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The State of My
Fat Ass
January 2005 |
January 31, 2005 -- The weekend was dominated by Car
Stuff. We almost traded in Toney's battered Toyota for the 2002 Honda
Accord that I mentioned, but the salesman just couldn't help himself
from being a salesman, and that was that. Plus I had to have even
more work done on my Blazer, thus depleting our chair and ottoman
fund, and causing me to growl like an animal and string together
obscenities in a highly illogical manner. Like ball ass bitch faggot. I
really hate the Car Stuff. Of course, they left a message on
Saturday and said we could have the car for the original price. An
unfortunate clerical error had been made, and they really hope we
understand. And the phone call was made from atop a great mound of
bloody dobbing wrap. They sent engineers out to check the
system, and to gauge how even the temperatures were throughout the
building, and found no problems. But the complaint calls continued; half
of the staff is miserable, they pleaded. So, the Honeywell folk got an
idea. They went there with a bunch of thermostats, and mounted them here
and there. They ran the wires up to the ceiling, and just tied them off.
They weren't connected to anything, they were nothing more than cheap
props. And a few days later they called the office manager to see how
things were going, and he said that everything was great. Everybody was
happy and comfortable now. And he thanked them for correcting the
problem so quickly. There. That ought to be enough to keep
them from repossessing the iron lung. I appreciate your patience. -- I was talking to my friend Steve a few days ago, and he brought up a bit of bizarreness from our grade school days that I'd nearly forgotten. It was in fifth grade, he told me (I could've never come up with an actual year), and it was the infamous day of the new potatoes. When we were in elementary school you
could request seconds in the cafeteria, as long as everyone had already
received their first servings. If there was food left over, they had no
problem with us scarfing it down. So we'd always load up on the good
stuff, or at least make an attempt at it. One day the kids at our table,
for reasons that are now unclear, launched a "contest" to see
who could eat the most new potatoes. I can't remember why our little contest
upset her so much, but she was pissed. There may have been a bit
of Nancy action going on there, looking back it does seem she was always
morally outraged about something baffling, but, hell, I don't know. I
was ten. All I know is that she flew off the handle and made us wear a
scarlet letter for a week.
But, dadgum it, they
got it right. How did they manage it? Oh, you can bet they'll be
clinging to this shit for years to come; this'll be their quick answer
to every criticism, diss, and cruel mockery, well into 2008. And, to be
fair, a little respect is in order here. That was some mighty
impressive guessing. ...Ahem. The fact that it
happened over a weekend didn't hurt either. We were toasty and warm
inside the compound, eating nachos and BLTs and whatnot, watching it
pile up outside. Movies, food, adult beverages, large fluffy Scrote-watching
blankets, few responsibilities... It turned out to be one of the more
pleasant weekends in recent memory. -- As I was setting up
my new toy on Saturday, I realized that I needed a USB cable, instead of
parallel port. Grrrr... That kind of thing makes me crazy. I was walking
around the house raging, making animal noises, and taking the Lord's
name in vain. It was snowing like a bastard outside, and I couldn't go
buy one... I was losing it. Toney was telling me to calm down, that I
could pick up a cable sometime next week, and that made me even wilder.
Next week?! Why does everything have to be so half-assed?? My scanner
has been nothing more than a movie prop for a year's time. Now I get a
new one and it has to sit sorta-operational until next week?? My
brain was melting down inside its housing. -- Since starting at the gym I've had
to make several adjustments to my normal way of living, so that my
nightly hour atop the whirling belt is as comfortable as possible. For
instance, my underwear. I'm sitting here right now sporting some
ludicrous garment that one might expect a casino worker in Italy to
wear, in anticipation of the high friction to come. If I'm ever in a car
wreck and the paramedics have to cut my sausage pants off me, we'll have
to leave the state. There are no two ways about it. Paramedics talk.
But I've decided it's a risk worth taking. Once a person experiences the
formation of a supernova in their crotch, they're usually willing to go
to great lengths to avoid it from happening again. I believe Newton
wrote extensively on this subject. It's a simple concept really, but
highly effective. It seems that normal bladder voiding ends at roughly
the 75% mark. I'm not sure why, but I believe that a person doesn't
"get it all," under regular circumstances. To push past this
natural pee barrier and to experience full elimination, one must
concentrate and employ patience. Here's
a discussion about it on a British website. -- As I was listening
to all this happy slapping talk, I remembered something a friend and I
did for a week or so, back when we were in Junior High. We would walk
around town with a camera, knock on random doors, and when somebody
opened up we'd snap their picture (complete with dramatic flash) and
take off running. It would leave them completely confused, and probably
planted the seeds of paranoia and all brands of wild conspiracies in
their brains. Good fun. Our plan was to mail each of them their photo
(or the photo of one of their neighbors) in a plain white envelope, with
no note or explanation. Unfortunately, we weren't very good at
follow-through. We quickly grew bored with the exercise, and moved onto
something else. I went through my DVR
inventory last night and deleted Cold Mountain and Master and Commander,
because they're goddamn marathons. Plus, one of them stars that bee
sting woman, Squinty McZellweger, or whatever. Screw dat. Whatever. I've reached
the end of the line here. No more movies over two hours, and no books I
can't lift with one hand. Somebody has to draw a line in the dirt, and
that person may as well be me! Who's with me on this?! Yeaaahhh!! January 18, 2005 -- Toney and I watched the first fifty
hours or so of the Golden Globes Sunday night, then threw in the towel
near the halfway mark. It was incredibly dull and, as usual, none of the
right people won. In one category Lost, Deadwood, and The
Sopranos were nominated, but they gave it to Nip/Tuck. That
was near the time we decided to fold up our tents. I mean, good god. We wondered why Goldie
Hawn is always at these things, considering the fact that she hasn't
worked since, what, 1980? But there she is, every time, laughing with
her mouth all the way open, looking like a bean bag toss game at a
carnival. And we had a few things to say about the deep, deep grooves in
Mick Jagger's face. Holy mackerel. A person could swipe a debit card
through those cavernous ruts. And they're vertical! Most people seem to
wrinkle from side to side, but Mick is taking it from top to bottom.
