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October 31, 2005
-- Yesterday we shoved the rolling box
o' beds onto the driveway, and got it ready for winter. Toney removed
the bedding and made sure there was no food left inside that might
attract squirrels and sasquatches and whatnot. And I drained the hot
water tank (requiring only one phone call to my daddy, thank you
very much), as well as the water lines underneath.
This last part is accomplished by lying on your back and wriggling. And
I'm not a big wriggler. I think it's one of those genes that skips
generations; the wriggling talent of the father is usually not visited
upon the son. Or so it seems.
Plus, last year I was wedged up underneath that thing when I spotted a
scary white spider, with what appeared to be a bulging poison sac, drop
down from the undercarriage of the camper and start scampering toward my
face. Needless to say, I just about turned that bitch over trying to get
out of there. I was bicycling my legs and hollering like a mental
patient. Oh, it was quite the scene.
So, I wasn't looking forward to any of it. I'm not really a fan of
activities that can't be performed from a seated position while eating
Combos. But we got it done, without too much pain. There's not much more
than a single drop of water left in that thing, to freeze and expand and
cause us problems. And I'm happy to report that there were no spiders or
copperhead colonies, or anything like that.
The only bump in the road was a loud and protracted fart that erupted
from my body as I wriggled. I'd just drained one of the lines and was
trying to rock my heft back into sunlight, when I contorted my torso in
a certain way, and it sounded like a blast from a tuba out there. I
don't do that sort of thing in front of my wife (is that unusual?), so I
was a little embarrassed. And it didn't help matters that both boys
immediately doubled-over in laughter, and just wouldn't let it drop.
"You scared all the birds out of the trees!" they were
hollering.
Simply excellent.
-- And since we're on the subject, here's part of an email I received on
Friday:
P.S. I just farted and the girl in the office behind me told the
person she's talking to on the phone she smelled steak.
This is from a guy I've never met, a
reader of the site. And he thought to write and bring ME up to date on
the situation. Me!
...I'm sorry, I'm getting a little emotional here.
-- Last night I flipped through the TV listings section of the Sunday
paper to see if, against great odds, I might find something worth
watching. I noticed that Game 7 of the World Series started at 7:30, and
decided to tune in.
I used to live and breathe baseball, but haven't been following it too
closely over the past few years. But, I like to think that I still know
what's going on, generally speaking. Ya know? I mean, I'm not completely
cut off from society.
And since there are few things more exciting than the seventh game of
the World Series, I settled in with a snack-sack and got ready for a
night of dramatic action. Unfortunately, it was apparently rained-out?
Is that what happened?
Too bad. But I'll be there again tonight, Jack. Because I'm a fan.
-- When I lived in Greensboro several people told me about the legend of
Lydia, a high school girl supposedly killed in a car accident during the
1920's, who still haunts the old underpass where she died. If you drive
through there at midnight, the story went, you could sometimes spot her
in her ball gown, hitchhiking(?!), and occasionally you might actually
find her sitting beside you in the passenger seat of your car.
I'd always be a little uneasy when I drove that road at night,
especially with a few adult beverages under my belt. I was certain I'd
eventually look to my right and find Lillian Gish sitting there, with
half her head missing. Shit!
Here's
a pretty good article about the whole deal.
I'm sure most communities have their own Lydia-style story, and since
it's Halloween, why not share the ones you know in the comments section?
That might be some fun, huh?
And I'll see ya tomorrow.
October 28, 2005
-- Can you folks help me out with
something? You see, I really want an iPod but, try as I might, can't
come up with a solid justification for buying one. And want ain't gonna
cut it, I'm afraid, it's gotta be need. (I have responsibilities.)
So, what real purpose would it serve me?
I guess I could listen to it while I'm at my desk at work? Is that need?
Perhaps it would further my career if I'm constantly happy and soothed
by the music of my choice? Heh. Does that argument hold water? Have any
of you attempted to pull off such a thing? Let me know how it went. I
have a feeling I know, but maybe I'm wrong.
And can't you hook those babies up to play through your car stereo? That
would be pretty good, a selling point. How hard is that to do? 'Cause if
it requires know-how, labor, more than five minutes of prep time, or
lying on my back, I ain't doing it. I've got enough aggravation as it
is. Is it easy? Would it require more equipment? Can I do the
installation from a seated position, while eating Combos?
Help me out, people. How have your mp3 players improved your lives? I
need ideas. It's music-related electronic gadgetry, and I don't have one
yet. And it's making me freaking crazy.
-- I saw on the local news this morning that somebody's trying to get a
bill passed that would allow (require?) law enforcement to fine people
who don't walk their dogs regularly. It was really early in the morning,
but I'm pretty sure that's what they said. And they also mentioned
something about keeping goldfish in a round bowl. Supposedly it makes
the fishies go blind(?!), and they want the selfish bastards with their
brazen and irresponsible round bowls dealt-with harshly by the
authorities. (Coming this fall to NBC: Law & Order: Bowl Squad!)
I'm not making any of this up. It was right there on the local newscast,
snuggled between the standard reports about sink holes and catastrophic
house fires. I'm almost certain of it.
-- And speaking of local news... A couple of weeks ago I saw a report
about a runaway candy apple stand on Interstate 80. A truck was
pulling it, the thing broke free and careened out of control, and caused
several minor accidents. That's probably the way I'll go out, you know.
I'll be minding my own business one day, driving down
the road and singing along to Cheap Trick, when suddenly I'll look up
and see a goddamn carnival trailer coming straight towards me at an
accelerated clip. And the last thing I'll see in this world is a
shoddily painted corndog, two feet from my face. Then the story will be
linked on Fark, and people sitting in cubicles all around the world will
read it and laugh and laugh and laugh. I just know it.
-- I was sitting here a few minutes ago
and started smelling Band-Aids. And there's no explanation for it
whatsoever. Strange. Do you think I'm having a stroke?
-- Clive Bull was talking about underwear yesterday, and I finally had
to turn it off. People were calling in and relaying their deeply-held
undergarment opinions, and after a while I started to feel a little sick
to my stomach. The final straw was an old gravel-voiced cab driver who
said he likes to wear a basic white brief, because of the support it
provides him. So that was that. I had to crank up the Rocktober channel
at Accuradio, and shotgun a 3 Musketeers bar to recover from that shit.
I mean, seriously. The whole thing triggered a full-body shiver.
One woman said that her mother believed that men should never buy
underwear, not even for themselves. It was the woman's job to do that,
and men you see buying underwear in stores are most likely perverts
and/or homosexuals. I thought that was pretty funny, because I'd bet
good money my grandmother felt that way too. And come to think of it....
Let's not make this a Stealing Clive Bull's Topics discussion point, OK?
I merely mentioned it for informational purposes. Thank you for your
cooperation.
-- And finally, I have a special treat for y'all today: something new
from Metten! And here
it is.
Enjoy and I'll see you folks again on Monday.
October 27, 2005
A few really quick things:
-- The check-engine light went off in my Blazer last night, after
almost a week of it screwing with my head and mocking me from behind the
steering wheel. I was actually looking at it when it blinked off, which
was highly satisfying. It felt like I'd willed it into submission. But
what was the point of it all? Was it trying to tell me something, like
Lassie after Timmy plunged down yet another abandoned mine shaft?
Or was it set to come on by engineers at General Motors, hoping they
could pick up some extra labor bucks for their dealers on the back-end?
I hope I never find out. I'd like to be able to now put all this
unpleasantness behind me, and pretend it never happened.
-- Too Much Joy is blasting in the bunker this morning; Cereal
Killers to be exact. Remember those guys? What happened to 'em?!
God, they were excellent. I feel a full-saturation three-day listening
jag coming on....
-- I'm sending Memento back to Netflix today, even though I never
watched it. I know this goes against the laws of nature, but it's the
way it has to be. I've soured on the movie, and no longer want to see
it. Call me a radical if you must.
-- Remember the "book deal" I hinted at, a month or so ago? (I
use quotation marks because it feels pretentious and presumptive to just
let those two words stand alone, like I think I'm Kurt Vonnegut or
something.) Well, yesterday I found out that because of corporate red
tape, a final decision on the project has been delayed by 45 days. So, I
continue to know nothing. I'm told that it still might very well happen,
but there's crapola going on behind the scenes that has nothing to do
with me. Fairly typical, I guess.
But the cool part about it? I'm so busy at work, and stressing out and
everything, it barely even crosses my mind. Entire days go by when I
literally don't think about the book, not even for a second. And how
great is that? Under normal circumstances I'd be a friggin' basket case,
trying to read meaning into every day that passes with no new news. I
would've already shit so many bricks we'd have a new patio in the back
yard, with built-in barbecue and pizza oven.
So, the moral of the story? Even swimming upstream in a daily river of
raw sewage has a silver lining. ...Or something.
--
Buck sends along this
link today. And it makes me a little queasy, if you want to know
the truth. I've long suspected that fast food cashiers have a way of
"signaling" the grill workers, when they encounter an asshole
or someone who's causing problems. It's why I'm usually exceedingly nice
to those folks, even when my instincts tell me to reach across the
counter and squeeze their neck until they go limp. I mean, they're making
the food.
