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

The Civilizing Effects of Beer

**Editor's Note** I'm all about recycling, so here is the first post I ever published.

"Enkidu, a shaggy, unkempt, almost bestial primitive man, who ate grass and could milk wild animals, wanted to test his strength against Gilgamesh, the demigod-like sovereign. Taking no chances, Gilgamesh sent a (prostitute) to Enkidu to learn of his strengths and weaknesses. Enkidu enjoyed a week with her, during which she taught him of civilization. Enkidu knew not what bread was nor how one ate it. He had also not learned to drink beer. The (prostitute) opened her mouth and spoke to Enkidu: 'Eat the bread now, O Enkidu, as it belongs to life. Drink also beer, as it is the custom of the land.' Enkidu drank seven cups of beer and his heart soared. In this condition he washed himself and became a human being. "

From the epic Sumerian tale of Gilgamesh, circa 3rd millennium, B.C.

Let us, for a moment, take a look at this ancient story from before the advent of the written word, Dear beer lovers. After reading this, and mind you, this is just me talking here, but it only took beer and prostitutes to civilize this poor, backward creature of Enkidu. Wow! And all this time I have been grossly mistaken as to what it takes to create a civilization.

I mean really, Enkidu must have been a mess when this unknown prostitute (let’s call her Trixie) found him in the wild, living on grass and the milk of whatever he could catch. This sounds like some nightmarish celebrity diet that would be recommended in the tabloids.

STAR JONES SEZ “I LOST 36 LBS. ON THE ENKIDU DIET AND I FEEL GREAT!”

But, in spite of his appearance, cause he had to be one ripe and awful looking chump, Trixie agrees to give old Enkidu a whirl ‘cause she has a code of honor to live up to, like Angel-eyes from The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly. (“When I get paid, I always see the job through.”) Not only does she give him a whirl, but more than one apparently, she stayed for a week, and taught him the ways of the “civilized” world. You got to admire the girl’s grit. Would you take a scabby, homeless man to bed for money then stay for a week to teach him which was the salad fork, to not fart at the table, and what opera was all about? I know. Me neither. Could this be the first appearance of the stock character, the whore with a heart of gold? Perhaps.

But let us delve a little deeper into Enkidu. This guy may have been raised by wolves/badgers/or gorillas in the mist (not very likely ‘cause how would he have learned to milk wild animals from them) but he listens to Trixie and takes her advice to heart. She gives him a slice of toast and some beer, (well, not just some beer, it takes more than a six pack,) but suddenly his heart soars and he realizes what a wretch he has been up to this point. He goes from smelly, crazed, grass-eating hermit dairy farmer to strong, enlightened man about town. Not only that, but I’m certain that she probably had to give a crash course in the birds and bees department. (I’m sure that little tidbit of info was not a hard lesson to sell. I mean, come on, he has been alone a long time and how has he spent his time? Milking the beasts of the wild. He probably started by trying to milk her. She would then give him some step-by-step instructions using a stick to draw in the sand. Hey, that’s how I learned. What? Didn’t everyone?)

So now we have this new and improved Enkidu, transformed by a sandwich and a couple of 40’s, and what does he do with this new insight? He hops into the bath and becomes a human being. Why, you might ask, is his conversion from wild man to a suave Beau Brummel so complete? Well, isn’t it obvious? He did it all for the nookie and the beer. The same reason that so many young men leave the life of carefree bachelor for the warm, comfortable existence of married life.

Dear and Gentle Reader, make no mistake, the civilizations of past and present were not built for the purposes of mutual protection, economic growth, a reliable food source, a stable system of justice, and the furthering of the species. No, you poor misinformed fool. Throw out these textbook answers that were handed to you, enmasse, by your world history teachers and step into the light of knowledge. Go on. It won’t hurt. Civilization was founded on the premise of securing the steady supply of beer and nookie. Face it, if there was no beer and no nookie, we would all be wearing plaid shirts and khakis, and beating animals and each other with sticks. Look into your own heart and tell me it ain’t so.

