched the parishioners who came and went, and searched for the outline of Johann's face amongst the crowds. He had never gotten a good look at the big man in the booth and was unsure if he would recognize him even if he saw him. At night, as he knelt by his little bed, he prayed to God to send Johann back to him so that he could help him see the error of his ways.

Friday came and he was covering for Father Randal again in the confessional. "Please God, let him come today!" he prayed in earnest. The door swung open, "Father? Are you in here?" said the silhouette.

"Johann! Saints be praised!" Father Tom brightened at the answer to his prayers.

"No Father. It's Officer Brown," said the big man, "Come quick Father! There has been an accident and the poor guy doesn't have long. You need to do the Last Rites Father. Now!" Father Tom flew from the booth and followed Officer Brown as quickly as he could. "The guy was crossin' the street perpendicular to the church Father and he got hit by a trolley," Officer Brown explained as they hustled into the street.

There on the pavement lay Johann, blood oozing from his nose and ears. Father Tom knelt beside him and began to pray. Johann's eyes fluttered and were lit with recognition. "Pater," he said in a hoarse whisper.

"Yes, my son?"

"Pater, I fooled her. Wore rubber!" and with a chuckle, Johann died.

"God in Heaven," Father Tom prayed, "welcome this poor schlemiel!" and his tears mingled with the spilled blood.

Doc

**Author's Note** I am not Catholic and know very little about it, but the word "Pater" suggested a story with a priest to me. This was one of the toughest ones I've had to write so far. Like all good hacks, I swiped the story, but if you can't steal from the Bible, where can you? I tried to make the deaths of Johann and his brother the same (both dying by a train) in keeping with the parable, and the red light was supposed to be foreshadowing. Clumsy, I know. I hope you enjoyed this weeks installment and maybe next week I won't have to kill anyone off.

Fear Not The Dark You Bright And Risen Angels!

On Halloween, Flannery took the girls trick-or-treating while I was at work. They canvased the neighborhood with the other local kids. They made a pretty good haul and when they were done they plopped down in the neighbor's back yard in a huge pile of leaves and compared candy.

Lucy, age five and pictured above in her costume as a Star Wars Jedi decided she wanted to go to one more house, so Flannery led her to the home of an elderly Italian couple who live the next street over. Now these folks are from the old country and their English isn't very good.

Lucy rings the bell and when the old man answers, holds out her bucket and cries out, "Trick or treat!" with all of the enthusiasm that a five year old can muster. "Good costume! Great costume!" he says with his thick accent as he puts a large handful of candy in her bucket. The old woman, hearing the sound of visitors, bustles to see who it is and joins her husband at the doorway.

She looks down at little Lucy in costume and her breath catches in her throat and her hand flies to her open mouth. "Jesu," she mutters, "Jesu Christi!" Without another word, she fills Lucy's bucket with all it will hold and crosses herself.

Flannery thanks them for their generosity, takes Lucy by the hand and they turn to go. "More children should dress like this!" the old woman calls after them. She kisses her rosary and takes the old man's hand as she closes the door.

Flannery didn't have the heart to tell them that Lucy was dressed as a character from a Sci-Fi movie that they had never heard of and not as Jesus Christ.

I choked up almost as much as our Italian neighbor lady did when Flannery told me the story, but I am a sentimental son of a bitch.

Doc

Haunted By The Ghost Of Carrie Nation

There was no respite; the vivid, violent dreams that ruthlessly tormented her slumber had now relentlessly stretched the abyss, to envelop her during her day. At first it was only night sweats and feverish dreams that left her with a lingering unease. Then came the hatchet, damn that awful thing. She started having a stiff belt before bed but that only made it worse. The dreams were more violent with men running and screaming against the sound of breaking glass.

The doctor prescribed some sleeping pills, but even their morphine-like stupor couldn't shut out the phantom of the old woman with a bible in one hand and that damned hatchet in the other. Oh God, and the never ending screams of unholy vengeance that filled her head all of the time!

After fighting it for so long with the endless torments and sufferings, she gave in and threw herself at madness. It welcomed her with open arms. It's cold, black hands surrounded her neck and pulled it's mouth close to her ear.

It reached it's peak on her way home from work on Friday. The air suddenly became hot and humid with the obligatory sweat bath. The pavement had an odd way of shifting beneath her feet. She felt woozy and suspected sunstroke, so she stopped for a drink at the first place she came to.


The sign said The Wulfshead, but she couldn't remember passing it before, even if it was within two blocks of her house. The patrons were varied and many in number, to the point she had to turn sideways and pick her way to the bar. She grabbed the bar maid by the front of her apron and shouted above the din that she needed two banana daiquiris and six beers right now! The bar maid nodded an understanding yes and hurried off.

Because the floor wouldn't quit shifting beneath her feet, she leaned a little harder on the bar to steady herself. That is when she noticed the old woman at her elbow. She stood out a bit, as she was wearing a long black dress with a high collar, a bonnet, and she glowed with an unearthly light; not to mention the hatchet she was brandishing.

