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January 31, 2007
-- An open letter to Matt Drudge: Sir,
I visited your website yesterday in good faith, expecting the usual
mixture of political headlines and "wacky" news stories. And
what did I receive in return? That's right, high resolution photographs
of Harry Potter in the nude, one featuring a full shot of his private
hair. I am both flabbergasted and, as Harry (or should it be Hairy?)
himself might put it, gobsmacked.
What's next for the Drudge Report? Johnny Whittaker shirtless and riding
on the back of a stallion at full trot? Bobby Buntrock in a pair of
assless pants? While these references might not be as contemporary and
"with-it" as you're accustomed to, down there in your hep
bachelor pad in tony Miami, I think you get my drift.
Mr. Drudge, you owe us all an apology. This might come as a shock to
you, but we do not patronize your site for photographic evidence of
puberty amongst the child stars. I thank you very much for your
attention to this matter.
-- And now that that's out of the way.... Something very strange is
going on at work. It has to do with the loudspeakers/paging system
throughout the building.
In the old days they played XM Radio over the thing, and it was pretty
great. One day we'd hear a Hits of the 70s channel, then Classic Rock,
and maybe a Motown station sprinkled in. But my favorite was a channel
that seemingly played nothing but old reruns of Casey Kasem's American
Top 40. I loved that. I found myself sitting on the edge of my seat,
eager to learn if "I Can't Go For That (No Can Do)" would hold
the Top Ten for yet another week.
But somewhere along the line, they stopped playing music over the
loudspeakers. Apparently a member of upper management was tossing and
turning at night, worried that somebody somewhere might be having a good
time. So he ordered that the plug be pulled. Since then it's just been
people paging each other, and cries of Code White! whenever
another person's heart seizes up beneath the pressure of forty years of
cheesesteak hoagies.
Until Monday, that is. All this week there have been bizarre sounds
coming out of the paging system, and sometimes it's frighteningly loud.
I'm not sure what the hell's going on.
Yesterday when I arrived there was
white noise blasting out of the speakers, so amplified I thought it must
be a joke. It sounded like a TV tuned to a channel where nothing is
broadcast. Like channel 749 or something. And it was cranked. I
asked the security guard about it, and he just shrugged, like it was
nothing out of the ordinary.
As I walked to my office the noise started fading in and out, and the
volume was rising and falling. Eventually I could hear voices buried
deep beneath the hissing, and possibly uproarious laughter. WTF?? It was
like something off side four of the White Album.
I sat at my desk blinking real fast as the bizarreness continued. At one
point there was some kind of game show erupting from the speakers,
complete with all manner of buzzers, dinging, and wild applause. And I
think they were speaking one of the Baltic languages. Then it would fade
out, and it was if we were suddenly eavesdropping on the air traffic
controllers at the Houston airport, or somewhere Down South.
A woman walked past my door, on her way to the pee chamber, and someone
interrupted the cacophony with a page. And the person's voice was so
thunderous, the woman in the hall literally covered up, as if in
physical danger. There were points throughout the day when I had to
close my office door because I literally couldn't talk on the phone. All
the shrieking and animal sounds and engines revving blocked out whatever
was happening on the other end of the telephone.
What the hell, man? Is it some kind of medical experiment, where
scientists are somehow broadcasting the sounds heard inside the head of
a severe schizophrenic? I just don't know. But it's freaking me out a
little. And today I'm getting to the bottom of it.
Which brings me to my next point.... If, by any chance, my lifeless body
is found in a landfill during the next few days, please do me a favor
and print all this out, and give it to the authorities. I feel like I
might've passed through a portal and entered a Dean Koontz novel here.
And nothing good can come from that.
Thanks for your help.
-- Finally, it's time for our Question of the Day. This
article reports on a recent poll, where people were asked what
they believe to be the "worst sounds in the world." As you can
see, the answers aren't very creative. Fingernails on a chalkboard?
Please. What about lip smacking, or Sean Penn talking, or the person in
line in front of you saying, "Yes, can you tell me a little bit
about the Big Mac sandwich?"
I have complete confidence that we can do better. Use the comments link
below.
And I'll see ya tomorrow. permalink
January 30, 2007
-- It's that time of year again, my
friends, time for winter fantasizing about summer trips. Yes, it's a
tradition we cherish. And since we now have no way of hitching up the
rolling box o' beds, it's taken on a whole different feel this season.
We're forced to be more creative, and shake things up a bit.
Unfortunately, one trip in particular is going to dominate the cash
flow, and will therefore limit our excursions. After years of broken
promises, it looks like we're going to have to fly the entire family out
to Nevada in July, for a Sunshine & Mumbles extravaganza. I don't
mind visiting them (I guess), I just hate to pay all the airfare and
hotel costs. But apparently the time has come.
We'll try to make the best of it. However, I fear it'll end up being
five days on Sunshine's couch, listening to batshit rants and crackpot
conspiracy theories. Thousands of dollars for the privilege!
Both Secrets have flown several times, but were so young they can't
remember it. So that part will be an adventure for them. And it could
be OK, if we're not held hostage in Sunny's apartment. We can spend a
day at Lake Tahoe, and maybe knock back a few brews at the Bucket O'
Blood Saloon in Virginia City, etc. And, of course, there's always the
outlandish buffets at the casinos.... I'm a big fan of the outlandish
buffets.
We'll just have to set the agenda, which is not an easy thing to do with
Sunshine involved. She's, as they say, a strong personality.
But the money will energize me; anger and resentment are a powerful
motivator, I've learned.
I'm far more excited about our other big trip. We're planning to drive
down to West Virginia in June and leave the Secrets and Andy at my
parents' house, for several days of spoiling. And Toney and I will
continue on to Atlanta. We haven't been there in ten years, and I'm all
fired up about it.
At my job I can get discounts on various things, and through that
program it looks like we'll be able to stay at a fancy-pants hotel in
Buckhead, for about $80 per night. And while we're there we'll eat and
drink and submerge ourselves in all our favorite Atlanta places.
They include, but aren't limited to
Manuel's Tavern, Moe's and Joe's (where Pabst draft is the beverage of
choice, known as "the finest"), La Fonda Latina Cuban
restaurant, Wallace Barbecue in Austell, the Vortex ("it's never
too late to start wasting your life"), the Colonnade (put some
South in your mouth), The Varsity ("What'll you have?!"), and
Everybody's Pizza.
Those are just off the top of my head, and there are lots of others, I'm
sure. Atlanta is all about eating and drinking.
We're planning to take in a Braves game as well, inter-league play with
the Boston Red Sox. I've never been to Turner Field, I left Atlanta
during the Olympics and was only back once -- during the winter of '97.
So that'll be a blast. You know, if we don't get knifed in the parking
lot.
The rest of the summer will have to be filled-in with day trips to
Knoebels, and Philadelphia, and maybe NYC again. 'Cause Sunshine is
siphoning off all our fundage. But it's not a bad lineup, not bad at
all. ....Anybody want to buy a rolling aluminum motel room?
What are your travel plans for the summer of 2007? Tell us about 'em,
won't you?
And we've got "visitors" at work, so I need to cut this thing
short. I'll get back to the regular stuff next time. If you need more,
download this
classic Hendrie segment. It features Lloyd Bonafide performing his
original song, "I've Gotta Rock," and is freaking hilarious.
Oh, and one more thing.... Happy Birthday Steve! He turns 44 today, and
catches up to me once again. Ho-ly shit, we're old.... Send him a
birthday email, why don't you? He'd love that: dozens of strangers
flooding his inbox with Viagra jokes and whatnot.
