Category Archives: Author

This week I’ll be highlighting some of my writing and storytelling.  Let’s face it, I am an author, and this blog is my “business card” for those who might be interested in purchasing my novel Decisions, soon to be followed by three other novels—The Ian Drake Series.  So, this week we’re going to have some fun, and today’s humorous little story is the tale of Quasimodo‘s replacements—Bill & Bob . . . the Bellringer twins.

After Quasimodo’s unfortunate and rather sad ending, the Archbishop of Paris sent forth throughout the lands a proclamation advertising for a replacement bell ringer for his beloved Notre Dame Cathedral.  But the Archbishop was a busy man, so he handed off the task of conducting the job interviews to the least senior priest, Father Barclay “Bat” Belfry.

Unfortunately, the Archbishop was notoriously cheap, and the advertised salary did little to attract qualified candidates, so the requirement for an MA in bell ringing had to be waived for the sole applicant for the job, a man known only a Bob . . .  Bob the Bell Ringer.  But there was a problem far beyond Bob’s lack of a college degree in bell ringing.  He lacked something else even more important, at least in the eyes of Father Bat Belfry.  For, you see, Bob had neither hands nor arms, and how does one pull on the bell ropes without the prerequisite “tools” for the job?  To put it bluntly, Bob . . . Bob the Bell Ringer . . . just wasn’t handy enough for the task.  And it was precisely on this point that Father Bat initially declined to hire Bob . . . Bob the Bell Ringer.

But Bob . . . Bob the Bell Ringer . . . was both persistent and persuasive in getting Father Bat to test his bell ringing skills.  And so it was, with some trepidation, that Father Bat and Bob . . . Bob the Bell Ringer, made the trek to the belfry of Notre Dame for the audition.

Reaching his favorite architectural feature, the belfry, Father Bat pointed to the main bell and said, “Okay, Bob . . . Bob the Bell Ringer . . . here’s your chance.  Show me what you’ve got.”

So, Bob . . . Bob the Bell Ringer . . . stepped all the way back to the precipice, lowered his head, and took off at a full run for the bell.  He struck the bell full-force directly with his face, and the bell responded with what was perhaps the most pleasing sound Father Bat had ever heard.  It was positively beautiful, and far richer than that achieved through the bell’s clapper alone.

Unfortunately, Bob . . . Bob the Bell Ringer . . . was so stunned by the impact that he stumbled backward and fell to his death in the streets below.

A group of Parisians started gathering around the body.  Two of the bystanders, who happend to go by the typical French names of Louis and Crabbe, were looking down at the body and just shaking their heads.  Suddenly, Crabbe pointed down at the body and said to Louis, “Hey!  Isn’t that . . . isn’t that Bob . . . Bob the Bell Ringer?”

Louis shrugged and said, “The name’s not familiar, but the face sure rings a bell.”

But wait.  That’s not all.

The next day Father Bat was surprised by the early morning visit of a man who looked just like the hapless Bob . . . Bob the Bell Ringer.  And just like Bob . . . Bob the Bell Ringer . . . this young man also had no college degree, no hands, and no arms.

The stranger explained, “My name is Bill . . . Bill the Bell Ringer.  I’m Bob’s . . . Bob the Bell Ringer’s . . . twin brother, and I’m here to restore the family honor by taking up where my brother fell short.”

Father Bat replied, “Your brother Bob . . . Bob the Bell Ringer . . . did not fall short.  He fell all the way to the street.”

“That’s not exactly what I meant,” said Bill . . . Bill the Bell Ringer.

Regardless of what Bill . . . Bill the Bell Ringer . . . meant, Father Bat was adamant that the horrors of the day before would not be repeated.  He was already in deep trouble with the Archbishop for being stupid enough to audition Bob . . . Bob the Bell Ringer.  There was no way he wanted to repeat that error.

But after hours of begging and pleading, Father Bat found himself leading the way back into the belfry with Bill . . . Bill the Bell Ringer . . . in tow.  Reaching the top, Bill repeated his brother’s performance by backing up and launching himself full-force and full-face directly into the fabled main bell.  And once again the bell let loose with the most beautiful sound Father Bat had ever heard, even more beautiful than that from the day before.

Unfortunately, Bill . . . Bill the Bell Ringer . . . proved no less susceptible to the rigors of ringing a bell with his face than had his brother Bob . . . Bob the Bell Ringer.  And so it was with horror that Father Bat watched as the stunned Bill . . . Bill the Bell Ringer . . . took the same path to glory as that of his brother, plunging into the streets below.