Strange. Shit! The thought of that is just too awful to contemplate... -- It's the end of the world as we know
it. Yesterday it was 65 degrees here, the sun was shining, and it felt
like spring. This morning? Yeah, check out the View
From the Deck. Scary... but I feel fine. The house we bought in California was being sold by a crazy woman, but we were able to get past it, and got a really good deal as a result. She had these towering hedges all the way around the perimeter of the lot, and you could only see the roof of the house from the street. There were heavy-ass blackout curtains on every window, the carpet was green or gold or some shit, and half of the kitchen was set up as a den. Seriously, she had a couple of recliners and a television in the kitchen; you could watch Wheel of Fortune and make toast at the same time. There was a pretty powerful funk in there as well, kinda tangy in nature. I have no idea... Also, and this is the most disturbing of all, I picked up a Hershey's kiss from a candy dish in the living room, removed the foil, and it crumbled into a white, ashy heap in the palm of my hand. It still gives me a full-body shiver when I think about it. Our real estate agent was rolling her
eyes and making comedic faces as we toured the place. But it was a good
house underneath, in good repair, and we bought it for a really great
price. One thing I've learned about going to
the gym: a person shouldn't load themselves up with Mexican food, then
immediately take an extended high-speed walk. Last night I was belching
and gasping, and my esophagus felt like it was aflame. At one point I
seriously thought I was going to puke. Can you imagine? I'm envisioning
an abandoned treadmill with the belt still moving, and a crowd of people
screaming every time "the spot" comes back around again. But I
kept my shit in check and finished the hour. Never again though. I'm
sticking with meat and potatoes on workout nights. I was walking and
getting nowhere -- IN HELL. January 13, 2005 -- Yikes, I have no time this
morning... This week's cable guy was a man of few
words (and may have spent some time in Saddam's Republican Guard) but he
did manage to tell me that the HD models are a little more rugged, and
will allow us to save up to one hundred hours -- twice what you
get with the regular model. I asked if they have a lot of trouble with
DVR hardware in general and he said, "No comment."
Translation: Yes, we have a lot of trouble with it, because it's all
cheap pieces of crap. Since they introduced this service my life has
been a living hell. I want to start fires Mr. Kay, I want to burn shit
down. What the man lacked in warmth, he more
than made up for with know-how. Last week's cable guy was a jokester,
everybody's best friend, but he didn't do much. I much prefer the
slightly scary yet conscientious cable professional, over the performing
doucheketeer. On balance. -- Toney and I are starting to talk like these people up here. I catch a little something in her speech every once in a while, and she does the same with me. Talk about disturbing... It's not so much the pronunciation as it is the way we're arranging our words. When we first came here I noticed that the locals often turn their sentences around backwards. For instance, they'll say, "What a bunch of assholes, those guys!" Why is "those guys" snipped off the front and tacked onto the back? I don't understand it, but we're starting to do it. Scranton is seeping into our home! Toney has a cousin who grew up in Reno, NV. Toney is also from Reno, and I don't think those folks have any kind of accent at all. But her cousin married a man from Philadelphia and within a few years she had a thick-ass Philly accent. She soaked it up like a big ol' jiggling hunk of tofu. When I first met her I was convinced that she was playing it up, doing it all for show, but over the years I've become convinced it's genuine. Again, disturbing. The fact that such a thing could happen, in such a short period of time, makes my highly concerned. Maybe it could also happen to me?? But I'm pretty conscious of it, so maybe that'll save me? My goal, I think, is to have no accent at all. I have a friend in my hometown in WV who accuses me of having a northern accent, but when I was in California I seem to remember him saying I had a California accent. I think he just likes to plant little seeds of concern in my mind, like the guy on Seinfeld who called Elaine "big head." I may be fully delusional, but I believe I'm pretty much accent-free at this point. I still say y'all, but that's burned deep into my soul. Plus, I kinda like it -- it's a highly functional word, y'know. Beyond that though, I don't think people can tell where I live by the way I say things. At least not yet. Maybe it's time to move again before it's too late? Perhaps to Kansas, or somewhere in the middle of the country? We're starting to swing our sentences around here! How long before it all comes crashing down, and we're saying the word "two" like we're trying to spit a piece of lint off our tongues? Or until somebody asks us how many packets of ketchup we want, and we scrunch our faces up, shrug our shoulders, and say, "Oh, I don't know... a cuppa two tree?" God please help me. -- I received more than 150 spam messages to my Surf Report mailbox while I was at work yesterday. It's gotten out of hand. Every morning when I turn on my computer there are seventy or eighty little piles of bullshit waiting for