His address is stevewilkerson(at)hotmail.com. Do it! But be nice....
See ya tomorrow. permalink
January 29, 2007
-- We're planning to upgrade our
kitchen with new flooring and counters soon, and spent much of the
weekend looking at samples and talking to people who don't have our best
interests at heart. Some were merely clueless, while others clearly
wanted to up-sell us things we don't need or understand. It's an
excruciating exercise.
At Home Depot (I think), the guy asked how handy I am. I said I barely
know which end of the hammer to hold. So he told me I should consider
installing my own floors. Does my answer in any way correspond with his
advice?? I'm sorry, but I'm having trouble tying the two together.
Some other place bombarded us with "additional fees," and we
left there not having any idea how much the project might cost
us. It was an additional fee of $1.11 per square foot for this, another
additional fee of $35 for this.... The additional fees kept piling up
until we couldn't breathe anymore, and had to run for our lives.
I'm very seriously considering just handing this project over to Toney.
I'm not sure I can handle it, emotionally. And there's nothing sadder
than the expression on an 8 year old Secret's face, during hour three of
a sink discussion. There really isn't.
I'm about ready to wash my hands of all future sink discussions.
-- We also went to K-Mart over the weekend, because Toney wanted to
check out something in their Sunday ad. I almost never go to those
stores. In fact, I've worked it so I almost never go to Wal-Mart either.
In most cases I'd rather just pay an extra fifty cents per item, and buy
stuff at Target. It's a much more civilized atmosphere, and doesn't
usually make me want to cry.
And that's exactly the way I felt at K-Mart yesterday. Is there a more
depressing place on Earth? I submit that there is not. A hospice
facility would surely seem like a Saturday night rave compared to
K-Mart. They're not only cut-rate and trashy, but also empty. At least
Wal-Mart is vibrant. There's lots of mullets and black concert
t-shirts and women SCREAMING at their fat little hicklets with Yoo-Hoo
smeared all over their big Charlie Brown faces.
K-Mart doesn't offer any of those distractions; the place is almost
always a barren wasteland. It's just you and the ironing boards and the
Fiddle Faddle and the off-brand jeans. It's enough to send a grown man
spiraling into depression.
-- Speaking of hospice facilities....
Toney knows someone who is very sick, and probably won't live much
longer. She said she wanted to send her a card, which is a nice gesture.
But what kind of card? Get Well is a popular choice, but not very
realistic in this case. And I don't believe Hallmark makes a Sorry The
Cancer Has Spread series. Ya know? She ended up going with a Thinking of
You card, and I can't really argue with that.
But there are lots of little niches the greeting card industry simply
doesn't exploit. Maybe this is our chance to get rich? We could have a
line of Sorry Your Baby Is Ugly cards, a Liposuction Success series, and
maybe a Congratulations On Beating Your Brickhouse Constipation line?
Help me out with this, won't you? I believe this might be the ticket.
-- Have you ever bought a magazine subscription through eBay? I have.
About a year ago I paid $7.75 for a four year subscription to Rolling
Stone. $7.75! And I haven't had a single problem with it. Last week
I read an
article about rock critic Robert Christgau, in which he praised a
music mag called Blender. I don't know anything about it, but
will soon. I plunked down $1.99 for a three year subscription on Friday.
And what's that, 66 cents per year? I'm willing to take the risk, my
friends, because I like to live life on the edge.
-- On Saturday I watched Saving Private Ryan. It's one of many
Big Important Films I'd never seen. But our new mondo-TV has got me all
fired up, and itching to watch 'em all. It's a different experience
seeing them in widescreen, like the directors intended, instead of all
cramped-up on the old 27-inch water-driven unit.
However, I've got a lot of catching up to do....
I'm still fairly obsessive about music, but never felt the same passion
for film. I suspect I'm pretty much out-of-it, compared to most of you,
when it comes to movies. And I'd like to verify that.
I've listed all of the Academy Awards Best Picture nominees since 2000 right
here, and the ones I've seen are in bold. Out of 35 movies, I've
seen eight.
How do you compare? Is there a big gaping hole in my popular culture
awareness, as I suspect? Tell me about it in the comments, OK? I need to
hear the truth, the ugly ugly truth.
And I've got more of this stuff, but am all out of time. I'll pick it up
right here, tomorrow.
See ya then. permalink
January 26, 2007
-- The current temperature in Scranton?
3. That's forkin' cold, my friends. In fact, that's cold enough to
freeze the balls off a brass doorknocker, or whatever the saying is.
They're predicting a low today of 10, and it's currently 3. Does that
make any sense to you? Yeah, me either. Oh well, who cares? That's your
weather report for Scranton/Wilkes-Barre, and the entire upper Perogie
Belt. Stay tuned for Obnoxious Bitches On A Couch.
-- I had a little run-in with my friends at Best Buy, about my Big Ass
Television.
They called and spoke to Toney on Friday, and told her they'd deliver
the thing on Saturday morning between 8 and 10. "Probably closer to
8," he said. Cool! I asked Toney to get me up early, so I'd be
fully prepared to watch that beautiful item come off the truck.
At 7:55 they arrived, and I could feel a lump forming in my throat. I
hoped I wouldn't break down and start sobbing in front of everyone. The
two guys removed it from the box and all its packaging, and carried just
the TV itself into our house. Oh, it was a sight to behold. And that's
where things went a bit sour.
"You brought the free stand, right?" I asked, all innocent and
everything.
Of course they hadn't. They stared at me with a look of confusion, as if
they'd never heard of such a thing. And I could instantly feel my blood
pressure ratcheting upward. Because, you see, I'd specifically told
those people at the store to make sure the TV and stand were delivered
together. I was very skeptical about the fact that the stand didn't
appear on my receipt, and had visions of a fuck-up dancing in my head.
The woman who processed the sale called a manager over, just to make
sure she was doing it correctly, and I repeated my concerns to him. And
he started talking to me like he was dealing with the retarded.
"Sir, sir...." he began. Then he told me it's automatic that a
stand be delivered with all JVC televisions, and I had nothing to worry
about. The tone: any fool knows this.
I told him I was going to mighty pissed if I didn't get the stand. He
said I would be pleasantly surprised, and seemed sure of it.
And that's why it was especially
irritating when it didn't arrive. I tried not to take it out on the two
delivery men, who seemed nice enough, but I'm only human. I shot a few
sarcastic comments their way, and they were very apologetic about the
"mix-up." They blamed the store, and later when I talked to
the store, they blamed the delivery guys. And so it goes.
Long story a little less long.... I had at least five phone
conversations with the manager who assured me everything would be OK,
and started to suspect he was stringing me along. He kept telling me he
had no stands in stock, but would have more in two days. In two days it
was the same thing. Finally I told him to have someone come pick up the
TV, I'd just buy one at Circuit City.
And guess what? I now have my stand.
We had a little trouble getting everything up and running, but not too
much. And so far I've watched Twister (the traditional Big Ass
Television inaugural event), Snakes On A Plane (good old
fashioned dumb fun), Idiocracy (hilarious for a while, then not
so much), and a boxing match on the HBO HD channel (it was as if two men
were beating the living shit out of each other, right in the family
room).
I don't want to be overly dramatic about it, but this changes
everything. The rest of my life, I believe, will be measured as Before
BAT, and After BAT. I'm sorry, I'm getting a little emotional again....
-- I'm pulling the plug on my Adelphia email tomorrow. They're starting
to send Final Notice messages, ordering me to set up a Comcast account
right freakin' now. I've put it off as long as I can, and I'm gonna take
the plunge tomorrow. My concern is that I have almost everything tied to
that account, and am afraid I'll forget something and find myself in a
world of hurt. But I've spent the last couple of weeks preparing, and
believe I'm finally ready.