Once again, in the streets of Paris, and for the second day in a row, a crowd of Parisians gathered around yet another fallen bell ringer.  In the crowd, just as they were before, were the two friends, Crabbe and Louis.

And just like the day before, Crabbe pointed to the lifeless body and said to Louis, “Hey!  Isn’t that . . . isn’t that Bill . . . Bill the Bell Ringer?”

Louis rubbed his jaw thoughtfully before replying, “You know, I’m not really sure.  But I know one thing.”

“What’s that?” Crabbe asked

“This guy’s a dead ringer for the guy who was here yesterday.”

If there’s one thing I despise when dining out, it’s the increasingly ubiquitous restaurant televisions hanging from the ceiling, usually from every corner of the room, usually tuned to something I couldn’t care less about watching, and usually with the volume turned down to where you cannot follow the broadcast anyway.  Restaurant dining is a time to spend in conversation with family and friends, not to have your neck craned upwards as you make eye contact with someone who you don’t even know and who doesn’t even try to make eye contact back.  That’s just plain rude.

Besides, restaurant patrons can supply all the entertainment you could ever want without you having to resort to lip reading some sportscaster recapping the 1984 NFL preseason on ESPN 27.  Just take your eyes off that screen and tune your ears to the conversations around you.  The following is just a sample of what antics you might witness from those around you.

Recently, at an upscale, family oriented bar and grill, two men sat next to us at a nearby table to my left.  They were dressed in conservative business suits in a comical parody of unmatched bookends—a light gray suit with navy blue tie seated across from a navy blue suit sporting a light gray tie.  After several minutes of rather boring talk, one of the men said to the other something that piqued my interest.  The man in the blue suit with gray tie said:

“Have your ever had . . . .  What the heck do they call it when you want to say something but say something else entirely?”

The man in the gray suit with blue tie said, “Freudian slip?  Is that what you’re thinking of?”

“Yeah, that’s it.  Ever have one of those?”

“Just last week.  Really embarrassing, too.  I was at the airport checking in for a flight and I couldn’t get the darned automated check-in thing to work.  I wound up going to the counter agent, who happened to be a very lovely young woman with huge, uh, well, really big assets, shall we say.  She asked if she could help me and I said, ‘Yes.  I can’t get the self-check-in machine to work and I have a picket to Titsburgh.’  That was incredibly embarrassing.  I apologized profusely, and she said, ‘That’s all right, sir.  Happens all the time.  Don’t give it another thought.’”

“OOOooo.  That would be embarrassing.”

“Well, how about you?  Have any stories like that?”

The other businessman thought for a moment before saying, “Yeah.  Yeah.  I did, in fact.  Just last week.  It was my thirty-fifth anniversary, and I took the wife out to her favorite restaurant.”

“Well, what happened?”

“My baked potato arrived and I meant to say, ‘Honey, could you please pass the salt?’   But, instead, it came out as, ‘Bitch, you ruined my life.’”

Meanwhile, to my right sat a younger man who was having trouble placing his order.  The waitress said to him:

“Sir, I’m Lorin, and I’ll be your waitress this evening.  May I take your order?”

The young man looked up at the waitress and said, “Yes, ma’am.  You certainly may.  I’ve decided I’d like a quickie, Lorin.”

Well, the waitress looked absolutely horrified.  She said, “Sir, that kind of proposition is totally unacceptable.  Now, what is it you want?”

“I want a quickie, Lorin,” the young man repeated.

Now the waitress was really miffed.  She gave him a stern look and said in a low, menacing voice, “Sir, this is a family restaurant, and I’m not that kind of woman.  I will not tolerate this kind of thing again.  For the last time—what . . . do . . . you . . . want?”

The young man tapped his index finger on a spot on the menu for emphasis and in cadence with his words.  “I . . . want . . . a . . . quickie . . . Lorin.  I want it hot, and I want it now.”

I’ve never seen a waitress get so upset.  Next thing I know, she hauls off and slugs the guy, who holds his hands over his face and yells, “My eye!  My eye!”  The waitress ran off, presumably to go get the manager.

Being the ever helpful sort, this was when I decided I’d better intervene.  I leaned over and whispered to the young man, “You know . . . I believe that’s pronounced, ‘Quiche Lorraine.’”

So, the next time you’re in a restaurant, get your eyes off that stupid television and get your ears into the games going on around you.  That’s where the real entertainment is.  By the way, any similarity between the above cited incidents and real life are purely coincidental.