me, and usually that same number when I get home in the evening. (And that's not even counting the metric shitload of messages intercepted by the Outlook Express spam filter.) Yesterday was a banner day for some reason. In olden times they would try to convince me to visit porn sites, many involving women with unconventional cravings, but over the past year or so things have swung decisively to prescription drugs. Everybody and their criminal cousin is trying to talk me into purchasing pharmaceuticals from them. Hundreds of times per day. Ha! I'd like to kick every one of them in the carry-on luggage. I get a lot of stuff, as well, about refinancing our home loan, from "companies" who use @ instead of a. And I receive quite a few notes with bad news in the subject line, with some kind of random food at the end. For instance: your wife is cheating on you toffee. Or: you have pancreatic cancer rigatoni. What in the handmade hell?? Can any of this actually work? Do these people really make money doing this sort of thing? I can't imagine anyone doing business with such shyster douches. The guy who tried to sell me a pair of pants in an Atlanta parking lot at 2 am years ago was the General Motors Corporation compared to these people. Does anyone know how successful these campaigns really are? I'd be interested in knowing. -- Wait! This breaking news was just received from our field reporter Buck, hot off the wire: UNDERWEAR SAVES MAN LOST IN WOODS: A
hunter lost in the woods in Arkansas was rescued thanks to his
tightie-whities. The man was out hunting with a couple of friends when
he and his dog spotted a group of ducks a few hundred yards away. After
he shot and bagged four of the ducks, he started walking to join his
friends and then realized he was lost. Hours later he heard helicopters
overhead, but his camouflage hunting clothes made him difficult to spot
-- so he took off his underwear and tied them to his gun. He waved his
makeshift flag and was rescued by police, after having spent 12 hours in
the woods. (Associated Press) -- Meanwhile, the cleanup in south Asia
continues... January 11, 2005 -- The cable guy is due at The Compound between eight and ten this morning, to bring us back from the '90's and to get this furniture store prop electronics out of here. We've been watching terrible television for the past week, and have taken to channel surfing again. We're completely lost! It's too depressing to even think about... But we should be back in business shortly. Somewhere right now there's a man riding around in a panel truck with my mental well-being wrapped in plastic and bouncing around in the back. God bless the cable guy, and God bless America. -- I bought four or five new shirts over the weekend, to wear to work. It's my once-per-year clothing splurge. Some people shop constantly, always on the lookout for that perfect addition to their wardrobe. I don't do it that way. I just buy a bunch of shirts, wear them until I start to feel embarrassed by how faded or shriveled they've become, then buy new ones. I have no wardrobe, I have jeans and shirts. Anyway, some of last year's models appear to have been baked in a pizza oven for several hours, so I went out and got me some new shit. And when I got home, I'm not exaggerating, it took me a full thirty minutes to get all of the pins out. Sweet Bucktoothed Moses, why so many pins?? There must've been twenty in each shirt. I was putting them in my Dean Martin ash tray as they were being removed, and the thing was practically overflowing by the time I was done. Do they have old ladies who do that, or what? Are they paid per pin? Is that the reason for the overkill? Hundred year old Pakistani women trying to put chapati on the table? I'm not sure, but I don't like it. It makes me nervous. When I was a kid our next door neighbors had a teenage daughter who stepped on a pin. It reportedly drove deep into the bone of her heel, and she was never the same again. I'm not sure what happened exactly, but she walked with a limp for the rest of her life, and her left leg kind of came to a point. One leg was normal and the other one was really red, with a radical taper in the lower quadrant. And for that reason I've always been extremely anal about making sure no pins end up on the floor. Generally speaking, I'm not a fan of the radical red taper. Needless to say, having all those pins as my personal responsibility, all at once, kept me on edge and mildly agitated for an extended period of time. Plus, I worry that I'll miss one, drive an arm through a sleeve, and cut myself open like a Subway roll. I wished I had a metal detector, so I could lay out all of the shirts on the floor, and do a quick wanding, just to be sure. And don't all of those millions of tiny holes cause some problems as well? I mean, it can't be good, can it? Do they seal over in the wash? It seems that they do, but I can't really figure out how. The whole exercise was quite unsatisfying. -- And speaking of overkill, I was in Target on Sunday and remembered I needed some toothpaste. Usually Toney takes care of that kind of stuff, so I was largely in uncharted waters. And it took me about fifteen minutes to make my selection. The aisle was roughly a quarter-mile long, and half of it was taken up by Colgate, and the other half was dominated by Crest. In between was a tiny sliver of shelving with all the other brands that nobody's ever heard of, like Vote Toothpaste and whatnot. Within the