DocRock's blog: "General Stuff"

Big John and The Baby Jesus Feb 15. 2007 ig John, who lived above me in apartment 3-F, trudged up the stairs at just after midnight. He always trudged when he was tired. And he was. It had been a long night of stealing baby Jesuses. John was not big in any way, shape or form (at least none that I had seen). He was rather short, actually, and weighed in at just under 120 pounds. But because he had a sense of humor that ran to just this side of odd, he always introduced himself as “Big John.” Upon that introduction, people would look at his lack of size and laugh. He liked to make people laugh. It made him feel wanted. It was a couple of days before Christmas; a time when everyone wants to feel wanted, even if it’s just for laughs. It had been a big night. Big John had stolen every baby Jesus from every manger scene that he could find. He herded them into the back of his hatchback Corolla and had driven the herd home to his ranch, apartment 3-F. He was happy. He enjoyed stealing and collecting. He loved the humor of multiplicity. When those yellow “Baby on Board” signs first became popular, Big John, who had no children, bought dozens and decorated the inside of his Corolla’s windows. He called it his “suburban smoked glass” effect. For a time, it got laughs and he felt wanted. He had painted the kitchen of his apartment in flat black paint and then covered the wall space with stickers of jumping bass, the kind you see stuck on the sides of the bass boats and travel trailers of retired men who fish. For a shorter time, they also received laughs. Big John felt wanted. He had in his apartment four gum machines and a sixteen-foot portable electric billboard with a full set of black plastic letters. I never found out how he had gotten it up the steps. He always worked alone. He knocked on my door at just before one in the morning and offering a beer, invited me upstairs. He wanted to show me something. Each of the baby Jesuses was arranged on a separate piece of furniture. Two were watching TV. Four were seated on pillows at the dining room table. They each had a hand of playing cards placed in front of them with stacks of pennies and nickels at the ready. John then lead me to the bathroom, where the seventh baby Jesus was seated (sort of) on the toilet. I laughed until I stopped. Big John felt wanted. I laughed awhile longer and then went back to my apartment. As I was drifting to sleep I heard other guests arriving to witness Big John’s latest creation. I heard laughter as I fell into a long winter’s nap and I smiled, thinking that Big John was wanted. And he was. Literally. Whatever chromosome or gene or corpuscle or whatever it is that makes somebody a comedian, Big John had two. Whatever chromosome or gene or corpuscle it is that makes you think about the consequences of your actions, Big John had none. The police are lacking in any of the chromosomes, genes or corpuscles that makes somebody laugh at a room full of poker-playing baby Jesuses. At least, not when they’re on duty. When they’re on the clock, cops rarely laugh. They just do what they have to do, whether it be apprehending a murder suspect, saving a life or finding out who the hell stole all the baby Jesuses from all the manger scenes a week before Christmas. B Who knew that the Christ Lutheran Church on Fourth Avenue had surveillance cameras? One would suspect the Catholics, who have long had a tradition of spying into peoples’ lives; but the Lutherans? After the baby Jesuses had been replaced, including the one smoking the cigar, after Big John had made most of the men at the station house laugh, thus making himself feel wanted, my phone rang. This was generally the down side to being a friend of Big John’s. He was always inventing new shows for us all to laugh at. These shows were always by invitation only. He never charged admission. But later, in some shape or form, we would be asked to pay. “Hey, man, it’s Big John!” said the voice on the phone. “Can you run down to the bank and get some cash. I’ll pay you back when I get out.” And that’s the phrase I always think of when I think about Big John, wherever he is. I think about the baby Jesuses playing poker, the kitchen bass, the great pumpkin caper, his Chinese lantern period, and that one phrase which solidifies all memories of John. I’ll pay you back when I get out. Merry Christmas, Big John. You were one funny neighbor.