I know I will not garner the esteem and respect of the learned academic community by committing this to paper, or most women for that matter, but your average man-in-the-street would at least give this theory a grudging acceptance. Let’s face it Gentlemen, women are truly the civilizing influence in society and beer is the wonderful elixir that helps to temper our more base impulses. Would Hitler have been the world-menacing tyrant that he was if his buddies had bought him a few rounds of bock and turned him loose with the St. Paulies Girl? (Lets face it men, that girl is stacked!) Would Napoleon have brought the western world into a smoking ruin with his French war-machine if Josephine had merely taken the brandy from his hand and replaced it with a cold Corona beer w/ lime and set out some decent nachos for a long weekend of getting his freak on? Would the Roman Empire still stand today if Caesar had a couple of frosty Coors to hand around to Brutus and company before they slipped off to the temple of Bacchus for the mid-March orgy? Could Moses have gotten the children of Israel out of Egypt, without all of the first-born son stuff, if he and Pharaoh had hashed things out over a couple of Guinness’s and gone on a double date with some nice Jewish girls?

The world will never know for sure, but I’d like to think that, perhaps, with a little bit more affection and maybe some cold frosty ones,We, as a species, could overcome our differences, put down our weapons of war, and live in peaceful harmony, and get down to the truly important problems of the world: hunger, poverty, ignorance, and how to make a good beer that does not compel you to do stupid things and have to pee a lot.

Doc

I Love To Be First!

I love to be the first one on your blog to leave a comment, as everyone after me has to say something I haven't and I feel that the day is all worth while. I couldn't beat six year old kids in a foot race but I'm always shooting to be the first comment you read.


Just so you know,

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

It Hurts So Bad To Say Good, It Hurts So Bad To Say Good, It Hurts So Bad To Say Good Bye.

I found this a while back and liked it. I have no idea who this is by or where it came from, I just liked the tune. Let it play for a moment and give it a chance. I found it to be toe-tappin', what with the drums and all.

Doc

"Every Egg's Dream"

There is a billboard by my house that shows a picture of an egg. There is a cartoon "thought balloon" above the egg that shows a hot and fresh Ham, Egg, & Cheese McMuffin. The caption reads, "Every Egg's Dream."



Call me nit picky. Call me crazy. Hell, call me a drunken nutcase with too much time on his hands, but this just bothers me to no end. It is not every egg's dream to be a fast-food breakfast sandwich. It is every egg's dream to be a chicken, preferably a chicken that is well fed and lives to a ripe old age and dies in his/her sleep.



I simply cannot accept that any egg dreams of being cooked and served with greasy hash browns in some "top o' the morning" value meal. It would have had to enter this world with some pretty low self esteem issues to desire this. Not to mention that it would have to be filled with such self-loathing that it was looking for someone to blame, to the point that it became anti-Semitic. After all, it is looking forward to meeting it's demise only to be joined with ham and cheese on a limp English muffin. It is as if the McDonald's Corporation expects us to believe that they have been interviewing chickens and their findings have lent conclusive proof that chickens are doubly damned, being both flightless and tasty, and they have given up all hope.



Am I out of my flipping mind here?



Doc

Phrases You Just Don't Hear Any More.

Our language is a fluid and ever-changing thing, and sometimes phrases just fall by the wayside, such as:

• Please pass the button hook.
• Well, get out and crank up this automobile.
• I have a calculator on my watch.
• Blow it out your ass Phil.

It used to be hard to get through any given day and not hear at least once, "Blow it out your ass", but not anymore, and to me that seems like a shame. We have abandoned this colorful insult and tossed it on the same scrap-pile as, "Gag me with a spoon," and, "Sit and spin". But maybe it could enjoy some kind of revival. Sometime this week, turn to one of your fellow human-beings and encourage them to "blow it out your ass." You will sound both hip and retro, as well as scoring some cool points with those who really matter, those who hang on your every word.

Blow it out your ass,

Doc

Doc's Lament, or, Have You Got A Shoulder I Could Use?

I left my home in Georgia

Headed for the 'Frisco bay

'Cause I've had nothing to live for

And look like nothin's gonna come my way

--Otis Redding, Sittin' on the Dock of the Bay.

***

I must be getting weak and sentimental in my old age. Flannery has been out of town all week and I have been a fucking mess without her. She has had to go out of town for work many, many times in the past and I've always managed just fine. I missed her sure, but I wasn't devastated, heart broken, and lonely as hell.

I'll admit, in times past, I somewhat looked forward to her trips. I'd buy a big bag of salt and vinegar potato chips, hot fries, and BBQ pork rinds, ice down a dozen beers and watch war movies, westerns, and action pictures to my hearts content. I ate snacks she doesn't care for, fixed dinners of things that I like to eat, and watched flicks she didn't like. I felt it was good quality "Me Time" well spent. She would be home in a few days and tell me of her adventures, the people she met and mingled with, the funny thing that happened, and all the lurid gossip.