"Judas Priest, it's about time you got here," she muttered to the spectre.

"Yes," she said with a voice like the wind through the trees, "I have been trying to speak with you for some time, but you have been unreceptive."

"Well you've got my attention now! Spill it! What the fuck do you want?" the girl said.

"Your destiny is to carry on my work. Men are nicotine soaked, beer besmirched, whiskey greased, red-eyed devils and you need to save a few souls tonight."

"So, just because my name is Carrie Nation and your's is too, I need to do what you did?" the girl asked.

As the spectre was about to speak, a young man elbowed his way in and leaned over and shouted above the pounding music, "Hey, can I buy you a drink?"

The girl said no as the bar maid set down her order. "But," she replied, "I'll buy you one."

"Thanks," he smiled, "Here's to a wonderful evening," and clinked his glass with her's.

The girl held her left hand behind his back in a gesture of comraderie and gave Mrs. Nation the finger in the process.

From that moment on, The abyss could barely stifle it's yawn.


There was no respite.

Doc

A Fright

I'm working at the bakery last night and I had forty-five minutes left on my shift when Flannery called. She said Lucy had taken a bad fall on the trampoline and had hurt her neck. Now she couldn't move her head. Flannery was taking her to the hospital and I should go straight home. Her voiced wavered with fear.

I trembled as I drove home as I could only think of worst-case scenarios. Her neck was broken and she would spend the rest of her life in a wheelchair. She would never run and play again. She would need help going to the bathroom and she would have a tough time finding a date when the time came. I choked up thinking about how one misery after another would be piled on my little girl's shoulders and she isn't even six yet.

Long story short, she is okay. The doctor called it whiplash and she is going to be sore for a few days but there is no long term damage.

Good Lord, it's scary being dad sometimes.

Doc

The Canoe Trip, or The Boat That Almost Wrecked My Marriage

There was a huge kerfuffle at my house when I showed Flannery the new canoe that I had purchased.

She had just returned home that night from a long, exhausting trip to Vermont and wanted nothing more than to tumble into her own little bed and drift off to the land of slumber where no one would have computer related questions. She had hardly dropped her bags on the floor before I kissed her and lead her out to our shed. I was so excited, much like a little boy about to unveil Christmas morning to his family. I giggled as we made our way in the dark because I was going to show her the grandest, most wonderful thing that had entered our lives since we had kids.

In short, I was an idiot.

I open the shed door and shined the flashlight on our 13' aluminum beauty, the vessel that would cart us away from all of our cares and worries. A boat that would crown our summers with fun, quality family time for years to come. I let the flashlight play over it like a Hollywood premiere.

In the voice of Satan before his morning coffee she said, "How much did that cost?"

Instantly, my crest fell and my stomach reviewed it's skill in tying knots. Didn't she see the magnificent canoe before her? Didn't she understand that this was going to enrich our lives on so many different levels? How could mere money have anything to do with the fantabulous boat that hung before her? I was stung that she didn't see it as I did. It had never occurred to me.

She was still waiting for me to answer, and even in the dark I could see the steam and sparks that jetted from her ears. I mumbled, "More than two." Let me go on record as saying that this is without a doubt, the single dumbest thing I have ever said, and that is saying something, as I've mumbled a lot of witless things in my time, but most of them were in response to questions by my mother or to representatives of the Law.

She stomped off to bed and I started making plans to explain my side of the story when she had cooled off a bit and would be more receptive to my reason. She never cooled off. Dagger-laden glances and a bevy of cold shoulders was the order of the week. She was totally cheesed that I had spent what she thought was four hundred dollars on a canoe. Like a dumbass, I waited for her anger to abate.

Then the credit card bill came.

They say that Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Well Hell hath no fury like a woman who finds out that you spent nine hundred dollars on a worthless, piece-of-shit canoe when she was already pissed off about you spending four hundred dollars, you simple-minded git.

This October, we will have been married for 12 years, and in all that time, we have only had two fights. This was the second. She tore into me like a badger with a toothache. I was flummoxed. I even offered to take the damn thing back if it would restore peace and harmony in our house, but even this olive branch would not save me from her tongue-lashing. (Normally I enjoy a good tongue-lashing but only in certain spots, not in an all out assault.) I buckled, crumpled, and screamed "Uncle", but to no avail. Getting on bended knees and begging for mercy might work in the movies, but it carries no weight with my wife.

"Alright," she said in a firm tone as she looked down on my simpering face, "I'll cut you a deal."

"Anything, anything!" I whined.

"You have to name it after me!" she smiled her rascal-like grin and seemed satisfied with her pound of flesh.

I never did have the heart to tell her that if I'd bought it the week before I could have saved $180.

Doc

Huck Finning It...But With A Map

"We said there warn’t no home like a raft, after all. Other places do seem so cramped up and smothery, but a raft don’t. You feel mighty free and easy and comfortable on a raft." - Mark Twain, "Huckleberry Finn" 1884.

