Notes From The Bottom Drawer, "Evil Doc" edition

It wasn't until I was married that I realised that I had a split personality. Flannery pointed it out to me and I denied it for a long time until all the clues started to add up. The Jekyll and Hyde thing caught up with me. I have mentioned in earlier posts, I'm not much of a morning person. If I could fix it, my day would start at the crack of noon. I am a night person by nature. I hit my mental and creative stride at about 9:30ish pm.

Consequently, if you wake me at some unruly hour like 6ish, I am apt to do one of three things:

• Try and make a mental note to write you out of the will and doze back off.
• Take a defensive posture and brandish any weapon that comes to hand. That's why I drink from aluminum cans and don't sleep near sports equipment.
• I will look you in the eye and tell you anything you want to hear with such coherent clarity that you could swear I was really going to give you the new car and the six-foot check for ass loads of money.

And the funny thing is, it is only my reptile brain functioning. I'm on autopilot and I will have no recollection of this ever transpiring later. Flannery and I have had long conversations where I have told her complicated instructions, promised to do things, and generally acted as if I were "with it" only to forget everything as soon as my head strikes a pillow.

I'm goofy that way. That's why Flannery refers to that guy as Evil Doc.

Doc.....at least I think so.

**Author's Note** Today is the first day of Fall and the Autumnal Equinox occurs today. Southern Hemisphere, enjoy summer. We did.

Notes From The Bottom Drawer, "People I would Like to buy a Beer" edition

Paul Newman. You know, I have never seen a bad Paul Newman movie. Never. I'm sure somewhere in his extensive career he has done at least one turkey but I've never seen it. When he did his original screen test he had to appear with another aspiring actor, James Dean. Watch as these two young powerhouses of the silver screen stand around and crack jokes about kissing each other. The bow tie is very flattering Paul.


My personal favorite is a little known western of his called "Hombre". In it he plays a half breed Indian/Irishman who doesn't fit in with white society, and lives with his adopted tribe until he gets word that his estranged father is dead and has left him a boarding house. On his trip to sell the boarding house, he meets one of the greatest villainous actors of all time, Richard Boone. With just a sneer, Richard Boone can make your skin crawl and the bile collect at the back of your throat. I defy you to come up with an actor today that can do that.
So take some time from your busy week and sit down with this "pot-boiler" and reward yourself with some of the best that American cinema has to offer. You'll be glad you did.

Not up for a western? Well, in this day and age a "horse opera" is often a hard sell, so why not sit through a funny, yet touching bio-pic like "Blaze", with the ever vivacious Lolita Davidovich as Blaze Starr, a poor country girl turned stripper who catches the eye of Gov. Earl K. Long, played by Newman. Two of my all time favorite lines from moviedom come from this movie, "You don't mind if I keep my boots on do you? I need 'em for traction," and "I'd fire the damn freeloader if I could!" as they bookend the one sex scene. Newman shines as the cagey, and somewhat crazy, Governor of the great state of Louisiana in the 1950's, who falls in love with a stripper and tries to maintain his hold on the government long enough to push his equal rights bill through the statehouse.

Davidovich is engaging throughout the whole movie as a real-life "fallen woman with a heart of gold" as she is unapologetic for her career, but maintains her strict moral code as she guides the fiery Earl to do one good thing with his administration. The lawn mower scene could stand alone as one of the funniest moments in film, as I think everyone who has ever had to start a gasoline engine with a pull-string can attest.

Make no mistake about it, Earl is as crooked as any politician who ever walked this earth, as the bobcat at the end of the film can attest, but he is crooked for all the right reasons, unlike any politician I could name.

I know in my heart of hearts that any of my regular readers have seen "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid" so there is no point in recommending this little gem. This staple of Saturday Afternoon Movie's needs no endorsement on my part, so perhaps you could revisit 1994's "Hudsucker Proxy", or 2002's "Road to Perdition" to see him in some of his best supporting actor roles. In my mind, there isn't another actor that you could name who would have filled these roles better.

No discussion of the works of Paul Newman would be complete without a nod to "Cool Hand Luke". This picture struck a chord with me like few others. I have had nights when I would have gladly beheaded a few parking meters just for the sake of "sticking it to the man" and I am afraid that I suffer from a "lack of communication" and I might be one of those that "you just can't reach".

For follow-ups to the above movies let me recommend: "The Life and Times of Judge Roy Bean", "Harper", "Hud", "Cat On A Hot Tin Roof", "Slap Shot" and any other damn movie of his you can think of. He was even great as Kevin Costner's dad.

Doc

Notes From The Bottom Drawer, "Better Uses For Your Empty Whiskey Bottle" edition

Have you got an old whiskey bottle laying about?