massive Colgate and Crest sections were about five hundred different varieties of each. Whitening, tartar control (yuck), for sensitive teeth, with baking soda, for people with a pronounced overbite... whatever. It was too much for my brain to process; I felt like I was seventeen again standing in front of the expansive beer coolers at Cold Spot. I just couldn't choose. I don't like that gel crap because it oozes around the nozzle, hardens, and turns into neon blue rubber cement. And I have a feeling that that whitening business will come back to haunt all of us. What do they put in that stuff, swimming pool chemicals? I predict that in twenty years time all of America will be walking around with tiny Tic Tac teeth because of that crap. I just wanted regular Crest, like they had in the '70's. And I couldn't find it. I checked every facing and they all had some kind of novelty ingredient attached to them. I think one was called Crest Ocean Floor. I have no idea... I finally just grabbed the cheapest one, something I should've done fifteen minutes before, and it's not too bad. I think it has miniature M&M's in it! Mmmm... -- Here's a site you can visit if you want to trigger a grand mal seizure. Every once in a while I have a hankering... And Andy's going ass-over-tits upstairs. The cable guy must be here with my happiness! I'll see you folks tomorrow. January 10, 2005 -- Did I mention that our latest DVR box died last week? I don't think I did, because it wasn't overly traumatic -- until the weekend came. But man, the past couple of days I've felt like a fish... not exactly out of water, but maybe a fish swimming in apple juice or something? Shit ain't exactly right at The Compound; the whole rhythm of our life has been thrown into disarray. Toney was watching something while I was at work last week, and the magic box just suddenly shut down. Without warning it went black, and wouldn't power up again. In the past it's gone down, come back up, and all of our saved movies were gone. But this time it went down and stayed down. She called Adelphia (we have them on speed dial at this point) and they walked her through a series of crazy exercises, like she was suspected of drunk driving, but the box couldn't be resuscitated. The company sends a signal to it, and pings it or whatever, but nothing was getting through. It was dead... nothing more than a prop. We may as well have had a box of taters on that shelf. That's Part One of the bad news. Part Two is that they couldn't send a person out to check it until Tuesday. Almost a week without DVR -- or digital cable. I had to pull the plug out of the box, and stick it directly onto the TV, like it's 1979. So we have no interactive guide, and have to rely on that TV Guide Channel crapola. Every time I want to check on something specific, that scrolling schedule has just passed it and I have to wait for it to come back around again. I can't tell you how infuriating that is. I was sitting in our family room clutching a remote, and screaming, "Scroll, you fudgepacker!!" This is the 21st century. A person shouldn't have to wait for it to come back around again. We have the technology. And this garbage of watching TV shows when they're actually being broadcast? Yeah, that's for suckers. The whole weekend was shot because I was required to do loads of research and make appointments and whatnot. I just wanted to watch TV, not get my realtor's license. I finally just said screw it, and went to Blockbuster. The whole thing was making me too agitated, so I turned it off. The guy will be here tomorrow with another $17.00 piece of shit from the Pacific Rim, and everything will work just fine for a few weeks. Then it'll be back to the slow scrolling and apple juice swimming. I really don't need this aggravation... Maybe I can talk him into leaving two or three extra boxes, just in case? -- I don't want to get myself too excited, but I seem to be dropping some poundage since I've started going to the gym. I climbed atop the ol' bathroom scale yesterday morning, and verified it again today, and I'm down a few ass dimples. It's an encouraging sign; I'm not accustomed to such a thing. Oh sure, the needle still takes off in a wild blur and goes almost all the way around, but it's now stopping a few ticks early. How cool is that? And the big difference between this approach and last year's horrible hedge-trimming diet, is that I actually enjoy going to the gym. It's not a chore, I sincerely look forward to it. I go there, hang up my coat, clamp some headphones to my ears, and zone out. It's almost as good as beer. Yesterday I listened to The Faces at an elevated volume, and was actually disappointed when my hour was up. Who could've predicted such a thing? Yesterday I also watched in amazement, the hefty girl on the elliptical machine in front of me wearing shorts with the word FITCH across her butt cheeks. At least that's what it said when she started. By the time she'd gotten about fifteen minutes into it, all I could see was FH. Her large gyrating ass had completely gobbled up the I, the T, and the C. It was a fascinating thing to watch. And it nearly hypnotized me; I felt totally relaxed and probably could've been convinced to do just about anything. So much better than the TV Guide Channel. -- As I said on prom night many years ago, I'm sorry this isn't a little longer. I just couldn't get out of bed this morning. I'll try to do better tomorrow. Have yourself a great day.
