The Salsa Stays In The Fridge!

My wife, Cheryl, keeps throwing out the salsa.  I’ve discovered that an opened jar of salsa that is half-used is absolutely useless to her sitting in the refrigerator.  “Are you going to eat this?” she would ask.  As I looked at the savory jar of red chip sauce I would say, almost indignantly, “Of course!”  What could she possibly mean, am I going to eat this?  It’s food, isn’t it?  How could this woman not know that at some point I am probably going to be hungry and salsa is going to be the perfect fit?  “It’s taking up room,” she would finally declare as she rearranges the contents of the refrigerator, clearing room for some of the more important items, like the bottle of ketchup that hasn’t been used since the Fourth Of July or the fat-free salad dressing that has congealed nicely into what looks like a bottle of Jell-O pudding.

“A half a jar of salsa would be considered a meal in most countries,” I would remind her.  It was certainly considered a meal, in fact, the main course in my apartment before I met her.  A bag of corn chips and a large jar of Pace Picanté Sauce® would, and has, sustained my nutritional needs for several days on end when times were tough.  Some may call this the difference between men and women, and although that may be partially true, my wife calls it the difference between someone who lives a civilized lifestyle and someone who is way too lazy to go to the store.

There is no fine line of distinction when it comes to what can be considered breakfast, lunch or dinner.  With me it’s pretty crystal clear.  Anything that can be consumed can fit into any of the eating categories.  My wife laughed at me once for suggesting that we have waffles for dinner.  “That’s breakfast!” she shot back as I rifled through my food index looking for a meal that was more appropriate and less jack-assed, considering the time of day it was.

Some of the other things I consider to be simple meals:  Cake batter.  Three pieces of white bread smashed together in a ball.  Ham.  Not a ham sandwich or ham and eggs, but ham.  A decent sized lollipop.  Any number of beers.  Cheez-Its®.    In my younger years these were the meals of necessity.  They were ‘what was around’ at the time.  Eat and get on with the more important things in life like watching COPS.  Time simply couldn’t be wasted on gathering ingredients like some caveman, chopping everything up, mixing them all together, and then cooking, baking or frying it all up.   None of these meals needed much, if any, preparation.  No plates or utensils were required.  If you really wanted to you could just drink the spaghetti sauce right out of the jar!  Why would you need napkins when you are wearing pants?  Just a willingness to quickly make a trip to the kitchen, down it as fast as you can, and you can get back before that episode of COPS comes back from commercial.

The constant disappearance of my jars of salsa has opened up a bigger picture for me when it comes to our refrigerator, and our lives in general.  I’ve discovered that these are highly choreographed moves that help my wife jockey for positions of power by using the various foodstuffs.  Her food, non-fat yogurt and almond milk, is at eye level and easy to reach places.  My food, beer, Tapatío® and Mezzetta’s California Habanero Hot Sauce® is either crammed into the ‘crisper’ drawer at the bottom of the refrigerator with all the old, lost cheeses that are half covered in mold, or it’s halfway to a landfill out in Palmdale.  The moldy cheeses have a longer lifespan in our refrigerator than my jars of salsa while The Real Housewives of God-Knows-Where have a longer existence on our DVR than any episode of COPS.  "Haven't you seen this one already?" she asks with indignation.  "Yes I have, but I need to see it again," is my usual response.  Trust me, I realize there is no way to answer that question without it sounding completely stupid. 

That's when I discovered that it's all in the tone.  "I need to see this episode of COPS again" is weak.  "I'M WATCHING MILLIONAIRE MATCHMAKER!" is strong, forceful and important sounding.  "I'M GOING TO THE BATHROOM RIGHT NOW!  CAN YOU WAIT, LIKE, TWO MINUTES?  JESUS CHRIST, CAN'T A MAN GET ANY PEACE IN THIS HOUSE?!" is probably a little too much tone but I think I'm beginning to get it.

Forget about the floating cars and jet packs they promised us when we were kids.  I'm happy just sitting on the couch eating chips and salsa watching 'COPS: Tased and Confused' for the 100th time.

Caveman Memos

To:          Dag, Assistant Sec. Of Elder Council

From:     Tar, Co-Council for Cro-Magnon Affairs

RE:         New Image

Dag,

It has been decided by the powers that be that certain behavior will no longer be accepted around the caves in order to rectify our species’ negative image problem.  Some of the disapproving forms of Caveman behavior that have come under scrutiny are:

1.    Carrying studded clubs around in public.

2.    Dragging one’s female counterpart back to the cave by her hair.

3.    Letting back hair grow out of control.

4.    Talking with mouth full of food.

5.    Dragging one’s knuckles on the ground.

6.    Loitering.

7.    Grunting in run-on sentences.

8.    Public urination.

These and any other forms of behavior that are considered to be unbecoming of a gentleman will no longer be tolerated.

Our positive image campaign ordinance will begin immediately and anyone refusing to cooperate will be rounded up and shipped off to the Les Miserables Cultural Reversal Institute for the Unruly and Disorderly in the Caucus Mountains.  There they will undergo a six-month social re-initiation program.  Further social intolerance will result in a one-way ticket to the Bermuda Triangle.  Please inform all cave chieftains of the new rules regarding the new mandate.

Thank You,

Tar

        

To:              Yar

From:         Hok

RE:             Red Pain

Yar,

         It might behoove you to know that upon Tor’s discovery of ‘fire’ last month an interesting question has come about.  Once fire has been initiated, how does one go about extinguishing it?  We have exhausted our limited mental faculties trying to tame the fire that Tak started in the forest last week.  Throwing objects at it, especially wood, only seems to fuel its rage.  So far, the ‘Red and Orange God of Burning Hurt Pain’, as it is now being called, has already destroyed thousands of acres of vegetation and land that might have been useful if we knew what to do with it.   Frankly, I’m a little concerned about the air pollution it seems to be causing.