Just so you know.... There are lots of unanswered emails from Surf
Reporters in there that'll be lost forever. I'm sorry about that, I'm
the world's worst with email. But believe me, it's nothing personal. I
love receiving them, and reading them, but no matter how many times I
beat myself up about it, I can't seem to find the time to answer them
all.
But this will be a new beginning, and I'm going to be better about it. I
promise. So keep 'em coming, and we'll start all over again with a fresh
new sparkling inbox at Comcast. I vow that I'm not going to allow this
one to go all to shit like I did last time. I'm going to trim the hedges
and do all the edging and everything.
Hello?
-- Finally, I saw an item on Drudge last night about a probable Van
Halen reunion
tour this summer, with David Lee Roth. I like Van Halen, and if the
opportunity arises I might check out one of the shows. I believe the
Police are reuniting
as well, and I wouldn't mind seeing them again either.
The question of the day: what other bands would you like to see reunite
and tour?
At the top of my list, of course, is the Replacements. Yeah, yeah, I
know, Bob is dead. But they made their best album without Bob, and a few
of my most cherished rock 'n' roll memories were born at Replacements shows
without Bob. So don't give me the Bob argument, goddammit. I'm weary of
the Bob argument.
I'd also like to see the Talking Heads, and if they can dig up Joe
Strummer and reanimate him, the Clash. What about you? Tell us about it,
won't you?
And I need to get out of here.... Can you tell I'm rushing?
See ya on Monday. permalink
January 25, 2007
-- I arrived at LAX ridiculously early,
because I'd miscalculated the amount of time it would take me to drive
the 405 freeway. On the day I arrived in Los Angeles, I'd sat on that
horrible strip of concrete for more than ninety minutes. But the time
was cut in half on the day I left town. It probably had something to do
with sunspot activity, I'm not sure.
Immediately I was given a few more things to worry about.
The woman who checked me in said my flight had been delayed thirty
minutes, because of "weather back east." Then she proceeded to
cast serious doubts on whether or not I'd make my connection in
Cleveland. "If you have to spend the night there," she said,
"Continental is not responsible for your hotel room or food,
because these delays are being caused by weather and out of our
control."
Wonderful. They're already laying the groundwork for another
cluster-fuck.
I went to my gate, and had lots of free time on my hands. So I wandered
into a nearby eaterie, called Ruby's
Diner, and had breakfast. And I don't know if I was just especially
hungry or what, but that shit was awesome. And how many times can
you say that about food at an airport?
Then it was a waiting game. Here's
a guy who was sitting beside me, all reared back and making snoring
sounds like a luxury liner coming into port. Oh, this was going to be an
excellent day.
After we finally got going, the pilot told us that despite the delayed
departure, we'd only be arriving in Cleveland about seven minutes late.
That made me feel a little better, but I had visions of us sitting on a
runway for thirty minutes. Or me being trapped inside the plane once we
arrived, behind some fatass with all his earthly belongings packed into
the overhead bins.
I'd never make it; I only had twenty minutes to work with, and it was
pure fantasy to believe anything else. My only hope: the flight out of
Cleveland would be delayed as well. Supposedly it was snowing there,
like a bastard someone said, so that was my only chance. I was trying to
prepare myself mentally for a night in Ohio without a toothbrush or
change of clothes.
A few minutes before we landed, one of
the flight attendants made an announcement. She said there are several
passengers aboard who have very tight connections to make. Please be
courteous, she requested, and allow these folks to exit the plane first.
Cool!
But she might as well have been blowing diarrhea in the wind. Nobody
gave a crap about anyone but themselves, and clogged the aisles like a
hunk of cheddar in a poopshoot. I started hollering that I needed off,
but there was nowhere for anyone to go. An Asian woman a few feet away
joined me in my campaign, and finally the sea parted. It was me, the
woman, a well-dressed man, and a not so well-dressed man.
And we were off to the races.
"Here they come!" a woman shouted into a walkie-talkie, as we
sprinted off the plane. "They need D25 and D28!" she said. We
were running, just full-out. Man, my love handles were in motion.
We made it to an escalator, and took a breather on the way up. All of us
except Well-Dressed Man, that is, who continued sprinting up the moving
stairs. And I tried not to laugh when he tripped and fell, and his
briefcase exploded in a mushroom cloud of business memos. Good stuff.
At the top of the escalator was one of those beeping carts, with a Civil
War veteran behind the "wheel." Jump on, he hollered, and we
went tearing through some sort of underground tunnel. The old guy was
blowing his horn, and sending people scrambling. I was concerned we
might crash, we seemed to be traveling at a speed far beyond the
boundaries of common sense.
But we made it, to another escalator anyway. He told us to ride it up,
and run like hell to our gates straight ahead. And that's what we did.
Asian Woman and Well-Dressed Man went to D25, for a flight to
Philadelphia. Not So Well-Dressed Man and your humble correspondent went
to D28, for a flight to Scranton/Wilkes-Barre.
I was huffing and puffing, as DEVO might put it, like a fat boy in lead
shoes. I ran up to the gate attendant and handed him my boarding pass,
and my partner in hilarity was right behind me. "Oh, we haven't
even started boarding that flight, sir." he said. "We're
running a few minutes behind."
"Christ!" screamed Not So Well-Dressed Man. Yep, he's from
Scranton, I told myself. The guy seemed all pissed off about it, but I
didn't care. I wouldn't be spending the night in Cleveland after all.
We'd freakin' made it. It was a shocking turn of events, and I
called Toney to give her the good news. I don't think I adequately
conveyed what I'd been through, because she seemed unimpressed that I
was at my correct gate in time to make my next flight. There was an air
of "that's what you're supposed to do" to her voice.
We flew home on one of those little Amelia Earhart planes, with
propellers and the whole nine yards. The flight attendant was a
recording, and I think there were only eighteen seats on the thing. I
could feel the vibration of the engines in my wiener, and it was noisy
as all hell. We swayed and swooped and rumbled through the sky. But it
got us to Scranton, and that's all that mattered.
The much-dreaded trip was behind me now, and my new Big Ass Television
would be delivered in the morning. As I drove toward home, I was almost
giddy. I considered stopping at the beer store for a case of the golden
elixir, but was a good boy and drove right past it.
And I'll pick it up from there tomorrow.
See ya then. permalink
January 24, 2007
-- On Thursday morning, the Day of the
Meetings, I got up at six o'clock, took a quick shower, then got all
trussed-up in dress clothes. Generally speaking, I only have to tuck my
shirts in when somebody dies, but this was an exception to the rule. I
felt like I was shrinkwrapped.
I met my Nashville counterpart in the restaurant downstairs, and we each
had eighteen dollar omelettes, and about fifty cents worth of coffee for
four bucks. He had his laptop, and all manner of notepads and writing
instruments with him. And I had nothing. Already I was second-guessing
myself....
We rode to the office in his car, and I was the navigator. It's amazing
how everything comes back to you. I had him taking side streets and
whipping here and there. Oh, I was putting on a freakin' Burbank-driving
clinic. I knew my way around.
There was high-security at the office building, and the guards eyed us
with suspicion. Finally, after exhausting all their asshole-options,
they reluctantly handed over a couple of passes which would allow us to
park in the garage and ride the elevators up and down. We'd just have to
pass through one more phalanx of guards in the lobby, and we'd be home
free. And yes, I just used the word "phalanx."