Mark Twain is often cited as the greatest American writer of all time and to some degree, I truly believe that he has more than earned his distinction. Sure, there are many great American writers who deserve their nod, but Mr. Twain was the first to define the American experience and defend our way of life on the world stage.

I can cite "Huckleberry Finn" as being a major influence on me in regards to wanting to be a writer from a young age. Here is the story of a uneducated, backwoods youth (much like myself) who sets off on one of the greatest adventures ever committed to paper and he tells the story, not in the high prose of the day, but in the way people really spoke, much like a tale told around the campfire or the wood stove in the general store. To me, this was a revelation. I can never thank Mr. Twain enough for teaching me that even country bumpkins can tell a respectable tale and be recognized for their effort and contribution to some of the world's greatest lit.

But now it is my turn to try my hand at it. Not only is this hillbilly going on a long canoe trip, but he is going to write a book about it. I can't imagine that it will enjoy the success of Mr. Twain's opus, but one has to try.

Sure, Huck Finn went down the mighty Missisip on a raft and took a negro with him, but have you ever tried to steer a raft? A raft steers in much the same way as the bumper cars at the state fair, meaning it will answer the wheel/rudder one time in ten. I made an honest effort to find a negro who would be willing to take this trip with me, but in the end, I had to settle for a swarthy Italian with an Irish name as none of the brother's I knew would sign up for this kind of foolishness. So be it.

My partner goes by the name of Err and he is the sort of fellow that you would want on any adventure, be it canoe trip, visit to Mars, a hearing before Congress, or an evening spent in pub crawling and bordellos. I trust him implicitly. He has been kind enough to provide a map of our intended journey. It can be found here.

Wish me luck and I'll keep you informed,
Doc

I Am Captain Of My Fate, And I'm Looking Forward To A Paddling

Sorry I haven't been around much. I've been busy accomplishing a dream and I'm about a third of the way there.

I am the proud new owner of a ship. Okay, not a ship. A boat. Well, not even a boat really.

Let me start again.

I am the proud owner of a new canoe, and it is a damn nice one! While this sounds like a paltry and petty dream, and the product of a small mind, perhaps it is, but this is one third of a dream that I've had for twenty-two years.

I did rigorous and intensive research before I purchased my Meyer's Sportspal. Actually I saw it at the local Gander Mountain store and just had to have it. Only after I had forked over the money did I inquire about it's pro's and con's. It met all of my criteria. It is aluminum, 13', and will carry six hundred and twenty-five pounds. It has a wide bottom and is known for it's stability. (Insert wide-bottomed joke here.) It is also a lovely olive drab.

What really makes it great are the sponsons. (See, I'm learning the nautical lingo already!) These are the large, closed-cell foam pads that line the outsides and help prevent tipping, and while no canoe is untippable, the write-up says that even if it is completely full of water, it will still float. To add comfort to luxury, the interior is lined with the same closed-cell foam and provides a wonderful cushiony carpet for the knees. Those who have done slightly more than a little bit of canoing can fully appreciate this. It has a shallow draft which is ideal for rivers and streams where it will face it's greatest trial.

As I said, this is only one third of a dream. The other two-thirds are in the works.

The dream, in total, must start at the tender age of 16. I am a bright young man who is looking for adventure and a sense of accomplishment in the world, despite the fact that I have no idea what I want to do with my life other than look into being a writer. Enter my older brother Bill. Bill is ten years my senior and is everything I want to be in an adult. He is smart, funny, and dates hot chicks. He is doing a stint in the Army to jump start his law enforcement career. He is an Eagle Scout and an avid canoeist. He tells me about some leave time that he has been saving and suggests a canoe trip for a week, starting at the crick behind our boyhood home. We will go just as far as we can in a week's time and see where we end up. I am enchanted by the idea and want to write a book about it.

But like many things, the Army screwed it up.

He went to Honduras and I twiddled my thumbs. I twiddled them for twenty-two years. Since then, most of my family is dead and my brother left for parts unknown. I haven't heard from him in 13 years, and yet, this remains my only item on my "bucket list". I will do this before my belly shows at the top of the fishbowl.

To this end, I have enlisted the help of another brother. While he and I don't share a common bloodline, he is a brother to me in a spiritual sense that my biological bro's could never rival. He has been one of the great lucky boons of my life, and it doesn't hurt at all that he is an excellent campfire cook, as well as being able to navigate by the stars. You couldn't ask for a better companion for this trip as his coffee is always great and his insight is always engaging.

I have a week's vacation coming on August 17th, and while there are still many hurdles to overcome, I plan on living out my one dream and doing it to it's fullest.

The only snag that I can foresee is the fact that I haven't told Flannery as she's been in Vermont and I lost the reciept for the canoe.

Pray for me,
Doc

P.S.- A special thanks to Cooper Green and Boldly Serving Up Wheat Grass. Thank you gentleman for helping me see.