I remember a guy at my high school who worked for Wendy's. He would
always brag about spitting into the hamburgers of cops, or putting a
clump of pubes in there, or whatever. And that scared the hell out of
me. The thought of dumbass teenagers lording over my lunch is a
terrifying concept. So I tread lightly in those places, and Buck's link
illustrates the reason. One wrong move and they're throwing up the
ball-hair sign. And I simply can't have that.
-- I'll leave you now with something a little less disturbing (I think).
Somebody linked to a video clip yesterday in the comments section, and I
thought it was flat-out hilarious. So here
it is.
-- Oh, wait! One more thing... Will, the keeper of the Blanket, sends
along a few more entries to his ongoing project. Check 'em out here.
And if I continue to play my cards right, we'll eventually get to the
point where you guys write these updates yourselves, and I won't have to
do anything! And what a beautiful day that will be.
See ya tomorrow.
October 26, 2005
-- As part of my ongoing Halloween
preparation project, I watched Halloween over the weekend. I got
it through Netflix and, again, I'm almost certain I hadn't seen it since
it was first in theaters, twenty-seven years ago. I remembered a lot
more about it than Friday the 13th, probably because in 1978 I
hadn't yet discovered the wonders of hops and barley, and maybe because
it's just a more memorable film.
There are some glaring editing problems in that thing, like the way it
goes from bright sunlight to complete darkness in a manner of seconds,
but it's still really good. And scary. There's almost no blood, like
Hitchcock used to do it, but a sustained sense of impending danger. By
the time Jamie Lee Curtis entered the house across the street, I found
myself freaking out a little.
In fact, I put it on pause at one point, so I could get another beer
from the basement, and was afraid to go down there. I mean, it was dark
and scary at the bottom of those stairs. I emailed Brad and asked his
advice, and he said I should throw a plate of spaghetti into the
basement, and hope Andy would bring me back a Yuengling.
It was a good idea, but I didn't want to get into cooking and all that,
so I just told myself to man-up and go after it myself. I looked around
and didn't see any escaped mental patients lurking. So I opened the
fridge, grabbed three bottles (so I wouldn't have to go back), got
halfway up the stairs and was certain somebody had a big knife raised in
the air, ready to plunge it into my back. I ran as fast as a fat man
can, and tumbled into the hallway with my arms full of clanking bottles.
And mister, when a movie nearly has you doing forward-rolls in your own
home. it's a good one.
-- The "check engine" light came on in my Blazer a couple of
days ago. Needless to say, it alarmed me, but every single person I've
asked about it said something along the lines of, "Yeah, don't
worry, it means nothing." What?! How could it mean nothing?? Was it
just installed to fuck with people? I just don't understand.
One guy told me that when Blazers turn three or four years old, the
light comes on and stays on. He said that if it bothers me, I should put
a piece of tape over it. You think I'm joking?
And the more I try not to worry about
it, the more I worry. I'm certain that in the near future I'll be
tearing down Interstate 81, blasting Fountains of Wayne or whatever, and
the motor will seize up and turn into a big block of steel with no
moving parts. And I'll find myself inside a cartwheeling box of fire.
Stupid Chevy. After I'm finished with this piece o' crap (which may be
sooner rather than later) I'm going-rice, and staying-rice. I've had it
with American cars and the way they nickel-and-dime ya to death. I'm
sticking with Toyota and Honda, and that's all there is to it.
I've been driving since 1979, or so, and here's how it's gone for me:
American: nickel and dime pain in the ass as well as balls
Japanese: keep the oil changed and just keep on drivin'
Korean: same as Japanese until it reaches 100,000 miles, at which time
the shit collapses, completely
I realize that I only have anecdotal evidence, but you'll never convince
me that I'm wrong. Never!
-- It snowed here yesterday, off and on, all day long. It didn't add up
to much, but a couple of times it was coming down pretty good. And it's
still only October. Here's
a pic I took from the deck yesterday afternoon. If you look closely
you'll see Andy engaging in one of his favorite hobbies. Also, please
note that we've pretty much cleaned up all the wood that was lying in
our backyard this summer (left by an embittered tree removal man). All
that's left now are the giant pieces, and I might just roll those
bitches into the woods.
-- And check
this out; it's a scan from our Sunday paper. Apparently Target
is now selling Black Panther starter kits! Pretty nifty, huh?
-- This
is a fun read. The 25 Most Shocking Moments in Movie History! Did they
miss any?
-- And before I turn the reigns over to Buck, I have a small request.
I've placed an ad for Sirius satellite radio in the upper left-hand
corner of this page. If any of you folks are planning on following
Howard Stern there in the coming months, I'd sincerely appreciate it if
you could sign up through my link. They pay a generous referral
commission, and it costs you nothing extra. So it's a painless way of
supporting our seedy endeavors here. Same goes for the Amazon banner at
the bottom of the homepage. Please keep us in mind when you're doing
your holiday shopping, 'kay? I'd be much obliged.
-- Now here's
a fresh dispatch from our good friend Buck.
And I'll see you guys tomorrow.
October 25, 2005
-- Yeah, this site is going straight
down the ol' open-mouth porcelain waste receptacle. I'd never, in the
history of TheWVSR, missed two days in a row. But I missed Friday and
Monday, so there you go. Please know that it's not a case of me losing
enthusiasm, or anything like that, it's all about of my job. I'm putting
in massive hours, and when I'm not there I'm stressing about it. So my
free time is gone, I'm wore the fuck out, and preoccupied: not exactly a
recipe for funny.
But it is what it is, and I've got to deal with it. So, enough of the
bitching.... let's see if I can still do this.
-- A couple of nights ago a friend sent this
to me in an email, under the heading, "Gay? You make the
call."
Apparently Mattel is trying to create "news" by turning Barbie
and Ken's plastic non-lives into a soap opera. On-again, off-again, you
know the drill... And based on all the media coverage they're receiving,
it's working out well for Big Toy. You can read about the latest
developments here,
and here,
and here,
and a thousand other places too. You know, if you should happen to give
a crap.
As for the question of whether or not I believe Ken, um, prefers the
company of gentlemen, well, it would certainly be easy to jump to
conclusions. Very, very easy. But longtime readers know that I'm not one
to just go around profiling people all willy-nilly, based on
circumstantial evidence and/or laughable neck scarves. I'm very proud of
the fact that we don't engage in the practice of cheap speculation
around here; I believe it's what sets us apart from so many other
websites.
Ahem.
So, let's review the information at hand, and attempt to make a sober,
open-minded appraisal. Shall we?
1970s
Sure, Ken looks like a classic fudge-buster here, but it was the
'70s, remember. They wore those Charles Nelson Reilly scarves then, even
if they didn't have a sweet tooth for the man-ass. If you don't believe
me, check out the covers of a few Three Dog Night albums when you get
the chance. As far as I know those guys all liked the ladies, even
though they appeared to be itching to stand behind their pals.
I was very young during the early part
of this questionable decade, but I remember people on television
sporting flowing neck decoration, and the ridiculous type of shirt Ken
is wearing in the photo. Of course, nobody in Dunbar dressed this way
(there would've been "talk" down at Banjo's Esso station), but
they did on Love, American Style, and whatnot. And Ken was, like,
a teenager made of plastic from Malibu, CA. So, who the hell knows?
I'm not sure what the hair tells us about his sexuality, if anything.
Just because a man appears to be under attack by a giant black clam
doesn't automatically mean he's a gay homosexual. I believe Calvin
Coolidge first said that.
1980s
Ken now looks a lot like John F. Kennedy, a person who comandeered a
PT boat during a world war, became president of the United States, and
bedded down with Marilyn Monroe on the sly. And you're telling me that's
not manly? Oh, I beg to differ. Sure, his apparent use of eye makeup
confuses things a bit. But again: California. You've got to look at the
whole picture.
The shirt is kinda sporty and comparatively normal, although the design
is a tad high-riding; it's been my experience that the stripes should go
straight across the tits, not way up-top like that. And the sleeves are
a bit dainty, so I just don't know... I'm not personally familiar with
such a garment, but refuse to condemn it based solely on the fact that
it confuses me and makes me feel sorta creepy. That's what being
open-minded is all about.
The big question is the hair. In the previous decade it was jet black,
and now it's brown. How does something like that happen? Was he dyeing
it back then? If so, we've got ourselves a whole new ballgame, friends.
But wait! Can't the sun lighten a person's hair? And isn't Ken a surfer?
I'm prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt, since I don't have
all the necessary information. Remember, just because something's
smoking, doesn't always mean it's also flaming.
1990s
Holy shit! OK, so Ken "experimented" with the gay
lifestyle during the '90s. That doesn't mean, conclusively, that he's a
true homosexual. Right? Perhaps he was simply enrolled at Berkeley, and
things got out of hand for a while? Are you telling me it's not
possible?
Ha! I believe in my soul that, if given a couple of full semesters, Nancy
and Nostrils could have an entire regiment of battle-scarred
Marines, fresh from the Iraqi theater, dressing this way and combing out
each other's hair. I can only imagine what a Berkeley professor might be
capable of.
