what do i know of this man?
probably more than i could explain.
certainly more than most.

the most generous of spirits
steady of travel buddies
knowledgeable of minds
closest to heart
shoots straight from the hip
guy i know.

he steps up when there's a need.
he steps back if you've got it covered.
he rarely steps in unwarranted -
and even then his advice is always honest
(if not the teeniest bit inebriated).

quite simply:
he speakamylanguage.
and he understands that being holed up in snow for 3 days
@ someone else's house - no matter how cozy -
would drive me mad
and digs his car out from under the snow
to come rescue me.
he's THAT good of a friend.
i consider him my best friend.

Holy Crap! What can you say about the good Dr.??? He is there when you need an ear to listen, a shoulder to cry on and such a sweet snuggler! Caring is one of his finer arts, he is pretty good at hanging out too. BUT, when it comes to doing, he is THERE! Helping, Doing, coordinating, Doing, working is arse off and DOING EVERYTHING 'till it hurts......need I say more??

PS waffles RAWK!

Nice work, Doctor! I loved your festival and I thought of you and your efforts more than a few times this past weekend. What a wonderful thing to have created!

"Zee doc-tor vill see you now." said the nurse, who was more of a hunch- backed grey lizard than any lady I had ever known, other than the granny wig. I'd been in the waiting room for hours, the clock moving like molassass, on a countdown to forever to see this new croaker that Lenny had recommended, one Ralph Finnes, M.D. I was sweating profusely although I had not had a drink, not even water, in days. A slow, salty sweat. My hands shook. But forever was over and I was lead to a back room that appeared to have once been a janitorial closet. Inside was a man in a stained white lab coat, some of the colors of which I had never before seen, surgical scrubs, a scalpal in one hand, and a mask. "I'm not here for surgery, doc..." I mumbled as he motioned me towards the table. I noticed the mask was made of plastic and had a tube running from it into a machine that looked to be made of flesh. It pulsated very gently, breathing in and out, as the croaker himself took deep breaths but only after letting himself turn a shade of blue in the face that I'd only seen on corpses. Even through the mask you could see the maniacal grin, his eyes wide open and staring straight through my soul. What had I gotten myself into? As I moved to sit, I noticed stirrups at one end and he motioned for me to lay down. I shook my head no, said "No thanks, doc, the problems I've got aren't ones that need cutting. Not yet, anyway." He nodded knowingly, then pulled out another mask, also attached to the gasping meat machine in the corner, and offered it to me. He spoke as though language was something foreign to him. "I know," he said, gasping but grinning, "what is good, for you. What you... need." "Do ya, doc?" I asked, my expectations shrunken to a singularity. "Ah... yes...." he said. "I do. I can see." He reached into some drawers and fumbled around through medical tools and bottles of pills. "Ah, yes...." he said again, finally drawing an old, dingy glass bottle with a cork from deep inside a drawer, holding it up to show me. "I do." I had to stare at it for a few moments but then I realized that things come to those who wait, and I was indeed in the right place. Finally.