Hey Guys Crystal Ice and Hot Rocks Radio are in a cherry contest for hottest DJ or Radio Station and we're asking for all Your help. please go comment the pic at Hottest DJ ty for all your help! Doc original by 'Crystal Ice' on '2007-02-12 22:54:35') (repost of original by 'Lauria' on '2007-02-13 00:54:21') (repost of original by 'Crystal Ice' on '2007-02-13 04:44:18') (repost of original by 'Fawnie' on '2007-02-13 05:36:52') (repost of original by 'Crystal Ice' on '2007-02-13 11:24:51')

The Great Bear Fight May 20 04 It’s hard to imagine now, but, they say that once, long ago, millionaires lived in the northern panhandle of West Virginia. You can go there now and see the remnants of their mansions. There’somone just past a trailer park above the town of Newell. It’s a huge place, the last standing memory of a time when honest-to-goodness rich people lived near where I grew up. Newell no longer has millionaire residents. There aren’t many people there of any income. You’d be hard pressed to find it on a map at all. It’s one of those towns that’s most often described in terms of what used to be there, as in, “That’s where the high school used to be”, “That’s where the mill used to be”, and “used to be, you could come to downtown on a Saturday morning and there would be people four deep on the sidewalk, shopping”. Perhaps, like me, you’re from a town like this. Seeing the town now, it’s hard to fathom that once, long ago, Newell was a place where millionaires lived. Newell Heights, to be exact. Industrialists, who made their fortunes from the pottery industry, built the town of Newell. They built the world’s largest pottery. They built roads leading to the pottery. They built houses, laid train tracks, strung electric lines and dug sewers. They even built a bridge over the Ohio River so that people in East Liverpool, Ohio could come to work at their pottery. 52 – Cow Tipping And just like in Homestead and Monongahela and lots of little towns around here, there were parks and libraries and schools, all built by the millionaires who owned the company. Nobody waited for the state to build these things. The company took care of it. The company, in this case, was Homer Laughlin China. They’re still there, in Newell. But, like most of our large industries, they’ve survived by downsizing and specializing. They used to make thousands of different products. Now they make Fiestaware. If you’ve not heard of Fiestaware, you will, someday. Your grandmother will die and your mother and her sister will fight over it. Trust me. The pottery they built is still there. The bridge they built is still there. The millionaires, however, are long gone. I’m not here to talk about the millionaires, though. I’m here to talk about the Great Bear Fight. But, as I mentioned, in order to understand the Great Bear Fight, you have to understand that once, long ago, there were millionaires in West Virginia. The pottery not only built homes for workers. They also supplied the town of Newell with its police force, fire company and all maintenance of public projects. Other than the occasional visit from the state police, West Virginia had very little to do with Newell. To show the workers how much they loved them, the millionaires who owned the pottery also built a huge park in the middle of town. As was the custom of the time, in the park they placed a zoo. Nobody knows where the Kodiak bear came from, originally. Some say the massive animal was brought back by one of the millionaires from a steamship adventure to Canada. Certainly, no one realized at the time that the bear’s arrival signaled the end of Newell. They only knew that, on Sundays, they could take their families to the park, and in the zoo, the kids could sit by the cage and watch the Kodiak bear, the biggest animal anyone had ever seen. In the 1920’s, when this story takes place, there was no such person as a zoologist. They certainly existed, to be sure. But in Newell, at the zoo built by the pottery barons, the man in charge of the zoo, like the man in charge of the police, the man in charge of the fire company and the man in charge of the train station, was an untrained, inexperienced pottery worker, taken fresh from the factory floor and given new responsibilities. The Kodiak grew restless. Someone (no one knows now who) got the idea that the Kodiak needed a mate. A female black bear, captured from the wilds of Hancock County, was brought in. The fact that they were different species was never taken into consideration by the millionaires. The zoo itself was completely secondary. Something else was occupying the millionaires’ minds. The stock market was crashing. Suddenly, their factory, once filling a million orders a month, stopped. Rapidly, their money dried up. And soon enough, all the services the pottery provided for the town of Newell ceased. The factory was shutting down. The factory workers were being fired. And that meant the police force, the fire department, the post office and, yes, the makeshift zookeeper, were all out of work. It was then bears began to fight. Word spread. The horrible news of the town’s only factory going out of business was replaced by the exciting new story: there was a bear fight in the zoo! The two bears, occupying the same cage, had not gotten right down to mating, as the factory worker/zookeeper had hoped. Instead, the Kodiak and the black bear were fighting. A huge crowd gathered to watch. People arrived on streetcars from East Liverpool, drove down in Model A’s from Chester, hooked the horses up to the wagon and plodded up the riverbank from New Cumberland. Everyone flooded into Newell to watch two bears fight to the death in a cage match. And while the bears fought, the millionaires packed. The factory closed. The town died. You can go to Newell now and see the pottery. You can also see the bridge. And you can see where the high school used to be, where the millionaires once lived. And, if you squint just right, you can see where the zoo stood, where, one day, long ago, two bears fought to the death in front of a crowd of pottery workers. It’s doubtful that any of them realized that day was the high water mark for Newell. The Kodiak (and the millionaires who brought him to town) would never return !!