The lobby guards were all behind a giant marble counter, and there were
metal detectors and odd-looking gates everywhere. I approached one of
the gates, and saw that it was two sheets of plexi-glass that slide
together or apart, depending on the situation. The sheets were apart
when I walked up to it, but slammed together as I neared. Whoa!
9/11 or no 9/11, if my nuts get caught between those things, there's
gonna be a situation.
We went upstairs and met up with a few bigshots. Then we got on the two
Ballbuster conference calls, this time from the point of origin. Pretty
cool. After that, it was time for our first "meeting."
It wasn't really a meeting, it was more of a seminar. The company is
going-live with a new operating system later this year, and this was
reportedly part of the training that everyone would be required to take.
Today's topic? Change readiness. I nearly reverted back to my roots and
blurted out, "You're shitting me, right?"
They led us to a conference room, where
a person who looked like kd lang was waiting for us. Only, on further
review, I saw that it wasn't the singer, in fact it wasn't even a woman.
It was a man, a man who looked like kd lang. He was sporting some sort
of hipster/western wear hybrid outfit, and boots that came to a radical
point, then flipped up on the ends. Ho-ly shit. I wish Buck could've
been there to see it.
Ol' Genie Shoes proceeded to provide us with pre-emptive grief
counseling, and strategies to deal with the big changes a new computer
system will bring to our lives. I simply couldn't believe it. Change
readiness seminars?? They flew us across the continent for this? It's
like something off a Mike Judge movie.
We went to lunch at some expensive restaurant, where the prices are
printed on the menu as: 17. Not $16.95, but 17. They had about four
things to choose from (apparently it's chic to have a tiny, tiny
menu), and all were loaded with freakish ingredients that I wanted no
part of. I finally decided to go with a blackened chicken sandwich, hold
the weirdo designer mayonnaise. Shit man, I wanted to find an In 'N' Out
Burger, or an El Pollo Loco. I was already getting tired of all the
poofter eating.
This restaurant is supposedly one of the best places around to see
famous actors and whatnot. But they stuck us in a private dining room,
off to ourselves. Wotta rip-off. I wanted to see Martin Scorsese, not
Ben from accounting. Somebody returned from the bathroom and said George
Clooney was seated right outside our room, but who the hell knows? I
never saw him, or anyone else of note.
The afternoon was taken up by an elaborate corporate "road
show." It was held in a full-on movie theater, and there were
probably 200 people in attendance. Some of the big wheels got up and
gave a State of the Company address, and general pep talk. Then there
was some info on the new computer system, and we were released.
My counterpart and I were supposed to receive our annual reviews after
the road show, but it never happened. We ended up walking around the
building, talking to people we speak with on the phone every day, but
had never actually met in person. Man, that was a mind-blowing
experience. I recognized all the voices, intimately, but the faces and
bodies attached to them just didn't compute in many cases. I'm sure they
had the same reaction to me.
Dinner was at a high-roller Italian place, a few miles away. Again, we
had a private dining room, and the joint was crawling with VPs,
Executive VPs, Senior VPs, etc. Simply excellent. And once again, we had
four entrees to choose from. I opted for "medallions of beef,"
or somesuch, because everything else featured shit people from West
Virginia just don't eat.
I asked the waiter what kinds of beers they had, and he said they only
serve Peroni. "Well, that'll make it easy to choose, won't
it?" I said. That caused a ripple of laughter, which gave me a
small boost of confidence.
The guy who was sitting beside me said he'd just finished writing a
novel, and it would be published in the summer. It took him eight years
to write, he claimed, and three more to edit. Genuinely interested, I
started asking him follow-up questions. But he clearly didn't want to
talk about it. WTS??
I picked at the bloody beef on my plate, and quaffed several Peronis
(which tasted like Moosehead, I thought). Then it was over. A few of us
stood on the sidewalk out front and talked for a half hour or so, then
it was back to the hotel, and back to Scranton the next morning.
THOUSANDS of dollars spent....
I had an adventure in the Cleveland airport trying to make my connecting
flight, and I'll tell you about that tomorrow. I also need to give you
an update on my Big Ass Television, which has been kinda interesting.
And I'll get into some other small things as well.
See ya then. permalink
January 23, 2007
-- I was highly skeptical, but my bag
actually did arrive on the 2:17 flight from Atlanta. The woman at Delta
acted like I should fall to my knees and thank them, but I reminded her
that I'd arrived on the 12:30 flight. She just shook her head in
disgust, and walked away. Of course I was glad to see it, but no way I
was going to give her the satisfaction of knowing it.
I took the Avis shuttle to their expansive complex a couple of miles
away, and eventually rented a car. It was a white Chevy Malibu that
smelled like coconuts on the inside. The seat and mirrors were adjusted
for the guy in The Incredible Shrinking Man, at roughly
the halfway point of the movie. I almost exploded my spinal column
getting into that thing.
I jumped on the 405 North, everything immediately coming back to me. I'd
printed out MapQuest directions, but didn't need them. It was as if I'd
never left. Except for one thing: the stoplights at the end of the
freeway entrance ramps. That had completely slipped my mind, and I went
whipping around a big curve and almost rammed a man in the ass, like Tom
Cruise.
The 405 freeway was packed-in solid, just like every other time I'd ever
been on it. Worst. Highway. Ever. I only needed to go about 17 miles
until I transitioned onto the 101, but it took about 90 minutes. Oh
well. I'd already given up on my Amoeba/Frontier Wok dreams, so screw
it. I'd get there when I got there. I just sat still and marveled at the
motorcycles driving between the cars, something that's legal in
California. They call it white-lining, or some shit. Pure insanity.
My hotel was extremely fancy-pants. They had no parking garage, only
valets. And, of course, a doorman in a red uniform. He asked if I needed
help with my bags, and I told him no. But he wedged his way in there
anyway, and grabbed my suitcase. When we arrived at the front desk he
stood nearby like he was expecting a tip, and I just thanked him and
turned my back. No means no.
The room was on the fourth floor, and was very nice indeed. I was dying
of thirst, and saw a bottle of water on the desk. I grabbed for it, and
there was a tag around the neck of the thing that said, "A charge
of $6 will be added to your bill upon consumption." Or something
along those lines. I think I actually shrieked, and returned the thing
to it's previous resting place. Six dollars my big riffled ass.
I got my computer out, and tapped into
the hotel's wiffy hotspot. Then I called home and talked to Toney and
the boys, and after that, my boss. He told me my Nashville counterpart
was having a bad day, and was stranded in Texas somewhere, because of
"weather." He wasn't due to arrive until eight or nine that
night, and wouldn't be able to join us for dinner. Whatever. We made
arrangements to meet at the restaurant at 6:30, and I went and had a
shower. I felt like I'd been breaded in filth.
Right before I left for dinner, somebody knocked on my door. It was a
maid, and she asked if I wanted my bed turned down. I told her I could
lift it, but thanks anyway. She acted like she couldn't give a tiny
seahorse-shaped shitlet, one way or the other. And I admired her
attitude.
Here's
where we had dinner. It's some kind of crazy Brazilian festival of meat.
They have a salad bar with various side items to choose from, then the
restaurant employees continually bring skewers stabbed through all
manner of meats, right to your table. You can accept or decline, and I
only declined twice: some sort of garlic chicken (not a fan of garlic),
and lamb (smelled like a hamper full of dirty underwear). It was tiny
little slices of each, but over time it added up to a ridiculous amount
of food.