P.P.S- I hope she doesn't read this before she gets home. It's 12:13 AM and she is due in at 1 AM.

When I die, I would like to go peacefully, in my sleep, like my grandfather. Not screaming in terror like his passengers.

Could have been worse. He could have spilled his beer.

Doc

The Scariest Movie I Ever Saw

Even though the film is twenty-six years old, I still find it frightening, more than any horror or suspense movie I have ever seen. It made a strong impression on me at the time and may have warped me to some extent. While the threat from the Russians is all but forgotten, what makes it even scarier today is to think that some terrorist could somehow get ahold of a bomb of this magnitude. When communist Russia collapsed, they had one hundred and thirty-two "suitcase bombs" that a single person could detonate and produce a smaller version of this kind of explosion. After they had put together a new government, they started taking stock and found that none of these "suitcase bombs" that they could account for. They were never found.

So if you can watch the six minute clip below and not cringe or shudder just a little bit, you are a stronger person than I am.

Sure makes you glad that those fine folks at FEMA are on the ball and are ready for when bad stuff happens don't it.

Go hug a loved one,
Doc

On the subject of fear

On Saturday night, Flannery and I stayed up late goofing around on the computer and rereading a book respectively. At about a quarter 'til two, we hear wump, wump, wump. Kid feet running through the house. In a moment, the door from the kitchen swings open and Lucy, age five, steps out into the Lodge where we are seated and she is crying great big salty tears. She is dressed in undies, a T-shirt, and is holding a blue stuffed rabbit. "Are you okay honey?" Flannery asks, "Did you have a bad dream?"

Lucy looks at Flannery and her eyes don't seem to register her. Lucy looks at me and it is as if she looks right through me. Then like a shot, Lucy bolts for the back door and runs out into the night as fast as her little legs will carry her. She rounds the house and runs down the driveway and almost makes it to the street before quick-footed Flannery can scoop her up. Flannery carries her back inside and tucks her into our bed where she promtly goes right back to sleep.

The whole time, she never said a word, or wimpered, or cried out. Not once. The next day, Lucy didn't remember any of it. She was sleepwalking and had dashed into the dark to escape from a bad dream.

The really scary thing is that I don't know if she has ever done this before or if she will ever do it again, but I haven't slept well since.

Happy Cinco de Mayo,
Doc

The Night We Ran From Pan

Have you ever been scared shitless? Just flatout scared to the point that you could die from the fright alone?

I have. I have felt the chilly, lead-like drops of sweat stand out on my face as my heart skipped a beat in the uncertainty of whether or not it was going to continue to have a job in the next thirty-seconds. My feet filled with helium and my stomach turned into a fist. My eyes unbidden bulged, and I could almost hear my pupils snap all the way open in order to better perceive the threat, and worst of all, my bunghole clamps shut with the force of the will to live and 10,000 years of survival instinct. My thoughts were limited to two: fight or flight and devil take the hindmost. I have been scared shitless.

At the time, I had just arrived at the tender age when the state had deemed me old enough to obtain a driver's permit, but as cold, hard cash was not coming my way in more than five dollar amounts at a time, it just didn't seem that important. It was August and the heat and the humidity hovered at one hundred and the air was thick with haze. But no self respecting teen aged kid is going to let the discomfort of the heat to keep him from his regular round of shenanigans regardless of the cool of the indoors and the absence of mosquitoes.

I ventured out after dinner to meet my buddies, Matt and Carl, who were my partners in crime and my boon companions. These two miscreants were to introduce me to many adventures that I am mildly ashamed to have taken part in, but I wouldn't trade the times we had for a million dollars. We met at the fort to plan the evenings festivities. Now the fort was not a fort per se, but a comfortable shack we had constructed from left over lumber from my barn. It was a comfy 8x8 with paneling, a loft, a trapdoor that lead to the secret exit underneath. The furniture and stereo were "liberated" from the local junkyard and never really lost their wet goat smell.

The three of us would get together every evening after dinner to have a pinch of snuff (as that is when snuff tastes best- on a full belly) and shoot the bull while we played Rummy. This particular evening the topic of conversation could not seem to stray far from the heat. We had removed our T-shirts so we could use them to staunch the steady flow of sweat. Carl suggested that some cold beer would be just the ticket to our relief and he mentioned casually that he knew where some was. "We'll just go to Norm's" he said with a smile.

Norm was our neighbor and was a generally disliked cuss and possessed a foul temper. Norm also owned a keg in a fridge and a poorly locked garage door. Now I am heartily against stealing and always have been. I voiced my objections to Matt and Carl that evening, but was soundly outvoted by the majority. It was decided that Matt and Carl would purloin the beer as that was where their talent was, and I would serve as lookout in honor of my stance on stealing. As I grew older I learned what the word "culpable" and "accomplice" meant, but at the time this was enough to satisfy my loose code of ethics and we set out. "Besides," I reasoned, "Norm is enough of a dickhead that he deserves to contribute some cold beer to the common good." They jimmied the garage door up enough to slip inside and I watched the house with a nervous stare, thinking that at any moment, Norm was going to come busting out of the house with his rusty shotgun and give me something to think about other than my thirst or the humidity. After a few tense moments they scampered out with a milk jug full of cold, cheap beer. We headed for the fort in haste to enjoy our swag.

