Holy
crap in a Bundt pan... Due
to the recent well-publicized shortage of amateur websites produced by assholes who
think they're clever, I have been called into action. My name is Jeff Kay, and I’m an
Ugly American living on the cusp of a
mid-life crisis. And I’m here to serve, baby.
--I was flipping through my Englandnotes earlier today (I'm dying to
go back already…), and noticed a few stray stories I didn't tell in
the big honkin' Londonextravaganza.So, I'm going to tell them to you now.
Hopefully enough time has passed that you're not all groaning in unison
right now…I worry about Englandfatigue, and turning into a
travel-bore.Nobody likes a
travel-bore.
Anyway,
when we were touring the Churchill Cabinet Rooms, the youngest Secret
had to find a pee-catcher.I
asked a guy at the ticket counter where the "washroom" was
located, and he halfheartedly pointed in a general direction.
We
found it, and there were international symbols on the door apparently
indicating it could be used only by water-headed men, titless women in
hoop skirts, and/or sexless beings strapped to wheelchairs and staring
straight ahead.
--On Saturday we came home and there was a sheet of paper taped to
our front door.It was from one
of those outfits that douse your lawn in a cocktail of chemicals, to
keep it forest-green and free of weeds, for an irresponsible amount of
money every month.
Supposedly they’d taken the liberty of performing a “jr. analysis”
of our lawn, and told us we have a problem with dandelions.Jr. analysis?That seemed
like odd phrasing. But then I realized they must do the same thing for a
fee, and have to differentiate between the two somehow.You know, so the suckers won’t feel bad.
Anyway, I looked at our lawn and didn’t see a single dandelion.What were they talking about?Is
this thing pre-printed for every house in the neighborhood?I didn’t know, and didn’t really care.I wadded up the sheet and threw it in the trash.
--Last week I was perusing the massive Surf Report music library,
in search of something I hadn’t played in a while.I finally settled on Wilco’s second album, Being
There.And it sounded amazing.
The thing was in heavy rotation when it was originally released, and is
one of my favorite Wilco albums, but I probably hadn’t heard it in a
year.I’ve been preoccupied
with their latest release, which is also great.
I was caught off-guard by the impact of hearing Being
There last week.I mean, it’s not as if it’s unfamiliar to me.But I couldn’t stop listening to it, and talking about it to
the family.Who, you know,
couldn’t give even half
a shit.
This
event touched off a full-on frenzy.On
Saturday I removed all music from my iPod, and replaced it with the
entire Wilco catalog, including the live album and a bunch of bootlegged
demos.Heck, I even included the
freaky radio broadcast that inspired the title of Yankee
Hotel Foxtrot.
--Today I had lunch at Wendy’s where I polished off a #1 with
cheese, no pickles, and a Coke.And
while I was standing at the condiment bar, collecting all necessary
lunching equipment, this conversation took place between me and a woman
cleaning tables in the dining room:
Wendy’s employee:Well, hello Joe! Me:Hey there, how ya doing? Wendy’s employee:Oh, can’t complain, can’t complain.How are those girls? Me:Doing well.They’re
growing up fast. Wendy’s employee:Ha!You don’t need to
tell me about it.My two are
already up and out of the house. Me:Amazing, isn’t it? Wendy’s employee:It sure is.…Well, I
don’t want to hold up your lunch.Tell
Linda I said hi. Me:I’ll certainly do it.Take
care.
--I think I’m going to have to mow the grass this weekend, dammit.Spring comes late in these parts, and most people mowed last
Saturday or Sunday for the first time this season.I, and a few other holdouts, decided to give it another week.Ahem.
Unfortunately, it’s been raining nearly every day since I made that
decision, and the stuff is growing fast.At this point there’s a ripple whenever the wind blows, like a
field of wheat.I’m sure Poppa
Half-Shirt is over there walking from window to window, muttering
obscenities, and slamming Coors Light.He
probably has to draw himself a hot bath, and put on some Michael
McDonald to calm himself down…
So I’d better drag my ass out there on Saturday, and start walking
behind the vibrating box again.God,
how I hate it.Whenever my ship
comes in, a lawn service will be the very first call I make.Oh, I’ll be calling them real
good.