I would tell her of my laying about and watching T.V. and how lucky she was to be staying out of town two nights ago because a pork rind/s&v chip/hot fries/beer diet tends to catch up with a person after the third day.

We celebrated her homecoming, had a nice meal, and would sit and talk for hours. Then we would snuggle up in bed and turn on some Mystery Science Theater 3K and fall asleep to the robots as we enjoyed each other's company again.

But this time it is different. I'm not sure why, but it is. I miss her like crazy.

Sure, she calls and I talk to her at least twice a day. But still, I miss her much. I'd be a liar if I said I didn't replay the twenty-second message on the answering machine more than twice. It was just a simple "sorry I missed you, will call later, I love you, goodbye." But Damn, she knows how to say I love you.

I feel adrift with her gone. I know she is an hour and a half away but somehow that just makes it worse. A gross as this may sound but I feel amputated somehow. I could manage a few days with one arm or the other out of commission, or if one leg was gimped up. It would be hard, but I would manage. But I feel as if I have lost something much more dear than my good right arm.

I've lost my heart. I sent it to Cleveland with Flannery.

To match my mood, I have selected an oldie but a goodie. Sit back, where ever you are, and bask in the morning sun, watch the tide, listen to the gulls, and count the boats.

As pleasant as the tune is, it has always sounded somewhat sad to me. He recorded this three days before his death. It was his only #1 hit on the Billboard Hot 100, and was a departure from the bulk of his other work. (thank you wikipedia)

Flannery will be home tomorrow night, and in the mean time I'm going to have a PBR, sort socks, and watch "Beerfest" to cheer myself up.

I hope you have a grand Friday and you make all the lights, cash a big check, kiss someone you love, and drink responsibly. Or at least in groups of four or more. There is at least a 75% chance you won't have to be the designated driver that way.

Doc

There Are Two Kinds Of People In This World...

There are "two kinds" in the world....


There are two kinds of people, those who do the work and those who take the credit. Try to be in the first group; there is less competition there. -- Indira Gandhi


Men are divided into two groups -- those who love and build and those who hate and destroy. -- Jose Marti


There are two kinds of people in the world: the ones that suck the life out of every day, and the ones that let every day suck the life out of them. -- Bill Purdin


There are only two kinds of scholars; those who love ideas and those who hate them.-- Emile Chartier


There are two kinds of Americans: those who want this country for themselves and those who want it for everyone. -- Bill Purdin


There are two kinds of people: some willing to work and the rest willing to let them.-- Robert Frost


There are only two kinds of people who are really fascinating: people who know absolutely everything, and people who know absolutely nothing. -- Oscar Wilde




... those who divide people into two types, and those who don't.-- Edward A. Murphy, Jr. of "Murphy's Laws"


People can be divided into two classes: those who go ahead and do something, and those who sit still and inquire, 'Why wasn't it done the other way?' -- 0liver Wendell Holmes




The elect are whosoever will, and the non-elect, whosoever won't.-- Henry Ward Beecher


...those who believe there are two kinds of people, and those who know better.-- Anonymous


...the world is divided into two types of people: those who love to talk, and those who hate to listen. -- James Thorpe




...those who walk into a room and say, "There you are" -- and those who say, "Here I am!"-- Abigail Van Buren


...the givers and the takers. The takers may eat better, but the givers sleep better.-- Anonymous


...those who believe in global warming and those who don't. -- Seth Berman




...those who have lost data due to a system crash, and those who will. -- Mike Epstein



...those with loaded guns and those who dig. You dig. --Clint Eastwood, "The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly.


And, there are "three kinds" of people in the world....


There are three kinds of people in the world: those who can't stand Picasso, those who can't stand Raphael, and those who've never heard of either of them. -- John White


Today, there are three kinds of people: the have's, the have-not's, and the have-not-paid-for-what-they-have's. -- Earl Wilson




People can be divided into three groups:1. Those who make things happen,2. Those who watch things happen,3. And those who wonder what's happening. -- Anonymous


All mankind is divided into three groups: those that are immovable, those that are movable and those that move." -- Benjamin Franklin


There are three kinds of people in the world, the wills, the won'ts, and the can'ts. The first accomplish everything; the second oppose everything, the third fail in everything-- Eclectic Magazine


And, then there are "four kinds"s of people...

There are basically four kinds of people: cop-outs, hold-outs, drop-outs, and all-outs.-- Robert Schuller

***

I was thinking about this familiar phrase the other day and I was wondering how many ways you could divide up the world into two groups, but mostly where would I fall among the divisions.