The Fourth of July is coming and you might want to dig it out and try making some of your own fireworks.

I know from past experience that a whiskey bottle makes for great fireworks because as a kid we would frequently make our own, and the best we ever made came from a Jack Daniels bottle.

We had already mastered simple aluminium foil and acid bombs with plastic soda bottles, but only after the vinegar and baking soda ones had been found lacking in any real oomf. Molotov Cocktails were briefly experimented with, but the true key to them is not in the construction, but in the hand that delivers them. This was quickly abandoned as the materials were too costly and the mess afterwords was too much.

Then came gunpowder.

Have you ever heard of a thing called Pyrodex? It is the modern version of gunpowder, and it is advertised as being smokeless. It isn't gunpowder and it isn't smokeless. It is explosive like gunpowder but it is certainly not smokeless. It is smokeless in the same sense as a semi-boneless ham has very few bones, but it has at least one big one. Pyrodex is what most people use in their replica black powder firearms. It is measured in pound weights but is ground to varying grades of "F" or "G". The more letters, the finer it is ground.

(description of how to make whiskey bottle bomb followed by how well it went off.) It was marvelous and we almost blew the bridge up.

Doc

Notes From The Bottom Drawer, "The Benefits of Tiki" edition

One of the many benefits of belonging to Tiki is that we are always helping each other, and we have a large pool of talent to draw from. We have two landscapers, a carpenter, a salesman, a trainer, a truckdriver, a golf pro, an electrician, a banker, a beautician, and a full time smartass who does any of the writing that needs done. (Guess which one I am?)

Last night we were treated to the benefit of having a beautician about: haircuts all around. Franklinton had a trim and dodged remarks that he was starting to look like Ronald McDonald.

Doc

Notes From The Bottom Drawer, "I VOW TO NEVER AGAIN APOLIGIZE FOR ANYTHING I SAY. I'M SORRY, BUT THAT'S THE WAY IT HAS TO BE" edition

It has been quite some time since I have been called an asshole. I try and make it a point to not engage in behavior that could be considered assholish. I've met some assholes in my time and frankly this isn't a group I want any affiliation with. I consider it as a small plus on the side of my character. Don't misunderstand, I take no offense from be called an asshole from a stranger. This is simply the first thing that came to his mind, much like Son-of-a Bitch, Mother Fucker, or the alway's colorful, Piece-of-Shit. He couldn't be bothered to come up with something original and attention grabbing like "You're as stupid as a Monkey fucking a grenade in a minefield!" or "Is your whole family as ugly/stupid/crazy/fat/fucked up as you are?" or "If your mother would have douched after she laid the wino who was your dad, we wouldn't be having this problem now." I totaly understand that everyone doesn't have a creative streak, but if you are going to the trouble to insult someone, you may as well make it memorable. Even if the guy beats your ass, you know he is going to wake up the next morning, sit down to a cup of coffee, and really wonder about what you said. Could this all have been avoided by Masengil?

As I said, I take no offence at being called an asshole by a stranger.

I do however take offence if this is said by someone who knows me. This has occured recently and I had to consider where I fell on the grand scale of assholery.

A friend of mine yelled his observation that I was an asshole from the length of the house away. I had just asked him if he needed help. Apparently he didn't. Not only did he not need help, later when I stepped outside and apoligised for offending him, he went to great lengths to explain my other failures as a human being.

He pointed out to me that no one liked "my little jokes or my witty asides," and "that no one wanted me here."

I will never apologize for anything I say again. I'm sorry but that is the way it has to be.

Doc

Notes From The Bottom Drawer, "Beers I would Recommend" edition

Years ago I drank Michelob with some frequency, but as my life changed, so did my taste. I went on to other brands and left Mic on the shelf. I took note when Michelob came out in "Ultra", which is marketing for "light beer that costs a little more". Then Flannery bought a six of Michelob Ultra-Pomegranate/Raspberry. I scoffed. "Froo-Froo girly beer," I thought and dismissed it.

Until one night, I was sitting here at the keyboard writing and I downed the last swallow of that delicious French beer, "La Pabst", and I realized that was the last beer in the house. Well, other than the fruity stuff that Flannery bought. I wasn't quite finished with what I was writing and it was later than most repectable people venture out for more beer, so I opened one of hers.

Damn, is it good. Light, fruity, and crisp. An all-around good summer beer. And at 4.2% alcohol you can have an extra and not worry about it catching up to you too quickly. Try one and tell me what you think.

Doc

Notes From The Bottom Drawer, "Your One Gaurantee; or, Why Socrates Drank The Tea" edition

You are going to die. Or for believers of reincarnation, more than once.