So maybe it was just a decade of self-examination, spurred on by
higher-learning and intellectual enlightenment? Sashaying about like a
full-on hairdresser, in a shirt James Komack might've worn on The
Courtship of Eddie's Father, would certainly lead a person to
conclude that there's a whole lotta poofter going on. But was it just a
phase, triggered by nutty college professors? At this point we don't
know the answer to that.
So we've got to weigh all the possibilities, and see what the future
holds.
And I probably shouldn't admit this, but all this open-mindedness is
starting to tire me out.... This is some hard work. Shit.
2000s
Ken is now favoring a modified beach-bum look, accented by a
hairstyle made famous by the character Chrissy on the 1980's television
hit, Three's Company. The fact that Chrissy was a female
character, portrayed by the late Suzanne Somers....
Oh, the hell with this. Who are we trying to fool here?! The guy's a
homo, pure and simple. I mean look at him! The scarves, the fruity
clothes, the twinkling eyes.... This dude has packed more fudge than the
Hershey Corporation. And it would've taken the guys down at Banjo's Esso
about three seconds to arrive at the truth! What are we doing
here??
I need to go lie down for a while. I'm fucking spent.
And please don't send me anymore pictures with a request to draw
conclusions. I'm teetering on the edge as it is.
See ya tomorrow.
October 20, 2005
-- Yesterday I wrote briefly about the
lie detector tests I was forced to take while employed at Peaches
Records in Greensboro. And it reminded me of some stuff....
I'd left West Virginia at the age of 23 because there were no jobs, and
because I was stuck in some sort of constantly-repeating suck loop. In
and out of college, minimum wage jobs, a relationship that was losing
steam, too much beer... There was no forward motion whatsoever. It was a
clear case of too stupid for too long, and I had to get the hell out of
there.
So I summoned up as much courage as I could, and moved to Greensboro,
North Carolina -- the popular choice of West Virginians on the run.
Almost immediately I got a job as a stocker in an enormous grocery
store, working the overnight shift for something like $6.90 an hour. And
man, that was one huge amount of money to me at the time. Back home you
considered yourself lucky if you could even find a job paying
$3.35. And that's no exaggeration.
The only problem was, I hated it. I hated it with every fiber of my
being. My co-workers were retards, one and all, and the managers were
the retard/prick combo meal. I've told the story about my colleagues
getting into a big argument one night about a man on the cover of Weekly
World News. The dude in the picture was only a torso, two arms, and
a head; there was nothing below the ribcage. And this touched off a
heated debate that was highlighted by somebody hollering the immortal
phrase, "No no no no, a motherfucker can't shit if he ain't
got no ass!!"
These were guys whose wildest, craziest dream was to maybe someday
receive their certification to "cut meat." Plus, they all did
a much better job than I did. I pretty much sucked as a stocker, and
they were all really good. I blame it on lack of enthusiasm, but they'd
probably tell a different story.
Anyway, I hated it, and quickly realized that the big money I was making
wasn't going to cut it. Now I was responsible for rent and utilities,
and all manner of adult crapola. And, even though I had a good ol' boy
roommate, what was coming in still didn't cover what needed to go out.
So I'd have to get a second job. I was walking around like a zombie
because of lack of sleep, but I needed to do more. Oh, this Greensboro
experiment was working out great...
But dammit, if I absolutely had
to work two jobs, at least one was going to be tolerable. So I started
bugging the director at Peaches.
It was a great record store, along the lines of a Tower. It was massive
and hip, and they seemingly had everything; I'd once purchased a
Squirrelbait album there, right off the rack, and had fallen in love
with the place from that moment. I mean, they had freakin' Squirrelbait!
But the guy kept telling me to beat it; there were no openings, so git!
Needless to say, I eventually wore him down. I started working there
part-time, and absolutely loved it. The people were interesting,
creative, and smart. And I was stocking Elvis Costello instead of
bleach. I just couldn't believe my good fortune. I mean, not just anyone
was allowed to don the denim smock.
So, I was working the worst job I'd ever had, and the best,
simultaneously. I'd be almost suicidal for ten hours, ass-deep in
dishwashing detergent and douchebaggery, then feel like the luckiest guy
in the world later the same day. Eventually I was able to flip-flop the
two jobs, and was working at Peaches full-time, and the grocery store
part-time. But I still needed both good and evil to pay my bills.
Then I started hearing rumors that the store director at Peaches had
hired a guy who'd graduated from the University of North Carolina with a
degree in "music business." I didn't even know they offered
such a thing, and wondered what it was all about. I mean, why do you
need a diploma to stand behind a counter, act all superior, and mock
people for buying Bryan Adams cassettes? What the hell, man?
I started to panic.
After all, I was the night manager, low-man on the managerial totem
pole. I'd surely be the first to go, once Mr. Fancy-Pants moved in with
his music degree and his big-ass sack o' knowledge. I could see it all
slipping away, and was envisioning a future filled with cucumber-waxing
and floor-buffing. I was a nervous wreck, and secretly hoped the guy
would be run over by a bus.
The day finally arrived when The Man was to make his debut, and I kept
my distance. No way I was going to be all buddy-buddy with the person
who would soon ruin my life. They put him in charge of the backroom, the
receiving desk and all that, and I figured he was back there right now
with a bunch of flow charts and a retractable pointer-stick, explaining
his "theories." The prick. Oh, how I hated him.
I walked around the floor and straightened the Pink Floyd section
(again), and told myself it might not be all that bad. I could move back
home, get serious about school finally, and try to make a fresh start.
Maybe it was a blessing in disguise, this interloper motherfuckin'
bastard?
Later that night I saw him approaching in my peripheral vision. I
prepared myself for battle. I wasn't going down without a fight, dammit.
Oh, he might eventually defeat me, but it wouldn't be pretty. Not for
anyone involved.
And he walked up and said, "Excuse me, do you know what section Bob
Dielan goes in?" He was holding a copy of Dylan's Blood on the
Tracks, but he was pronouncing it "Dielan."
I very nearly dropped to my knees and gave thanks to the Lord! Dielan!!
It was the most beautiful-sounding word I'd ever heard.
It was all I could do not to give the dumbass a big hug.
October 19, 2005
-- I was at work a couple of days ago, walking around the warehouse and
taking a break from my soul-sapping desk duties.
They were in the middle of a shift-change, and one of the managers
grabbed his coat, slapped me on the shoulder, and said, "I'm outta
here, big guy." Then he stopped and decided to keep on talking.
"And I do mean big guy," he said. You weren't so big
when you started here, but you're sure big now!" Apparently he
wasn't commenting on my professional clout, because several people
snickered.
Then some cynical hipster-child with ludicrous facial hair added,
"Well, he makes more money than we do, and can afford to eat
better."
And the first guy said, "And more often, apparently!" This was
followed by what sounded to me like the laugh track they used on Friends,
set to "wide-open."
So there you go... I hope they enjoy their unemployment benefits.
-- I took this
picture on Sunday. It's a neighbor's backyard, and I can't tell
you anything beyond that. All I can think to say is, the heck?
-- I hit the lottery on Saturday night. I won seven bucks. Two numbers
and the powerball, baby! Now I guess I'm going to have to deal with
long-lost "cousins" crawling out of the woodwork, and feeding
me sob stories about the state of their rapidly-failing organs, right?
Ha!
I still haven't decided if I'm going to take the cash option, or spread
it out over twenty years.
-- We fired up our furnace last night, for the first time this season.
Of course, Toney wants to control the thing based on date, not
temperature, so we've been going round and round about it. It's been
freakin' cold at night, but she kept insisting that it's not November 1
yet(??). Monday night felt like we were bedded down in a Canadian
cornfield, so she reluctantly gave in. But she ain't happy about it, not
one little bit.
My grandmother would also consult a calendar instead of a thermometer to
adjust her furnace/air conditioner, so I've been through all this
before. None of it's new to me.
-- Yesterday I heard a woman accuse Clive Bull of "running with the
foxes and hunting with the hounds." I have no idea what that means,
but I sure like the way it rolls off the tongue. Don't you?
-- As you know, I don't usually like to link to news stories here.
'Cause this ain't a blog, dammit; it's a journal of sorts, updated every
once in a while. But occasionally a piece of important life-altering
journalism comes along, and it simply can't be ignored. Of course, I'm
talking about this.
I might have to stay home from work today, to contemplate the
ramifications of it all. Seriously.
-- Will, the keeper of the Blanket, has added a few more quotes to his
ongoing "project," and you can see them at the bottom of the
page here.
Thanks again, dude!
-- And here's
another picture I took on Sunday, this time with my cell phone at
Kohl's. It's a handicapped mannequin, in case you can't make it out. I'm
not sure, but I think she was previously a crash test dummy for the KIA
Motor Company. So sad.
-- Yesterday I mentioned a long, drawn-out scene in an old
Jimmy Stewart movie, where they explained at excruciating length how
a polygraph test works. Apparently it was new technology at the time,
and the producers felt it necessary to give viewers a tutorial. Have you
ever had one of these tests?
I have, while employed at Peaches
Records in Greensboro. Once a year or so they'd bring in some crusty old
piece of shit, and he'd hook us up to his machine and ask a litany of
accusatory questions. I never stole a thing from that place, but would
always walk away feeling stressed-out and guilty. The man was like Mr.