--When I was a kid there was a big vacant lot behind Sloan's
Department Store, which a traveling carnival would overtake for a week
every summer.Now there's a hotel
there, and a Shoney's restaurant, and I don't know if Dunbar's even part of the carnie circuit
anymore.And how sad is that?
But
it sure was exciting when I was a youngling.Big trucks would roll into town with folded-up Tilt-O-Whirls and
Scramblers on the back.We'd see
corndog stands coming off the interstate exit, and in one impossibly
abbreviated afternoon there'd be a full-blown carnival where none had
stood just hours before.
I remember hanging around while they assembled tall rides, like the
Ferris wheel, and seeing them sledge-hammer uncooperative bolts into
place.I told my Dad about this,
not really understanding the significance of it, and we were never
allowed to ride anything at those carnivals again.
--Tragedy has struck at the Compound:my CD player stopped working!Yes,
the unthinkable has occurred.I
was so cocky, for so long…I
went around believing, "Oh, it'll never happen to me."I thought my equipment was strong, and invincible.And now look where I'm at.So
very, very sad…
In my subterranean office, aka the Surf Report Bunker, I have a JVC
shelf stereo, which has served me well for six or seven years.Before it I had a series of Sonys which sucked the proverbial
ass.They skipped, sounded
terrible, etc.Somewhere along
the way I'd picked up the notion Sony is best, and it took me a while to
understand it might all be a myth.
In any case, my beloved JVC made a strange noise on Saturday, and now it
won't perform its duties.I think
the sound was its soul ascending to heaven.I hate to see it go, we've been through so much together, but
I've got to be strong.
--We went to the Old Country Buffet for dinner last night.The Secrets hate it, and Toney’s not far behind them, so we
rarely set foot in the place.But
they mailed us some coupons, for kids eat free, and I talked them into
it.
Yeah, it wasn’t very good.They
were serving “steak,” which looked like an old baseball glove on a
cutting board.The woman at the carving
station
would slice you off a finger, and drop it on your plate… and I just
couldn’t do it.I saw her
fishing meat from a vat of murky water, located inside the bar itself,
and decided to go semi-veg for the meal.
The oldest Secret tried the water-steak, though, and said it was pretty
good.I asked if there was a
Willie Mays autograph on it, but he didn’t know what in the everlovin’
hell I was talking about…
I
ended up eating a towering salad, some kind of chicken and noodles deal
(very salty, therefore good), a bunch of the canned vegetables they
serve, and a half-dozen yeast rolls.Everything
I ate reminded me of the high school cafeteria.And I don’t mean that as a compliment.
--One more night and it’ll all be over.If I can just shuffle and stumble my way to 2:30
am,
I won’t have to even think
about work until Sunday evening.Oh,
how grand it will be…
And, as of this writing, Nancy and the gang will NOT be visiting on the
weekend.It’s hard to get
excited about such a thing, because they could change their minds ten
more times before Friday, but I’m pretty excited anyway.
The idea of a normal weekend – just hanging around the house in big ol’
fat pants, taking Andy for a few leisurely pee-slinging tours, drinking
fancy-ass beer and maybe watching a little baseball – is very
appealing indeed.
I don’t think I could handle a house full of shrieking translucents,
and Eninen’s circus of kookery, right now.I really don’t. I have a pretty good track record of putting up
with a lot of crap, but this ain’t the weekend for it.
--Last night at work everybody hit the wall at approximately the
same time.We’ve had no real
day-off since April 12, and as late as Sunday evening most of us were
still doing reasonably well.But
after lunch yesterday, something happened.Suddenly there was a palpable sense of enough
is enough
in the air, and asses began dragging.
Unfortunately, we’ve still got two nights to go.If we can just make it to Thursday without a fistfight breaking
out (a real possibility), or somebody yelling “FUCK THIS!” and
shoving over a flow-rack, we’ll be good.Wish us luck.