Each table has its own wooden block, one side painted red, the other
green. As long as the green side is up, they keep bringin' the meat. And
we kept it green for a good long time. By the end I was completely
loaded down, and it felt like my stomach had escaped its housing. I felt
miserable. Moments before we cried uncle, and turned the block over to
red, a waiter arrived with prime rib, and I just couldn't do it. I never
thought I'd see the day when I said no to prime rib, but it finally
arrived. I would've surely puked, and I don't see how something like
that could further my career.
We sat and talked for a long time, letting all that meat settle. My
boss's cell phone rang, and it was my counterpart, finally arrived at
LAX. He said he'd just see us tomorrow. Fuck it.
I was extremely tired. I'd been up since 1 am LA time, and it was now
pushing 9 o'clock at night. My boss told the waiter to bring separate
checks, one for me, and one for him and his assistant. I thought that
was kinda weird, but was too brain-dead to contemplate it. But now....
What does it mean? Why did he make me pay for my own dinner?? Any ideas?
I'm still baffled.
As I was driving back to the hotel I decided to call the Nashville guy,
to see how he was doing. He was staying at the same hotel as me, and was
already in the lobby bar. I told him I'd be there in a few minutes, and
would join him for a beer or two. I've talked to him almost daily, for
years and years, but had never actually met him. We had to tell each
other what we were wearing, so we'd recognize one another, like some
kind of blind date or something.
He looked nothing like I'd imagined, and he clearly had the same
reaction to me. Ever experienced that? You get an impression of someone
in your brain, and sometimes it's accurate and sometimes it's not. This
time it was a "not," in both directions. But he's a good guy,
and we sat and exchanged airport horror stories for an hour or so. He
shotgunned several margaritas, and I had two or three Harp
Lagers (at $5.75 each). Then we threw in the towel. Tomorrow
promised to be another long day.
I went upstairs, completely maxed-out on beef and beer, and hoped the
ridiculous little European toilet in my room was up to the task I was
about to throw its way. The thing was all one piece, tank and bowl
together, and extremely low to the ground. But it performed admirably, I
must say. I doubt it had experienced such a challenge too many times
before, and held up under the pressure.
And just a few hours later I was in my boss's office, preparing for a
full day of uncomfortable meetings and presentations, and awkward meals.
Here's
a pic I snapped with my cell phone through one of his floor-to-ceiling
glass walls. Pretty nice view, huh? All I got's the Shuffler.
I'll try to wrap-up this tale tomorrow.
See ya then. permalink
January 22, 2007
-- I hadn't flown anywhere since before
9/11, and was uneasy for a number of reasons.
I was concerned a fellow passenger might start screaming belligerence
and explode a Bass loafer above George Bush's Texas ranch; I was afraid
the plane might crash because of some non-terrorist reason, perhaps the
luggage compartment would be left "wide
open," or the pilot would drop
dead; I was convinced I'd be ensnared in some sort of nightmarish
security bottleneck, and miss my plane; I simply knew the flight
out of Scranton would be delayed, I wouldn't make my connection in
Atlanta, and would spend the day adrift in a sea of uncertainty.
On and on it went.... I was a freaking basket-case.
Because of this, I got up at 4 am on Wednesday. It was the middle of the
night, and my brain was throbbing with disapproval. I left the house a
few minutes after 5, and the first leg of my flight was scheduled for 7.
The previous day I'd acted like the ultimate nerd, and gone to the
airport to scout things out. I wanted to make sure I knew where
long-term parking was located, and all the places I'd need to go. I
didn't need any surprises, dammit.
Since I was fairly confident I'd allowed myself plenty of time for
douchery, and knew my way around the sprawling
Scranton/Wilkes-Barre airport (ahem), I stopped at Sheetz to hit their
no-fee ATM ("money for nothing"). And the place was packed. It
was 5:10 am, and almost every gas pump was in-use, and the store was
pandemonium. It was bizarre. Apparently there's this whole other world
operating out there while I sleep? Who knew?
I got checked-in with lots of time to spare, so I went upstairs and
talked to Toney on the phone. Finally I decided to drag my ass through
security, and find my gate.
I was ordered to remove my laptop computer from its case, take off my
shoes, and empty my pockets. I did all this, and as soon as I passed
through the metal detector a man with not even a hint of a neck ordered
me to the side. He hadn't ordered anyone else to the side, only me. And
he made me stand on a rug with the outline of feet on it, and hold my
hands straight out like a retard at a circus. He proceeded to pat me
down, rub my ass, and check out my most personal of carry-on bags.
Simply excellent.
The flight was on-time and completely
full, and I was seated beside a neo-hippie who smelled like olive oil.
It was a small jet, but a jet nonetheless. This probably wouldn't be too
bad, I told myself, and it wasn't. The gingerbread cookies they gave us
as a snack were even pretty darn kick-ass. Olives checked the
ingredients on his pack, sniffed with disapproval, and stuffed them in
the magazine flap on the seat in front of him.
I had to change concourses in Atlanta, which meant riding that crazy-ass
train. I was mildly disappointed that the recordings had been changed,
and they no longer had a mechanical hick giving directions over the
loudspeakers. In the old days it sounded like a cast member of Hee
Haw in that place: "Stawp! Doors will not bouince back!!"
Now it's some accent-free chick and sophisticated classical music. Wotta
rip-off.
I had over thirty minutes before my next flight was scheduled to leave,
and was starving. There was an Arby's a few feet away from my gate, and
I decided to pay them a visit. And that's where I got a taste, just a
small little nibble, of the Atlanta experience. The people working in
that restaurant were moving so infuriatingly slow, and with such a
complete lack of urgency, I felt an old familiar rage building up inside
me that I recalled from my years living there. I'd forgotten all about
it, but it came rushing back on Wednesday.
Jesus J. McChrist man, pick up the beats per minute! It looks like
you're working underwater!! I pissed them off with my Yankee-ass
impatience, and they practically hurled my food at me. That shit is
ridiculous, and when I returned to the gate I saw that nearly every
other person had already boarded the plane. I was almost literally the
last one through the door. Grrrrr....
It was a massive 777, and there was an empty seat between me and my
closest neighbor. Oh yeah. He was an Asian hipster, and was already
asleep. Or maybe he was just acting, to avoid having to talk to me? I
just don't know.
As I strapped myself into my seat, I saw some hillbillies trying to
wrestle a virtual steamer trunk into an overhead compartment. It
was passed to a very stout woman, and she allowed it to slip from her
hands. It fell from above her head, and the corner of the thing struck a
Korean man above his left ear. He started howling like a mental patient,
and rubbing his head, and not a single person said anything to him. The
big-boned woman simply picked up the piece of luggage, and went back to
work. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. The guy sported a perma-wince,
and rubbed his skull for the next thirty minutes. And nobody ever asked
if he was OK.
One of the movies they were showing was School for Scoundrels, so
I bought some headphones for two bucks. But my remote was all fucked-up,
and wouldn't work properly. All I could get from the thing was in-flight
radio. So I listened to "Johnny Gold" count-down his thirteen
favorite rock songs of all time. They included "See No Evil"
by Television, and "September Gurls" by Big Star. Pretty
freakin' hip for Delta Radio, I thought.
We arrived at LAX around 12:30 local time, and I made my way to baggage
claim. I had visions of Amoeba Records dancing through my head, and was
eager to grab my bag, pick up my rental car, and get the show on the
road. I was supposed to meet some folks for dinner at 6:30, so I had six
full hours of free time. It was actually going to work out, just as I'd
planned. Suddenly I realized I was excited.
But it was not to be. I stood in front of that baggage carousel and
watched other peoples' suitcases go 'round and 'round, for a long long
time. The big crowd kept getting smaller and smaller, and I was still
standing there, waiting. Finally it was just me and a handful of other
folks, and I had a sick feeling in my stomach. Then they turned the
conveyor off, and that was that. My bag was not there.