Bookman on Seinfeld. It wasn't uncommon for employees to exit his
sweaty little den of implication in tears.
Eventually, I believe, the government made it illegal for companies to
force their employees to submit to random polygraph tests. But have you
ever had to take one? Any interesting stories to tell? Share it with us,
why don't ya?
-- And that'll do it for today, kiddies. I'm going to turn it over to
our good friend Buck
now, and wish y'all a fine, fine Wednesday.
So, have a fine, fine Wednesday. And I'll see you tomorrow.
October 18, 2005
-- It was really sleepy at the Compound
last night. We put the kids to bed early, at their request(?!), then
watched Sunday's episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm (banzai!). The
second that craziness ended Toney checked out as well, and I was left
all alone 'neath the Scrote-watcher. It was, like, 8:15 and everybody
was snoring away upstairs. What is this, Little House on the Prairie??
I decided to watch the Netflix movie I'd received in yesterday's mail: Memento.
It's about a guy with a "condition" that causes him to have no
short-term memory. He's involved in a conversation with someone, and
five minutes later doesn't recall it ever happening. He repeatedly
introduces himself to people he sees every day, and has reminders to
himself tattooed all over his body. No, it's not a Farrelly Brothers
comedy, the guy is trying to find the person who killed his wife, and
delivered the savage beating that left him this way. Supposedly it's a
really good flick.
But I couldn't tell you, at least not yet. Because within fifteen
minutes my head was wrenched to the side like a palsy victim, and drool
was collecting in the southernmost corner of my mouth. And I apparently
remained that way for upwards of 75 minutes. When I finally jerked awake
it felt like somebody had sneaked into the house and plunged a butter
knife into my neck. It still feels kinda tender.
So, I guess I'll have to give it another try tonight. But despite the
insanity that is my current life, these types of episodes are still
fairly rare; so far I've been able to keep up with my Netflix/DVR
obligations. And I'm very proud of that.
Below are a few brief thoughts on the flicks I've watched over the past
week or so. But don't worry, I don't pretend to know shit about shit.
You'll find no cringe-triggering, goatee-stroking amateur film criticism
at TheWVSR, my friends. We try to do things a little differently
here....
Friday the 13th I'm almost sure that the last time I saw this
movie was in the theater, when it first came out. And that was what,
1980? So it's been twenty-five years, or so. Plus, there was a good
chance I was drunk at the time, probably with Rocky and Bill, busily
flinging food items at the backs of people's heads in the dark. So, I
didn't remember much about it.
I didn't even recall the fundamental
fact that the killer wasn't Jason, but a large butch woman in a blue
cable knit sweater(!). She was some sort of demented Bea Arthur with a
chip on her shoulder, just killing off "teenagers" all
willy-nilly. Pretty damn cool.
But, unfortunately, it wasn't very scary. Only when Jason made his debut
appearance near the end did I jump. Beyond that, it was just gory song
and dance. I liked the way ol' Maude did away with Kevin Bacon (beware
the Rule
of Thumb: make fun of Kevin Bacon too much and your nose will stay
that way), but there wasn't much frightening about. Horror and fucked-upness
are two different things.
I gave it three stars at the Netflix site, because of its entertainment
value. But there's gotta be better slasher flicks out there.
Right? What are the best movies that utilize the standard template: a
group of teenagers, usually in the woods and often in their underwear,
being mutilated one-by-one in highly creative ways by a memorable
lunatic? Can you help me out with that, people? It's almost Halloween
and I'm in the mood.
Call Northside 777: An old Jimmy Stewart movie where he plays a
newspaper reporter who comes to believe that a man serving a 99 year
prison sentence for murder is innocent.
Apparently it was the first Hollywood movie to ever be filmed on
location in Chicago, and the section where he goes from seedy bar to
seedy bar looking for a key witness, is the best part of the whole deal.
I love ancient old beer joints, and seeing inside a bunch of 'em circa
1948 left me almost giddy.
I also liked the way the characters repeatedly referred to the Chicago
Police Department as one of the finest the world has ever seen. Over and
over, we were reminded of this. Obviously it was something they were
required to do, in exchange for them being allowed access to the
precincts and all. And the extended (and I mean extended)
explanation about the polygraph test, apparently new technology at the
time, was a hoot as well.
The whole thing was good fun. For some reason I love movies about
regular folks in the 1940's. I'm intrigued by that decade, and don't
really know why. In fact, if I could travel back in time that would be
my first stop: the '40's. Then I'd jump back into the machine and set it
for New York City in the 1890's. Those would be my first two
destinations. Where would you go?
Of course, I might have a little trouble adjusting. There was a scene in
the movie where Jimmy Stewart is shown pounding away at his typewriter,
then gets called to the boss's office. He just gets up and walks away,
and I caught myself thinking, "He didn't even save his work! What
if there's a power-outage, or a crash?!" Whatever.
Gigantic: A Tale of Two Johns A decent documentary about They
Might Be Giants. They seem like nice guys.
No Direction Home A really good Scorsese documentary about Bob
Dylan. It's four hours long, and I finally watched the final two hours a
few nights ago. I now believe that Dylan is a genuine eccentric, and has
balls the size of Montana. He pissed off a big portion of his fan base
during the '60s, and just kept on truckin'. One of the most memorable
scenes is near the end when he's doing a show somewhere in Europe, and
is being booed unmercifully for the sin of playing an electric guitar.
He was supposed to be folkie, after all. And he turns to his band and
says, "Play really fucking loud." Bob Dylan: punk rocker.
And that brings you up to date. I hope that wasn't too painful. I'll get
back to the regular stuff tomorrow.
See ya.
October 17, 2005
-- I seriously don't know how I'm going
to make it to February. Fourth-quarter at my job is in full-swing, and
it's bad, really bad. Already, it seems, people have given up on the
idea of things actually working out, and are now just trying to
make sure they don't get blamed. Unfortunately, I include myself in that
group; I'm playing defense like everybody else. Under the circumstances,
there's not much else to do.
On Friday I went in early, and was there late. And after I got home, my
cell phone never stopped ringing. I was eating from a Wendy's feedsack
at 9 pm, with my phone wedged between my shoulder and head, and finally
gave up on the DVD I'd foolishly stuck into the player, around 9:45. It
was on pause more than it was on play, so screw it.
Saturday morning Toney prodded me awake at some ungodly early hour, and
I dragged my heft downstairs. Grrrr.... Not even four large mugs of
coffee from my Weaver D's "Automatic For The People" mug could
snap me out of my funk. Why, exactly, had I been awakened via
pointer-finger at 7 am?? There were no clear answers.
I had to forego the youngest Secret's soccer game (match?) and return to
the office, my home away from home, for a few more hours. There was a
lot of stuff scheduled for that day, and I knew I'd better be there. If
the shit would just happen to hit the fan, I didn't want anyone
in Burbank screaming, "And where was Jeff Kay during all
this?!" Defense.
Toney asked me to try to be in a better mood when I returned. She
accurately pointed out that we're not together much as a family these
days, and it would be a shame to bitch the afternoon straight into the
ground. I promised I'd make an effort.
When I got to the office I called one of the big-shots, to see how
things were going. He said something along the lines of, "Not very
fucking well... it's all fucked-up and getting fucking worse... and a
fuckety-fuck fuck DeFuck." Well, that's excellent.
I was there for about three hours, and got a lot accomplished. I sent
out a ton of email -- each time-stamped with a big ol'
"Saturday" on it. It was a full-on house of bitterness, and
everybody was sniping at each other. But I was completely caught-up when
I walked out the back door, and feeling pretty good about it. I'd done
as much as I could possibly do.
Now it was time to put it all behind
me, and try to enjoy the rest of the weekend. I remembered Toney's
request, and vowed to honor it. I would will myself into a good mood
during the drive home, and be Goofy Dad for the rest of the day. No
whining, no bitching... I was declaring Saturday afternoon a no-cry
zone.
And as I navigated Interstate 81, blasting The Fall, I was beset by a
terrible fatigue. Apparently I'd been running on caffeine and adrenaline
alone, and the bottom was now falling out of that deal. My whole body
ached from tiredness, and my head felt like it was about to crack in
half and open up like a Venus flytrap. I could barely keep my eyes open.
I finally exited the highway without anything tragic happening, and our
little town was one giant traffic jam. I guess there was an Important
High School Football Game happening there, and it was a sea of humanity.
The main drag was a parking lot, and dumbasses lined the sidewalks in
ridiculous coats straight off the set of Northern Exposure. They
were pulling massive coolers on wheels, sporting collapsible chairs on
their backs, and waving foam fingers in the air. Is Allen Funt now doing
consulting work in heaven?!
When I got home I opened the front door and a dark blur rocketed past my
shoes, and careened on down the street. Andy! Apparently he'd
been standing behind the door like a racehorse in the gate, and the
second it swung open, he was gone. Stupid dog. I should've sold his ass
on eBay like I'd planned. Now he's probably humped up like a kangaroo on
somebody's front lawn, serving up a tall order of pipin' hot yard
biscuits. I just went into the house. I ain't chasing no dogs through
the neighborhood like some idiot sitcom character. I'd just deal with
the angry phone call when it came.