-- The week's almost over already? Wow, pretty cool. My job has been surprisingly laid-back since I returned from my extended "rest." And time flies with your balls out of the vise, as opposed to in it. I believe Robert Frost first said that. Or was it Yeats? I'm not sure... In any case, it's a pleasant surprise. A couple of weeks ago I was certain I wasn't getting paid anywhere near enough, and this week I feel like I'm pulling off one pretty nifty scam. I guess it all evens out in the end, but it would be kinda nice if the peaks and valleys weren't quite so extreme. But whatever. I don't have much today, and not an abundance of time either. I'll just go through my notebook and see what scraps are left, OK? OK. -- I mentioned that I've been watching the old Star Wars movies. I'm not really a science fiction/fantasy kind of guy, and I'd only seen the first movie -- in a theater when I was fourteen. I'd never seen, or had much interest in seeing, any of the other films. In fact, until recently, I thought the poofter robot man was R2-D2, and the rolling trashcan was C3PO. That was how much I knew about it. But now that the original movies are out on DVD, I thought I'd see what all the hubbub is about. And now I know: they're fucking good. That big confusing story, like Knot's Landing with swords, is now clear to me. And I'm into it. Oh, I'm not going to be dressing up as Darth Vader anytime soon, but I can understand why a person might. Anyway, there were a few things that surprised me about the original trilogy. Like the really bad acting in the first movie by that Luke character. Man, I could act better than that guy, and I'm an operations manager in Scranton. There were a couple of scenes that I had to replay because I was actually distracted by the manifest shittiness of it all, and missed what they were saying. He got better in the others, but that first one is painful. And who was the makeup artist for that thing, Bob Villa? Sweet Jesus. For most of the first movie Princess Leia looks like she just finished losing a long game of paintball. Also, what happened to all the Smiths and Jones we have today? Do they have no descendants? Apparently there will be none in the future, and I'd be interested in knowing why. What is Skywalker? What kind of name is that? I've never heard of anyone with such a name in my life. Zitselberger yes, but not Skywalker. And who names their kid Obiwan? Or Han? Or Boba? How did they make it through Junior High?? I have a fairly normal name, and got called Jeff Gay for three solid years. Can you imagine being named Wedge Antilles?? And let me get this straight... Darth Vader is Luke's father, and Leia is Luke's sister, but nobody knew it? Sounds like Kentucky to me. They should've added a short scene where Darth gets out his banjo and plays "Foggy Mountain Breakdown." Ya know? And speaking of Vader, did you see him without his helmet?? He looks like Fester! Thank you! I'll be here all week! -- Somebody was busting my ass in the comments section a few days ago because I misused the word "affect." Since it's now becoming clear for all to see, there's no point in hiding it any longer... Friends, I have trouble with affect/effect and who/whom. I also couldn't spell the word "occasionally" if somebody put a gun to my temple, and often mispronounce "substantial." For some reason I always want to put an extra syllable near the end, and say "substantional" or something along those lines. I ask for your understanding in this matter, and sincerely hope it doesn't effect or affect our close relationship. Thank you. -- The toilet seat in our downstairs bathroom snapped off this morning. It had been hanging by one latch for many months, and now the other one has given way. Right now it's just a free agent, not attached to anything. You could carry it through the house if you wanted. It's now necessary to balance the whole deal on the bowl and hope the knobs don't slip off the edge, and your ass gets tilted into the floor. I guess I'd better fix it? I think I have a Time/Life repair manual called Beginning Shitter Repair, so I should be able to figure it out. -- Go to Google Images and do a search for Count Chocula. Is it just me, or does one of those photos seem a bit out of place? Or maybe not? -- Finally, I'm not sure if I've linked to this before, but I listened to it again yesterday and found myself laughing my buttcheeks off all over again. It's a sound file from an old Neal Boortz show, and he's talking about the day "Boo Got Shot." It's an old school internet classic, worth revisiting from time to time. And that's it, boys and girls. Have a great weekend and I'll see you on Monday. January 6, 2005 -- We got our snow yesterday. Oh, we got it real good. Actually, most of it came down last night after dark; nothing too dramatic happened during the day. But there's a good collection of flakes (no two alike!) out there right now, piled on top of each other, then covered in a crunchy hardshell. Apparently it's raining ice at this point, and it's nearly possible to walk across the snow without sinking. I let our dog Andy out early this morning to frolic, sling urine around, and whatever it is he does out there. And when he hit the snow all four of his legs went in different directions, and he did a belly flop. Once he got himself righted he glanced back at me, over his left doggy shoulder, and saw my head thrown back in laughter. Then he refused to frolic. Hell, he wouldn't even sling any pee. He just wanted back in, to sulk. Andy's a very proud animal, and spent the next thirty minutes shooting me dirty looks. It should be interesting driving to work today. Last night I left the place around 6:45 and it had just started snowing again. I know this because the security guard said, "Hey, it just started snowing again!" They closed the schools yesterday, but there was only a dusting of the stuff on the ground -- like powdered sugar on a Monte Cristo. (Mmmm... deep fried club sandwiches...) But it was coming down in a hurry as I