Who's Up For A Little Romance?

The nights are getting longer and the weather has turned cold. It's time to light a fire in the fireplace and snuggle up with that certain someone. Turn the lights down low and as the soft music plays, let the wine warm you on the inside while he/she warms your outside. But are you a little out of practice? A little rusty in the ways of the oldest dance of man?

Then let ol' Doc help you out. Start your turntable and let the needle find it's groove...


The capital of Nebraska is Lincoln!

Doc

Vignettes: Saxy Music

Riley finds a calender with classic cars and hot rods on it in the school parking lot and they are looking at it as I'm driving them to Grandma's.

Lucy: That's a sexy car!

Riley: Don't say that word! I don't like that word.

Lucy: What? All I said was that's a sexy car.

Riley: You don't even know what that word means.

Lucy: Sure I do. Just like the music we are listening to. It's sexy music.

Riley: No it's not!

Lucy: Sure it is. It's got a sax in it.

Riley: A saxophone?

Lucy: Yeah.

Riley: Well, yeah. I guess it is saxy music.

Lucy: See, I told you.

I'm driving and trying not to swerve as I'm laughing so hard to myself.

Doc

Generation Gaps

I was at my Mom's house to pick up the girls after work. When I got there, Riley and Mom were working on Riley's homework. Lucy was sitting at the breakfast bar, sans shirt, eating mashed potatoes and gravy. Grandma was laying down, having stayed up to late watching the election results.

Eventually, Riley finished up and I had a salad. Grandma got up and sat down near by. We talked about how amazing last night was and got emotional. Well, I got emotional. As I was futzing around with my dishes, my Mom jumped and reached for a box...

"Oh, hey, Mom? Where are those glasses we bought?" she asked my Grandma.

"Over there on the counter."

"Look at this," Mom said as she showed me a box of ice shot glasses.

"What is that?"

"I think it's for making Jello shots, see?" she said as she pointed to the dark cherry contents of the glasses in the picture.

"Oh, they're so good! Aren't they, Mom?" my Mom asked of my Grandma.

"Oh, yes."

"Wait a minute," I said as I read the box, "These are "ice" shot glasses...they are glasses made of ice."

"I know," Mom said, "Aren't they pretty?"

"Well, yes, but they're not glass glasses...they're glasses made of ice."

"What?"

"Here, let me see," my Grandma said as she joined us at the counter.

"See," I said, "They're glasses, but they are ice..."

I pulled the instructions out to be sure I was right about this, and, yes, I was (see picture above). You pour the water in, put in the little mold to make the cup part and you freeze the daggone thing. Voila...ice shot glasses.

I explained as much and my Grandma looked at me quizzically and took the directions to read them for herself.

"Huh," Mom said.

"You couldn't make jello shots in these..." I said.

"Because they would melt," my Mom and I said in unison.

"It's really cool!" I said, getting excited about this silly little piece of whimsy. "You can freeze these up, pour in some booze, drink it up and eat the cup!" I was tickled because it reminded me of the Mad Hatter eating a tea cup in the cartoon version of Alice in Wonderland. I imagined myself whipping out frozen shot glasses for our annual Groundhog's Day party (mark you calendars now, folks).

"Or," I said, inspired now, "You could make boilermakers with them!!"

"Boilermakers?" my Mom asked.

"Yeah, isn't that where you get a beer and a shot and you drop the shot glass into the beer?" I asked.

"No," my Grandma said, "You toss back the shot, then drink the beer."

I gave her this point but made a mental note to check that fact with Doc.

"Well," I said, "They're really cool anyway."

"Take them home with you," my Mom said, "There was another one at the store and we'll go get it,"

"I'd really like to give them a shot..." I said and we chuckled at the pun, "I'm going to have to stop and get some booze..."

"Here," she said, turning to their fridge, "Here's most of a bottle of Margarita mix with the booze already in it."

She grabbed a Fisher's bag and started packing it up. I rounded up the kids and the steam cleaner Mom gave to me and hit the road, anxious to give this novelty a try. They're in the freezer as we speak and Doc said they're ready to go.

I let you know if they are all I hope them to be. I promise; I won't make jello shots in them.

Report...they are everything I thought them to be...but you gotta be quick!

Flannery
xoxox

I Was Arrested Once.

"Somewhere in Washington, enshrined in some little folder somewhere, is a study in black and white of my fingerprints." Arlo Guthrie, "Alice's Restaurant"

Have you ever been arrested? Not just hassled by a cop and told to move along, or had to sit still while "the man" explained some ridiculously simple traffic rule that you had broken while he writes up the very expensive ticket, but full-blown, cuffs on, "we're taking you downtown" arrested?

I have. Once.

Well, let's be honest here, more than once, but I'm only at liberty to reveal this one particular story, as Big John "The Cleaver" McPhee is coming up for parole soon.

It was a hot, balmy Saturday afternoon and my buddies from church, the brothers Mike and Tim Aldridge, came to pick me up to spend the night with them so we could play Dungeons & Dragons until the wee hours. (I'm sure many others have started their life of crime in a similar fashion, but please bear with me.)