First off, beer should never be drank from plastic. It's just wrong, don't ask why. Beer from a plastic milk jug with a little bit of sour milk in the bottom should never be drank. Blatz beer shouldn't be drank at all, but there we were, passing the jug and giggling at the jokes from an old Playboy we had found by candle light while we began to scar our tender young livers. It was a hoot.

Now a young beer drinker is triply damned. First, he doesn't know what good beer tastes like and drinks swill, not knowing that good beer is much better, and it is always better when you pay for it rather than steal it. Second, He has no idea how much is too much or what to do once he has arrived at too much. Thirdly, his young bladder is not conditioned to hold a twelve pack at a time and quickly finds himself in dire need to make water.

By the time we consumed 2/3's of the gallon of beer, the air in the fort was thick with the smoke of our home rolled cigarettes (we used my dad's pipe tobacco) and our beers had hit bottom. It was time for some fresh air, a whiz, and a stroll. We stepped out into the cool night air and the fog had settled into the valley. The moon was bright blur behind the haze of clouds that promised no rain. In the gaps in the sky, I tried to pick through the handful of stars to spot Orion's Belt while I pissed loud enough to compete with the bubbling of the crick twenty yards away. The chorus of crickets and frogs croaked and chirped in time with the lightening bugs that were peppering the darkness. Every bug and animal seemed in full voice that night. The bats swooped in and out of the fog and stuffed themselves with mosquitoes without making a dent in the population. The grass was wet with dew and the air was hot, thick, still, and hard to breathe. Everything was awake, roasting, and restless, just like us.

It's is tough to describe the feeling of being young, thrilling to the off-kilter hormones and being mildly drunk to sauced, and seeing/hearing/feeling the world differently for the first time, while holding my dick in my hand and cutting loose with a racehorse-sized piss.

I finished and returned to my comrades as the moon faded completely from view. "Let's go for a walk" suggested Matt. "Let's go finish the beer!" Carl countered. "Naw, I think I'd rather have a little fresh air first. We can finish it later. Maybe if we stir around a little bit we can catch a breeze. Let's take a walk," I said. Carl looked more than a little sad that we weren't going to return to the jug any time soon, but majority ruled so we took a hike. We were drunken redneck country boys will a belly full of stolen beer, but we were a democratic lot and held to it.

"Where you wanta go?" Matt asked. I turned to Carl as I felt the dissenter should have some say. "Let's walk through the corn field" Carl said. While I didn't see much point in entering the cornfield in search of a breeze, Carl made the suggestion in such a way that he had something in mind. I figured that he was thinking of heading to the swimming hole for a late night dip and that didn't sound too bad to me. "Okay," I agreed, "but you lead."

Have you ever walked through a cornfield in late August? By this time the corn is full grown to seven or eight feet, yellowing, and the drooping leaves hang lower and have a sandpaper feel to bare skin that create papercut-like scratches, not to mention the amount of chaff that falls on you from the tassels on the top that tends to get caught in hair and sticks to sweaty bodies. There was a reason I asked Carl to lead and I followed Matt behind him. It makes a big difference if you follow someone as they hold back the leaves and all of the chaff falls on them; unless you are running.

Carl entered the cornfield at the usual point behind the fort but at the turn for the swimming hole, Carl went straight. Now walking a corn row at night, you get tunnel vision. There is only the back of the guy ahead of you and corn everywhere else. There just isn't anything else to see. Even the sky was blacked out by the corn. So you follow the guy ahead of you and try to not let the passing leaves slash you by staying close.

In midstride, Carl stops and Matt walks into him. As I'm crouching behind Matt, I hit him. "What's up Carl?" Matt says in a whisper. "There is a dude up there," Carl says in an ominous whisper back. "Let me see," Matt reaches over Carl's shoulder and parts a few leaves and looks down the row as the moon comes out from behind a cloud. "That's a goat," Matt said softly, "look at the feet. It's got hooves..." We held very still and tried not to breathe.

My first thought was that I had been the rube to a joke and that they were trying to pull a fast one on me. I can't see past them and the moonlight is only coming in a trickle anyway and all I see is corn, but I can feel Matt's back. I'm certain you have felt a cold shiver of fear run down your own spine, but have you ever felt it run down the spine of another? I have. It started at his shoulders and settled into his lower back like a coil spring sprung. Only twice in the thirty years I've known the man have I ever seen him frightened. This time and the time he had a heart attack. I'm not saying Matt is fearless, but it takes an awful lot to spook him.