Of course… there’s still a threat of a Nancy
visit looming on the horizon.It’s
not as definite as it was last week, they’re pit-hedging a bit, but it
could still happen.There’s no
way to predict their travel decisions; it’s all last-minute, flying by
the seat of your used and terrifyingly stained highwaters with those
people.
I seriously don’t know if I can put up with their bullshit right now.It’s going to take a lot of medicine…
--I know this might come as a surprise to many of you, but I'm not
really accustomed to prolonged physical labor.For most of my adult life I've been (as Lynyrd Skynyrd would
probably put it) a pencil-pusher.I've
been sitting behind desks, participating in conference calls, and
emailing my friends pictures of squirrels with enormous testicles.
So when my current employer informed me I'd be working on a special
project, a warehouse "reset," I was a little concerned.I had visions of me bent over like that Pope who always looked
like an upside-down fishhook, moaning and groaning, and begging
strangers to rush me to a hospital.
And to make matters worse, this so-called special project was to happen
on my traditional days off, thus bridging two work weeks and causing my
life to eat it from the ass-in.
But
it's come and gone, and I survived.Yeah,
my lower back is aching a little, but it wasn't anything like I’d
feared.I mean, one recent spring
I mowed the grass for the first time of the season, and could barely put
on a pair of underwear for a week.This
was nothing like that.
So, while it was no fun whatsoever, I'd be forced to admit it wasn't all
that
bad.
--Remember when people used to put newspaper in the bottom of their
drawers?No, not draw’s,
drawers; like inside a dresser or whatever.My grandparents used to do that, and I think my parents did as
well.
And what is the point of such an exercise?Is it to protect the drawer bottom from wear and tear?If so, what the hell?You’d
have to be mighty neurotic to worry about scratching, or discoloring a
drawer bottom.Ya know?What’s next, Simonizing the back of the refrigerator?Scotchgarding the dust rag?
Or was it to protect the clothes (or whatever) from
the drawer?It seems like
there’d be more damage done with a sheet of ink-saturated pulp, than a
slab of pressed board.Who wants
to walk down the street with the upper left hand corner of a Rite-Aid ad
burned into their sweater shoulder?
So I don’t understand it, and we do not subscribe to the tradition.The cycle of Kay-family drawer-papering stops right here, with
me!You’ve got to stand up for
what you believe in… like Lincoln.
--If you were to ask Toney which of my traits irritate her the
most, you'd probably get a long list.I
mean, living with me isn't something
I'd ever want to do…But near the top of the page would surely be impatience.
Waiting
makes me crazy.In fact, I'm
waiting on an important phone call right now, and am full-on obsessed
with it.Every minute that goes
by, without relief, cranks me up even tighter.
Last night at work I went out to my car on a break, and checked my cell
phone.It said I had a new
voicemail, and I just KNEW it was the one I was waiting for.Exhaling with relief I plugged in my password – and it was a
recording of a woman from the Obama Campaign.
At the top of my lungs I yelled, "BITCH!" and caused all the
smokers outside the break room to look over with alarm.
--There's some sort of "special project" scheduled at my
job this weekend, and they want all hands on deck. The so-called extra hours are supposed to
be 10 a.m. to 8 p.m. on Friday, and 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. on Saturday.So my normal two days off ain’t gonna happen...
Yeah,
it's gonna suck with the intensity of a thousand suns.But you want to hear the real kicker?After I finish this week …and the weekend special project
…and next week, Nancy and the Gang will be rolling into town.
That's right, I'll be working a minimum of ten hours per day until April
24, and Eninen and their rolling circus of kookery will be here on April
25.
I have a feeling I'm going to be a little less tolerant of stupid shit
by then, and am not completely confident in the ability of the golden
elixir to counterbalance such a significant disturbance in the
irritation curve.To my mind
it's never been adequately tested.Who
knows what might happen?