The "have's" and "have-not's" was the first one I thought of and I definitely come under the heading of "have-not". I have neither money, nor power, nor fame, but I would gladly settle for all of one, or some of all three. If I had all of one, I think I could wing the other two. And while I've known a few "have-some's" and "got-a-bit's", mostly it has been "have-not's". "Have's" don't tend to run with a crowd that would include me, and that's fine, because what would we talk about? I only know just so many lawyer jokes and most of them are off-color and more importantly, "Have's" tend to be wine drinkers and tend to shy away from beer.



But there are a lot of "two kinds of people" comparisons that need to be hit on such as:

• squeeze from the bottom of the toothpaste tube or the middle.


• wear shoes in the house


• bother to trim nose hairs


• would sit through a subtitled film


• would date a Chinese guy named Rusty


• those who use turn signals


• wet their toothbrush before or after applying toothpaste


• would eat something while blindfolded


• would cross the state lines for immoral purposes


• know how to handle a crisis


• those who have been involved in something they should be ashamed of but aren't, and those who really are ashamed.


• can swear creatively at will


• look good naked


• those who "give a shit" and those who don't


• those who have endured an accident/war/tsunami/plague/bad divorce/famine/wild fire/gunshot/mine cave-in/genital warts/etc. and lived to tell the tale and those who haven't


• Those who read Grant Miller and those who don't

Two of the most intriguing divisions I could think of were "men and women" and "us and them". The first has been well covered by both comediens and philosophers alike so I don't think my paltry wit has anything more to add to this minefield of a subject. The division of "us and them" seems to be one of the most destructive lines of demarcation we have ever conceived, as it always seems to come to the surface right before someone suggests that we go hurt "them" as they aren't like "us".

But while it is a hoot to contemplate all the different stripes of people who tread this earth and where we fall amongst them, I don't think it is as productive of a line of thinking as how we are all so much alike. Such as:

• we liked to be touched occasionally


• we like to eat


• we get emotional every now and then


• we get tired


• sometimes we just need a cookie


• that true love is hard to find, but grand when it happens


• sometimes we smell bad or just have that "not so fresh" feeling


• we enjoy finding money we didn't know we had


• we enjoy winning and losing sucks


• we aren't paid what we are worth


• sometimes, someone bugs the crap out of us, but not enough to kill them

But if we must divide ourselves into one or the other, let's use this one:

"There are two kinds of people in this world, those who fish, and those who cut bait"

Doc

What Will They Say Next?

I picked the oldest up from school today and we were chatting about her day on the way home.
Her- Mrs. SoandSo was back to school today. She has been gone for seven days.
Me- Was she on vacation?
Her- No, she was really sick and had to have her Olympics taken out.

Doc

The Snow Gang and Ommegang Abbey

Sorry I've been so blog-lite lately, but life has intervened. I've just been busy; not with any major project, but just the everyday stuff like laundry, running the kids to school, work, and just the general what-not that goes into everyday. Flannery has been off cavorting in The Big Apple and had a grand time. We were planning a trip to see Captain Ergo Jinglebollocks/Hot Lemon/Big Orange, or whatever he is calling himself lately, in N.Y. last Saturday but we got the worst snowstorm in twenty years. You can see the photo parade here.

Once again we organized the snow-gang and took to the driveways in a flurry. When it snows hard, I suddenly become the most popular guy in the neighborhood. Everyone knows I have a large snow blower. So we all get together, drink beer, and clear driveways. We take turns on the snow blower and the rest shovel. We got two feet of snow.

The bad news is this: I took Bub's advice and bought twelve large bottles of good Belgium ale, with the intent of taking them to N.Y. so that Hot Lemon, Norton, and the Country Monk and I could sit down and have a good ol' fashioned beer tasteing. It was not to be. I took the beer to Tiki and it was consumed.
We sampled the offerings of the Ommegang Brewery, Belgium style beer from Cooperstown, N.Y. and my, was it tasty. We started off with Ommegang Abbey Ale and it was a tremendous hit and one of the best ales I have ever had, bar none.

Then we moved on to the wheat beer "Witte". It had a full body, but a very powerful citrus/lemon flavor. We all agreed that this would be an excellent summer beer, but it just didn't seem to be the right thing to quaff after moving several feet of snow.

Then we went on to my personal favorite, the Three Philosophers. This is a most excellent beer and I recommend it highly, as it has a wonderful cherry finish, but be careful, it is 9.8% alcohol, so it tends to pack a punch.