I am not a witness to what they saw, but when Carl screamed like a little girl that "He's comin' at us!!!" I rethought his suggestion about relaxing on the comfy furniture that smelled like wet goat and finishing the rest of our beer. I mentioned this briefly as I turned tail and ran but I think it may have been articulated like "AHHHHHHH" amongst the sound of my pounding footsteps in the opposite direction. I have never been much of a fast runner as I built for endurance, not speed. This point was driven home when Matt decided that since he couldn't pass me, he would jump on my back and ride me like a rented mule, slapping me and screaming "Faster! Faster!". The extra one hundred and twenty pounds was not really much of a burden as the adrenaline dump was mixing with the alcohol in my system, but to complicate matters, Carl took a page from Matt's book and hopped on his back.

Now picture a running, screaming totem pole of mildly drunken kids bursting forth from a field of corn under the hazy summer moon. My feet only came to a halt when I threw them on the sofa of the fort and latched the door behind me. There was some discussion as to who should have the first pull at the jug now that we had returned, but since I was the one to haul their sorry asses from the maw of death by a vengeful faun, I felt I had every right to demand first pull.

Perhaps we deserved to be scared shitless by a mythical goat-man after swiping someone else's beer, but the slashes from the corn were to remind me of my transgression for days as I looked like I had been attacked by a cheese grater.

Doc

The kindness of strangers

"Whoever you are, I have always depended on the kindness of strangers. "

Blanche DuBois, "Streetcar Named Desire".

Well, the holiday weekend has come and gone and I still haven't purchased any beer. Don't misunderstand me, I drank my share of beer but I have exhausted the last of it.

On Friday, after a rough day at work, I knew there was no cold brew to come home to. I mentioned my experiment to a coworker, and bless her heart, she bought me two large cans of Steel Reserve. She said she was thanking me for all the times I've given her a lift home, and in my mind, this more than made up for it.

I went to sit with Franklin at the Tiki Bar and enjoyed my precious gift. And try as I might, I couldn't make them last all evening despite my baby sips. "Come on," said Frank, "I'm out of beer too. Let's walk to the store." The hike there and back was hot and dry, punctuated by car horns and the acrid taste of exhaust. Frank bought an eighteen pack of Bud in cans and told me to grab a six of PBR for me, his treat. What a great guy. Unlike Blanche DuBois, I don't think you should depend on the kindness of strangers. It is much better to have old friends.

To plop down at the bar and take a long pull of an ice cold beer suddenly seemed so much sweeter than usual. We chatted the evening away and listened to the sounds of multitudes of fireworks going off around us, but the only sparkle we saw was the butt of a passing firefly. It was a wonderful holiday.

Saturday night I went back to Frank's and took the last of my six. We watched t.v. at the Tiki Bar and flipped back and forth between the Food Network and HGTV. It was interesting, as I don't watch much t.v., and when I do, it isn't either one of these channels. We saw two room makeovers, a cake show, and a cooking show, as Frank would fill me in about each host and what was good and bad about each program.

Sunday night I had no beer. It was a long evening. While I was reading on the computer, I kept reflexively reaching for an empty can that was sitting there. After the third time, I got up and pitched it. All night I was thirsty, and I kept getting a drink of water, then milk, then juice, and finally a coke. I seldom drink soda pop, but the coke seemed to help some. It satisfied my need for bubbles, but I had to lie to myself and kept saying it was a really dark sweet beer.

I have been true to my word and haven't purchased any beer, but I'm not looking forward to the next week and a half. There won't be any Tiki this week so that helps. I've been smoking less and have been eating better. I've been gardening. The corn is getting tall and the pumpkin vines are getting huge. I think they are going to take over the whole backyard like crazy "Invasion of the Bodysnatchers" pods. I've been thinking about taking up running and the Richard Simmons "Sweatin' to the Oldies" tape is starting to look good.

I must be cracking up.

Doc

The Parable of the Coo Coo Clock.

Now it is seldom that I am accused of fostering a good idea, or for that matter any ideas, let alone coming up with anything that remotely resembles a pearl of wisdom, but I sit here before you so accused.

I was chatting with an old friend here as of late and he was telling me of his new-found dilemma. He was contemplating entering into a new relationship, but was more than a little leary as his last couple had ended so poorly. "What if this one doesn't work out? I don't know if I can take it again," he said with a groan.

"Well, it's kind of like buying a new coo coo clock," I responded.

"Huh?" he raised one eyebrow and gave me a look that told me he wasn't following my train of thought at all. For me, this is not an uncommon reaction to most of the things I say. "How so?"

"Well picture it this way: You are in the shop and you are thinking about buying a new coo coo clock. You pick out a nice one that has a wonderful chime and the carving is beautiful, but you hesitate to buy it because you know that at some point in the future it is going to break. It might break as soon as you leave the store, or it might last long enough that your great-grandchildren will get to grow up listening to it's wonderful sound, but some day, that clock is going to break."

