--Black Lips Houlihan (aka Andy) has returned to the Surf Report
compound, but he's acting strange.I don't know if he's mad, and giving us attitude, or if he's
missing my parents.'Cause
he had a pretty good deal going in
West Virginia...
My
Mom and Dad are retired, so there was somebody with Andy almost all
the time.He got two long
walks every day, another dog to play with, and continuous praise and
attention.And I seriously
doubt he was called a quivering sack o' ticks, even once.
So,
I'm thinking he might be in mourning, because he has to live with us
again.And how sad is
that?It would be much
easier to take if he was just pissed, and giving us a cold
doggie-shoulder.
Clearly,
there's but one thing to do: buy back his love with cookies, car
rides, and spaghetti with meat sauce.
Because I miss Andy Classic.
--Did I mention that Nancytook offense, because we didn't
ask her and Nossy to watch our dog while we were in England?It's true, and she reportedly won't stop talking about it.I guess she feels slighted.
But
the thought never even crossed my mind.It's not as if we considered it, and decided against it.It was never within the realm of possibility.Our neurotic border collie in that wacky shack, all alone?Ha!I think not.I'd sooner put his ass in a kennel.
Remember
how Andy reacted when we went to the House of Nancy for a visit a few
months ago?He kept
jumping into the trunk of my car, and wouldn't get out.Here's a pic.The
poor thing was traumatized, within minutes.All the shrieking, the wailing, the rustling pit hair….
I don't think he would've survived two weeks there, and I mean that
literally.I believe his
organs would've started shutting down around Day Three, because of
stress, and he would've cowered beneath an antique milking chair (or
whatever), waiting for the sweet kiss of death.
No, Andy's second home is in West Virginianow, where things are civilized,
and the loudest noise he ever hears is when the big wheel goes around,
weekdays between 7:00and
7:30.
--Is it offensive for a kid, even when he's 45 years old, to buy
his parents dinner?I
tried to do that on Saturday, to show our appreciation for my folks
keeping Andy, and they adamantly refused.When I tried to insist, I could tell they were getting angry
about it.
So I dropped it.What the
hell, man?I was just
trying to do the right thing, to act like a reasonable facsimile of an
adult, but the whole deal seemed to be a touchy subject for some
reason.
Is there something I don't know?Is
there some societal code I'm not familiar with?The whole thing is baffling.
We
went to Red Lobster (Ret Lopster), because my parents love that place,
as do the Secrets.And
once again, I got an impossibly good New Yorkstrip steak.
I
don't eat creatures from the ocean floor, so I always order a steak on
the rare occasion we visit a Ret Lopster.And they're always SHOCKINGLY good.I mean, better than those $45 expense-account steaks I used to
eat in my high-flying record weasel days, at places like Morton's and
Ruth's Chris.I'm not
kidding…
Have any of you experienced this phenomenon?Or have I just been especially lucky?It's almost unbelievable to me.
--My parents spend every winter in Florida, hanging with people their age
and older.When I hear the
stories, it sounds like something straight out of Del Boca Vista
(phase III), on Seinfeld.
Anyway,
one of the old guys reportedly got on an exercise kick this year, and
was working out and running, and the whole nine yards.My Dad said one of the other men, a person whose only exertion
is an occasional walk to the beer cooler, told the exerciser:
"You know what you're going to get for all this?Five more years in a nursing home, at $5000 per month."
--Remember when I asked you guys to list the funniest books
you've ever read?Well,
Surf Reporter Scott put all the answers together in one of those
customized Amazon lists, and here it is.Thanks, man!
--And speaking of those
funny books… I tried to buy one of ‘em a few days ago, at our
local Borders.I wanted to
pick up the Bill Bryson book about England,
Notes From A Small Island. I’ve read some of his other titles, and thought they were
sarcastically hilarious; I was interested to see what he had to say
about the place we’d just visited.
But I couldn’t get near the section, because of a pigeon-toed
hipster.And what’s the
deal with that?Why do
high school and college-aged kids go to book stores, sit on the floor
with their backs to the shelves, and point the toes of their
brightly-colored Chuck Taylors toward each other?