I've had a little more than the law allows and that tends to make me a little philly-sofa-call. Sorry, philosophical. So let's have a little fun.

So we only get just so much time between the cradle and the grave. So be it. It is one thing that is uniquely unfair that almost no one complains about as it does as much good as bitching about the weather. But life, much like genitals or your bank account, isn't about size, but what you do with it.

Some squander it, some fill it with never ending toil, some even work to make it better for themselves and others. A few make grand contributions to us all that cannot be explained away easily.

Me, I figured out where I stood a long time ago.

I am a Seeker, but not a Finder. I consider it my job to explore the "what if's" that life seems to be full of and try to distill some wisdom for me and mine, and try and steer myself well.

Philosophy doesn't pay much, but as a chronic day dreamer, I have always been driven by a desire to help people and seek out the truth as best as I could. Should any of this prove useful to anyone, all's the better.

Each of us have a story to tell, this is mine.

For starters, by all accounts I am a poor philosopher indeed. I have succumb to the most base desires of man and have failed to purify myself of them so I could concentrate on the really tough questions before me. Only the Hedonistes would excuse what I've done, and only after promises of beer, money, and easy dates.

I have spent very little time perfecting my body, even though I want the vessel of my soul to be pristine. I consume bad food, sleep poorly, and smoke like it was my job. I fritter away time I should be doing something useful with and spend it contemplating the stars or dicking around on the computer. I sometimes drink to excess and I consort with women. I should be banned from the club of philosophers, but if they were willing to let Bukowski in, I'll make it.

I've found that people strive for different stuff, as each has it's own appeal to certain persons. Some seek to maintain. Some seek to control. Some want to strive as others decide to relax. Some of them want to use you and some of them want to be used by you. Some of them want to abuse you and some of them want to be abused.

To each his own.

For myself, I'll go by the old maxim of "Your freedom stops at the end of my nose". My Dad was fond of saying that and it wasn't unil Flannery pointed it out to me that I noticed that I had a real problem with Authority. But I am a believer in law and that hamstrings me in some way, as I have broken the law upon a time or two, and much like the Greek of old, I stand righteously accused and await my judgement, hemlock or no, with the knowledge that I have been of some use to the state.

While I was too young or too sick to fight in your wars, I have done all that I was able, to provide you with taxes and muster up a few children to ensure that we have some toe hold on the future. I have pursued avenues that I thought would help.

Some progress as others regress, but most spend their time worrying about tomorrow and waffle between.

Me, I'll have another beer and go look at the stars.

Doc

Notes From The Bottom Drawer, "The Good, The Bad, & The Ugly; a new take on an old favorite" edition

Who taught these kids to shoot?

Doc

Notes From The Bottom Drawer, "Should I get a wish..." edition

Should I die and somehow slip past the pearly gates while St. Peter is off taking a whiz, Dear Lord, let me learn to play guitar like this man. Don't get me wrong, the guys playing back-up aren't bad, but no one boogies like this man.

I don't think it would be too much to ask to be able to play like this, but it might be a bit much to learn at the feet of a master. Besides that, I heard the line for B.B. King was slightly longer. Fats Waller was booked solid, and Robert Johnson couldn't be reached for comment.

Maybe I just need to apply my musical talent elsewhere and try a different instrument. Maybe I'll learn to play this:

I love this song and I have the alarm in the morning set to play this. What can I say? I like to start the day with Ragtime, and you can't do any better than Scott Joplin. I only know three piano players: Flannery (she won't play Ragtime, only Classical & Christmas) as well as Blowing Shit Up With Gas and somebody else.

Doc

Notes From The Bottom Drawer, "Spoon's Underdog" edition

I don't know about you, but when I think of an underdog, I think of a motely bunch who win in a sports movie, or Rocky in all of those flicks. But mostly I think of the Butthole Surfers and this:



While I could never stake any claim to being well informed about todays music scene, I can admit that I've heard this on the P.A. at work and have tapped my toe to it.



I think the video makes good use of doors, but I'm not sure Jim Morrison would agree.

Doc

Notes From The Bottom Drawer, "They Placed A Wreath Upon His Door" edition

Should I make to the great beyond before you, play this for me:

I would miss you all, but I would miss Flannery most.

Doc

Notes From The Bottom Drawer, "Band of Gold" edition

Now that you're gone

All that's left is a band of gold

All that's left of the dream I hold

Is a band of gold

And the memories of what love could be

If you are still here with me.

Freda Payne, "Band of Gold", 1970.

In 2004, it was voted 391 in Rolling Stone's 500 Greatist Songs of All Time.