Save the Nazis Feb 9, 2007 Honey? I have to go. It’s time for my meeting! Have you seen my swastika anywhere? This week we celebrate Adolph Hitler’s birthday. Had he sold a couple of oil paintings early on, he might still be with us today, to say nothing of the over six million people he ordered his henchmen to murder. Let’s all learn from this lesson and buy some artwork today, huh? Hitler died, but the political party he helped found is still alive. Barely. Frankly,I’m a little worried about the Nazis. Membership seems to have dropped off quite a bit. And, if there’s anything we need in this crazy world right now, it’s Nazis. Last summer, in Indianapolis, over one hundred police officers, dressed in riot gear, stood in the hot August sun. They were called upon by the city to protect the Nazi party from possible attack by a group of dangerous, burrito-wielding fourth graders. The Nazi party’s hate rally was in danger of being swarmed by the city of Indianapolis’ “Ethnic Diversity” counter-rally. There were fifty Nazis. Four hundred kids showed up for the counter rally. For a while, it looked like the Nazis might be overrun. Thanks goodness the cops were there. The poor Nazis, huh? Once, they ruled most of Europe with an iron fist. Imprisoned Poles. Built the Beetle. Exterminated Jews. And now, barely sixty years later, they’re so impotent they have to be protected from elementary school kids in Indianapolis. Talk about your downslide. We all need the Nazis - Especially those of us who practice comedy for a living. If there’s one group that everyone can unite to insult, it’s the Nazis. Whether we’re white, black, brown, Jewish, Moslem, gay, straight, for or against the designated hitter, we all stand united against Nazis. This unity makes them an easy target for jokes. Without the Nazis, we’d have no long-running Broadway hit “The Producers”. And if easy targets for jokes go away, I’m in big trouble. The Nazis have tried to hang in there. But it’s tough. The “Hitler Bobble Head Doll Giveaway” certainly helped our attendance numbers, but there’s no hiding the fact that the Nazis are not drawing like they used to. Last summer’s Indianapolis event was countered by the host city with an “ethnic diversity rally” in which parents and their kids of all races celebrated not being Nazis by dancing and eating Mexican food under the watchful and protective eyes of the police. The Nazis walked stiffly in a straight line and complained to anyone who would listen about being taken advantage of by “multiethnic scum.” The kids ate food they’re not allowed to have at home in the name of racial unity. The police sweated quite a bit, stood around and collected double time for working Sunday. Later, everybody went home and watched TV. Welcome to America. The Nazis, a group whose official party name is “The National Socialist Movement”, gather every once in awhile to remind people that they’re still with us. That’s a good thing, because who doesn’t like to insult Nazis? It’s fun! After all, they’re idiots. What intelligent person is going to join the Nazi party? Even if you’re a racist, homophobic paranoid, there are other groups you would apply to before you’d turn to the Nazis. Basically, the Nazi party is made up of people who couldn’t pass the Ku Klux Klan’s stringent membership policy. Are you white? Yes. Are you angry? Damn right I am. Would you wear this sheet? Sheet? They still exist, but the Nazi Party membership pool is becoming shallow. There simply aren’t that many stupid, angry white people left. Soon, they’ll only be twenty of them showing up for rallies. And then ten. And then it’ll just be Oswald, along with Frank H, his buddy. And the police won’t bother to come out. And then, they’ll be left all alone to face the hoards of dancing school children. That will be a sad day. Without the Nazis, we won’t have anybody left who we all can feel comfortableinsulting. Their survival is important. So, some advice for the Nazis on this, Hitler’s birth week: Allow some women, Hispanics and blacks into your club. Maybe down the road, some Jews, a Chinese guy and a lesbian couple with their four kids will march with you. After all, the uniform is kind of attractive. And you should serve burritos at your rally. The kids like that. With a little hard work, you could increase membership. I’m behind you, Nazis. I’m rooting for your survival. Not because I agree with any of your idiotic nonsense, but precisely because you are all idiots and nonsensical. And we need all the easy targets we can get. Hey. Did you ever think about a car wash? A bake sale? Band hoagies