"Yeah, so?"

"I don't know about you, but I'd rather take the chance, and perhaps listen to that clock for years, than to sit in silence and wonder how much richer my life might have been with that pleasant little chime every quarter hour."

He scratched his cheek and blew out a long plume of smoke from his cigarette and thought a minute. "That's quite a parable," was all he could say. After that he turned and began to walk away.

"Where are you going?" I asked with a little surprise, as I thought our conversation was just getting started.

"I'm going to go buy a coo coo clock," he said with a smile and a wave.

Doc

Words You Never Want To Hear From Your Daughter, No Matter How Old She Is

"Daddy, come here and meet Mr. Frisky."

It turns out Mr. Frisky was a mechanical bull that moos, but even that is a little scary.

Doc

Lawrence, Enough! Make Them Stop!

Please God, make them stop.

The Concept of Kipple

I learned of kipple when a buddy of mine gave me a copy of Philip K. Dick's novel "Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?" in the sixth grade. The film "Blade Runner" was in theaters and was based on this book. As I knew that this poor country boy was never going to see it in the theater, I accepted the book with many thanks and proceeded to tear through it. It warped me in a number of wonderful ways, and for a long time I would go back and reread it every year. I had to put a rubber band around it just to keep it together. Every Christmas I ask for a new copy as the old paperback finally disintegrated into kipple.

In the film there is a character named Sebastian, a brilliant engineer who helps design the replicants/androids and lives in a vacant apartment building. In the book the character is named J.R. Isidore, a man with limited intelligence who drives a fake ambulance to pick up and drop off electric pets that need repair, and he lives in a vacant apartment building. In the book Isidore explains kipple. Kipple is unwanted or useless objects, filth, rot, decay, or entropy. Kipple is invasive and self-reproducing. Isidore explains to the android Pris that the first law of kipple is "Kipple drives out nonkipple".

I think that may be one of the maxims of life. Life is about fighting back the kipple and trying to bring order to chaos, and driving out the it's degenerative forces. If you quit fighting the kipple, you die and are buried under it.

I thought of this today as I picked up the house. My two kids are fantastic kipple makers. As my Dad used to say "You could mess up a junkyard!", and I believe they could, the little scamps.

Then I got to thinking about fighting kipple. I can think of a few excellent warriors against kipple. The trashman who comes to my house every Wednesday for one. He takes my kipple and puts with it's own kind. Bubs over at Sprawling Ramshackle Compound for another. People can turn into living kipple and as a representative of the armed might of the state, he helps keep this human kipple off the street. Big Orange over at Frying Bacon is a warrior against kipple. He teaches kids how not to become human kipple, and how to use learning as a way to better themselves, and the rest of us how to keep the kipple from out of our heads with his regular feature of "God Talks". I'm sure even Evil Genius over at What I Like About The Universe does his part to fight kipple, although I couldn't cite examples just right here and now. Pezda does it with good cooking. GetkristiLove has been waging her own battle against kipple for about a year now. Cooper Green fights with one of the strongest weapons I can think of, humor. Chris combats it by designing new and better buildings, as well as shaving the cat. Megan joins him in his fight in much the same way I do.

May God bless you, one and all, for the fine work you have been doing.

I'm sure that I've left someone out but it was not intentional.

So tell me, how do you fight kipple? I look forward to your answers.

Doc

The Red And Blue Lights Behind You Mean A Sense Of Humor, Pull Over!

I have just seen "Hot Fuzz". It was very funny. On that note, let me contribute an E-mail sent to me by my sister. I have no way of checking the credibility of any of this, but damn, it is funny.


These 16 Police Comments were taken off actual police car videos around the country:

#16 "You know, stop lights don't come any redder that the one you just went through."

#15 "Relax, the handcuffs are tight because they're new. They'll stretch after you wear them a while."

#14 "If you take your hands off the car, I'll make your birth certificate a worthless document."

#13 "If you run, you'll only go to jail tired."

#12 "Can you run faster than 2700 feet per second? Because that's the speed of the bullet that'll be chasing you."

#11 "You don't know how fast you were going? I guess that means I can write anything I want to on the ticket, huh?"

#10 "Yes, sir, you can talk to the shift supervisor, but I don't think it will help. Oh, did I mention that I'm the shift supervisor?"

#9 "Warning! You want a warning? O.K., I'm warning you not to do that again or I'll give you another ticket."

#8 "The answer to this last question will determine whether you are drunk or not. Was Mickey Mouse a cat or a dog?"

#7 "Fair? You want me to be fair? Listen, fair is a place where you go to ride on rides, eat cotton candy and corn dogs and step in monkey poop."

#6 "Yeah, we have a quota. Two more tickets and my wife gets a toaster oven."

#5 "In God we trust, all others we run through NCIC."

#4 "How big were those 'Just two beers' you say you had?"

#3 "No sir, we don't have quotas anymore. We used to, but now we're allowed to write as many tickets as we can."