I looked around, and saw Olives standing near a pillar a few feet away.
He had the same "What the crap?!" look on his face as I had.
Clearly, his bags hadn't made it either. I walked over to him, and said,
"Weren't you sitting next to me from Scranton to Atlanta?" He
glanced around, like he was afraid someone had overheard me, and said,
"No, I didn't get on until Atlanta." Then he walked off.
The hell? He most certainly did get on in Scranton. I sat beside
him, and smelled him, for more than two hours. What the shit was that
all about??
I went to an office called "Delta Baggage Services," and a
woman with a strange accent (Czech?) told me my bag didn't make my plane
(Atlanta again!), and would be arriving on a flight scheduled to
land at 2:17. She said I could wait on it, or they could bring it to my
hotel. I asked how long it would take to receive it at the hotel, and
she said six to eight hours after the courier service has it in their
possession.
And that's how how my Amoeba Records and Frontier Wok dreams went
straight down the ol' porcelain poop funnel.
I didn't want to drag this deal out, but it looks like that's the way
it's going. More tomorrow.
In the meantime, this
is a funny YouTube video my friend Tim sent to me. And here's
an interesting quiz that Surf Reporter John forwarded my way. It
supposedly tells you how "Dixie" or "Yankee" you
are. In case you're interested, I'm 70% Dixie, which feels about right
to me. What about you? Tell us about it, won't you?
I'll have more of this stuff on Tuesday.
See ya then. permalink
January 16, 2007
Here are some follow-ups to
stories previously covered at the West Virginia Surf Report....
-- A few nights ago I finally watched Christmas
Evil, a movie suggested to me as a good alternative to the
original Black Christmas, which Netflix STILL hasn't sent to me.
And it wasn't very good. The thing is extremely low budget, paralyzingly
dull, and the anticipated payoff unsatisfying. However.... there was
something about it that got under my skin.
I think it was the guy who played the main character, an actor named Brandon
Maggart. He portrays Harry, a psycho with a deep-dish Santa hang-up.
His apartment is filled with Santa doo-dads, he sleeps in a Santa suit,
and he watches the neighborhood kids through binoculars, then records
their activities in two giant books: The Good Boys and Girls and The
Bad Boys and Girls. He's one creepy mofo.
And that's the best part of the film, that Brandon Maggart dude. I'd
never heard of him, but he's great in this movie. Too bad the writing
and directing, and all that stuff, wasn't anywhere near as good as the
lead actor.
I wanted to learn more
about the guy, and it turns out he was an original cast member of Sesame
Street, and is Fiona Apple's father. And that somehow feels right to
me.
-- I mentioned that I bought a CD at Best Buy on Sunday.... And once
again, the cashier tried to sell me magazine subscriptions. What's the
story with that? I walked up to her with some obscure hipster disc, and
she immediately launched into a sales pitch for Sports Illustrated and
People? Where's the logic? Where's the connection? What's next?
Time-shares? Colon cleansers? Wiener enhancers? I don't understand.
I told her I didn't want any magazines, and I didn't want to enroll in
their Rewards program, and I wasn't interested in the CD replacement
insurance policy, and no, I didn't want to enter a contest for a chance
to win a set of barbecue tools. I just want this CD, that's all I want,
and please stop asking me questions; you're making me freakin' crazy
here!
"Can I have your zip code?" she said. Grrrr.....
-- I told you about having my palm read, years ago, at Venice Beach in
California. I was there that day with Mark
Maynard, and we were in the midst of harassing a Seinfeld
writer named Peter
Mehlman.
Mehlman was quoted in a magazine as
saying Hollywood needs good comedy writers. There's not enough of them,
he claimed, and it was almost an emergency state. Then he added that
anyone who is funny should come to California, right away. Come by
plane, by train, by automobile, it doesn't matter, he said. Just come!
So we started calling his office and saying, "OK, we're here. When
do we start?"
We never actually got through to Mehlman himself, but we spoke to his
assistant multiple times. We told her we'd walked to Los Angeles,
all the way from our home in Kentucky, because Peter had offered us a
job. You know, indirectly. Through a magazine article.
The assistant was not amused, and eventually warned us to stop calling.
So we began mailing them stuff. Mark's wife Linette is a graphic artist,
and she dummied up a newspaper article from our "hometown." It
was a heartwarming piece about two local boys who were about to make it
big in show business, and had been offered a writing job from industry
bigwig Peter Mehlman. It featured a photo of me walking along a highway,
headed for Hollywood and carrying a sleeping Mark on my back(!?).
That didn't elicit a response, so we decided to go out and take pictures
of street people holding up homemade signs. We planned to continue
sending them to Mehlman, claiming the streets of Southern California
were littered with people who had taken up his offer, and were now
despondent and homeless.
Here's
one of the photos I snapped that day at Venice Beach.
But we never sent him any pictures. As so often happened, we lost
enthusiasm for the "project," and switched over to some other
ridiculousness. Heh. If Mark and I hadn't moved away from each other, we
would've surely been arrested, sooner or later. Every time we sat down
to have a beer together, some crazy-ass scheme was hatched. Then we'd
actually follow through with it, which was the amazing part. Good times.
-- And finally.... our new
TV will be delivered on Saturday! I'm still in a state of shock.
So many times I've brought myself all the way up to the cusp of buying
one of those humongous televisions, then lost my nerve at the last
second. Yesterday I finally did it. My hand was shaking as I signed the
credit card slip, but I went through with it. And now I feel like I'm
ten years old again, and it's Christmas Eve. Man, there will be no
reason to ever leave the house....
I'll see you guys next week. I'm flying to Los Angeles tomorrow,
returning on Friday. And my sphincter is clicking like a paparazzi's
camera lens. Sweet Maria.
I'll tell you how it went on Monday. permalink
January 15, 2007
-- I don't have to report to work
today, because of Martin Luther King. And I think I'm going to celebrate
the great man's accomplishments by going out and buying a humongous
television.
Yes, my friends, I believe the time has finally come. For years I've
been hemming and hawing, and dragging my feet, and all other alternative
phrases for stalling. And now I'm.... well, I was going to say I'm ready
to "pull the trigger" but that might not be an appropriate
choice of words under the circumstances. Ahem. I'm ready to close
my eyes, hand over a credit card, and let the chips fall where they may.
Here's
the one I'm going with. It's on sale at Best Buy for $1749, with a free
stand. And now you can go ahead and tell me it sucks and I'm making a
big mistake and I'm the biggest douche who ever douched a douche. My
email address is jeff(at)thewvsr.com.
Do I sound bitter? Last time I wrote about TVs here I mentioned that I
wanted a 1080p set, and it triggered about ten emails from people who
seemed almost angry about it. You can't tell the difference
between 1080p and 720p, all of them e-hollered at me, and nobody
broadcasts in 1080p anyway, etc. etc. And I openly acknowledge all that.
In fact, I believe I even said it in my post that day.
But I don't care. I want 1080p.
We're still using two 27-inch antiques here at the Compound, both
purchased in Atlanta, back when Hector was a pup. And when you only buy
a TV once every fifteen years or so, what's the matter with making
yourself believe you got the best? Am I so wrong for wanting to fool
myself into thinking I'm on the cutting edge, at least for an afternoon
or two? Shit man, one of those 27-inchers has fake wood grain
on it. I believe I've earned the right.
And tomorrow I'll let you know if I actually went through with it, or
just parked in front of Best Buy and sobbed uncontrollably into my
airbag.