And about ten minutes later I heard Andy barking, and Poppa Half-Shirt
hollering profanities. I had to run out there and drag the crazy hound
back into the house, and apologize (once again) to our our favorite
anal-retentive neighbor. He just shook his head and went back to waxing
his patio grout, or whatever he was doing. Wotta douche.
The kids wanted to have lunch at Long John Silver's. They like their
"shrimp" there, for some reason. As best as I can tell, it's
nothing but a clump of breading with a single droplet of shrimp-juice in
the middle. But whatever. I was making an effort.
The joint was packed to the rafters, like always, and a couple of women
in front of us wanted the cashier to explain the menu to them. It was
Long John Silver's! I felt like I'd passed through some sort of portal
and landed in a scene from Falling Down. They finally made their
selections, then began rifling through their sleeping bag-sized purses
for money. I just walked away and let Toney take it from there. I was
about to have an aneurysm.
There was something terribly wrong with the jukebox, I noticed. It's
always cranked up and playing Booker T and the MG's or whatever, at a
volume that makes it necessary to shout to your eating companions: Could
you please pass the salt?! No no, the salt!! But on Saturday it was
all bass; there wasn't even a hint of treble. The shit was just sitting
in the corner, buzzing. It was still really loud, but there was no way
to discern one song from another. It was nothing but vibration; I could
feel it in my sternum as I ate.
And people just couldn't sit still. Up and down, up and down,
constantly. Running to the soda machine, or to get even more
mayonnaise-based dipping sauces. They were always in motion, chewing and
walking, and bumping my shoulder as they passed by. I wanted to stand up
and just start throwing wild haymakers, at nobody in particular.
We had to go to Target after that, and it wasn't much better. It was
really hot inside, and there was a gang of irritating dumplin' children
running around in full camouflage suits, for reasons unknown. These
little hicklets with tails in their hair were all but unsupervised, and
getting on my last freakin' nerve.
Also, there was a high concentration of women strutting around with
coffee cups as fashion -- another of my pet peeves.
As we were leaving the store Toney said, "I think you need to go
home and take a nap." Can you believe it?! Like any of this is
about me.
October 13, 2005
I have almost no time this morning, so
prepare yourself for suck. Here are a few very quick things:
-- Remember the clock I told you about a few days ago? The one in
our downstairs bathroom with the dead battery in it? For a week or so it
was stopped at 5:20, then one morning I went in there and the thing was
trying to convince me it was 12:45. I couldn't believe it. After days
and days of being nothing but a prop it had apparently lurched back to
life during the night, and did some more work. Like a decaying corpse
risen from the grave, returned to its earthly toil. And it's been stuck
at 12:45 ever since. Until last night.
During one of the many commercial breaks in LOST I got up to
perform a very common waste-elimination ritual, and noticed that the
clock was doing something again. The second hand (is that what the long
fast one is called?) was tearing ass around the thing, and there was a
steady ticking sound in there. The heck, man?!
Without realizing how it must've sounded to Toney, me yelling from the
bathroom and all, I said, "Come and take a look at this! It's
unbelievable!!" Of course there was no way she was responding to
that invitation, so I just stood there by myself for a few seconds and
watched the hands move on a clock that's now had a dead battery in it
for two weeks.
This morning it's stopped at 4:40. Stay tuned for further developments.
-- A Surf Reporter named Andrew sent along some disturbing news a few
days ago, about one of my current obsessions. He was rooting around on this
government site, for reasons unknown, and found data about
"acceptable defects" in apple butter. Check it out:
Mold - Average of mold count is 12% or more
Rodent filth - Average of 4 or more rodent hairs per 100 grams of
apple butter
Insects - Average of 5 or more whole or equivalent insects (not
counting mites, aphids, thrips, or scale insects) per 100 grams of apple
butter
What the fuck's a thrip?? Man, I don't like the sound of any of that,
and didn't really need to know about it. Especially the part about mold.
Twelve percent?! Doesn't that seem a tad elevated? Truthfully, I
can live with a few rodent hairs (I mean, let's not get carried away),
but mold and "scale insects" are another matter entirely. I
ain't eating no mold and thrips on toast. Ya know?
Why Andrew, why?
-- There's a commercial I've been
hearing during Clive Bull's radio show that makes me do a double-take
every time. It's about breast cancer prevention, and features a woman
reciting a poem called "Ode to Boobs." And the reason it
surprises me is because there's no way in hell it would ever get
played on American radio.
There's nothing offensive about it, but I just can't imagine it being
aired between Journey and Seger cuts, or in the middle of one of Rush
Limbaugh's "obscene profit" breaks. Use a term like
"puppies in sacks" over here, right up against a Mountain Dew
commercial, and you'd probably have people driving off bridges and shit.
Because the internet is the greatest thing ever, I was able to find a
sound file of this PSA, in just under ten seconds. Check
it out.
-- Adam sent this
to me a few nights ago, and it's too bizarre not to share. Now that's
some slick-ass shoplifting, right there.
-- And then there's this... All four original members of REM recently got
back together, and played a few songs at the wedding reception of
one of their roadies. Here's
a pic. Any thoughts? I have some, but no time to articulate
them. Like, is Bill Berry now an Apache Indian?... you know, stuff like
that.
-- I'm gonna turn it over to the able hands of our good friend Buck
now, and go in for my morning ball-mashing. Can't be late!
See ya tomorrow.
October 12, 2005
-- When I was in grade school I had a
teacher that I now suspect was down with the mental illness. Most were
just demoralized closet-drunks, but this one was a little crazy, I
think. It's hard to recognize such a thing in authority figures when
you're ten, but it's all pretty clear to me now. The woman was at least
slightly nuts.
I won't go into the whole deal today, but she was always telling us
about going to restaurants; she was completely obsessed with dining out.
Her eyes would glaze over as she spun these grand tales about dinners of
yore. We'd get it all: what she and her husband ordered, how it was
prepared, the history of the restaurant, how much the final bill came
to, which credit card they put it on.... It would go on and on and on,
while we were supposed to be learning about how terrible America is, or
whatever.
One time I remember her spreading her arms wide, looking to the sky, and
shouting, "And we finished with the most wonderful
Baked Alaska!" All of us little hillbillies just looked at each
other, completely confused by what was going on before us. Baked Alaska?
What in the hand-carved hell??
She also talked about pinworms all the time. I'm not even sure if these
things really exist, but she thought they caused fidgeting in
youngsters. As she reported every tiny detail of a meal that she and her
husband had recently enjoyed at the Top of the Inn, or some such place,
we'd start moving around in our seats from restlessness and boredom.
Especially the boys. And then she'd accuse us of having a gut full of
parasites.
We all had these pinworms, apparently, and they prevented us from
sitting still in our chairs. To her, there was no other explanation.
Move your butt a little while she's pontificating: pinworms.
I think somebody finally asked her for more information about this
freakiness, and she was only too happy to oblige. Pinworms are tiny and
white, she said, resembling a small piece of thread. They live in your
intestines, and wriggle out of your ass at night to lay eggs. They cause
kids to fidget and move around, and the best way to test for them is to
put a piece of tape over your butthole while you sleep. The next morning
you peel the tape off, and inspect it for worms and/or eggs.
Needless to say, everyone was horrified
and traumatized by all this, and we all just stared straight ahead and
said nothing. You could've heard a pinworm drop in that place! Then I
think she told us about some great prime rib that she and her husband
had while vacationing in Florida the previous summer.
I believe there were a few unscheduled parent-teacher conferences later
that week.
And the reason I bring all this up, is because of our nine year old
Secret. He never stops talking, or moving. He goes on and on with what's
commonly known as "stupid shit." And it's not just him,
because all his friends do it too. They start most of their sentences
with "What if..." and that's followed by deep-dish
ridiculousness. Yesterday one of them said, "What if the planet
Jupiter came down to Earth, grew arms and legs, and started walking
around?"
What do you say to something like that? Is it a rhetorical question?
Sweet Maria. It's like something off a Robyn Hitchcock album.
And, against my better judgment, my mind is starting to drift into
dangerous territory. Wonder if there's something to that pinworm
business, after all? Suppose the whole fourth grade is just loaded down
with the things? It would certainly explain a lot. Ya know? Perhaps it's
time to get out the electrical tape, and do a little prospecting? I just
don't know.
Tomorrow I want to tell you about a wonderful salad I had at Bennigan's
a few days ago. Yum.
I'll see ya then.
October 11, 2005
-- The weekend was cold and rainy, gray
and overcast. It looked like fall in Scotland out there, and the fact
that by Saturday afternoon we were celebrating the departure of Eninen....
Well, we both knew, deep in our bones, that it was time. Bourbon Season
'05 had arrived.
Of course it doesn't really kick off until October 31, but we've been
known to bend the rules a little. I mean, it's Bourbon Season we're
talking about, not some ancient religious holiday. As far as I know
there is no Otis, patron saint of distilled spirits, ready to smite us
for failing to follow strict doctrine. Ya know?
So while the official start is sundown on Halloween night, it's more of
a deal where you just feel it. Once autumn has taken an
unmistakable hold, the leaves are changing colors, and the night air
smells like fireplaces, it's time to bring down the first bottle of
Maker's Mark, and break that wax seal. And that's what we did on
Saturday.