         I am also a little perturbed at Tor’s attempt to capitalize on his invention by charging residuals on what he calls a ‘discovery fee’ every time someone uses fire.  All of the accolades he’s received seem to have gone straight to his head.  He’s claimed bragging rights for the Northern Territory and he’s even tried to charge a ‘vocabulary fee’ every time someone uses the word ‘fire’.  I seriously don’t believe that Tor even knows what the word ‘vocabulary’ means.  He probably heard it over at the McNeil/Lerher campfire.

His attitude smacks of selfishness and arrogance, and until we even begin to learn how to control the properties of the Red and Orange God of Burning Hurt Pain, which seem to be highly unpredictable, Tor should not receive one dime, whatever that is.  If you ask me, much like the person that discovered it, fire does not seem to have any redeeming qualities whatsoever, and to be quite honest, if it hadn’t have been Tor some other fool would have stumbled upon this useless discovery.

         I’m afraid that my candidness has caused some friction in the cave between myself and some of Tor’s supporters, but my primary concern is for the safety of the members of the tribe and not catering to some megalomaniac’s ego.  Please see to it that the exploitation of fire be kept to a minimum and that it only be handled by qualified personnel.

Thank you,

Hok

To:              Grog

From:         Lar

RE:             Rules and Regulations

Grog,

Due to the unfortunate rioting that took place at last week’s Battle of the Network Caves, Australopithecus Man will not be invited back next year, either in a participatory capacity or as spectators.  With the growing number of people standing up straight, using tools and joining debate clubs we feel that we humans are really beginning to carve out a unique niche for ourselves on this, what we shall call for now, the earth, and the ways of Australopithecus simply cannot be tolerated anymore.  He is so prehistoric.  We are evolving into refined thinking machines and Mr. Pithecus clearly does not factor into the equation.  Is it our fault that he still possesses that enormous brow ridge and that his sloping forehead prevents him from formulating any thoughts beyond eating, sleeping and procreating?  I say no.  Why should we invite him to our festivities when we just end up paying for his archaic acts of aggression?  The only real solution is to distance ourselves from his kind, and, if the harassment continues, we have no choice but to defend ourselves by utilizing the tools of war.  If we are to grow as a species we cannot allow this evolutionary riff-raff to constantly impede our progress.  Please let me know what the consensus among the leaders of your cave is and we will talk further about this at the campfire.

Thank You,

Lar

To:              Lar

From:         Grog

RE:             The Bigger Picture

Lar,

It is uniformly agreed upon that Australopithecus Man clearly does not posses the mental faculties to understand what he is doing when he disrupts such social gatherings.  He lives by instinct and is not capable of giving any thought to reasonable or rational thought.  However, it has also been suggested that the higher thinking beings provide outlets and opportunities to the 'intellectually challenged' in order to level the field of play.  I know this intellectual 'imbalance' goes against the basic principle of nature that we have been living by up to this point, however, this kind of irrational thinking comes with intelligence, so we’re all just going to have to get used to it.  For now, Australopithecus Man will continue to have full access to community events and gatherings.  If there continues to be further disruptions on his behalf then the elders will handle the situation on a case-by-case basis.

Sincerely,

Grog

From Desk of

Plor, Esq.

To:              Lar and Grog

From:         Plor Esq.

RE:             Incident at Campfire #12

Mr. Blek,

It should be known to all parties that my legal services have been retained by Mr. Ik and Mr. Thh in response to allegations that they have participated in activities known to be unbecoming of a gentleman.  These allegations are entirely unfounded and my clients plan to prove this in a campfire of law in order to clear their good names.  I should also point out that my clients plan on suing their accusers for slander and defamation of character.  Mr. Ik and Mr. Thh are two prominent members of the Australopithecus Tribe just Northwest of the big rock next to the tree with no leaves.  We are also suing for punitive damages, because of the stress this case has created my clients have not been able to hunt or gather since the unfortunate incident.  They are also losing large amounts of hair on their backs and arms.  That we must resolve these matters in a campground of law is the only options my clients have left.  Therefore, upon reading this statement you are hereby subpoenaed and shall proceed to the fourth county campfire court on the date that has yet to be determined, as we are still grappling with this time and date thing. 

Lawfully,

Plor Esq.

To:              Plor Esq.

From:         Lar and Grog

RE:             Response to Ridiculouness

Mr. Plor,

It is laughable and, yet, very sad to hear you refer to Ik and Thh as your ‘distinguished’ clients.  To represent such biological rubbish in a civil case is tantamount to wiping your dung smeared feet on a new Sabre Tooth Tiger skin rug.  It is also insulting to see you try and raise these two vagabonds to the level of a decent citizen.  I should think that you had more sense than that.  I certainly will not entertain such nonsense as to appear to one of your silly trials, seeing how we have no laws to speak of anyway.  I believe I am safe in saying that your threats of suing are unfounded, and moreover, full of nincompoopery.  It’s unfortunate that I must waste my precious time and even more precious stone tablets responding to such ridiculous allegations.  Australopithicus Man is on his way to oblivion, and to that I say good riddance.

Unfortunately,

Blek

The Bar

            The year was 1984 and breakdancing was solving all the gang violence problems in New York City through the miracle of dance.  The art form was sent from the heavens like a swarm of flesh-eating locusts that took over the nation and held it in its vice-like grip for about three or four years.