As corny as it sounds, I like this silly tune. I wouldn't have voted it as one of the 500 greatist songs of all time, but I like it for two reasons. The first is I am married but I don't wear a gold wedding band. When Flannery and I got married we picked out our wedding rings from the Wireless catalog, which is the catalog they send you when you contribute to public radio or T.V. Yes, we purchased the symbols of our everlasting love from the people who bring you "Are You Being Served?" and "The Praire Home Companion". They had Celtic rings that they offered at a nominal price and with my heritage, it seemed a natural choice. I remember vividly standing in her parents kitchen and showing them the picture in the catalog. Her Mother was nonplused, but hid it well as she covered her eyes and wept softly that her little girl was going to marry this no-account country boy.

Flannery opted for the gold ring. That seemed fitting in my book. She deserved much more than that, but as money was at a premium and this was what she wanted, who was I to deny her whatever her heart desires? I chose the silver ring. The pattern was similiar but appeared to be a bit more masculine. As clear as my hands in front of me, I recall her Dad saying "If this is about the money..." as the difference in price was about $60. I held up my hand and said no, this was not about the money. Money be damned! This was about the woman I was going to spend the rest of my life with and I'd burn in Hell before I would disgrace the vows we were about to take with something so trivial as $60.

It was about me. I am not a gold wearing kind of a guy and never have been. There is nothing showy or flashy about me, other than my penchant for dropping my pants and mooning someone for a laugh. I am a plain and simple person and gold on me is unbecoming. It would be like a $3 whore wearing a $10,000 evening gown. It just isn't appropriate, besides it would have clashed with my silver councho belt and my silver boot jewelry, both of which I wore to the wedding.

The other reason I like this song is the fact that there is a newlywed woman in bed panting for her new husband to consumate the marriage, but I guess that is just the pervert in me.

Doc

Notes From The bottom Drawer, "This Music Makes Me Want To Go Out And BE Somebody!" edition

Perhaps one of the greatist songs ever recorded and none of the white people can dance to it. It takes a black chef to show them how.

Doc

Notes From The Bottom Drawer, "An Irish Wake" edition

Forgive me, Dear and Gentle Reader, as I can't seem to let this go yet. The man meant so much to so many, it seems a shame to let his death pass and not host a decent Irish wake in his honor. So grab a cold beer and sit down and reminice with me, while "Danny Boy" plays softly in the background.





The very first album I ever bought, ever, was "On the Road", and I bought it for my brother's birthday, and he was coming home from the army. My brother was the funniest person I have ever known, and in my twelve year old mind, there would be nothing he would like more than a good comedy album for the occasion. I got it out of the bargin bin at the local See-Way department store, and it took every cent I had. I picked it solely because the cover had him drawing on an outline of a body on the road, and the outline had a smile. I just knew this was going to be good.


My brother and I celebrated that night with pizza, pop, and two bags of Dorritos at his new apartment in Columbus. He left for a short time to run some small errand and left me there quietly munching. Since there was no t.v., I fired up my brother's state of the art Hi-Fi and put on the record I had gotten him. By about the third line, I had already shot a large gulp of Dr. Pepper through my own nose. By the sixth, I was prepared wet myself. I had never before heard such flippancy, such delivery, or such an insight.


My brother returned as George was halfway through his final bit on the first side of the album, and found me writhing with laughter on the sofa, Dorrito orange fingers and face, and with a damp shirt. I could barely stifle my laughter long enough to plead with him to sit down and listen, while I reset the needle to the begining.


I tried very hard not to giggle before the punchlines. I tried hard to contain myself as George built his story to the next funny climax. I tried very hard, but failed.


I laughed my ass off even worse.


At first Bill was a little put off that he was so free with his colorful language, but after a moment, he seemed to sit back and soak it all up, and laughed almost as hard as I did. I felt it was some minor coup of mine to have made my brother Bill laugh so hard, and it made me proud.


From there on out, for every gift giving holiday that came along, I always tried to find him a Carlin album he didn't have, and I always sat down with him for the first listen. It was something we shared together.


Almost twelve years ago, my brother Bill seperated himself from the family over some disagreement with my parents. To this day, I don't know what it was about. My only contact with him was almost eleven years ago when he sent a hurtful congratulations note on my engagement. I left messages that were never returned, and I don't even know if he is alive today.


Wherever you are, George and Bill, know that I miss you both dearly.


Doc

Notes From The Bottom Drawer, "The Theme Song For My Home Town" edition

I have never been shy about admitting my humble, rural roots in much the same sense that a native New Yorker or native Texan isn't shy about admitting where they came from. I like where I come from and not a day passes that I don't wish I could transplant the wonderful life we have here to the river valley where I was born. There are so many things I would like to show the kids.