#2 "I'm glad to hear that Chief (of Police) is a personal friend of yours. So you know someone who can post your bail."

AND THE WINNER IS....

#1 "You didn't think we give pretty women tickets? You're right, we don't. Sign here."

If this is any help, good luck.

Doc

A Note From the Editor

First off, thank you all for contributing to the funeral meme. The response was overwhelming. I have never started a meme before and have only answered two previously. Thanks Elizabeth and Bubs.

While I have followed some of blogdom for a while now, but most was done while reading over Flannery's shoulder. She encouraged me to start one of my own for a long time, but I could never bring myself to do it. Then Big Orange started this one and asked me to write a little something for it. At first I wasn't crazy about the idea, but then I had a random thought that I would host a regular article on the history of beer and that sparked my interest. (I like history AND beer.) I wrote a few pieces that I was proud of and I started to see the appeal. Then his life and work schedule changed and he was going to kill this blog. Flannery suggested that he put me in charge. So here I am, suddenly having this beautiful bastard child that no one wanted, thrust into my lap.

I just couldn't turn the poor little waif away.

So I took the little f*cker under my wing and ran with it. Was it quality? Some days. Was it worth your time? Some days. Was it bizarre, funny, and thought provoking? Sure.

Some days.

I have always tried to be a good steward and editor for SZ tcob, thinking that at any day now, Big Orange will take over and I will go back to being a sometime writer for this little corner of the WWW. Not so. I'm like Bruce Wayne and I'm saddled with Dick Grayson, (a.ka.the beer blog) and I need to raise him, and show him how to use the batarang, but I don't mind. Beer is usually involved with good times, and if there is something that we all need, it is good times. So be it. I'd like to think that I can add a small thing to your day, even if it is grossly misspelled.

That brings me to my next point.

This is a note of thanks. I feel like I have been welcomed into your lives with open arms, and that means a hell of a lot to me.

THANKS. All of you, THANKS.

I want you all to know that while I don't comment often, I am an avid reader. Twice a day I make the rundown of everyone in the blogroll list. Once at lunchtime while the kids are eating and I can sneak away for a cigarette, and again when I return from work at 9ish. I turn to your blog and scroll down until I find something that I have read before and work my way to the top. I REALLY try to keep up. (The other night I couldn't sleep so I read three months of Anandamide and eight months of Bubs. Both fascinating.)

I don't comment often because most anything that I might have to add has already been added by someone who is wittier than I am. Just know that I'm checking in as often as I can and thanks for stopping by.

Doc

Ode to Bubs

Ladies and Gentle Readers, this is the reason that Al Gore invented the Internet, or World Wide Web, or whatever you kids are calling it these days. He invented it so we could meet good, quality people like this from all over the world. Well, that and porn.

It turns out, Bubs, a man I have never met, can find each other and realize that though we live worlds apart, we are incredibly alike, if his bio even remotely resembles the truth. It is almost uncanny.

1. He is male. So am I.
2. He is a civil servant. A couple of my family are civil servants, and I studied civil servitude in college. I think it might be Law Enforcement, and that is what I studied.
3. He lives in Illinois. So did Abe Lincoln, and he was my favorite president. I have three of his statues in my house.
4. He speaks of spending time at the Tiki bar and telling me to do things that I shouldn't. Anyone who knows me knows that I sing the virtues of Frank's Tiki bar to no end. It is where you can find me on any given evening. It is almost as if he has been watching me. Yea, I'm thinking Law Enforcement. Close one eye please, or perhaps I don't have to ask. You cited "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" as one of your books, so I think that you would fit right in at the Tiki bar. This is an open invitation to stop by whenever you find yourself in North-East Ohio. Ask Chris. He can clue you in to what "Tiki" is like.
5. In your list of favorite movies, you are such a movie lover that you can't even come up with a list. ME TOO! Sure, if you look at my bio I came up with a few, but in no way does this represent the movies that appeal to me.
6. You managed to narrow down your music tastes enough to make a list, and WOW! What a list! It comes from my own iTunes playlist: Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, Howlin' Wolf, Iggy Pop, Bill Monroe, James Brown, Tom Jones, Elvis Costello, Billy Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald, Jay Hawkins, Carl Perkins, Nirvana, Roy Acuff, Flatt & Scruggs, JOHN LEE HOOKER, Fats Waller. You must love a well sung tune, as all of these are accomplished singers in their own right. I swear, you have been watching me.
7. Your list of books matches several on my bookshelf now. I'm partial to "The Killer Angels" but anything you would recommend would be great. Anyone who includes "The Great Gatsby" who isn't a teacher is someone that I want to get to know.
8. He has good comments on my stuff.

Well, that wraps up the ode. I look forward to the coming days when I can read into your blog and find out much how more we are alike, and different. (I'm not much on Elvis, but maybe you could point out what I've been missing all these years.)

Let us pause a moment and raise our glass.

"Salute Bubs. Well Met!"

Doc