Earlier in the day I removed the air conditioners from the windows, and
I'm proud to report that none plunged to the earth this year, taking a
table lamp and clock radio with it. Thank you very much. Toney washed
the Scrote-watching blankets, making them all fluffy and good-smelling,
and we had huge bowls of chili for dinner. Oh, we were going into it
full-on.
After the kids went to bed, we enjoyed ourselves a little (not too much)
Kentucky sippin' whiskey. And fall was officially here. Yes, it's one
hell of a great tradition, worth preserving.
So, whether or not it's arrived at your particular section of the world
yet, or if you happen to be a traditionalist who waits for the official
kick-off date, I raise a short glass in your honor. Here's to another
safe and festive Bourbon Season!
...I'm sorry, I'm getting a little emotional here.
-- On Saturday I also got a haircut. Things had become pretty Kaplanesque
upstairs, seemingly overnight, and my head required immediate attention.
I almost didn't make it before the shop closed, because of all the
craziness at home, and that would've been a disaster. I couldn't have
gone another week, no way, and if the CLOSED sign had been in the window
I probably would've called 911. Wonder how often that happens, people
calling 911 because they really need a haircut? I've considered it,
several times.
But I did make it, and she gave me a
good shearing. The cool thing about the cheap-ass buzz cut is that it's
very scientific. The plastic guards they snap onto the clippers are all
numbered, and once you know your personal formula, there are no
surprises. As I approach the chair she always asks me for my
"numbers," and I say two and four. Then she says,
"Really? I would've taken you for a two and three man." Then
we laugh and she starts in with the radical hair removal.
She then asks what I have planned for the weekend, half-ass listens, and
proceeds to tell me what she has planned. And it's usually worth
a laugh or two. I can't really figure it out, but she has a certain way
with words; I think she's a natural-born storyteller, who should
probably be on the radio or something. She once had me on the edge of my
seat, while talking about shopping for a new couch. Oh, she's got skillz,
and I'm always trying to understand how she does it.
This time she told me she wanted to go to the pumpkin patch on Sunday,
and buy a big ol' pumpkin. She went on at length about why she prefers
to actually go out into the fields to make her selection, as opposed to
just grabbing one off the pile. It all made perfect sense to me, by the
time she finished explaining it. Then she warned of the temptation to
carve the pumpkin too early in the month. She said that last year she
did it too soon, and by the time Halloween arrived her "poor
guy" looked like he had "jaw cancer."
I laughed at that, because I don't think I'd ever heard the term before,
especially associated with Jack-O-Lanterns: jaw cancer.
Maybe I'll buy a digital recorder, tape some of her future stories, and
feature them on the site? Is it illegal in Pennsylvania to record a hair
stylist without her knowledge? If anyone has the answer to that, please
let me know. 'Cause I think that's one hell of a good idea!
-- And finally, I have a Clive Bull topic that isn't really a Clive Bull
topic. That is, it seems like something he'd talk about, but hasn't yet.
At least as far as I know.... For years I've collected names for rock
bands I'll never form. Know what I mean? I have no talent, and play no
musical instrument (besides the radio). But that hasn't stopped me from
coming up with names for all my future rawk projects. Somewhere I have a
notebook full of them. Like The Lint Donkeys and Spackle Happy. I can't
be the only one, can I? Please tell me I'm not the only one.... Use the
comments section below to tell us the names of all your future bands. I
have a feeling you guys have come up with some really good ones.
See ya tomorrow.
October 10, 2005
-- Eninen and their passel of l'il
translucent children stopped at our house over the weekend for a brief
18-hour visit, on their way home from New York City. Nancy and the kids
got here late Friday afternoon, and Nostrildamus arrived in Scranton
four hours later, via Greyhound bus. They were all together earlier in
the day, with their car and everything, but he made the trip alone by
bus. Whatever. It's not recommended to try to figure any of it out,
because it'll only make you crazy. Believe me, I know what I'm talking
about here...
Toney called and asked me to meet them at Don Pablo's, around 6:15. We'd
have dinner, then Nancy would go to the Greyhound station to retrieve BN.
I was confused by all this, of course, but let it go. Because I have
experience. I didn't know if I'd be able to leave that early,
considering the state of affairs at my job these days, but promised to
try.
And around 5:50 I turned off my computer, with theatrical defiance, and
walked out the door. A big ol' football-sized burrito and several
outsize vessels of Yuengling Lager sounded like the perfect ending
to an exceedingly shitty week. And I just couldn't get it out of my
head. So, screw it. I threw caution to the wind and sped away from that
asylum without even looking in the rearview mirror.
I arrived at Don Pablo's at exactly 6:15, and the place was packed. It
was cold and pouring down rain, and people were huddled outside, beneath
the overhang, waiting for a table. Sweet sainted mother of Molly
Ringworm! Why does everything have to be a hassle? Every little
thing??
I didn't see Toney's car or Nancy's corn-fueled vehicle in the parking
lot anywhere, and decided I'd better give them a call. (Experience.) And
they were at Sears. Well, of course they were, why wouldn't they be?
I was told to meet them at a restaurant at 6:15, so it goes without
saying that they'd be at Sears at 6:15. Right? They were, and I ain't
shittin' ya, getting portraits done of all five kids together, for a
Christmas present to be given to Sunshine. I like to believe I can't be
shocked anymore, but I'm clearly in over my head with this bunch.
Toney said they'd be there in about fifteen minutes, and I asked her
about all the high-pitched wailing I heard in the background.
"We'll see you in a few minutes," she answered.
I thought about putting my name on the
list, but figured the plan would change five or six more times, and I'd
just be pissing in the proverbial wind. So I eased the seat back in my
Blazer and gave my parents a call. They're in Myrtle Beach, and it's
been raining for days down there. I wanted to make sure they were OK,
and their Shania Twain tour bus hadn't been washed out to sea or
anything.
While I was talking to my Dad Toney beeped me and said the plan had
changed. Wow. I was shocked, simply shocked. Nancy now wanted everyone
to have dinner at the food court in Steamtown Mall, across the street
from the bus station.
What?! I was all jacked-up for a real meal, with adult beverages and
everything. I didn't want to drive through the pouring rain, in the
dark, to downtown Scranton -- for the privilege of sitting on an
unbalanced metal chair and eating Hot Dog On A Stick. I could just see
it, everyone wanting stuff from different places, nine people moving in
different directions and eating in shifts... Lips smacking, saliva
flying, walkin' 'n' chewin', uncontrolled shrieking ... It would be
utter chaos, and I was having none of it.
I told Toney to count me out, I'd just fend for myself. I figured I
could go to Jim Dandy's, grab a seat at the bar, and order one of their
kick-ass fish sandwiches. But she said she'd call me back. So I switched
back to my Dad, and he was laughing at the predictability of it all.
This is the way it goes with these people, every time. And Toney was
stuck in the middle, as usual. That made me feel kinda bad, and I
wondered if maybe I should just go along with the ridiculous program, to
save her some pain?
But she beeped me right back and told me to get a table for four at Don
Pablo's. I asked her what was going on, and she said she'd tell me when
she got there. <click> Uh-oh, I thought, I've done it now. I
should've never challenged the great and powerful Nancy. But I went
inside and put my name on the list. The guy said it would be fifteen or
twenty minutes; I thanked him and took my place beneath the overhang,
with my brothers in hunger.
In a nutshell, Nancy was pissed, Toney was feeling guilty, and the whole
thing was clouded in bad feelings. Nancy said they were eating at the
mall, with or without us, and we could just meet-up at the house later.
Toney felt bad about leaving them, and everything sucked. In fact, after
we ordered our dinner, Toney decided she'd better go home, in case
they'd changed their minds and were sitting in our driveway outside a
locked house. (Experience.) She told me to get her food to go, and just
bring it to her after we'd finished.
Simply excellent. The Secrets and I ate in near silence, because of
shell-shock. Everything had gone down the shitter so fast it was hard to
process. We'd agreed upon Don Pablo's, and I was there. But Toney was at
home, and everybody else was at a mall in Scranton. And I was the
asshole who'd ruined everything. Not exactly what I'd been fantasizing
about all afternoon... Yet, so incredibly typical.
I later learned that Nancy had insisted on going to Sears, even though
they only had about forty minutes until they were supposed to meet me.
Plenty of time, she'd proclaimed. While there, one of the translucents
had one of his freak-ass meltdowns, and almost decapitated a stranger
with a piece of photographic equipment he'd flung in the general
direction of the hearing aid store. When they'd finally finished, there
wasn't enough time to eat and still get BN at the bus station.
In retrospect, I probably should've just gone along to get along,
because there was tension in the air for the rest of the visit. But the
crap gets old. Why was the man on a bus, for one thing? Taking into
consideration the slow travel-time, and all the stopping and starting of
a Greyhound, he probably boarded the deal just ninety minutes after his
family left town in their car. And the whole Sears craziness... It's all
just manufactured chaos, and completely unnecessary.
I often wonder if it's years and years of college that makes people this
way, or if it's the other way around; are college campuses simply
nutcase magnets for some reason? That's the Big Question. Are they drawn
there, or created there? Forget the chicken and the egg, which came
first, the university or the tragic lack of common sense? Any opinions
on that one?
