Let Me Be Frank, I'm Turning Over A New Leaf

Have you ever tried to totally reinvent yourself? To smooth out all of your wrinkles and overcome your short-comings all in one leap? It isn't easy. I know. I've spent two weeks trying.

For the past two weeks I've been trying to perfect myself and add something to the world besides two warped children and a sizable lot in a landfill. I have achieved a small success here and there.

I have been trying to make myself over in much the same fashion as those makeover shows that Flannery loves so well and I have managed to make some headway.

You might have noticed that I have been a little absent as of late. Trying to perfect oneself tends to take more time than I have allotted and jumbles up my schedule more than I thought. I have taken a page from my neighbor Frank's book and thrown myself into gardening as a way to ween myself from my many bad habits and the fruits of this effort have yet to be seen.

The waiting for me to be perfect was too much and I reverted to my old ways, and that fills me with a sense of shame. I have not become perfect in two weeks and that seems to be as much time as I can devote to any one thing. I got a Rubik's cube for my birthday once and solved it with the help of a screwdriver. I think that says something about me, but I can't imagine what.

So I've been trying to be perfect and today I had a major backslide. I called off work to help a neighbor paint and install his 1950's style fridge and downed several whiskey sours, not to mention a few beers while doing it. I ate my weight in BBQ pork rinds, mixed nuts, Doritos & Pringles while doing it. I really slid today.

I've been spending my time outside planting flowers for the past two weeks in the vain hopes that this would provide me with an avenue to keep me away from my bad habits of smoking, drinking, and not eating, as well as giving me quality time to spend with my aforementioned warped children. I went to bed early, good and tired, and rose with the break of day to do some more productive work.

At some point, I lost my way.

Perfection must be one of those things that rich people can afford, as I can't seem to muster enough time and money to achieve it. Perhaps it is much like the snipe hunts of my youth. It is something you spend all night in a bean field hunting with a burlap bag in hand, only to discover at sunrise that what your have spent so much time hunting something that doesn't exist at all and you are left holding a smelly bag.

Maybe it's just me, but does success smell like burlap? I just wonder what I'm doing wrong.

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

When Butts Attack...

This morning I awake to cries of, "Help! Help!". I roll over and both of the girls have climbed into my bed. Riley is yelling, and Lucy is sitting on her head and she went to the trouble to pull her pants down first.

I just know that this will be another incident that my mother-in-law will blame on my poor genetic material.



Doc

Thank You Andy Warhol

Andy Warhol once said that everyone is famous for fifteen minutes, and I believe that this is true. I've had mine, and if you haven't had yours yet, it is only a matter of time. There is always the chance you will gain national fame by being the sole witness to some weird or catastrophic event and have your face and words broadcast on every news network on the dial or web. Or perhaps you post the clip that takes Youtube by storm and winds up on every ones cell phone for the next six months. You are chatted about next to every water cooler in the world. I assure you, your turn is next.

I was fortunate. My fifteen minutes came early in my life, so I can pretty much coast from here on in. Don't get me wrong. Those fifteen minutes were magical, and I can understand why some people devote the rest of their lives to keep those minutes alive. They work and slave to find the spotlight, and are willing to step on anyone, just so long as the sound of applause and the murmur of the crowd never fades. There is no drug that can compete with the rush of fans and admirers. The sensation of being loved en masse is a tough act to follow. I'm sure that it's only competitor is a position of power, and they just don't seem to be handing those out, or at least not to the right people.

So what was my fifteen minutes about you might ask? About three days really.

I have a natural born gift you see. I am a ham. I love to laugh, but even more, I love to make others laugh too. More than anything, I want to see milk shoot out of your nose at some goofy thing I have done or said. This has been a life-long affliction and has prevented me from being any kind of real success. So be it, or at least, as long as Flannery can stand it. God love her, she does have a great sense of humor.

My fifteen minutes came along in the eleventh grade. I joined the theatre department and performed in two plays that year. The first was an English sex comedy called "Meanwhile Back on the Couch". How they got this past the school board I'll never know. I played Albert, one of the patients of the main character, the psychiatrist, and stole the show. Mind you, half the play I was in my underwear, running about, and I was the only player willing to do this, but it didn't hurt at all that I was dating the director. I was also was the only one who had any carpentry experience and knew how to build the set, but trying to lay the director doesn't hurt. It was a small smash in my area. (Then and now, I have a very limited area.)