            On the other side of the country, a wide palm tree-lined, gangless street called Brand Boulevard in Glendale California hardly had any cars on it on that hazy summer day because no one could afford a car in the eighties, only Saudi princes and Rick Springfield.  Everyone else had to hoof it or thumb it or stay home and raise their awful children.  It was the very northern end of the road where, unlike its southern section that contained fashionable eateries, high end boutiques and the world famous Mall of Insanity, it had settled for five chiropractic offices, seven law offices, a pet psychic, three churches, a fire station, two restaurants and an Amish Embassy.  It also was the home of O'Shea's, an Irish pub that was established in 1980, the year that New York City was being torn apart by gang warfare and desperately needed an out-of-the-box solution to curb all the violence. 

            There were few pedestrians on Brand Boulevard, scampering in and out of the various buildings trying to escape the heat.  One man even pushed aside a woman carrying a depressed looking Chihuahua in an effort to get into some shade to cool down his bare feet.

            Suddenly, a man walked out of the shade of a mangled looking pepper tree and right into the direct sunlight.  He stood at the edge of the curb and looked out at the five lanes of the boulevard, seven if you included the angled parking.  He wore a custom sewn Western style shirt with a decorative floral pattern on the shoulders, faded blue Levi's jeans and teal blue Adidas indoor soccer shoes with yellow stripes.  The man had long, gray hair that was kept in place with a blue bandana tied around his head.  He watched a silver Honda Accord drive by and then looked right at us.

            "Hi there," he began, "yer probably wonderin' what this place is," he continued as he motioned back towards the front of O'Shea's. 

            "Well, it's a bar.  But, it's not just any bar, it's your friendly neighborhood bar," the man calmly reported.  A squad car from the Glendale Police Department with two large officers inside slowly drifted by as the driver's hand stuck out of the window and gave the man the classic finger gun salute.  Classic.  The man waved back and continued on, "Every good neighborhood's got one.  They've also got one of these guys," and just as he finished that sentence a tall, lanky man with a mustache approached the front of O'Shea's and looked at it admiringly.  The lanky man had a big cop-style mustache and wore Bermuda shorts and a flower print shirt.  He fished around in his pockets for a moment or two and then shrugged his shoulders.

            "That's Eddie McCracken," our western shirted man said looking back at us again.  "Everyone knows Eddie here.  He's been in attendance at this establishment for pert 'near two years now.  It's a place he can go an' unwind, put the dogs up and take a load off, as the man says."

            A gypsily-dressed woman who was the local mentalist suddenly burst out of the door of the pet psychic.  "Would you mind taking that somewhere else," she shouts, "you're disrupting my session and interrupting my chi."

            Our guy slowly glanced sideways at the woman whose wardrobe looks as if it consisted of around one or perhaps even as high as two hundred Romanian scarves and then back at us.  He winked and smiled, then cocked his head towards O'Shea's, "Let's go inside."

            The inside of O'Shea's was typical in that it had the traditional long wooden bar with mismatched barstools.  A selection of several dozen bottles of various liquors are neatly placed on three shelves behind the bar counter.  The three main beer taps were individually recognized by their respective brands which were always Old Milwaukee, Pabst Blue Ribbon and Guinness.  Several tables and chairs were also scattered throughout the place and could be easily pushed together for larger groups of people or separated for those who felt like drinking alone.

            A tiny bell rang as the lanky Eddie McCracken entered the bar and a raucous cheer came from the patrons inside.  "Eddie!" they all shouted in unison.

            A modest Eddie smoothed out his giant cop mustache and ambled down the steps as Paddy, the establishment's one and only bartender, called out.  "What'll you have, Eddie?" he asked as he readied a freshly cleaned pint glass.

            "The usual," Eddie replied as he walked over to the bar where his friends Shreeder, Hugh and Qubert were waiting for him. 

            "One Old Milwaukee, comin' right up," Paddy replied as he poured a fresh pint from the tap.  Eddie's friends greeted him with jocular pats on the back and high fives as he took a seat next to them.

            At one of the tables near the window was our guy from the street, who seemed to have snuck in here without anyone noticing.  He still had that thousand-yard stare as he found us once again, much like a long-winded story-teller who finds a willing ear at a party and then corners them for the rest of the evening.

            "Now, this place, O'Shea's is kind of a special place to Eddie," our guy resumed.  "It's become sort of a second home to him.  And there were times, like when he was dodging the draft board during the conflict in Grenada, when it became a first home.  But, no one judged 'im here."

            He took a sip of Guinness and let out a satisfying breath.  He looked over at a table where Eddie and his friends were now sitting.  They all looked transfixed on Eddie as he was relating some great story where the punch line caused his friends to erupt with laughter and applause.

            Our guy looked back at us, smiling, "People're like family here.  They take care of you in good times, and bad.  O'Shea's is where a feller can go when life starts throwin' 'im curve balls."

            Our guy then leaned in closer to us and we began to notice that his breath smelled like he hadn't brushed his teeth in about sixty days or so and perhaps he had an anchovy sandwich for lunch,  "Well, one day one of those curve balls came-a-blowin' in like a swarm of locusts an' nailed everyone square in the face."

            He sat back in his chair in contemplation, "I guess I'll let Eddie and his pals tell you what happened next."

            The man finished his Guinness in one gulp, got up and walked out the back of the bar where the kegs were stored.

            More laughter was heard as Eddie wound down another tale.  Shreeder, Hugh and Qubert listened with great interest as they all nursed their beers.

            "…and the Civil War lasted for fifteen and a half years," Eddie conveyed, "and that's why we now have North and South Dakota."