walked to my truck, and it only seemed to intensify as I drove. And by the time I got to our little town, the roads were covered and it was slicker than cat crap. I touched the gas pedal at a green light and could feel the back end of my Blazer trying to get out front. And I saw a big hippie van with curtains go up a hill sideways. I actually had to kick that bitch into 4WD to make it all the way home; I wasn't able to conquer the mountain in our neighborhood without taking drastic action. And the roads had been clear only twenty minutes before. Crazy, man. And since it's snowing I've been wearing these strange boots that I bought last year off the clearance rack at Burlington Coat Factory. They look fine, but there's something odd about them. It feels like the bottom is more narrow than the top, if you can dig it. You can't really see it with the naked eye, but I'm almost certain that the bottom rubber part has a slight V-shape to it. I feel like I'm walking around on ice skates. What kind of boots are these, anyway? Are they from the David Bowie Collection?? I may have told you about an incident last year when one of the rubber wedges shifted to the side as I entered my workplace, my ankle turned over and I nearly took out an airport-grade metal detector? It's true. The guards were buckled over in laughter as they attempted to turn off the wailing siren that resulted. Simply excellent. But everything will be OK, I'm sure of it. I have my Tom Waits CDs set aside already. For some reason I always like to listen to Tom Waits as I drive in snow -- who the hell knows? And I believe I've adequately mastered my Elton John shoes at this point. (Last summer I put them on a few times and walked around an abandoned parking lot, to get the hang of them.) So, as soon as Toney finishes shoveling the driveway and warming up my truck, I'll be good to go. -- Earlier this week I made the mistake of downloading KaZaa, or KAzaa, or KazAA, or whatever it is, onto my nearly-virginal new Dell computer. I wanted to hear Los Lonely Boys, and thought I'd grab a couple of tracks, to see if they were my cup of meat. Circuit City has their CD on sale for $8.99, and I'd read some good things... So, anyway, I downloaded the newest version of that insidious program, and it immediately threw my firewall into a bed-shitting frenzy. Warnings were popping up on my screen like zits on a tuba player's ass, and everything was going wild. I ran Spybot and it found 53 "problems," and I'd only run it an hour or so before. Sweet Maria. I fixed all the problems and KAzaa struck back. I got a terse message saying I'm not ALLOWED to delete their adware, and was informed that it had all been reinstalled! What in the hand-stitched hell?? I immediately uninstalled kAZZa, and started running Spybot and AdAware over and over. There was some off-brand toolbar on there, new icons offering free gambling chips on my desktop, a whole collection of bullshit. Even today I get an error message when I'm scanning for spyware -- in Dutch! There's probably crap burrowed in my hard drive that I'll never be able to extract. How could I have been so stupid?? Oh, and I went ahead and bought the Los Lonely Boys CD and it's kinda shitty. Some of it's good, but there's too much 1970s-style jamming on there. It's the kind of stuff only musicians could like. And let's face it, musicians often have really bad taste. Oh, did you hear that transition right there? God, I need to take off my pants!! Yeah, blow it out yer ass, freak. I don't care about complex fingering techniques, just give me some good songs, goddammit. The whole ordeal was quite unsatisfying. -- Now here's our good friend Buck to take you the rest of the way home. I'm gonna drive to work now, while listening to Rain Dogs and squinting through a windshield that currently looks like a shower door. Oh, and I almost forgot... See ya tomorrow. January 5, 2005 -- There's snow a-comin'. They've closed the schools here in anticipation, and the weatherdouches on television are turning backflips of excitement, and generally acting like this guy. The big filthy trucks are lumbering around, spraying and spreading that stuff that'll eventually mix together and turn into quick-dry cement then promptly adhere to my windshield. (Have you ever tried driving with a cement windshield? I would recommend against it.) The grocery stores have undoubtedly been picked clean of bread and milk by now, because that's the automatic human reaction to snow reports: buy large quantities of bread and milk. If we can just know in our hearts that we're fixed on those two grocery items, we'll all be OK. I'm not sure how we settled on those two particular items... Why not ice cream and beef? Or clam chowder and Skittles? But it is what it is. Even people who don't eat bread or drink milk hear the reports, cock their heads like dogs in the early stages of a UPS frenzy, rise from their chairs, fling open their doors, and become George Romero zombies drawn against their will to the grocery stores. Must. Have. Chilled. Livestock. Secretions. Master. Weather. Douches. Predicting. Bad. Times. But I like it. It's exciting. Things can get dull here, being forty degrees and gray for weeks on end. It's nice to shake things up every once in a while with a little extreme weather. And knowing it's coming, but not being able to predict the magnitude, adds suspense and drama to an otherwise forgettable Wednesday. I like it. It's all great fun. And if a few people are too stupid to realize that various driving adjustments need to be made, and suddenly find themselves sitting on the roof of a Staples covered in gasoline and clutching a steering wheel, well, so be it. We need the spice, goddammit. -- Speaking of extreme weather, it's being reported that even as the massive Asian tsunami clean-up and rescue mission continues, tourists are returning to the area. Can you imagine such a thing?? People are vacationing in the middle of all that. Check out this photo; it's mind-bending. Well hell, Martha. We've