The Return of the Diamond People February 7, 2007 The diamond people are back. They're after you. There's nothing you can do to stop them. The first sure signs that Valentines Day is once again upon us are not the displays of hearts and cherubs in the windows of your local Hallmark store, the stacks of heart-shaped candy boxes clogging the aisle at Wal-Mart or the two hundred percent spike in the price of roses. The first sure sign the national day of love and commerce is upon us is the reappearance, on television and radio, of the diamond people. They're back. The diamond people and I have had an ongoing relationship for most of my adult life. Each of us has a specific role. Their role is to come on my radio and TV, year after year, and convince me to spend ridiculous amounts of money on jewelry. Mine is to fall for it, year after year. Each of us performs our role like cast members in a well-rehearsed play. It all started back when I was in college. The diamond people theme music rose from the TV speaker and I looked up through the bong-created haze, unplugged the guitar, turned up the TV and stared straight ahead as the diamond people spiked me with their talons for the first time. “An engagement ring, “ they told me. “Is more than just two months' salary. It's a sign of your love. Isn't your love worth two months' salary?” Two months salary?! I was playing in a band at the time. I didn't have a salary. Two months worth of earnings in the band came out to, roughly, minus fifty dollars. Had I been serous enough about anyone at the time to ask for their hand in marriage, it was good news that I could walk into a jewelers, ask for a ring and fully expect to receive fifty dollars. That was quite a deal. The diamond people weren't bad, I thought. They're okay. I plugged the guitar back in, turned the amplifier back, turned the TV back down, relit that bong and thought about meeting a girl. Real soon. The next target of guilt was my Mom. I might not have had a woman, but I had a mother. The diamond people knew all about it. So, right before Mothers' day, they came back to my TV and radio, talking once again in that confiding manner. “You Mom,” the man said. “She brought you into this world. What have you done for her? This Mothers' Day show her how much you love her with a diamond ring as big as your fist. Come one. She almost died giving you life. Don't you think she's worth a diamond?” I was confused, because my Mom had never asked for a diamond. Maybe she was being coy. I asked my Dad. Dad would know. He told me that what Mom would really like for Mothers Day would be for us all to get together and get along, for just one day. I asked if he was sure she didn't want a diamond; that would be a lot easier. The diamond people did not give up after Mothers Day. They came back again at Christmas. They returned to ask if I had found anyone, yet. And then, one Groundhog's Day, I realized the diamond people might not have my personal benefit in mind. “Tell her that six more week of winter isn't a reason to hide in her burrow. Give her a diamond as big as a nocturnal rodent.” And now, they're back. Every few months they return, like a rash. Luckily, I have found someone who does not want the entire jewelry store. Rather than have me spend two months' salary on a diamond, she skips the middle man and takes the cash. She's not stupid. I am. No matter how much she tells me she does not care about having a diamond as big as her head, the diamond people know better. They're experts. They know what to say to plant that small doubt in the back of men's minds. From the television comes the announcer's voice. “This Valentines' Day, show her how much you care with a diamond.” Because we are men, we hear what he's really saying. What he's really saying is this: “This Valentines Day, the only way you're going to get laid is to buy her this.” Damn those diamond people.