            A collective 'wow' came from his friends.

            "You sure know a lot about history," Shreeder exclaimed.

            "Well, you can't trust what they teach you in school," Eddie casually proclaimed.  "You gotta find this stuff out for yourself.  Hey, by the way, you guys see that new girl that works at the coffee shop?"

            The fellas all nodded.  Yeah, of course they've seen her, Eddie.  What are they, blind?

            "I was thinking of asking her out," Eddie continued, "I just got a raise and…"

            Suddenly, the front bell rang and a small ruckus was heard.  It was the sound of people cheering and greeting someone.  Eddie and his friends looked over just in time to see a man wearing shorts, a flower print shirt and sporting a giant cop mustache walk down the steps into the bar where he was enthusiastically greeted by Paddy and the other customers.

            "Tommy!!" was shouted in unison by just about everyone in the bar.  It dwindled to a light din as Tommy high fived and shook hands.

            Eddie's eyes narrowed as he looked at Tommy suspiciously.

            "Oh look, it's Tommy Rickshaw!" Hugh eagerly exclaimed.

            "Who's that?" Eddie immediately asked.

            "Oh wow, Tommy's here!" Qubert said.

            Tommy walked up to the other end of the bar where he was greeted by his own three friends.

            "What'll you have, Tommy?" Paddy asked as he readied a freshly cleaned pint glass.

            "The usual, Paddy," Tommy replied.

            "One Pabst Blue Ribbon comin' right up."

            A look of concern fell over Eddie's face as he noticed that he and this Tommy character were wearing the same shorts, the same flower print shirt and they even have the same goddamned cop mustache.

            "Pabst Blue Ribbon?" Eddie quietly asked himself.  ""Who drinks that crap?"

            He turned to his buddies who looked as if they wished they were over in Tommy's section listening to his stories. 

            "Who is Tommy Rickshaw?"  Eddie finally asked.

            Shreeder took a moment to gather his thoughts in an effort to answer such a seemingly naïve question.

            "You don't know who Tommy Rickshaw is?" is what he finally came up with.  Shreeder was, by no means, a wordsmith.

            Eddie looked back at Tommy who was wrapping up one of his fantastic tales.

            "…and the Death Star blew up an entire planet and Darth Vader and the Evil Empire ruled the universe to infinity because everyone was scared of their awesome technology."

            Tommy's friends were bug-eyed with awe.  "Did that really happen?" was the last thing Eddie heard one of them ask before he turned back to his friends.

            "No, who is he?" Eddie asked Shreeder a second time.

            Hugh eagerly piped in, "He just moved here from the south side.  He's a war hero."

            "A war hero?" Eddie's incredulous look revealed his skepticism in this statement.  He looked over again at Tommy who was performing a very complicated card trick in front of more bar patrons who have migrated over to Tommy's side.  The trick, of course, ended with more applause.

            Hugh continued, "Yeah, he fought in Grenada.  He manned a checkpoint on one of their highways or something during that awful, terrible conflict."

            "Grenada?" Eddie blurted out, almost laughing.  "That wasn't a war.  It lasted six days."

            "He got a medal," Qubert said as he pointed over just in time to see Tommy displaying some sort of medal, causing, now just about everyone in the entire bar, to oooh and awww.

            Eddie turned back, "So, because of that I'm supposed to know who he is?"

            Eddie was beginning to sound tense and short tempered, a side his friends had never seen before.

            "No," Qubert slowly interjected, "he's just a popular guy, that's all.  Thought you would've known him already since you're so…well,  you know, popular yourself."

            Eddie looked over at Tommy who was surrounded by people, "Well, he better not be thinking about making this place his hangout.  There's only one popular guy here and it's m…"

            Eddie saw Hugh and Shreeder walking over to where Tommy was.  Only Qubert was sitting next to him.  Defeated, he sighed and looked at his watch, "Well, I gotta get going."

            Eddie rolled off the barstool and lumbered towards the door, but not before Qubert called out, "Okay, man, see you tomorrow!"

            Eddie reached the door and stopped.  He looked back at where Tommy was, who was now surrounded by everyone in the bar.  A look of concern fell over his face.  Maybe it was nothing, he thought to himself as he walked out and closed the door.

            A few days later, Eddie strolled into O'Shea's and was greeted by a couple of barely interested people instead of the usual roar.  He tried not to notice.  Something was different about him, however.  His mustache had been expertly shaved off.  He pulled up next to his friends who didn't even notice him walk in.

            "Oh, hey Eddie," a startled Shreeder noticed, "I didn't even see you walk in."

            "Great," Eddie replied, dejectedly.

            Shreeder narrowed his eyes at Eddie, "You look different.  Are you sick?"

            Eddie looked back at him, "No, I'm not sick."

            Qubert interrupted them, "You know, there's a flu going around.  Have you had your shots?"

            "I told you, I'm not sick."

            His friends stared at Eddie for quite a long time as Eddie stared right back. 

            "I shaved my mustache," he finally revealed.

            A collective 'ooooh' came from the fellas.

            "Oh right, that's it," Shreeder remarked.  "Wow, you sure look different."

            "Did it hurt?" Qubert asked.

            "Did what hurt?" Eddie replied, a little confused.

            "When you shaved it off."

            "No, it's…shaving, I just…shaved it off."

            Hugh continued to analyze Eddie's new look as if it was turd that was left on his doorstep by some mischievous teens.  "Wow, you really look different," he says blankly.

            "Really different," Shreeder added.