The production that followed it was to be my coup de grace, my crowning achievement, and like most things, I just fell into it. The play was "The Phantom of the Opera". Mr. Weber was doing very well with it on Broadway at the time and Mrs. Moore, the head of the theatre department, felt that perhaps a little coat-tail riding would be in order. We purchased the rights to do the play for a very modest fee, as the copy we had bought was by two unknowns who I'm sure were glad to see their little whelp off their desk and out turning a buck. I'm certain that the two authors had sired their little play on a long weekend coke binge. Yes, it was that bad. But to rectify the fact that our script was a good candidate for outhouse paper, we chucked the last act and swiped Mr. Weber's, as well as his music, which we played during scene changes.



I tried out for the part of the police inspector. I felt it held the greatest potential for laughs and I was prepared to give it my best Peter Sellars impression. I didn't try out for any of the main parts as several of my friends in theatre were seniors, and it just seemed natural that they would have their pick of them. The part of Christine was given to a crush of mine, and when the directors asked her to come in and read few more lines they asked me to read with her, almost as an afterthought. It was the scene where she pulls the mask off the phantom and sees him for the first time. I should have read the lines like I was reading the newspaper aloud, but no, I hammed it up. I couldn't help myself. So they made me the phantom. I was as surprised as the rest of the troupe.

I guess none of them had yet mastered their maniacal laughter, while I had mine nailed in the eighth grade. Hey, if you can't make time with the girls, and you don't play any sports, it was always good to have that maniacal laugh and some Peter Lorre/Marty Feldman wild eyes to fall back on so the jocks didn't kick the crap out of you. Just simple high school survival tactics. Guys don't mess with a guy like that.


Anyway, I get the part of the phantom. I have the smallest part and the fewest lines. Hell, I don't even show up until the second act. It was good that I had so few lines. Then, as now, I have a terrible memory when it comes to remembering something exactly. I can always remember the gist, but word for word is hard.


I built the set. Not because I am a woodworking genius, but I was the only one who could drive a straight nail and I also had all the tools and materials. I did get to see our leading lady topless once as I dashed backstage to grab the hammer to fix a sagging piece of canvas. When I got back to center stage I just smiled and gave the hammer to someone and told them I was too busy thinking about nailing something else to do any real construction.


"The Phantom of the Opera" was the most expensive production that the school had ever put on, with the final tab running several thousand dollars over budget. It was also the greatest financial success they had ever had as well. The play ran for two nights. The first night was a packed house. Every seat was sold, all of them. The second night they sold "standing room only" tickets, and they sold those out too. Imagine paying $15 to stand and watch a two hour high school play. I can't picture it, but there it was. A sea of people waiting for our little show.


We gave 'em hell, and they felt like they got a bargain.



My finest moment came at the end of the play of course. I release the sweet smelling and well endowed Christine to her lover, the Viscount, and send them off to the bliss that is new found love, which is funny because the guy who played the Viscount was as romantic as a pay toilet. They leave the stage and I am left alone in the glare of the spotlight. I turn to the audience and throw my arms up to heaven and cry out "Christine" in much the same way that Mel Gibson cries out "Freedom" in Braveheart. Their wasn't a dry eye in the house. The sound of the mob coming to kill me gets louder and I sit down on my throne. I pull my cloak over myself, as if to hide. The first of the mob to arrive is the head of the ballet who pulls back the cloak to reveal only my mask, which she holds up and it becomes the focus of a rapidly shrinking spotlight.Fini.

What the audience doesn't know is that the throne is rigged so that the back swings out and I sneak off stage left and am watching from the wings. I watched grown men cry as they gave a standing ovation. I watched women who had enjoyed years of being happily married turn to their mate and wonder how they could have ever settled for what'shisname. There was no curtain call, but the crowd just howled for twenty minutes in the dark. As they left the cast was there to greet them. It was the only time in my life anyone wanted my autograph, other than to sign a check.

The play ran Friday and Saturday night. On Monday, I was the talk of the school. Even the school slut started talking to me and asked me if I would wear her Whitesnake pin. I assured her I would. The cool kids started to say hello in the hallways. The hot chicks still giggled as I passed, but it was a kinder giggle than before. The football team would nod "hey" when I walked by instead of the icy stare that I usually got. The Principal even took me aside to ask me how I disappeared from the throne at the end. But most importantly, I passed Geometry. Just, mind you, but I passed. My teacher had a soft spot for actors and she knew I was spending all of my free time working on the play, so she would give me credit for the little cartoons that I would draw at the bottom of my tests, just enough to get me a D. To tell the truth, I had a soft spot for her too.