The trip to town was a twenty minute ride and the radio was playing nothing but track's from some newcomer by the name of Bon Jovi. We had the windows down and were breathing deep the sweet smell of youth and the fleeting feeling of being out from under our parents thumb for a while.

Then Mike showed me the water balloon.

As far as water balloons go, it was a sorry affair. Instead of the standard round balloon, he had chosen a fat cylindrical number a foot and a half in length. It was awkward, clumsy, and almost impossible to throw without using two hands, and he only brought one. I have no idea what possesed him to bring it. Then came the suggestion that I will always regret, "Let's throw it at a car!"

Now normally amongst my circle of friends, I always played the voice of reason, counceling caution and prudence on every occasion. Not this time however. It seemed like such a harmless little thing to do, and doggone it, can't boys just be boys occasionally? I told him to go right ahead.

"But I'm left handed," he whined, "I can't throw from the passenger side!"

"Well, so am I," I countered, "besides, I'm a miserable throw. I can't even play catch!" but there was no dissuading him from going forward with the plan, and as I was already in the passenger seat, it fell to me.

I folded the ballon in half and held it in my outstretched hand, and as we rounded a corner, a black sedan was coming the other way. I performed the most amazing hook shot of my life as I tossed the ballon over the roof of our car in a picture perfect arc that had it collide with the windshield of the oncoming car, and culminated in an enormous splash. We giggled with delight at our mischeviousness, until the black sedan turned around and started to chase us down.

Now these are twisting country roads we were traveling, with all the straightness of a can full of worms, that were accented with large ditches and drop-offs on either side. Our late model Buick Century was not built for high speed chases and the engine groaned as Tim pushed the pedal a little closer to the floor.

The tires squeeled in anguish that no movie soundtrack could emulate. The speedometer kept climbing, 60, 65, 70, 75, 80, and I looked over my shoulder to see how our victims were keeping up. They were so close, I could see the blue haired old lady dabbing her eyes with a hanky as her white-haired, crew-cutted husband put their Lincoln Towncar through its paces. They were close enough I could count the beads of sweat on his forehead. He must have turned off the air conditioner to milk a little more horsepower out of his boat of a car.

"Turn here!" I screeched, and we turned onto a disused dirt road in a cload of dust that would have made the Duke boys proud. We dodged, we weaved, we tried to lose them on oil well roads, but they just kept coming. There was no shaking them. They stuck to us like a social disease.

"Oh great," I thought, "we are going to die trying to escape the early-bird special crowd!" And in a straight away, Old Man Towncar passed us and cut us off. There was no getting away. There was no place to run to, no place to hide. We were busted.

They called the cops, and while we waited for them Old Man Towncar read us the Riot Act.

In retrospect, we did have it coming. What I had done was stupid, rude, and potentialy dangerous. I been a jerk to a random stranger who was a veteran, (U.S.M.C. tattoo on his forearm) a good driver, and probably a solid citizen who was enjoying his retirement to it's fullest, and I had scared the bejesus out of his wife. I would have rather he beat the crap out of us for being so dumb, spent the night in jail, and had to pay a hefty fine, rather than sit there for five more minutes and listen to him explain in detail how we had gone so horribly wrong and how we represented the lawlessness of this community.

I felt about one inch tall.

The cop showed up. He took their statements and information, and sent them on their way with an assurance that justice would be done swiftly.

He sent Mike and Tim home with a stern warning, and he escorted me home in the squadcar.

He was probably my age now, mid to late thirties, mustache, and getting a little soft in the middle. I tried to make polite conversation as he retraced the route home that I had only traveled forty minutes ago. I asked him why he left his PR-24* in the backseat and not up front with him. "Let me guess," he said with a smile, "your dad's a cop?"
"No," I said, "but my brother and my cousin are." He asked their names and made a mental note of it as he stroked his mustache.

Needless to say, my mother was very surprised to see her young teenaged boy climbing out of the cruiser that was parked in our driveway. My father was poised, fork in mid air, reaching for the porkchops that rested next to him on the dining room table when I came in. I could see the blind red fury building in his face, not so much because his baby boy had done something stupid, gotten caught, and was escorted home by an officer of the law, but the fact that his hot porkchop dinner was now going to have to be split three ways instead of two.

The officer gave a very brief summary of what had happened and left just as quickly as polite society dictated. On his way out, I swear I heard him snicker.

My mother screamed at me in a way that only a mother can, "You go to your room and think about what you have done!" And not to be left out of his role as parent, my father added, "And no dinner for you tonight," which returned the division of the evening meal to a ratio he liked.

Needless to say, I learned my lesson well.

The next time I went off to do something stupid, I drove.

Doc

* PR stands for public relations. 24 is it's length.

The King of Valentines Day

I was struggling as to what to get Flannery for Valentines day, as she made it abundantly clear that if I botched it this year I would be sleeping in the shed, but I think I may have done okay. When I got home last night I hid my presents in her car and taped a card to her steering wheel. I knew I had done alright with the card. It is tough to go wrong with Johnny Depp as Captain Jack Sparrow, even if it was a childs valentine. This morning she found it and my instructions.