I'll be honest, after spending four hours out in the snow, and spending another hour warming your backside by the wood burning stove, you tend to develop a thirst, as wood heat tends to be such a dry heat. I had a glass more of the Three Philosopers than I should have and left eary as it tends to sneak up on you if you are trying to thaw out parts of you that haven't checked in in a while.

Needless to say, I slept soundly.

I look forword to catching up on your blogs as quick as I can, but the kids tend to monopolize the computer during the day, but I will be stopping by.

Doc

Just Hitting The High Points

We here at Social Zymurgy firmly believe in recycling. We gather our empties and donate the proceeds to burn victims via the local fire department. We are also not above reissueing old posts and pawning them off as new, but as we have garnered so many new readers, perhaps you might stumble across something you have missed. As I am on vacation this week to celebrate Groundhog's Day and am not really worth a damn, I have gathered a selection of old posts to entice you to return when I am worth a damn.


Feel free to peruse this collection that I like to call the "Ageing Rocker" selection. When all else fails, issue a "best of" album. These are the cream of the crop, or at least the ones that I found to be the most funny. Please leave me lots of comments as to what you liked the best, as I need all the help I can get, and don't be shy in your critique.

Oldest to newest, here we go:All Things Bright and Beery

The Civilizing Effects of Beer

What Beer goes with Capt. Crunch?

Wally's Transgressions, this is a personal favorite.

My Political Philosophy

Still Curious How I Got To Be Me?

10% Rotten

Solace

A B C's

Batman was here!

World Geography 101

The Revival of Silly Hat Night

Beware The Ides of March

Song Meme

Flannery For President

What We Do In Case Of An Emergency

My Terms

A Poem of Love

Skyler's Dad Asks and I Answer

Phrases Men Fear

Reasons I will Never Work in Espionage

Seven Things You Don't Know About Me

Ledbetter's Junkyard

I Hate A Liar

The American Center

The Way I See It...

Seven More Things You Don't Know About Me

The Ride Of My Life

If you are up to it, I have included some links to some short stories I wrote that I am especially fond of:

My Ex Took D's, Science fiction for Hot Lemon.

In Praise of Nonsense, A favorite of Blowing Shit Up With Gas.

The Scrounger, a tale set during the civil war.

The Singular Tale of Dr. Malted and the Ominious iSplotchy, a story of horror for Splotchy.

Well there you have it. This is the best of everything I have ever written and I hope you find something you like. I know I have sure enjoyed writing for you. I'll get back to new posts at the first of the week after my long Groundhog's Day weekend. Have fun! I am!

Doc

An Innocent In The Woods Of The World Wide Web

While I spend a great deal of time on the computer, I only know enough about it to make it do the handful of things that I use it for. I know how to check my Email, but I always have trouble sending one. I can start up and run the couple of games that I play on it, but always run into some sort of snag when I try to load up something new. I can find my way around blogdom, but am easily stymied by even the simplest of web pages. I can easily say, without any reservation at all, I am a technological boob, and this has gotten me into trouble before.

I had never used a computer before Flannery and I started dating. She grew up with one in front of her as her dad worked for IBM for some twenty odd years. She knew how to use it. She knew how to program it. Hell, she could put one together from a box of four thousand pieces and make the little s.o.b. stand up and howl if she wanted to. It took me three days to figure out that the little switch that had an "O" and an "l" by it was the one to turn it on and off. I even had to ask her why they didn't just label it "off/on" or "power." Then she explained that these were universal emblems for people who don't speak English. Then I had her explain why the keyboard wasn't laid out in alphabetical order. Yes, I am a bit of a dunderhead.

Well, the first year that we were married we both worked for the world's largest photocopier company and one day I was just too sick to go, so I stayed home and she left to bring home the bacon. I moped around the house for most of the day and I just couldn't find anything to distract me from the fact that I felt terrible. Daytime t.v. sucks, we didn't have any movies that I hadn't seen, and I just couldn't concentrate enough to read, so I took a couple of slugs of NyQuil and turned on the computer. This was my first time messing with the thing by myself as I was always afraid that one wrong keystroke would ruin the thing, but being under the influence of a small overdose of cold medicine had emboldened me.

I went to the Internet. I kept hearing what a modern marvel this Internet thing was, and how it was rapidly becoming the grand repository for all of the knowledge that mankind had gathered to date, almost surpassing the Great Library of ancient Egypt. I had also heard that it was overflowing with porn.