--The older Secret had a birthday over the weekend.On Friday he was eleven, and now he's twelve.When he was younger we'd have parties for him, at
"interesting" places, and invite what seemed like every
squealing fart-cloud booger-machine within the tri-state area.But those days are behind us (thank you Jesus).
Now we just have a few of his friends over, fold the party money into a
better gift, and go out to dinner at the restaurant of his choice.You know, within reason.
This year there were several boys at our house on Saturday afternoon,
having an "airsoft war" in the yard.Airsoft guns, in case you're not tapped into sixth grade culture,
are similar to the old fashioned BB guns.
They shoot little plastic dingleberries – HARD.I mean those things can pierce a soda can at twenty feet; it's
fairly unnerving.It takes the
concept of "toy" to its fullest extreme.
--Back when I worked for Big Movie I knew a guy who took his family
to Disney World every year, for a week.He’d
buy a package deal that included airfare, hotel (in one of the Disney
properties), some kind of meal plan, and unrestricted access to all the
bemusement parks.
This sounded mighty expensive to me, so, lacking the tact of many
people, I said, “How much does all that cost ya?”
And his answer almost made me to lose a rectal shelf.He said, and I didn’t know this dude to be a bullshitter or a
bragger, that it always runs him “just north of $10,000.”
Gulp.
Of course he’s a big-shot, and pulls down a handsome salary (with one
more digit than I’m accustomed to).And
I have no doubt he stays in the best hotel, and has the best meal plan,
and all that.But still… ten
grand?Every summer??
Continue
reading here
--What's the average lifespan of a pair of underwear?I didn't mark my calendar when I made the purchases, or anything,
but I believe most of my stuff is about a year old.And it's in a state of full collapse.
I went through a period of undergarment confusion, you see, switching
from style to style and having a difficult time settling on something I
liked.At one point my top drawer
looked like a Goodwill collection box, filled with all manner of ball
sock.
I tried boxers, and hated them.There
was an unfortunate glacier effect associated with the things, which
would cause me to do deep knee-bends and continuously pluck and prod my
crotch.And this is why, I
suspect, I was never promoted to director at my job...
But I couldn't sport tighty-whities; I was 43, not 7.I'd look like that fat New Year's baby, in a diaper.I thought I could cheat and go with the colored versions of the
whities, but there was something disturbingly pre-school about the whole
affair.The only thing missing
was a smiling steam engine across my ass. Continue reading here
--Another "free" day, another "breakfast" from
the bakery around the corner…I
had a cup of coffee and a simply kick-ass (I don't care how gay it
sounds) lemon poppy seed muffin.Mmmm…
I wish I had one right now.
Our first stop would be the Beatles store.The two things the kids wanted to do on our previous open day
didn't get done, and we felt kind of bad about it.So we decided to go directly to the store.
It
was in an unfamiliar neighborhood, but we found it with no trouble.For such a huge city, Londonis a breeze to move around in;
it's amazing, really.I'm used to
chaos and confusion, and running my hands through my hair.I got none of that in London.
The
Beatles store, however, was a bit of a letdown.It's tiny, and I didn't see anything I couldn't live without.They had a lot of framed photos, and keychains, and postcards,
and that sort of thing.It took
me roughly three minutes to familiarize myself with their entire
inventory, and I was done.
Continue
reading here
--We were going to be day-trippers again today, and that meant
being up and ready at an ungodly hour.The
restaurant at the hotel opened at 6:30 a.m., so, for the sake of convenience,
we decided to eat there.
I
had a toweringly bad cup of coffee, a spoonful of scrambled eggs, two
slices of Canadian bacon (probably called something else there), a bowl
of mixed fruit, and some Rice Krispies.For
the equal of fifteen U.S. dollars...
While
we ate, a large group of American college (high school?) kids overtook
the place.All the girls were
wearing what looked like pajama bottoms, and every boy appeared to be
some kind of science and/or tuba nerd.