had those reservations for four months, it would be a shame to let them go to waste. Don't forget to pack my ointments woman... -- What would make an ear just suddenly seal off? I've had this problem all my life, and so has my Dad. It's baffling. One day last week I woke up and my right ear was pinched-shut like a Space Mountain sphincter. It happens about twice a year, and has the power to ruin two or three days at a clip. When it's sealed-off my balance is slightly askew and I feel funky on the junk. It saps me of my energy, and effects everything. I know it sounds improbable, but it's true. When I wake up and realize I'm plugged up, I howl like a retard with a toothache. It means tough days ahead. One time both sides were sealed shut at the same time, and I was nearly incapacitated; I considered checking myself into a hospital. It sucks. And don't tell me to clean my ears either, because that ain't it. I'm fairly obsessive about keeping my holes clear of all debris. Those canals are too sensitive, and wield far too much power, not to be properly tended to. I think it's just something that keeps being passed on from generation to generation, from Kay to Kay, for hundreds of years. I imagine ol' Aloyishus Kay (or whatever) waking up after a long evening of crying, near a Civil War battlefield somewhere, and going, "Ohhh great! This is going to fuck me up for days!!" The only good thing about it: it'll just suddenly pop open with no warning, and it's like the skies have busted open and heaven is raining down. There's simply no better feeling than when the seal is broken. I feel like smoking a cigarette, every time. -- And now I'm gonna turn it over to Metten, and drag my sorry ass into work. It's coming down out there, and I need to check out this year's assortment of obese hypochondriac boots. See ya tomorrow. January 4, 2005 -- My new year's resolution this year is that I will make no new year's resolution. Kind of self-defeating, I know, but it feels right. In the past I've vowed to make exciting lifestyle changes "as soon as the holidays are over," and it's never really worked out for me. Last year, for instance, somebody must've crept into our house while we slept, bashed both of us over the head with a length of lumber, and caused us to wake up with the insane idea to try out the South Beach Diet. How else to explain it? Seriously. I look back to that time, and feel shame, deep deep shame. But I was all fired up after that late-night skull-walloping, and made public proclamations to follow the fad diet to the letter. I even posted a weight-o-meter on this website, with the idea that my heft would dramatically melt away, and I'd be a prancing pixie of a man by early spring. It was to be the year of fitness, and a life-altering fork in the road. 2004 would change everything, and I'd finally cast aside the hilarious bolts of denim which had served as my jeans, and maybe even be able to tuck in a shirt by summer! I told myself that I'd reached that magical "breaking point" and was ready for a change; every expert says you have to be ready for such a thing. And I was ready. It was the worst six days of my life. I had salad seeping out of every orifice. And it wasn't the good kind of salad either, it was hedge trimmings. It had briars in it, and wooden stems. One time I cut into something and a bumble bee flew out. I'd get home from work, starving and barely able to walk, and there'd be another "natural" salad waiting for me -- with three strips of chicken on top. It was my reward meal, but I never felt like celebrating. I'd cry myself to sleep instead, and my tears smelled like fat-free French (or as I called it, freedom dressing). Oh, those were dark times, my friends. And I didn't lose a single ounce. Toney urged me to stay the course, but I was ready to lay my head on the railroad track. Never again. And the year before that, I believe, I decided to give up alcohol. Ha! It must be the craziness of the holiday season that causes the brain to misfire and spark like that. I mean, if it weren't for beer I'd either be in a mental institution, or running General Motors, or something. And God knows I don't need any of that action. But for some reason I thought it would be a good idea to become a tee-totaler, and made it all the way to summer before I "came to my senses." We were camping... there was a fire... I had no choice in the matter! Camping will get you every time. And the change of seasons. And weekends. And haircuts. And taking out the trash. And putting on a shirt... But this year I vow not to vow. I'm still going to the gym, something I instituted in November, thank you very much. And bourbon season is over, so what's the problem? There's some focusing I'd like to do with my writing, but beyond that, no huge life changes in 2005. Maybe it'll work as reverse-psychology? -- Speaking of the new year, apparently it's tradition around these parts to eat seafood on New Year's Day. I've never heard of that before, and don't understand it. Perhaps it's Catholic-based? This place is crawling with Catholics, after all, and they have some, um, interesting traditions. When we lived in the South people ate cabbage on New Year's Day, and put dimes in it. Never understood that either, and it never sounded too sanitary to me. Generally speaking, I believe, coins and tokens of any sort should be kept separate from all side dishes. Maybe we can blame that one on the Baptists? Don't know. When we lived in California? Yeah, people there like to shoot guns into the sky at midnight, and they have a big problem with bullets coming back down and causing injuries. No joke. They beg and plead on news reports, and on the radio, for people not to shoot off their guns at midnight, because the falling bullets wreak too much havoc. I'm convinced that this whole country is full of crazy people. -- And speaking of the gym, I'm pretty sure I saw a few celebrities there last night. I believe I saw Larry David (standing in the locker room with his underwear