What did I get her that has pulled my fat from the fire? What did I do that made her squeel, "You are the King of Valentine's Day!" Simple. I gave her what she truly wanted, even if she didn't know she wanted it. I didn't buy her jewelry, or flowers, or candy. Chicks don't want that sort of thing. What they want is a great rep and to show off a little bit how good they have it, and all it took was some cake.

Last night at the bakery I purchased a 1/4 sheet cake, chocolate, an 8" heart-shaped cake, white, and another heart-shaped cake in cherry. I got paper plates and plastic forks, as well as a pink heart-shaped cookie that was so sticky sweet that if your dentist saw it he would just rub his hands and smile as he made plans for a vacation in Aruba on your dime.

The cookie was for her and the cakes she took to the office to share. Suddenly she is the darling of the office and the talk of every cubicle, when they bother to stop stuffing their faces. Instant celebrity! Beloved by all! Now she gets to feel the love all day from the smiles of her coworkers and I get to sleep in my own bed. Win-Win.

Now I can't wait until tonight to see how well the second half of my Valentine's Day surprise works out.

All my love, my darling Valentine's!
Doc

I Hate A Liar

The picture above is a representation of the Roman god, Janus, who presided over doors, doorways, gates, beginnings, and endings, who was usually shown holding a key. From Janus, we get the name for the first month of the year, January, a time to look back over the past year as well as forward to the new year. It is also where we get the name of one of the most under-valued and overlooked professions: Janitor, caretaker of doors and halls.

Now I told you all that to tell you this: Janus is two-faced, a term we often reserve for liars, and if there is one thing I hate more than anything else, it is a liar. (And Nazis) I am not a hateful person. Anyone who knows me knows I'm pretty easy-going and am a tolerant, open minded person. Like my Grandmother used to say, even the most wretched and nasty person you could name has one good quality: they can be used as a good example of how not to be. But Damn! I hate a liar!
Now having said that, I have made myself a hypocrite, as I am a liar as well. According to Flannery, I am a very good liar. I have an honest and innocent face, and I use that to my advantage. I will spin a yarn woven of bullshit and bologna, and pass it off as coin of the realm. I am good at it. It is not a skill I'm proud of, nor do I do it often, but when pressed, I can make a whopper sound like something Abraham Lincoln might have said. I am no George Washington. I can lie like the proverbial rug. But there are only a few occasions I allow myself this liberty with the truth.

• When I am under the scrutiny of Law Enforcement Officers. Let's face it, these folks hear more lies than any other profession, and me getting one past them is slim, but I can justify it with the reasoning that I am protecting Flannery and the kids from public shame.



• When Flannery wants to know where I've been, why I'm home later than I said I was going to be, and what was X amount of dollars spent on. I would have a better chance at parallel parking a sperm whale than getting one past her, but it is usually worth a shot.



• When I am setting you up for a joke.

Since I've been married, I have not had the need to exercise the first one. My run ins with the boys in blue are long behind me and the wild life that I once lived is a fond, but distant memory, a bit hazy in a few places, but still very fond.

I almost never engage the right of the second liberty. Much like a trolley car, I have a few places I am likely to be and I never stray from them. Home, work, gas station, burger joint, the in laws, the Moose Lodge, or the Tiki Bar. That's it. I don't go anywhere else, and all of these places are less than ten minutes from the house.

The third one I do all the time, but in the end, I will ALWAYS tell you that I have been "pulling your leg" or "putting you on". I do not leave half-truths, fibs, or complete and utter bullshit unexposed. Who knows? I might want to run for office someday and I don't need this kind of malarkey screwing up my expensive campaign. I will try my level best to make you laugh, and if I need to construct some hokey story to do it, I will. I will do my damnedest to convince you that what I am saying is the truth, but only for the guilty pleasure of seeing you break into a grin and chortle like a hyena when you discover that you have been had. Everyone has their faults, and this is mine.

It wasn't until I got to college that I realized I had a deep and abiding hatred of liars. I met a girl in speech class, (where else?) and we dated for a while. She was smart, well-spoken, built, wealthy, a mortician, and she could do things that would make your eyes roll back in your head and scream your own name. She was the full package. She was eager to get married and she was convinced that I was IT, and for a short time, I even considered it myself. But she had one drawback. She was a chronic and unreformable liar. I couldn't believe anything she said. She lied just to have something to talk about. She lied about anything. She wasn't lying to keep herself out of jail, or to preserve a relationship, or even to tell a joke. She would lie about what she had for breakfast. It didn't take me very long to decide that this wasn't the wagon I wanted to be hitched to forevermore, regardless of what she could make me scream. I called her a liar, wished her luck, and turned her loose.

I have never regretted this decision, and I have often thanked God that I had the presence of mind to do so. What a nightmare that could have been. I don't know where she is now, or what has become of her, but I hope she found a Bullshit Artist on the same grand scale as she was.

I thought of her the other day after seeing a picture of our President on the cover of the newspaper.

Doc

P.S.- Don't miss out on the caption contest below.