So, there you have it. That was my fifteen minutes. For three brief days I could inspire envy, moistened panties, and enjoyed the respect of my fellow man. And when a really rotten day finds it's way to me, I like to think that somewhere, out there, is an eighteen year old kid who still has the playbill I signed who thinks to himself "Someday, I'm going to make it, just like he did."

Doc

Do Not Invite Me to Your Parties...

If for no other reason than this: I sing and dance like Joe Cocker. I do. It was only at 11:53, Oct. 17th, 2007 that I made this discovery, but I can quickly see why I have rarely ever been invited to a second party thrown by the same person. Granted, the right music has to be playing, such as "Pink Cadillac" by either Bruce Springsteen or Aretha Franklin, "Detroit is Burning" by John Lee Hooker, or anything by The Refreshments, B.B. King, Tom T. Hall, or AC/DC; but sometimes, much like Tina Turner, "any old music will do."

I was cruising Youtube and came across this clip of Joe Cocker at Woodstock and it was as if the veil had been lifted from my eyes. It was like watching a home movie that I am in, but never remembering when it was shot, where it was, and who all these people are. I'm not sure, but I think Mr. Cocker's recollection of this show might be a little vague as well. Just a guess 'though.



Yep. That's me, right down to the air guitar. I could never sport those sideburns, but I've found enough change in the sofa to buy a tie-dyed T-shirt, and with any luck, my hairline will start to receed any day now. Hell, I could go as Joe Cocker for Halloween. I've got all of his moves down and didn't even know it.



Doc

P.S. The Author is available for birthdays, square dances, bar and bat mitvas, and even the opening of new malls, off ramps, and bridges. Contact us early as some dates have already been reserved.



**Editor's Note** In no way do we here at SZ,tcob endorce "getting stoned." This is a highly immoral and harmful act. Trust us. If you find that you are being assaulted by your friends and neighbors with small chunks of limestone, quartz, fieldspar, marble, sandstone, flint, or even lava rocks, there has been a poor choice or some bad judgement in your recent past. Look into that and stay off the drugs. **Editor's Note**

Flannery for President!

As every mother's son seems to be trying to get the highest post in the land, and for the first time this country seems to be seriously considering a woman for President, let me take this opportunity to throw my wife's hat in the ring. I think that this woman would make an excellent leader for our country in these troubled times. She is smart, witty, a Washington outsider, and she has a very clear and concise foreign, and domestic policy. As for what they are, you will have to ask her, but I'm fairly certain that they are clear and concise. She will be tough on crime, she will be tough on terrorists, and tough on the White House furniture. She will whip Congress into a well oiled machine, instead of just oily money-grubbing tools for the rich and mighty. She will be a friend to the working man, hell, she might even buy him a beer. She will assess a "sin tax" on all Mel Gibson films to help pay for No Child Left Behind, as well as having a call in show to take bets on how long John Mayer can survive in a pit filled with a tribe of rabid, horny orangutans.

All this in the first thirty days!

It is easy for me to volunteer this true red-blooded American Patriot, as I know that this country would finally be in the hands of an honest steward of the people, and I would have to do nothing but smile, wave, and try very hard not to moon the press at every opportunity. The job of First Man, or whatever title Newsweek decides to give me, would be a welcome change from mowing the lawn, doing dishes, and cleaning up the cat box. I could be a role model for stay-at-home Dads everywhere. I could say proudly, "Work hard, raise your kids right, and ride your wife's coat tails straight to the top!" I would have my autobiography ghost written by someone who can type and spell better than I, and I would be sure to hint at lurid details of how we "got our groove on" in every room of the White House and how we spent some quality time every evening, after a long day of running the most powerful nation in the world, in the Lincoln Bedroom with 5 gallons of grape Jello and silly string. I would appear at every state function in one of my many black concert T-shirts, as well as Ray-Bans, and Tom & Jerry flip-flops. I could speak at the U.N., and call upon the nations of the world to sit down and have a cold beer and quit shooting the unholy hell out of each other. We would limbo, form a conga line, do a few beer bongs, and then sign the "Tiki Accord" that would effectively end war and overpriced beer.
So I ask you concerned citizen, when the time comes for you to fill in a name on your ballot, think long and hard, and then vote for Flannery, 'cause it is about time someone you know and trust lives off the public tit.

(We are also considering Johnny Depp or Olando Bloom for Veep. How's that grab ya?)

Doc

Fate: A Query

This is a totally non-beer related post, but I'm working on another article for The Grand Pooh-Bah and this one is on fate. Any input? Do you believe in fate? Destiny? Karma? Kismet? Why? Why not? Is there free will, or is our future carved in stone amongst the stars?

Get back to me. I'm fishing for ideas.

Doc