-- I have lots more, but it'll keep. I'll leave you now with a fresh
Smoking Fish sighting, this time at the site of the amputee convention I
mentioned a few days ago. Ah,
the memories.... It seems like just yesterday that I was seated
in the grand dining room there, with the waiter asking if I'd like my
butter drawn. "You mean like a sketch?" I answered,
completely confused. Good good times.
See ya tomorrow.
October 7, 2005
-- Have you ever been talking on your
cell phone, and start panicking because you can't find your cell
phone? It happened to me yesterday. I was walking through the plant with
my hands full of paper scraps and whatnot, like a street person. My
phone was wedged between my head and shoulder, and I was listening to
someone drone on and on about something I couldn't give two good
glistening shitlets about.
Then I remembered that I owed someone else a call, and began slapping my
pockets and frantically examining all the crap I was carrying, and my
phone wasn't there. What happened to it?! Did I lose my freakin' cell
phone somewhere?? Well, that's just fan-fukkin-tastic! Then I
realized that I was using the thing, at that very moment. Wotta douche.
Yesterday I also looked down while I was standing at the urinal, and
yelled, "Hurry up!!" Does anyone know if there's an herbal
supplement, or whatever, that makes pee move faster? 'Cause the
standard, normal velocity just ain't cutting it these days. I need
almost instantaneous transfer; I'm a very busy man, and have no time for
penile dilly-dallying.
-- I was flipping through that Ben Franklin book again the other day,
and found a section discussing an essay Franklin once wrote about
farting. His theory was that if farts didn't smell bad, they'd be as
socially acceptable as sneezing or coughing. If it weren't for the funk,
he believed, people would be freely tilting to one side in restaurants
or wherever, and just letting them fly. And he wished this were the
case, because he thought it unhealthy for everyone to be walking around
all the time, holding them in.
He wanted to conduct experiments with certain types of food, to see if
he could come up with a combination that might make ass-blasting a more
pleasant experience for everyone involved; he wanted to somehow alter
the aroma.
And if you don't believe me, here's
a whole book centered around Benjamin Franklin's fart theories.
I'm not sure what I think about his ideas on the subject, I find it hard
to imagine a world in which this
wouldn't be funny, for instance. But a more intriguing part of it all, I
believe, is the thought of the founding fathers, you know, ripping 'em
off. For some reason it's not that hard for me to imagine Benjamin
Franklin serving up the occasional well-timed butt biscuit. But what
about George Washington? Alexander Hamilton? John Adams? It just doesn't
compute.
And how about other famous people?
Churchill was probably a big farter, and FDR too. For some reason I
think there was an inordinate amount of gas-passing during World War II;
it's just a feeling I have, based on no hard facts. But what about
Gandhi? Florence Nightingale? Marilyn Monroe? Buddy Holly? Joe DiMaggio?
Shakespeare? Moses??
Help me out with this, people. Who were the great farters, and who were
the clinchers, throughout history?
-- And I just realized that this post is going to be on the homepage all
weekend long! What am I doing here?? It's all starting to take its
toll, my friends. Luckily, we have Buck to end things on a high note. So
here
ya go. Shit.
-- Oh wait, something else I meant to highlight today... Somebody posted
a link yesterday in the comments section to a bizarre-ass German
forklift training video. Yes, that's correct, a German forklift training
video, and everybody should check it out. It takes a little while to
download, but it's well worth the wait. Here's
yer link.
Have a great weekend folks, and I'll see you on Monday.
October 6, 2005
-- There's no point in droning on and
on about my current work situation; I'm sure you've all been there, and
understand. Crazy hours, high pressure, stressed and demanding
executives breathing down our necks... As Lance might say, it's been
ball to the wall. And I have no reason to believe it'll get any better,
anytime soon. Fourth-quarter in my bidness is traditionally insane, and
this year we have more "opportunities" than usual. So, if I
miss a day of updating here and there... well, sorry. I'm doing the best
I can here, but sometimes I feel like I'm on the proverbial runaway
train. And it's hard to be funny on a runaway train.
But if you ever need to know what the Powerball jackpot is, an up to the
minute total, just drop me a line. Because I've got your information.
-- Speaking of work, I was in there really early yesterday (after
gobbling down a big ol' greasy breakfast at Waffle House, from atop the
"high bar"), and they were having a forklift training class in
the conference room next to my office. There were a dozen or so guys
sitting in there, each looking as if he were coming off a fresh five-day
drunk, watching a video at full concert volume. The shit was so loud it
was shaking the walls. I was trying to read my email, and the drywall
was literally buzzing because of the loudness. As I attempted to
decipher a long-ass message from a director in California, sent at 4:13
AM(?!), I heard a forklift horn being blown over and over again. Then
there was a blood-curdling scream, like something off Friday the 13th.
The hell? What kind of video is that?? I might have to ask to see it
someday. It sounds pretty good.
-- Toney and the kids took Andy to the the vet a couple of days ago, for
his annual check-up. Needless to say, he was shaking like a paint mixer
the whole time, and slinking around doing his best ferret imitation. And
when the doctor tried to lift him onto the table, Andy growled and
showed his teeth.
"Oh, I think he might be a biter," he said, and asked his
assistant for a muzzle(!).
With considerable difficulty, they clamped the thing to our dog's head,
and tried again to put him on the examining table. And when Andy was
lifted off the floor, his bowels let loose and crap went flying. The
oldest Secret told me there was "pee and poop" at the doctor's
feet, and a single turd wedged underneath the door, all the way across
the room. Weird. Must've been the cork? I just don't know.
But the doc took it all in stride, as
if it happens all the time. He told Toney that all Border Collies are
neurotic, but Andy seems to be at the high end. What?! I thought
racial profiling was a thing of the past??
Under the circumstances, and with all due respect, I'm kinda glad Andy
left them with a big fecal doorstop. It's turd-karma, and I fully
endorse it. In fact, I might do the same thing at work today. Oh, I
didn't get back to you soon enough? Well watch this!
-- The clock in our downstairs bathroom has stopped. For about a week it
told us the time is 5:20. And it's not 5:20, it's nowhere near 5:20.
Obviously the battery died, and nobody has yet been able to muster
enough energy to replace it. But the weirdest thing... This morning I
went in there to take a shower, and the clock said it's a quarter til
one! It's still deader than Kelsey's nuts, but it apparently jumped into
action during the night for a little while. Is this possible? What the
hell, man? It's freaking me out a little.
-- Remember the first episode of My Name Is Earl, when he's in
the delivery room with his wife and the doctors hold up a black baby? I
don't know why, but that scene ran through my head as I read this.
Heh.
-- And that's going to have to do it for today, children. I learned
yesterday that Nancy and the gang may be spending tomorrow night with
us. They're in NYC, for some reason, and might swing by for a quick
visit on their way back home. Normally I'd be dreading it and wringing
my hands, but what do I care? Right now a couple of burglars could walk
into our house and carry off the very TV I'm watching, and I'd just
calmly go to the kitchen for another E.L. Fudge. Screw it. At some point
everything just shuts down and there are no emotions anymore. I think I
got there on Tuesday afternoon, or so. I'm like Spock now, and it's not
too bad.
See ya tomorrow.
October 4, 2005
-- Speaking of pornography.... I
watched a Netflix movie a few days ago, called Inside
Deep Throat. It's a documentary about the making, and cultural
significance of "the most profitable film in history."
Supposedly the thing had a production cost of $25,000, and grossed over
$600,000,000!
I've never seen it, but the clips they
showed were pretty hilarious. Harry Reams as a doctor, complete with the
round mirror clamped to his forehead, consulting with Linda Lovelace:
"Have you ever taken a penis all the way down your
throat?" What kind of insurance plan did she have??
A lot of the movie was about the Nixon administration's attempt to clamp
down on smut, and it felt like your standard PBS documentary. Tons of
old footage of news reports, and Johnny Carson jokes, and grand-standing
politicians on the steps of the capital acting outraged, simply
outraged, at the moral decline of our country -- probably before
retiring for the evening with a bottle of scotch and a Russian whore.
Then, of course, we see the resulting lines of curious people snaking
around the block at every theater where the movie is playing. The more
the do-gooders talked, the more the movie raked-in. It's funny how that
works.
And just as I thought I was settling in for another interesting Ken
Burns examination of American history, suddenly there was an enormous
schlong on my TV, pretty much spanning the entire 27-inch screen. The
thing was swaying and tilting because of its great weight, and then
Linda was there, showing off her sword-swallowing talents. It was quite
a jarring moment, if you want the truth. My brain thought we were
watching 20/20, then all that happened. My inner-Hugh Downs
blushed.
The thing was pretty interesting, but not really good enough to earn the
Surf Report Seal of Approval. Rent it if you're interested in the
subject, but I certainly wouldn't go to any great lengths. So to speak.
-- The baseball season ended on Sunday, and I watched two, maybe three,
games all year. But now that the playoffs are kicking in, I'll become a
huge, rabid fan of the game. ...I'm slowly metamorphosing into the exact
person I hated in my twenties. Pass the beer nuts.