So I tightened my robe around me and took a swig of my hot tea and went to see what was out there. I clicked on the little box that was where you typed in what you were looking for and put in every dirty word for anatomy I could think of. Nothing. I tried a different tactic. I typed in the name of an disreputable men's magazine. Aha, results! There on our little twelve inch screen were breasts of a grossly disproportionate size. This was interesting in much the same way as seeing the ocean for the first time. It was very large, made a lot of noise, was fun to dip into, but leaves a very bad taste in your mouth. I was quickly bored and went to seek out something that would really interest me, namely the three hundred page gun catalog from Heckler & Koch. I left the porn website, or so I thought, and began looking at fine, high quality firearms that I would never be able to afford. At the bottom of the page for H & K was a button where you could have them send you this glorious catalog of guns, right to your very door, for five dollars shipping. I poked around a bit until I found the page where you send them your name and address and your credit card number to cover the shipping. I filled it out and sent it off. The screen went blank. So I did it again. Name, address, card number, etc., and sent it off and the screen went blank again. After the third time and I still got the same blank screen, I gave up and took a nap.

At the end of the month when Flannery was doing the bills, she called me over and asked me, point blank, why I had purchased $200 worth of porn time from Hustler, not once, but three times. I didn't have an answer because I was busy wondering why the hell my new gun catalog hadn't come in the mail yet. For a long time I didn't use the computer without supervision, and rightly so.

In the fifth year of our marriage, just after my four years of computer probation were up, I heard of the phenomenon of using Google to find yourself on the web, so I tried it. I put in my name and sent the search engine looking for me, just out of the perverse curiosity of seeing if I was listed and what people were saying about me. It pulled up a long list of names but only one was even close to the way I spell mine. Without really reading the fine print, I clicked on it and as I was waiting for the page to change I noticed that it said, "see SoandSo nude!" The page changed and suddenly I am presented with some young, buff looking Englishman who is obviously displaying himself for the entertainment of the same sex. Now keep in mind, I am using Flannery's work computer and I am doing this at our kitchen table and my pregnent wife and our little girl are in the next room playing. I scramble to close this offending website and as I do, six more of the same ilk, or worse, pop up. I keep clicking on the little x's in the top right hand corner and for every one I close, I get three more. I'm sweating, I'm swearing softly, and the panic of what is going on is really starting to set in as I can hear Flannery grunting as she is struggling to get her distended self off the sofa. I'm clicking at a furious pace but I can't seem to get pictures of young men doing things in the barnyard off the screen. If Flannery sees this, she is going to think that I have gone to play for the other team because she is no longer desireable now because of her present condition. I have spent enough time around pregnent women to know how fragile their ego is at this point.

In a stroke of brilliance I yank the power cord, but it never occured to me the damn thing has a battery. Sure the images fade a bit, but there are still groups of sweaty men rolling around in the hay. I poke the power button and the computer stays on. I hold down the power button until the screen turns a welcome black. I look up to see Flannery over my shoulder and I blanche. "Found some porn have ya?" she says as if she was commenting on the heighth of the corn this time of year. I try to explain, it was a simple mistake I sputter, I was looking for me and this pops up and they just keep coming, I couldn't stop them, Oh God! I don't want a Divorce! She smiles and turns the computer back on and with a couple of clicks turns the pop ups off and then gets a Diet Coke and heads back to the living room without another word.

God Bless her, she is a good ol' girl, in as much as I'm a computer dufus.

Doc

Have You Made Plans For The Biggest Day Of The Year?

It is almost upon us. Have you made plans?

The church down the street has a saying on their sign that reads, "Happiness resides in things unseen," and perhaps that is true.

At my house, Groundhog's Day is a special holiday (think Thanksgiving and New Year's rolled into one) and we celebrate accordingly. I don't know of anyone who celebrates it quite like we do. Most people couldn't even tell you what day of the year it falls on (Feb. 2nd) and this year that falls on a Saturday, so the oppurtunity for fun and mischief is increased.

The girls at the bakery laugh at me when it comes time to to pick our vacations because they know I want Groundhog's Day off. No one else picks Febuary for their vacation so there is no competition for that week, and since I'm low man on the totem pole, I don't get a lot of choice anyway. But after the madness that is Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year's, I need a holiday just for me. A holiday that doesn't include frantic shopping, huge meals to prepare, and relitives that you would rather not spend a

great deal of time with. I need a holiday after the holidays, and this is it.