            Eddie's annoyance level finally came to a head, "Look, I didn't get a sex change, for Chrissakes, I just shaved off the 'stache, that's all.  I just got tired of it and shaved it off.  It's no big deal."

            Shreeder tried to calm his friend down, "No, it's okay, it's just that we've never seen you without it, that's all.  You look…different."

            "Really different," Hugh threw in.

            "Are you sure you don't have the flu?" a genuinely concerned Qubert asked.

            "No, Qubert, I don't have the flu," Eddie replied as he shook his head in disbelief.  "You guys don't have to make a big deal about it, jeez."

            Shreeder held up his hands, "Hey, take it easy, man, this is all new to us.  You just look…different."

            Eddies snapped back, "Okay!  We've established that I look different.  Fine.  Can we drop it now?"

            The three friends slowly looked at their beers and mumbled, "Sure.  Yeah.  Okay."

            Paddy walked over to Eddie and plunked down a frothy beer in front of him.  "Hey Eddie," he said as he squinted, "are you sick?"

            Suddenly, the front bell rang and the door swung wide open as a roar from the patrons echoed throughout the bar, "Tommy!"

            The fellas all looked over to see Tommy walk in, smiling.  Eddie's eyes widened as he immediately noticed that Tommy had also shaved off his mustache.

            "Hey, Tommy's here," Shreeder excitedly said.

            "Wow," Qubert exclaimed, "he looks different."

            "He looks younger," Hugh added.

            "Is he parting his hair differently or something?"

            "Maybe he's taking vitamins."

            "Oh, he should.  There's a flu going around."

            "Whatever it is, he looks great"

            Eddie watched in complete disbelief as Tommy sat down amongst the crowd that, by now, had drifted over to the end of the bar.  He muttered to himself, "That son of a bitch."

            Qubert continued to be astounded by Tommy's new look, "He always looks great but now he looks even better."

            Shreeder nonchalantly turned back to his beer, "Well, they probably made him shave it off while he was in jail."

            Everyone stopped gushing for a moment.  Hugh looked at Shreeder, trying to digest this new information, "He was in jail?  What…what happened?"

            "Oh you didn't hear," Shreeder said as he took a sip of his beer, "He spent the weekend in the pokey.  Yeah, he climbed up the side of the Jack Tripper Financial Building downtown."

            "Oh," Qubert recalled, "I heard about that.  That was him?"

            Eddie rubbed his face in pure disbelief, "He did what?"

            "It was in all the papers," Shreeder continued, "A guy bet him to see if he could do it.  He climbed on the outside all the way to the top.  Sixty-three stories, just like Spiderman.  When he got to the top he was arrested on the spot, but he won the bet."

            "How much was the bet," Eddie asked suspiciously.

            "A dollar," Shreeder replied.

            "A dollar?"

            "Yep.  But he said it wasn't about the money, it was about the principle."

            Eddie rolled his eyes, "Oh brother."

            "Tommy Rickshaw is a man of honor," Qubert pointed out.

            "And principle," Shreeder added.

            "And he's quite an athlete," Hugh reminded everyone.

            "And he's brave as hell."

            "And handsome," Qubert said as his friends turned and stared at him.  "And he's brave as hell.  Braver than all of us put together, probably."

            The friends all agreed in unison and readily muttered their opinions, 'yes, yes' and 'sure, of course'.  'Brave as hell' was heard several times and served as sort of a rallying cry for the men's secret devotion and even more secret bro-crush on Tommy Rickshaw.

            Eddie, who was not devoted to Tommy Rickshaw in any way, broke into this love-fest, "Wait a minute, they don't make you shave your mustache in jail."

            "How do you know?" Shreeder asked.  "Have you ever been to jail?"

            "Or climbed a building?" Hugh pointed out.

            "Or shaved off your mustache in jail?" Qubert asked.

            Hugh pointed to the front window of the bar, "Or climbed a building?"

            There was an insurgency occurring here that Eddie was not prepared for.  "Don't you see?  This guy's trying to imitate me.  Look at him," Eddie pointed to Tommy at the other end of the bar playing a flute, "he wears the same clothes, he shaved off his 'stache…"

            His friends looked at each other.

            "Oh, like no one's ever shaved off a mustache before," Hugh finally pointed out.

            Eddie took one long, frustrating look at Tommy infringing on his social territory before he downed the last swig of his beer and glanced at his watch.  "Well, I gotta go."

            He slid off the stool and wandered out as Qubert called out after him, "Okay man, see you tomorrow!"

            The very next day, Eddie walked into O'Shea's semi-expecting his usual greeting, but instead, was met by silent indifference.  He did, however, notice a small crowd gathered, once again, around Tommy and his now usual spot at the far end of the bar.  He was on the tail end of a magic trick where he pulled some flowers seemingly out of nowhere.  Eddie noticed that his own pals were also watching the magic trick with great interest.  The crowd rewarded Tommy with cheers and applause.  Eddie plunked down on his bar stool where Paddy suddenly noticed him.

            "Oh, hey Eddie.  Didn't see ya' come in."

            Eddie tried his best not to look offended.

            "What'll ya' have?"

            "The usual, Paddy," Eddie replied as he pulled his look away from the Tommy show.

            "Uh, Budweiser, right?" Paddy asked.

            Like a kick to the stomach, Eddie looked up at Paddy, "No, man, Old Milwaukee."

            "Oh, that's right.  Sorry."

            Paddy went to pour a fresh pint but this was almost too much for Eddie to take.  How did his world turn upside down in a matter of days?  He absentmindedly got up and left just as Paddy set down his beer.

            "Should I put it on your tab?"

            There was no response from Eddie as he walked out.