-- On Saturday morning, while at the
youngest Secret's soccer game (match?), I wandered off to find a
bathroom. I'd downed the contents of an outsize travel mug of coffee,
and it was knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door. Toney said she
thought they unlocked the old high school, down at the bottom of the
hill, so people could use the toilets. So that's where the oldest Secret
and I headed, and found that the building was indeed open. And really
cool inside.
It hasn't been used as a school for years and years but, clearly, not
much has been changed. The ancient lockers are still there, the
classrooms, the gym, the tiny cafeteria -- all just frozen in time. Man,
I love stuff like that, and we began exploring the joint. And while I
was looking inside a closet in one of the classrooms, somebody said,
"Um, can I help you?"
It was a man with an air of authority, and I asked him about the history
of the school. Instantly he went from irritation to excitement, and
started telling me everything. Oh, he knew it all, and clearly relished
the opportunity to talk about it. And I was happy to listen. I'm
intrigued by the tiny slivers of the world that time hasn't touched, for
whatever reasons. And standing inside that old school was like a trip
back to 1938; it was just so freakin' cool.
Finally he paused, gave me a look, and said, "Follow me. I want to
show you something." He led us to a locked room, pulled out a
big-ass skeleton key, and opened the door for us. "Take your time
in there," he said, and walked away.
At first I thought it was just a junk room, but upon closer inspection I
saw that it was a large collection of relics from the old days. Tons of
framed pictures: the Class of 1917, the Class of 1926, a scene from the
1957 prom. A stack of ancient newspapers with headlines proclaiming,
"Truman Elected President," and "Nazis Surrender!"
And, the part that really blew my mind: old cheerleader and football
uniforms, from a loooong time ago. It was incredible. They had
trophies in there, and even an old shovel painted gold, that was used to
break ground on the place back when dinosaurs roamed the earth.
My son, a big fan of Goosebumps books, was a nervous wreck. He kept
tugging on my shirt and begging for me to get out of there. "That
door is going to slam shut," he said. "Then everything will go
to black & white, and we'll be students at this school in 1942.
We'll be stuck in a time-warp and forced to wear weird clothes."
Hilarious, because the thought had already crossed my mind as well.
By the time we returned to the game (match?), it was almost over. And
Toney gave me the international sign for "what the fuck??"
Apparently I'm the only person she knows who goes for a pee, and stays
gone for forty-five minutes. But hey, it's not every day you get a
chance to root through the entire first half of the twentieth century.
Ya know?
-- And finally, I'll leave you with a Clive Bull topic that I don't
think will generate much response. In fact, it wasn't even really a
topic on his show, he only threatened to make it one. Apparently
it was some kind of inside joke, or something, because his producer
groaned when he said it. Who the hell knows? Maybe some other host tried
it once, and it's become British Broadcast Legend? I can only
guess.
But here it is: If you were somehow "gay for a day" who would
you like to "spend" it with? A specific celebrity? A
co-worker? Who? ...See what I mean? I'm not really expecting a quick
response from Buck on this one. But, let us know your thoughts on being
gay for a day, if you have any you'd care to share. Or, I guess,
straight for a day, whatever the case may be.
See ya tomorrow.
October 3, 2005
-- Boy, that weekend really sucked up
on some ass. I was at work until after nine o'clock on Friday, spent
five hours there on Saturday, and was on the phone all day with
work-related people on Sunday. The much-dreaded fourth quarter is
officially upon us.
Toney suggested that we go to the park on Sunday afternoon, because it
feels like we haven't done much together as a family lately. So we went,
and my cell phone rang at least ten times. There we were, by the lake in
the bright sunshine, a beautiful day, and I'm talking to freight
carriers and quality control people about pallet displays. If it had
been a movie, and if I were a fictional character, I would've defiantly
pushed the OFF button, and given everyone a conspiratorial wink. But,
unfortunately, this is real life, and my shit would be roasted alive
if I didn't stay on top of that stuff.
Around 8:30 on Friday night I had one of my mini-meltdowns, and decided
I was walking away from it all. I began to ponder the feasibility of
selling our house, cashing in the 401k account, quitting my job, and
taking off with the rolling box of beds and a laptop. I'd finally finish
my book, in a hammock somewhere, and we'd sever our ties forever with
the soul-sucking apparatus that has its hooks deep in my fleshy hide.
I was accused of "spreading rumors" by a high-ranking exec,
because I'd reported bad news that had been relayed to me by someone in
a key local position. ...You see, sometimes I don't communicate enough,
and sometimes I communicate too much. Whenever something goes
wrong (that usually has nothing to do with me whatsoever), it's somehow
because of my communication calibration. It was 8:30 at night, on a
Friday, and I was stressed all the way out and trying to make things
work. And my contribution to the cause, according to the brass? I was
spreading rumors.
Oh, I was ready to hitch up the aluminum box and hit the highway that
very night. Bright lights were flashing in my eyes; I could hear
Springsteen songs, but none were playing. My brain felt like it was
about to crack open, and the only thing that saved me was a Mountain Dew
Black Death II, or some such thing that I bought from a vending machine
downstairs. Tasty!
Yeah, that brought me back down to earth a little, but I still haven't
fully recovered. I've broken the glass box in the bunker, and am now
reading this
for the third time. And I'm plotting and planning, and thinking
dangerous thoughts.
How long does a mid-life crisis usually last? I need to get past this
before I do something really stupid, like Howard Sprague when he went to
that island.
-- The Mountain Dew Black Plague helped
me, and so did Phil Hendrie. At least briefly. On Saturday I went into
the office and immediately turned on his show from the previous night. I
was still whipped into a frenzy because of the rumors rumor, and needed
something funny to take the edge off. And boy, I got it.
He had on a "guest" who was directing a porn film in
Chatsworth, using the big California brush fires as a backdrop. It was
called Fahrenheit 69 and featured some of the hottest
up-and-coming talent in the business, including Misty Twist and Bubba
Licks(!). Then the fire department made them evacuate before the movie
could be completed, and he was forced to film an alternate ending.
Instead of the big spectacular final scene he had planned, the last ten
minutes of the movie just show him in a bathroom with a Penthouse
doing a "solo shot," while wearing a fireman's hat. Now he
wants FEMA to reimburse him for lost earnings.
I was laughing so hard I had tears in my eyes. God, he's a genius. Then
I remembered... Phil Hendrie is a grown man, probably a zillionaire, and
he makes his living talking about Bubba Licks and solo shots on the
radio. His days are probably filled with thinking up crazy-ass shit,
just like I want mine to be. Then I got depressed all over again.
-- I think I'm going to sell our dog Andy in an internet auction. He's
starting to cause us problems. Previously we've been able to just let
him outside to pee, or whatever, and it was no big deal. Now he's taken
to running off, and making me holler on the lawn like a crazy person.
And on Saturday he nearly sent some stranger into cardiac arrest.
I was out there with him, because I can no longer trust him to be alone.
He was tip-toeing around, snorkeling and slinging urine, like dogs will
do. Then a man all trussed up in Gore-Tex, and walking some fancy-pants
high-pockets dog, possibly a Standard Poodle, came strolling down our
street. And Andy charged them, snarling and showing his teeth.
The guy immediately began back-pedaling and screaming, "No, no!,
NO!!" I was yelling at our stupid dog, but it was just noise.
Andy's hair was standing straight up and he looked like a razor back
hog. He was barking and growling, and acting all Johnny Badass. And
Gore-Tex looked like he was about to power-shit, and was doing some kind
of impromptu Sammy Davis Jr. tap dance in the middle of the street.
I finally grabbed Andy by the collar, and apologized over and over.
"He's all bark and no bite." I said. But the guy wasn't in the
forgiving mood and said, "Yeah, that's what everybody says, right
before their dog takes a hunk out of your leg."
I told him again that I was sorry, and he just kept on and on with it.
"You need to keep that beast on a leash before he hurts
someone," he said. Yeah whatever, pal. Just take your high-stepping
homo dog and keep moving, before I let go of this collar. Keep pushing
the issue and you're going to get a big dose of Border Collie, right
here and right now. Don't go dissing Black Lips Houlihan, goddammit.
I believe I'll start the bidding at fifteen dollars.
-- And I think that'll do it for today, boys and girls. I'll try not to
be quite so gothic tomorrow. But since I mentioned fourth
quarter.... please don't forget to use the Amazon link at the bottom of
the homepage, especially when you're making your big holiday purchases
and whatnot. <Ahem> If you enter the Amazon site through that
link, they'll actually give me a tiny percentage of whatever you spend.
Pretty cool, huh? It's a painless way to support TheWVSR, since it costs
you nothing extra. And thanks! I appreciate it, sincerely.
-- Oh, one more thing before I go... A new Clive
Bull topic. What is your favorite TV car? I have no passion for this
one, since cars don't really do anything for me, but you guys might feel
differently. I guess, if forced, I'd have to go with the Batmobile,
because fire shoots out of the back of it. I'd call AAA immediately if
flames ever came out of the tailpipe of my Blazer, but it's cool on TV.
Any opinions on this one? Let us know.
And I'll see ya tomorrow.
Comments? Use our open
forum to share your thoughts on this, or any semi-relevant
subject.
|
The State of My
Fat Ass October
2005
I'm loaded with
tumors darling, and I don't even know it.