I want a holiday where I can lounge around, drink beer, soak in the hot tub, and reflect. We usually get around to watching the Bill Muarry classic "Groundhog Day", as this is a film I truely love and could watch over and over again. If you haven't seen it, it is a film about love and redemption, two things I feel are important to me. Muarry starts out as this crusty, acerbic weatherman who keeps reliving the same day in his life over and over in Punxsutawney, Pa. on Groundhog's Day. At first he indulges in the seven deadly sins until that no longer holds any interest for him, then he tries to end his life only to keep waking up in the same bed to do it all over again. Then he trys something different. He trys to improve himself (reading poetry, learning to play the piano, help the locals, doing good deeds, etc.) as well as trying to have his producer (played by the engaging Andie MacDowell) fall in love with him, as well as befriending his cameraman (played by Chris Elliot). It is an Ivan Reitman film, directed by Harold Ramis, and is loaded with laughs, as well as some great songs by Delbert McClinton.

Last year for Groundhog's Day my sister, her husband, and their kids came to visit and we had a splendid time. We climbed into the hot tub at 11:30 am amid snow and 17 degree temps and didn't climb out until 6 pm, but we made quite a few snow angels and managed to put away most of a case of beer. The kids made a snowman and we had a nice buffet dinner. This year they are coming again, and hopefully my brother as well. If I said I wasn't looking forword to it, that would be a blatent and flagrant lie.

I hope that everyone who stops by the cyber-bar has a chance to celebrate this wonderful and grossly overlooked holiday, and has the chance to share a cold beer with your friends and loved ones. Feel free to share your holiday plans so others can get some ideas, and don't worry about the shadow, cause I'm your weatherman.

Doc

Diggin' Up Bones

Last night I dug your picture out from my old dresser drawer
I set it on the table and I talked to it 'til four
I read some old love letters right up 'til the break of dawn
Yeah I've been sitting alone diggin' up bones

Then I went to the jewelery and I found our wedding rings
I've put mine on my finger and I gave yours a fling
Across this lonely bedroom of our recent broken home
Yeah tonight I'm sitting alone diggin' up bones

Chorus

And I went to the closet and I found some things in there
Like that pretty neglige that I bought you to wear
And I recall how good you looked each time you had it on

Yeah tonight I'm sitting alone diggin' up bones
I'm resurrecting memories of love that's dead and gone
Yeah tonight I'm settlin' alone diggin' up bones

Randy Travis

I spent the day diggin' up bones. It was not how I ment to spend the day. Today was supposed to be a long laundry day, but as I waited for the next load to finish I started to empty odd boxes in the basement. The first one I picked is one I should have left alone. It was full of pictures and every card my mother ever got. I found old report cards and awards that us kids had gotten, sketches from her art class, and cub scout badges. The memories were packed thick in one cardboard box, and it was heart-rending to pick through the grand sumation of my mother's life. Pardon me if I leave this short, but I have to find a shovel and put a few memories to rest.

Doc

Welcome JimmyD!

Not this JimmyD.

And not this JimmyD.

Nor this great JimmyD.

I refer to none other than my Tiki buddy, JimmyD, who has started to stop by every now and then. Maybe after reading a little more of the claptrap that I pour out, he'll get inspired to start a blog of his own.

Doc

For Dale, Opera Slippers.

These are opera slippers. I'm on my third pair and I ask for some every year for Christmas. My first pair belonged to my Dad and they came to me brand-new, still in the box, when he died. I was tired of ruining socks just padding around the house and socks alone weren't enough to keep my feet warm, so I started wearing his slippers. Oh the warmth, the comfort, and the impressive good looks. I always feel cultured just bumming around the house in them. They look like the kind of thing that Sherlock Holmes might have worn as he and Dr. Watson lounged around their Baker Street flat. If you don't own a pair, I would highly recommend them.

Doc

I've Become What I Never Thought I'd Be

I've become what I never thought I'd be: cool. I know, I'm as amazed as you are. But I have it on good authority. A young lady mentioned this to me in an earlier post, and unless I grossly misunderstood, she has nominated me for the realm of cool.

I've spent most of my life being as cool as high-button shoes and a black eye. I had given up on being cool about eighteen years ago. It seemed a safe bet that if I hadn't achieved cool by the ripe old age of eighteen, it just wasn't meant to be. I have grown to accept that, but now I am suddenly thrown back into the ring and I am a little startled to find myself in this position. I don't know what to do.