-- I lost another four pounds last week. That's an average-sized newborn
baby that's been removed from my ass since New Years Day. Man, I'm all
fired up about it. The strategy? No junk, no beer, no Mountain Dew. And
I've been burning myself down to a smoldering nub every day, atop a
torture device known as an elliptical machine.
So far it's been amazingly easy. I
still eat plenty, but now I'm paying attention to what's being shoveled
in. And I've refrained from burying my arm to the shoulder in a
"family" sized sack of sour cream 'n' onion chips while
watching Scrote track down yet another whore-killer, and that sort of
thing. I've replaced those so-called snacks with water and fruit and
Rice Krispies. I'm still eating regular stuff at mealtime, I'm just
staying away from the ass-expanders, and downsizing the portions so they
can fit onto one standard dinner plate.
And I know it's still very early in the process, but so far it's been a
breeze. Almost too easy.
I can't wait until I'm able to walk around acting all superior, and
become a huge pain in the balls with non-stop droning about
healthy-eating and weight loss. Everybody needs a goal, I believe, and
mine is zealotry: relentless, mind-numbing zealotry.
Wish me luck.
-- When I was over at Best Buy yesterday, checking out my future
television, I picked up the new CD by The Decemberists for $6.99. I've
read nothing
but raves about the thing, and several of you have suggested it
to me as well.
I immediately loaded it onto my iPod, and have been listening to it. And
I just don't know.... I'll have to give it more time, I think. Right now
it sounds like an Al Stewart album to me; the dude's singing about the
sea, and all manner of literary allusions. But, of course, the truly
great albums often need time to sink in. And this could very well be one
of 'em. I'm willing to do the work required.
My other recent CD purchase carries no such qualifications. It's this
two-disc XTC anthology, and it's freaking amazing. Of course XTC is one
of my all-time favorite "bands," and I know all their stuff by
heart. But this collection somehow gets me excited about them all over
again. I think it's because you get to hear most of their best songs,
one after the other. There's no filler, no weak links, it's just one
hunk of genius after the next.
I bought a used copy, that looks brand-new, for less than ten bucks. You
should really check it out, if you're so inclined. It's better than the
sum of its parts. And the parts themselves ain't too shabby. Ya know?
-- A couple of weeks ago I was at Target, perusing the $1 bins by the
front doors. Amongst all the cheap-ass plastic crap, I noticed some
sample pouches of Jack Daniels brand coffee. Hmmm, I thought, that
sounds interesting. So I bought two, put them in the freezer at home,
then promptly forgot about the whole thing.
Yesterday morning I was digging around for something, and saw one of the
bags wedged between some ice trays and a box of peas. I decided to give
it a try, and brewed up a pot. And it tasted like truck stop coffee
laced with vanilla; there's not even a hint of Jack in there, that I
could detect. I drank several cups and went from disgusted, to mildly
appreciative, right back to disgusted again.
And I don't want to be too graphic about it, but I'm willing to bet that
stuff would give even Miss Wisconsin the squirts. Sweet sainted
mother of Meghan Coffey!
I've got more, but suddenly lost the will to continue.
See ya tomorrow. permalink
January 12, 2007
-- Do you think it's just a coincidence
that no sooner than one of Greta Van Susteren's missing-person
"stories" gets solved (or too boring), another pops up to take
its place? Are there really so many of these sensational cases out
there, she can just pick and choose the juiciest ones? Or, like me, do
you suspect she might actually be behind some of it?
Obviously I don't have any special insider info, this is purely
speculation, but I think she might be kidnapping people for ratings.
Well, maybe not Greta herself.... I can't really see her crouching
behind shrubbery in a ski mask, then wrestling college co-eds into a
waiting van. But I wouldn't be surprised to learn that her staff is
doing it.
What do you think about this? Could I be on to something?
-- I saw an orange boy at Sam's Club a few days ago. And I'm not
screwing around here. His skin was orange, and his hair was the same
color as his skin. What would cause such a thing? Why would a
grade-schooler go all carrot like that? People were doing double-takes,
and walking into displays. Because, you know, it's not very often you
see an orange boy.
-- My Dad is one of the funniest people I've ever known. His dry
observations are hilarious, and almost always right-on. Sitting with him
on a bench at a mall, for instance, is better than any Daily Show.
He just sits there, observes, and reacts. And I'm almost always left
gasping for air, and all hunchbacked-up with laughter.
But he doesn't tell jokes. I don't know why, but I can't remember him
ever coming home from work and giving us the latest knee-slapper he'd
heard during the day. And that's why I was so surprised when he did
exactly that, earlier this week. Here it is:
An old man was at the doctor's office for a check-up. Since he
couldn't hear very well, his wife had accompanied him. After the exam,
the doc said, "Well, everything looks good. But before you go, I'm
going to need a urine and stool sample." The old man turned to his
wife and shouted, "What did he say?!" And she answered,
"He wants you to leave your underwear."
I'm hoping Dad returns to his roots soon.
-- Check out this
recent post at Phil Hendrie's blog. What do you think are the worst big
cities in America? I can't really contribute much to this one, because I
haven't spent enough time in any of 'em to have a valid opinion. I've
only lived in one actual Big City (in California we lived way out in the
suburbs, with the tarantulas and minivans), and that was Atlanta. And I
loved it, for the most part. ....Phil also lived in Atlanta, at the same
time I did, and you'll note that he doesn't include it on his shit
list.
Any opinions on this? Use the comments link below.
-- And speaking of Phil Hendrie.... Here's a quote from a character in
one of his recent podcasts: "What in the name of Christ carrying
his own cross up the hill without so much as a refrigerator dolly are
you talking about?!" I love that man.
-- And to close out the category, you can download a great old Hendrie
clip from 2000, right
here. It's the play by play of the Los Angeles Dodgers vs.
People Who Cry In Public.
-- Finally, another question for ya.... Have you ever visited a psychic?
And if so, what did they tell you?
The only time I ever had an encounter with a so-called psychic was at
Venice Beach in California. Here
he is, in fact. He was a very surly man, apparently not impressed with
the ten-dollar "donation" I gave him.
He told me I could potentially have five kids, and that I could potentially
live a long and healthy life. I asked him about all that
"potentially" crapola, and he said people have free will, and
can easily alter the course of their lives.
Um, OK. But couldn't I potentially have hundreds of kids? Maybe
thousands? You know, under the right circumstances? Possibly if there
was some sort of production line in operation? What did he mean, five? I
just don't know.
What I do know, is the dude wasn't very specific with any of his
"predictions," and it was ten dollars straight down the ol'
poop-catcher.
Have you ever had an encounter with a palm reader or Tarot card person,
or any of that stuff? What about the ones who read the bumps on your
head? Or the voodoo queens in New Orleans? Tell us about it, won't you?
And I'll see ya on Monday. permalink
January 11, 2007
I'm getting an unusually late start
with this one, so I wouldn't go around expecting much. I really
wouldn't. But, as they say, time is of the essence (whatever the crap
that means), so let's get right into it....
-- While perusing the itinerary for my California trip next week, I
noticed a small glimmer of hope. Most of my stay will be eaten up with
meetings and standard corporate crapola, but it looks like I'm going to
have a few hours of free time on the day I arrive. It's hard to believe,
but seemingly true.
I'm supposed to arrive at LAX a little after noon, and figure I'll be
checked into my hotel by two. Then there are no known obligations until
dinner that night, at six. That means four big honkin' hours alone. And
my mind has been racing with ways to fill them.