But if the truth be told, there isn't really much to recommend it. My home town has two claims to fame, one ancient and one modern. There are the Indian Mounds and Longaberger's biggest picnic basket, , not to mention the bones they dug up near there. Other than that, if you have seen corn and woods before, you've seen all there is to see.

Here is an example of some of the art we have down town on the square. In the background is a building that houses all of the county government. Across the street is the court house which is a grand example of Federalist arcitecture. To the left of the picture is a Wendy's and behind that is the office of the electric company where I worked for five months. There ends the nickel tour.

I was looking something up for another post and stumbled across a tune that struck home.


Oddly enough, I've known guys like this. They aren't the kind you hang out with much if you can avoid it.

Doc

Notes From The Bottom Drawer, "How We Protect Ourselves From Thieves" edition

Let's face it. Times have gotten a lot tougher for a lot of people. Folks who would never pocket the "Have a penny, leave a penny; Need a penny, take a penny" tray at their local convience store are now considering a life of crime. Chicago is suffering a rash of man-hole cover thefts, as the thieves can sell them for scrap and make $20 each. I'm certain that gangs will figure out soon enough that your aluminum spouting is worth a good deal and start stripping whole neighborhoods. It is simply a matter of time.


So how do you protect yourself and your family from theft?


Easy. Own crap.

Thieves don't rob hobos and why you might ask? They don't have anything worth taking. Have you ever heard of a shoplifting case at a yard sale? Should you find yourself saddled with an expensive SUV or sports car, an oversized T.V. and home, as well as a wallet groaning with cash, you might want to purchase Doc's Foolproof Anti-Theft advice.

Get rid of it all, rent an attic apartment and get your entertainment from the library. I drive a piece of shit and leave the keys in it. No one ever steals it. Also plant lots of roses and raspberries around your windows and doors. It is nature's barbed wire and you get flowers and fruit too.

Doc

Notes From The Bottom Drawer, "Bologna Is Burning!" edition

For most of this week I have flogged you with horrible old jokes that don't bear repeating, and even though these are a favorite of my dear friend Skyler's Dad, I'm going to shy away from them for a bit. Several of you have been off on one hiatus or another, and I understand you get busy, and it looks like I might be busy for a while too. So to take a page from Blowing Shit Up With Gas's book, as well as Hot Lemon, who both dig through the bottom drawer of their desk marked "To Be Writ" and pull out something they have already penned, but never published, and I'm going to follow suit. For lack of a better name for this new feature I thought "Notes From The Bottom Drawer" might do. Just a general grab bag of whatnot that has cluttered my draft pile for too long and needs to be shared or shucked.

Now don't get the false impression that our little cyber bar will sit empty and gather dust. On the contrary, I have a slew of posts lined up, mostly short, to be published in rapid succession. I just wanted to give you a heads up as to the change in venue, and to say that I might not stop by to read and comment as often as often as I'd like. I've just got a lot on my plate now, so why not follow the leed of some good writers and clear my desk a bit, while tending to my present business, kids.

Like most folks with children, this is the time of year when you send them back to school. Most parents look forward to this time of year after having the little ones under foot for the past three months. I don't. I like having the girls for constant companions and I'm going to miss the long afternoons goofing off in the pool or playing games and reading stories. The oldest just lost her second front tooth and grins like she just won a bar fight, while the youngest draws pictures of the family throwing the ball or in a rocketship. Two weeks ago the oldest decided that she didn't want to be called by her first name anymore. She wanted to go by the name Annie. A week later the youngest decides that her name isn't good enough either. She wants to be called Diamond. As you can see, I have my hands full, but then I like to remind myself when I'm having a tough day, "If being a Dad was easy, everybody would do it, and do it well".

And the worst part of the whole thing is I'm going to have to start getting up early in the morning, with the horrible flip side being going to bed at a respectable hour. By nature, I don't do either well or with the slightest hint of cheerfulness. I can be an S.O.B. in the am. It tends to run in the family.

So start off our trip through "Notes From The Bottom Drawer" let's have the contribution by an Italian artist I don't know squat about. Let me share "Bologna Is Burning!" and assure you that this is not a vid about charred lunch meat, but a bold as brass statement about the world we live in today.

I have no idea what that statement is, but you have to admit it's catchy!

Doc

P.S.- Err, stop by soon. Your pumpkin just might win the case of beer prize in the pumpkin growing competition. If you can't make it, I understand, but we are going to cook up the seeds and eat them at Tiki, and if you aren't here I can't gaurantee that your winnings won't be consumed.