            "Okay, man, see you tomorrow!"

            It was a Friday and Eddie knew that to preserve his social position in this town he was going to have to either take action or disappear forever.  He marched dutifully into O'Shea's and strode directly up to Tommy, who was having a drink with a friend at a small table near the payphones.

            Eddie pointed his finger right at Tommy's face, "Listen, you, we've got a problem.  This bar ain't big enough for the both of us.  I was here first," he elaborated by pointing furiously at the beer soaked floor.  "So, that means that you're just gonna have to go out and find yourself another bar."

            Tommy was genuinely confused, "What are you talking about, friend?"

            "What I'm talking about is that there can only be one hip person per bar.  This bar already has a popular guy, me."  Eddie's accusatory finger landed on his own chest.

            Suddenly, two men walked by unaware of the confrontation and called out to Tommy, "Hey Tommy, got a cold one waitin' for you over here!"

            "Yeah, we also got a couple of chicks that want to meet you.  C'mon over."

            Tommy chuckled, "I'll be over in a sec, fellas."

            The two men stared at Eddie for a moment not sure what to make of him.  Was he new?  Why was he putting out such negative vibrations?  They came to the conclusion that he was probably a tourist who was lost and was asking for directions and probably wouldn't hold Tommy up for more than a minute or two.

            Eddie, stewing in his own frustration, turned his attention back to Tommy, "Alright, I can see I'm gonna have to take this up a notch.  You haven't heard the last of me, friend."

            Eddie turned and marched back out the front door, but not before Qubert, who was sitting at the bar, called out, "Okay, man, see you tomorrow!"

            Eddie sure wasn't kidding when he threatened to 'take things up a notch'.  Over the next several days he reached deep into his creative inventory to come up with something that would distinguish and separate himself from his nemesis.  He tried wearing a plain blue shirt, but that didn't help because Tommy was wearing an identical one the same day that Eddie was wearing his. 

            He tried smoking a pipe, but Tommy beat him to the punch with his hand-carved walnut pipe and was enjoying a nice aromatic Cavendish tobacco. 

            One day Eddie walked in sporting a tri-cornered colonial hat, but discovered that Tommy was already wearing one and had already received many compliments on it. 

            Another time Eddie walked into O'Shea's carrying a small dog wearing a tutu, but was disappointed when he saw Tommy showing the crowd tricks that he taught his small dog wearing a tutu. 

            Every time Eddie walked in with something new Tommy had already did it, said it or wore it.  Eddie's mind seethed with rage.

            "What the hell is with this guy?" he quietly grumbled to himself.  "Everything I do, he does.  Everything I say, he says…"

            Outside of O'Shea's the wooden front door burst open and an exasperated Eddie billowed out in a fit of complete rage.  He was carrying a rubber chicken, wearing a white t-shirt, dark vest and had a Steve Martin arrow-through-the-head gag on his head.

            "Everything I wear, he wears!"  He threw the rubber chicken on the ground, "Damn that guy!!"

            Several hours later, the sun was beginning to set and the people that had jobs were returning to their homes for the day.  Eddie was sitting on the curb in front of the Amish Embassy holding the rubber chicken with a complete look of bafflement on his face.

            "What the hell is going on here?" he mumbled to himself.  "Who the hell is this guy? Where the hell did he come from?  Why is he messing with my life?"

            A pedestrian walked by and noticed Eddie, "Hey Eddie."

            To which he simply replied, "Go to hell."

            Eddie McCracken had gone over the edge.  Depression had set in.  His popularity usurpation had been swift and severe.  He was a man without a country, relegated to sitting on his plastic covered couch, holding his store-bought Old Milwaukee, talking to himself, "What did I do to deserve this?  Because of this…hack I have to give up my comfort zone?  My urban retreat?  My fortress of solitude?"

            He migrated to a bus stop with his can of Old Milwaukee andspoke at length to a sleeping homeless man, "It's not like it's the only bar in town.  Why doesn't he go to another bar…in another city…in another country?  Why doesn't he find his own bar?  Huh?  He's gotta come in and take mine?  Why?"

            Eddie was now in his garage, which was filled with beer posters and beer promotional cutouts.  There wasa refrigerator in the corner and a half built bicycle in front of a disorganized workbench.  There was also a tattered couch next to a pile of crushed Old Milwaukee beer cans.  Eddie was talking to a poster of Mr. T, "Tommy is a man of principle?  I've got principles too, you know.  I earned that bar.  I worked hard for it.  I've killed brain cells for it.  Well, this is…this is…bullhonkey!"

            Eddie was wandering downtown still drinking from a can of Old Milwaukee when he approached the majestic Jack Tripper Financial Building.  He stopped and looked up, squinting into the sun, the building's grand magnificence towered above him.  He marveled at how they could get any building so tall without the whole thing collapsing on top of everyone.  Suddenly, something about the word 'height' jostled something loose in his head.  For the first time in weeks a slight smile appeared on his face. 

            "That's BULLHONKEY!"

            The front door to O'Shea's was crafted by hand in Cork, Ireland by a carpenter who specialized in designing and building front doors for pubs and had a side business in lawnmower repair.  The door was transported to America during the great gas shortage of the 1970s and briefly welcomed patrons to a Pet Rock Outlet Store before it was snapped up and installed at O'Shea's.  Although it was a sturdy door, the many unexpected rushing in and outs by Eddie McCracken was beginning to take its toll.  The hinges were beginning to complain and a layer of shellac was starting to peel away near the bottom.  The robust door groaned as it was swung open once again by Eddie who stepped into the bar like an old west gunfighter who was going to clean up his town whilst holding a can of Old Milwaukee.  He slowly raised his finger and aimed it at one person sitting in the back of the bar surrounded by people.