Sure, my kids think I'm cool, but honestly, how hard is it to convince a 3 and a 5 year old that you are cool? A few funny faces now and then, build some blanket forts, make some noodles, and explain how to drive responsibly while doing it and you are a shoe-in.

My wife thinks I'm cool, but that is only because she has to. No one wants to admit that they married a totally uncool life-partner and they kept them around for ten years because they could sew on a loose button and light the pilot light when it went out.

No one else thinks I'm cool other than my brother-in-law. He started out with very low expectations of me, and I've managed to live up to them.

Now in order to defend my new found position, I am obliged to verify the credentials of my source. I list them in no particular order: she has her finger on the pulse of the nation's political scene like no one I know. (cool) She is a vegan. (cool) She lives in California. (cool, but only if you like that sort of thing) She has a biting wit. (very cool) She comes from America's heartland. (kind of a John Mellencamp kind of cool) She smokes and drinks. (cool) She has a sister that plays hockey like Gretzky. (when looking at cool, it is best to hold them up against their peers, just to see if they pass muster, and they both do) She has a "bad boy" boyfriend that goes by the super cool street name of Spooney. (ubercool) I'm sure there are other things that I can't think of now, but I believe the list is complete enough to demonstrate that the young lady knows cool when she sees it.

Now that I have established her credentials, let me provide you with her statement. It reads as follows: "Doc, I think you underestimate the value of merely knowing that someone like you, who likes to sit in the hot tub, and tell stories about kids in junkyards, and writes kick-ass punch lines about nougat, and apparently speaks Klingonese, and compares himself to Alice Cooper of all people, is out there. I am very very happy to know that you are out there. Plus, you believe in God in a way that seems very cool and dignified. And these days I have to remind myself that that is even possible anymore."

The only correction that I could add to this would be that I don't know any Klingon, but Flannery can carry on a simple conversation in it, even though she sounds like she has a bad chest cold and is trying to move some phlegm. I'll own up to the hot tub, the junkyard, the kick-ass punch lines, Alice Cooper, and God. (there is a sentence I never thought I'd see in print) I can honestly say, without any reservation, that I have never been accused of being cool or dignified before. Also, I have never been known to spread any happiness, other than by my absence.

There you have it, in it's entirety. And now that I find myself amongst the cool, I can begin to ask for things that most people don't get, such as cutting in line, a really good parking space, and answers to my questions, like what makes you cool, or, who is the coolest person you know?

Please respond with haste. Cool people hate to wait, or so I'm told.

Doc

And Now It All Becomes Perfectly Clear...

I knew there was something haunting familiar about Skyler's Dad ever since he started popping up here at our little cyber-bar, almost as familiar as the avatar he uses. Tonight I figured it out.

He looks just like the stripper my brother hired for my bachelor party ten years ago. She had the exact same beard, wore the exact same costume that you see pictured above, had the exact same kooky sense of humor, and while I've never heard Skyler's Dad speak, I suspicion that their voices would sound exactly the same as they said, "Do not touch!"

While I am astonished at this facinating piece of synchronicity, somehow I think Skyler's Dad would look better in the pasties, and wouldn't need help with the straps on his overalls.

Doc

How I Learned To Be Left Handed

When I went to kindergarten, I used my left hand to write and draw, even though the teacher smacked my hand, took the fat pencil and put it in my right hand, but this was a concious decision. I was in the hospital to have tubes put in my ears when I was seven and the guy I shared a room with was in for an amputation operation after a bad farming accident. So I gave my future a little thought, but this was an uneasy time for a child, and I decided to be left handed.

My reasoning was that I could learn to write and draw with my right hand, that was a given, because everyone could do it, but after seeing my maimed roomate, I thought it better to learn to write with my off-hand, just in case I was maimed too. At the time, this seemed very logical. No matter which way things went in my life, I would at least have one good hand.

A Japanese warrior once responded to the charge of cowardess because he used two hands and two swords, he replied, "Am I so great a warrior that I can afford to offend the creator by only using one hand?" I have to agree with him. Two hands are better than one, so why not learn to use both to their best, since I might lose one in an accident just like him. It was a life-changing moment when I decided to be left handed. Some have called me ambidexterious, but this really isn't true. I use my right hand for everything but writing, drawing, and shooting a bow and arrow.

This has provided a few complications in my life here and there. There are no left handed power tools. Scissors are built only for right handed people, but a vehicle with a standard transmission never presented too much trouble, other than the fact that first gear hates me.

So Southpaws unite, I am one of you, even if I joined the ranks by choice rather than inclination.

Doc