I tried to work around her, but it was awkward and she clearly
wasn’t going to move.So
screw it.I’ll just
order from Amazon.Internet
bookstores are still largely pigeon-toed hipster-free.
--And here's another follow-up to a previous story, an article in
the freakin' New York
Times about the sexually
ambiguous Railsplitter I mentioned on Friday.He was briefly on our England-bound plane in Newark, then removed.Here's a picture I snapped.Thanks Duff for the heads up on that one!Amazing.
--Steve and I went to see the Eels in Philadelphiaon Friday, and it was an
interesting show.The
Suggestaholic has the details, in case you're interested.
We left for the BigCityaround
two o'clock in the afternoon, planning to
spend some time on South Street, a
strip of trendy
stores, restaurants, and whatnot. There's a favorite bar there that has good food, and a
ridiculous number of beers on tap, and we'd most definitely be logging
some time on their stools, as well.
So,
we were walking out the front door of my house, ready to hit the
Pennsylvania Turnpike, when Steve casually mentioned he'd brought
along a copy of the new REM CD
-- which doesn't come out until
Tuesday.He'd been in a
record store where a clueless employee had apparently put the CD on
the shelves too early, and Steve snapped one up.
I told him I'd need that compact disc for a few minutes, went back
inside, and quickly transferred it to my iPod.I listened to it all weekend, and it sounds damn good.Easily their best album since New Adventures in
Hi-Fi, which is
one of my favorites of the later era.
Steve also brought along a Sirius satellite radio receiver, and we did
some channel-surfing while driving.We lingered on the New Wave station, until that got boring,
then moved over to 90s Alternative.We listened until something unrecognizable came on, some kind
of neo-hippy bullshit, and kept moving.
For a few minutes we stopped at something called Playboy Radio, and
two women were apparently reading and answering letters from
listeners.One was from a
man who doesn't like the way his girlfriend smells "down
there."
Needless to say, we were laughing our asses off.
It reminded me of when we were in fourth grade, and Steve had a
Cincinnati Reds highlight album.There
were a few snippets of radio broadcasts from the previous year's World
Series, and the announcer said, "Fingers on the rubber… the streeetch!..."
It
was the same kind of Beavis and Butthead laughter, thirty years later.
We
walked around South Street, and wandered into a comic book
store.I honestly don't
believe I'd ever been inside one, and it was fairly amazing.
There were free-range nerds milling about, just reveling in their
stereotype status.I saw
three guys huddled around a TV, transfixed and mesmerized, watching a
scratchy old VHS tape containing excerpts from the first Star
Wars movie.Man, it was like Cliché World in that place…
At one point they were all shrieking with excitement, and bouncing up
and down.I was certain
one, or all, of them was about to pull down his pants and Superman
briefs, and start going to town on his “L’il Vader.”
But I actually bought something there.We were checking out these big honkin’ collections of vintage
comics, housed inside paperback books, and I saw one for The Haunted Tank.I used to read those when I was eleven or twelve, and had
completely forgotten about ‘em.So, in a nostalgic frenzy, I forked over some cash.
And I have a sneaking suspicion I’ll never open the book, not even
once…
We went to our favorite bar, where we always eat dinner and drink to
excess before Philadelphiarock shows.They supposedly have 25 beers on tap, but half of them
wouldn’t work.I’m not
sure what that means, but we were limited to only about a dozen beers.And what is this, the deepest jungles of Africa??
As we were eating, the apparent owner showed up and started raising
nine shades of hell with the bartender.He accused the guy of “fucking up” the draft beer, and
there was much animated discussion.They were still working out their differences when we left.
We walked to the car, and I noticed every single restaurant we passed
had a “Voted Best Cheesesteak In Philadelphia!” sign hanging in
the window.Perhaps
they’re issued with business licenses in Philly?I simply don’t know.
And that’s about all I have for you today, boys and girls.I’ll get back to the England Adventure tomorrow.
-- which doesn't come out until
Tuesday.