            "You," Eddie deliberately said.

            The bar turned deathly quiet.  The sound of the desert wind was heard as a tumbleweed blew by in front of Eddie and the whistle theme from The Outlaw Josey Wales mysteriously filled the room.  Paddy chased the tumbleweed out of the bar with a broom and closed the door.  Eddie's finger was still pointing right at Tommy, who looked around then back at Eddie, "Me?"

            Eddie slowly walked towards Tommy's table, the room still silent, "How many stories did you climb when you scaled the Jack Tripper Financial Building?"

            For the first time, a look of concern washed over Tommy's face.  He nervously chuckled,  "What are you talking about?"

            Eddie walked even closer, still pointing his unmanicured fingernail at Tommy, "How many stories did you climb when you scaled the Jack Tripper Financial Building?  You know, the one downtown."

            "It was sixty-three," Tommy replied.  "What's all this about?"

            Eddie finally reached the table and stopped.  He took a good look at everyone sitting around Tommy.  They were all looking back at him, waiting to see if this was a joke or had Eddie, once and for all, lost his mind.

            "And you were arrested on the spot, am I right?" Eddie pressed him.

            "Well, yeah," Tommy answered back.

            "So," Eddie rocked a little back and forth and firmly planted himself in one place, "When they arrested you how tall was the ladder?"

            A very confused Tommy scratched his head, "What?"

            "Having a little trouble hearing today?  I said, when they arrested you how tall was the ladder?"

            Tommy looked around at his friends who are equally confused, "What ladder?"

            "The ladder they used to get you down from the sixty-third floor…"

            "…what are you…"

            "…because the Jack Tripper Financial Building, as everyone knows, only has sixty-two stories!  So, what I'm wondering is how they got you down from the sixty third story when it wasn't even there?!"

            Eddie's interrogation had culminated in a loud 'Dun-dun-dunnnn', which was courtesy of a college student fiddling around with his sound effects machine in the corner.  Everyone now turned towards a stunned Tommy, waiting for an answer.

            "Alright," he began, "you want to know.  I'll tell you."

            By now, more people joined the crowd including Shreeder, Hugh and Qubert.  Again, probably one of the neverending mysteries of the universe, some sad music began to play.

            "Sure, the Jack Tripper Financial Building only has sixty-two stories, I know that.  But, a long time ago I told my grandma…" Tommy looked around at the crowd who was hanging on his every word, "who was dying of old age at the time, that every year on her birthday I would climb a building that had the same number of floors as her age.  At the time, she was sixty-three."

            Tommy began to tear up as did some of the other people listening to his story.  A woman handed him a bar napkin to wipe his nose.

            "Sure," he continued on, sniffling, "I only climbed sixty-two stories, sure.  But there were no sixty-three story buildings around.  But, all I cared about that day was bringing a little hope to my poor, dying, old-age infected grandma.  So, to possibly bring a little cheer in someone's life I told her that I climbed sixty-three stories."

            Tommy looked down dramatically at his mug of beer, "She died the very next day with a smile on her face."  He looked up at everyone apologetically, "Sorry for being a liar."

            Tommy buried his face in his napkin, wiping away tears and snot, but mostly snot.  The crowd, in unison, now turned and looked at Eddie, who was caught completely off guard by this unexpected answer.  One man stood up and pointed angrily at Eddie, "You happy? You feel better, Mr. Big Shot?  You made a man cry!"  The man slowly sat back down, disgustedly," I don't know how you sleep at night, mister."

            Tommy tried to take the reigns back before the situation got completely out of control, "No, it's okay everyone.  I lied.  I can admit when I'm wrong."  He stood up, "I'm a bad person.  I should go."

            The crowd would not hear of this as they all protested with lines like 'no way, Jose!' and 'not on my watch!' and 'someone get him another beer and perhaps another napkin!  There is snot running all down his face!  Sweet, merciful Jesus, I've never seen so much snot!'

            Eddie, however, remained vigilant in trying to reclaim his social status, although, to anyone watching this exchange it would seem the opposite was occurring.

            "This was my bar, pal," he firmly said as he looked into Tommy's tear-filled eyes, "These were my friends and you took all that away.  This bar is all I had in my pathetic life and I want it back."

            Tommy blew his nose and glanced back as Eddie continued, "But, because we're both men of principle, I'm going to do it fair and square.  I'm going to make you a bet.  The winner of the bet gets to stay.  The loser…has to go and never come back.  Ever."

            Eddie then reached into his pocket and pulled out a dollar bill and calmly laid it on the table.  The crowd was motionless.  No one expected to witness such drama when they decided that because they were out of work they would just spend the day getting drunk instead of trying to be productive members of society.  They all turned and faced Tommy, much like a crowd watching a tennis match follows the ball.  Tommy looked back at them, then back at Eddie.  He was in a corner and everyone was waiting.  "What's the bet?" he finally replied.

            Some marching snare drums were suddenly heard and we don't even question it at this point as Eddie and Tommy walked towards the front door.

            Near the front window was a small table where our guy from the beginning of the story turned to face us.  He was drinking a strong stout imported from Great Britain.  He was on his fifth one and was completely drunk.

            "Hi there," he began, "did you guys miss me?  Perty inneresting fellers, ain't they?"

            He took a long sip of his thick beer and smacked his lips immediately afterward.  "Well, Eddie went an' made a bet that Tommy just couldn't refuse that day.  The thing is that no one quite knew what the details of the bet were…"

            Everyone in the bar was riveted as they watched the two rivals march outside like two men about to duel in the streets.