ratcheted-up well above his navel), former California governor Gray Davis, and the twin sister of Tears For Fears frontman Roland Orzabal. My theory is that they come to the suburbs of Scranton to work out, so they won't be hassled so much by the public. I'll keep you updated on who else I spot there. The place is bubbling over with A-Listers! -- Buck sent me this yesterday. I'm not sure what to make of it, but I can't stop watching. And for some reason I'm craving tangerines. -- Finally, here's a really cool Smoking Fish sighting, from the center of the hippie universe. Ahh, I can smell the patchouli and body hair from here. More tomorrow. Have yourself a great day! January 3, 2005 -- Oh yeah, I'm ready. I'm feeling it again. The big five-day weekend was exactly what the doctor ordered. If it had come in April or May I would've been tempted to hitch up the rolling box of beds and head to the beach, or engage in some other exhausting exercise, but last week I just wanted (needed) to sit on couches and watch movies and completely divorce myself from my ball-mashing job. And that's exactly what I did. I promised to check in with the office from time to time (an unwritten requirement), but it never happened. Somehow, against great odds, I was able to effectively wash away the residue of three months of nad-flattening, and put it all out of my mind. And there was no way I was screwing around with that fragile state of being. A single phone call could've brought it all crashing down. So I just hung around and didn't do much of anything. We went to the Spongebob movie one day, and did some half-assed shopping another, but beyond that I hardly left the house. I did watch a crazy number of movies and, looking back, I feel a little ashamed about that. I mean, what am I, Harry Knowles here? Shit. I think I may have crossed some kind of line during Day Four. I actually caught myself sniffing at tiny continuity problems. Scary. Another couple of days and I might've been wearing a Sherlock Holmes hat, and quoting The Office. But I feel rested this morning, and in a good mood. I can't even imagine getting all worked up and experiencing a full-body clench over something trivial like lip-smacking or common everyday douchebaggery. We're all God's children, after all. Even the shitasses. And I'm excited about the website again. I hope it wasn't too obvious, but the past few months have been a bit "challenging" for me. There were plenty of mornings when I would've rather plunged my face through plate glass than write another update. But today I feel like 2005 is going to be an exciting year for TheWVSR. I've got plans, goddammit. There have been no plans, for a long time. But now I'm feeling it again. How long do you think it can be maintained? What time have you got? -- In case you give a hot-buttered crap, here are some of the movies I watched during the past few days. I'm certain there were others, I just can't remember... Office Space, Star Wars, RKO 281, The Poseidon Adventure, Panic In The Streets, The Empire Strikes Back, The Untouchables, Rope, and Garden State. Liked 'em all, especially the ones featuring Shelly Winters under water. -- A few weeks ago I was listening to Clive Bull, my favorite British radio "presenter," and he did nearly an entire show about a type of English candy called Quality Street. From what I could tell, they're individually wrapped chocolates, and are traditionally popular in England around the holidays. People were calling in and casting votes for their favorite varieties, and telling childhood stories involving the stuff, and it was all very intriguing. People seemed to have deep connections to this Quality Street, and I'd never heard of it before. Two guys were actually shouting at each other at one point, about which was better, the ones in the red wrappers or the long green ones. They sounded like guys who knew their way around a good bar fight, and both had strong opinions on candy. Oh, I had to find out what all the hubbub was about. For a couple of days I had it in my mind that I would order a box, and began trolling around for websites where a person could buy British foods. Quality Street wasn't hard to find, but it was expensive. The shipping and handling was often more than the candy itself, so I moved onto some other obsession. It would be mighty hard to justify spending forty bucks on a little sack of chocolate, which probably wasn't all that good anyway. I mean, England doesn't exactly jump to mind when you think of candy, does it? Am I off-base there? Anyway, I quickly forgot about it. Then Toney came home from the store one day, and said she had a surprise for me. "Corn dogs?!" I shouted. But she shook her head and pulled this out from behind her back. She'd found it in the Christmas closeout section at Wegman's, marked down from eight bucks to three! Quality Street, here in Scranton?! My brain melted down a little, and I tore into that toy soldier like a maniac. And we both quickly realized that we had some really good shit on our hands. Each colored wrapper contained a different variety of candy, but all were equally tasty. None were bad, which is fairly surprising. I mean, half of the offerings in a standard Whitman's sampler can make even the hardiest of lower jaws retract (maple is not a valid flavor). But this stuff was good. I was ashamed that I'd ever doubted the British, and their rich tradition of pub-fight candies. There was but one thing to do, and I did it. We currently have two and a half soldiers left. -- And that's all for today, boys and girls. For some reason I'm not feeling quite so enthusiastic anymore... Anyway, I'll be back tomorrow. Have a great day. Comments? Use our open forum to share your thoughts on this, or any semi-relevant subject. |
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 The West Virginia Surf Report! Copyright © 2005 by Jeffrey S. Kay. All rights reserved.
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I'm loaded with
tumors darling, and I don't even know it.