Our British/Filipino friend, seeing this sudden influx of humanity at
his restaurant, was a bundle of nerves.He
was running around with his eyes bugging out, trying to explain how a
buffet works(?), and reminding everyone they can't just charge it to
their rooms.He was the Don
Knotts of Kensington.
--This was one of the "free" days we built into our
schedule, an opportunity to play catch-up, etc.We took a poll over breakfast (coffee and pastries from the
bakery, not the Thirty Dollars for Beans café downstairs), to see what
everyone wanted to do.
Toney said she'd like to take a double-decker bus tour, and try to get
some video from the top of the thing.There
were still big chunks of the city we hadn't seen yet, and past
experience taught us that a bus tour, while nerdy, is a good way to
cover a lot of ground with a minimum of stress.Plus, they let you jump on and off, so it can be used as
glorified transportation.
The
Secrets wanted to go to a playground in Hyde Park, where they supposedly have a
giant pirate ship kids can crawl around in, and on.One of them also picked up a flier for a Beatles store located
somewhere in the city, and both wanted to find it.
I, of course, was
getting highly concerned about the lack of pub-action, and wanted to
rectify the problem later in the day.I
also wanted to find a bookstore, where I could buy copies of Mark
Everett's book for me and Steve.(Steve
bought my Philadelphiaconcert ticket, in exchange for my
promise to buy him a copy of the book in London.) So,
we decided we'd take the train to Victoria Station, pick up one of the
tourist buses, and try to stop at places designed to please everyone.
Continue reading here
--During our Big Winter of Planning, we decided we wanted to see
more of Englandthan just
London.But we didn’t want to hassle with renting a car, driving
through roundabouts from the passenger seat, and getting our asses lost
in some mysterious village, with a name like Pissing or Little Pancreas.
So we settled on a couple of organized day trips, by bus.
The first was to be to WarwickCastle,
Stratford-upon-Avon,
and Oxford.And it required us to be up, showered, and breakfasted by 7:30
in the freakin’ am.Man, what a
pain in the crapshaft...
We ate at the hotel again, and the guy who runs the restaurant operation
is some sort of English/Filipino hybrid, impossible to understand.He’d always been very friendly to us, but on this morning
seemed to be making accusations.
He kept telling me I had to pay for breakfast, I couldn’t just charge
it to our room.I hadn’t said a
word about charging anything to our room, and had every intention of
paying.What was this guy’s
problem, anyway?He was starting
to piss me off.
--I don't believe in jet lag.I
think it's one of those afflictions we create to bring drama to our
lives.I've done a little
traveling, often across time zones, and honestly don't even know what
jet lag is supposed to be.
There are people in my extended family (ahem) who are bedridden for days
on end, every time they fly on an airplane.They wallow around, and moan, and act like they're moving toward
the light.
Oh, it's quite a scene.I have a feeling they'd need to call in sick if they were even in
the same room as a baby making airplane noises.That's how thenthitive
they are.
I
was warned about jet lag so often, before our trip to England, I started to actually think about
it.What if it's true?What if it's not a complete load, like I believed?I couldn't fly to London,
and be sick for half the stay.That
simply wouldn't do.
--I suspect it was just a bit of theatrics for dumbass Americans,
but the flight attendant actually said "Cheerio!" to me, as I
exited the plane.I half expected
her to follow it up by placing a lei of "bangers" around my
neck, and handing me a complimentary sack of boiled roots.
I was in a groggy state of near-sleep, and the excitement I felt about
being in London was having a hard time breaking through the layers of
fatigue.It didn't help that we
were walking through a network of dingy hallways, which might as well
have been in Cincinnati.
We passed some bathrooms, and I needed to go inside with a fiery
urgency.The so-called urinal was
nothing but a stainless steel trough bolted to the wall, and would
require me to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with some (international)
stranger, everything just laid out in the open air.
So, needless to say, that wasn't going to happening.
I went into one of the stalls, and saw a strange toilet.There was no tank, it was just a bowl sticking out of the wall,
with a flush handle mounted above it.What
the?!This is exotic urination…This is Eurination.