            "…but, we do know that it took place outside and involved kitchen utensils for some reason.  Whatever the case…"

            Suddenly and without warning, a panicked Amish man burst into the bar, halting Eddie and Tommy and the marching snare drums.  He shouted out to the patrons, "Crimony, all ye townspeople!  There's a frightful swarm of locusts yonder and they're headed in this here direction!  Vengeance is in the air!  Make peace with yer makers, people, fer Judgement day is upon us!"

            Eddie and Tommy looked at each other.

            "Who's that?" asked Tommy.

            Eddie shrugged, "Oh, that's just Farmer Bob.  He's a little…"  Eddie spun his index finger directly at his forehead, "…koo-koo."

            The marching snare drums began again as the two rivals continued to walk outside.  The door slammed shut just as our guy got up from his table a little too fast.  The blood rushed out of his head as he swayed back and forth for a moment or two and then fell face first on the floor.  And that's when everything went black.

            The sound of a cheering crowd slowly faded back into our auditory senses as we came back into consciousness.  A rowdy group of drunken fools was gathered outside the front of O'Shea's where Eddie and Tommy were facing off in a duel of the ages.  Tommy was holding a rolling pin while Eddie was holding a spatula.  Their free hands were tied together, preventing escape and forcing a possible kitchen utensil battle to the death. 

            Our guy, fully recovered from his fall, was now right there with us watching the whole thing.  "I wish I could tell you this story had a happy ending," he said as he nudged us.  "In a way, everyone wanted both men to win."

            Eddie swung his spatula as Tommy ducked just in time.  Our guy continued even though we were trying to watch the rumble for ourselves, "For Eddie, winning would've meant keeping his old bar and his old friends…"

            Shreeder, Hugh and Qubert were also outside watching the two grown men fight in the street.  They were cheering for Eddie as Qubert looked down in horror at his empty beer glass, quickly ran inside, and reappeared holding a full pint.

            "…and have a place to put his dogs up and take a load off, as the man says."

            Tommy waved his rolling pin in the air, a little unsure of how he could effectively injure someone with this unusual weapon.

            "For Tommy, winning would've meant having the chance to settle down in one place and finally work out some of the psychological scars he received in Grenada."

            All of a sudden, something in the sky made everyone look up in absolute horror.  Eddie and Tommy continued to struggle with each other as the entire crowd now sprinted inside the bar.  The two rivals finally looked up, but by then it was too late.  Terror fell on each of their faces as they tried to run in opposite directions, but, because the strict conditions of the duel that required them to not only tie their hands together but super-glue them as well, they just ran in circles, finally capitulating as they both put their respective weapons up in the air.

            "As it turned out, lady luck wasn't on their side that day," our guy continued from the safety of the inside of the bar.

            Paddy cleaned out a pint glass as he ruminated thoughtfully into space.  Our guy walked slowly through the bar.  He was already talking about the two rivals as if they were two characters who existed in the past, "Maybe the boys shoulda' listened to ol' Farmer Bob that day.  You see, soon after he made that declaration…"

            Two beer drinking patrons who were sitting at the bar were looking thoughtfully into space.

            "…and Eddie and Tommy had begun their old fashioned kitchen utensil rumble…"

            A man at a table wearing a tri-cornered colonial hat drinking a martini was looking thoughtfully into space.

            "…a freak swarm of flesh-eating locusts…"

            A small dog in a tutu standing angrily over a biscuit was looking thoughtfully into space.

            "…actually did appear and descended on the two warriors…"

            Shreeder, Hugh and Qubert sitting with their beers were looking thoughtfully into space.

            "…and began devouring them alive."

            The rest of the bar patrons were at the front window looking out at the two men being eaten alive by flesh-eating locusts.  It had become a surreal situation, indeed.  Perhaps it was a combination of too much alcohol and our guy's calm, soothing voice that put everyone at ease and made them forget that Eddie and Tommy didn't exist in the past but were just a few feet away on the other side of a window being consumed by insects.

            The faint sound of screaming could be heard as our guy sat back down at his table, "Their agonizing, god-awful screams could be heard for blocks."

            One of the patrons turned to our guy, "Uh, they're still out there, you know.  Maybe someone should call nine-one-one."

            Our guy was totally unconcerned by this fact and continued to talk about them as if this was all ancient history, "It seemed to be a very painful death to those who had the smarts enough to take cover indoors.  In an attack that seemed to last for minutes…actually lasted hours."

            The patron, finally fed up with everyone's inaction, made a move towards the payphones, "You guys, they're still alive.  Oh dear, merciful God, they're still alive."

            "You see," our guy plodded on, "the locusts had previously eaten away at several telephone trunk lines, disabling the city's nine-one-one system.  No one could rescue them in time."

            He looked thoughtfully towards the window, "They died painfully and slow, but at least they had their health…before the locusts got to 'em, I mean.  Anyway, their memory lives on in the hearts and minds of the patrons of O'Shea's.  Because Eddie and Tommy, as anyone will tell you, were men of principle.  Stupid in the self-preservation department, but men of principle nonetheless."

            We were then directed by our guy to look up at a shelf above where Paddy kept the good alcohol.  Right next to a large spray can of Bug-Be-Gone was a plaque.  Affixed to the plaque were two beer cans squaring off, one was Old Milwaukee and the other was Pabst Blue Ribbon.  Between the cans was an inscription that said 'Stand Up For Your Principles'.

            Our guy finished his stout as he looked up again, "And, that's all that you can ask for in this crazy life."