Here's what I've got planned so far.... I'll go for a light (and late)
meal at Frontier Wok, my
favorite lunch destination when I worked out there. Then I'll swing by a
Rite-Aid and pick up a disposable camera, and drive over to Hollywood to
check out Amoeba Records. I've
never been there, mostly because it didn't exist back in the day, and my
sources tell me it's enough to move an aging hipster to tears. I'll have
my Smoking Fish with me the entire time, and will be on high-alert for
photo opportunities as I navigate the fabulous Sunset Strip.
Yes, it has the feel of a perfect afternoon. How much you want to bet
it'll get all screwed up, and none of that stuff will happen? I'll be
moved to tears all right. While sitting in a beige cubicle, sporting a
painful perma-smile. Man, I'm pissed-off just thinking about it.
-- Speaking of the California trip.... One of the big-shots out there
sent an email to the entire company, telling them that my counterpart
and I will be in town on Thursday, and inviting them to have lunch with
us. It said something along the lines of, "This will be a perfect
opportunity to meet and talk with Jeff and Gary, in a relaxed
setting."
I'm getting a sick headache.
-- A few days ago I received an email at work, with the subject line,
"There's no such thing as too much penis." I'm not sure, but I
think it came from Human Resources.
-- And since we're on the subject of
email, I'm still stressin' about the eminent changeover from Adelphia to
Comcast. About a week ago I received an email from the Comcast
overlords, ordering me to choose a new email address. According to the
Frequently Asked Questions, my old Adelphia inbox will disappear almost
immediately, once I've established a Comcast address. And I've got all
sorts of things tied to it.
So.... I've been in a frantic dash to get it all sorted out, and believe
I'm getting there. But, inevitably, I'll forget something vital, and
will soon find myself ratcheted frontways across a davenport. I just
know it.
Why can't they just leave us alone?
-- Surf Reporter Bill sends along this
fresh Smoking Fish sighting, proving once again that our logo not only
gets around, but is also extremely sophisticated and cultured. Thanks
Bill! Very cool.
-- Several folks forwarded me the sad
news of the passing of Lily Munster yesterday, and something in
the obituary caught my attention. She reportedly died at the Motion
Picture & Television "facility" in suburban Los Angeles.
Do you know anything about this place? It seems I read somewhere that
the actor's union, or somesuch, set up a nursing home, or old folk's
home, or something along those lines, for aging actors and industry
professionals. Any idea who lives there now? I find this fascinating.
(Talk about your Smoking Fish opportunities!) If you know anything about
it, or have any relevant links, please use the comments section below.
-- I'm just about out of time here.... But yesterday I saw this
linked somewhere, and believe it might be worth a few minutes of your
time. It's a TV news report from 1967, about the "hippies" in
San Francisco, and features an interview with the Grateful Dead, and
part of a performance as well. Good stuff. Harry Reasoner ("Show me
an intelligent sheepdog, and I'll show you a hairy reasoner."
-Soupy Sales) can barely contain his deep, deep disgust. Check it out.
-- And now I'm gonna turn it over to our old friend Buck,
and drag my riffled ass into work.
See you folks tomorrow. permalink
January 10, 2007
-- Toney's mother, Sunshine, gave us a
$35 Chili's gift card for Christmas. She might've given us other stuff
as well, but who the hell knows? It's all a blur, a great big blur.
I can only remember visiting a Chili's once before. It was in Atlanta ,
I think, back before I met Toney. I'm picturing it way out Roswell Road
somewhere, possibly even (gasp!) outside the perimeter, in the
parking lot of a Kroger store. But my memory is quite dim about that as
well. The only thing I can recall clearly is that I didn't like it very
well.
But that was what, fifteen years ago? Back then I was probably
intimidated by the exotic southwestern fare they serve. What the shit
is a fuh-jeeta?? But, you know, I'm always ready to give it another
try. Always ready.
And on Sunday Toney suggested we go to Wilkes-Barre to pick up a few
items at a store there, then have a late lunch on Sunshine. Sounded like
a fine idea to me.
When we walked in, there were two teenage girls standing near the door,
each sporting the universal teenage girl disgusted-with-it-all
expression. Presumably they were hostesses, but they didn't say
anything. They just looked at us, waiting for us to speak. No
"Welcome to Chili's," no nothing.
"Um, would it be alright if we eat here?" I said, a bit
smart-assed. But, of course, it's never a good idea to mock or ridicule
the folks who will soon be handling your food, so I kept a lid on it.
After begrudgingly asking if we'd prefer smoking or non-smoking, she
took off with a stack of menus. Apparently we were supposed to follow
her, so we did. Toney looked back at me while we were walking, and shot
me a laser-guided "I'm about to kill this bitch." And I just
smiled back at her.
We were seated in a small alcove, near all the other people with kids.
Our boys are pretty big now, but it doesn't matter, especially to a
teenager. Just stick 'em all together, and they can throw macaroni
'n' cheese at each other. Screw 'em.
Before I'd completely wedged my heft into the boof that was presumably
designed for tiny Japanese people, a sashaying gay man in his early
twenties was there, talking to us like we were patients in a nursing
home. "Well, how are we today?" he said, all sing-songy and
deeply concerned about our welfare.
He took our drink orders, and swished
with great energy around a wooden partition, his feet barely touching
the floor as he walked. It looked like he was just gliding across the
carpet.
I watched this amazing spectacle unfold, then turned back to my menu. I
knew better than to make eye-contact with the Secrets, because they
surely would've started laughing. And I try not to encourage such
things. Sometimes.
I didn't see anything on any of the "leather" encased pages
that sounded even remotely interesting to me. I didn't want a burger, or
anything like that, and most of the entrees featured at least one
ingredient that automatically disqualified it. Like garlic or guacamole
or any of the novelty mayonnaises.
I decided to play it safe, and just go with chicken tacos. Both Secrets
wanted ribs, and Toney said she was planning to order some sort of
quesadilla deal. I just don't know.
Our waiter floated back with our drinks, and I noticed that whenever he
spoke he tilted his head to one side. It would remain upright until he
opened his mouth, then everything would ratchet off to the left. I
watched him conversing with other patrons as well, and it was always the
same. I wondered aloud if he was unable to speak with his head straight
up-and-down, perhaps as the result of a catastrophic windpipe injury or
something. <Insert own joke here.>
After that it was difficult for any of us to keep a straight face. He
was very attentive, and checked back often. And his head would instantly
default to a 45-degree angle. I warned the Secrets, but it was all they
could do not to snicker openly. We started calling him the Sideways
Talker.
My tacos looked OK when he brought them out, three of them all snuggled
together beside a small bowl of black beans. But it turned out to be 90%
lettuce. I'm not joking, it was even worse than Subway, who are famous
for selling six dollar lettuce sandwiches to an unsuspecting
(suspecting?) public. It was just three tortillas piled up with lettuce,
three or four hunks of tomato, a dusting of neon orange cheese, a squirt
of salsa or somesuch, and a couple of soppy, gray-ass pieces of
"chicken" in the bottom. A pathetic excuse for a taco.
But without prompting, Toney said her meal was really good, and the boys
didn't seem to be having any trouble with theirs either. I didn't want
to be a wet blanket (ahem), so I just swallowed my many complaints,
along with all that lettuce. Sweet Jesus, the lettuce.
A woman and a ten year old girl stood up to leave, and both immediately
plucked their asses, like they'd just arrived at a rest area along an
interstate highway. The girl tugged creeping fabric out of her crack
very near my face, as I was lifting food to my mouth.
Ahhhh, the ambience....
The first taco disappeared without incident, but the second one
collapsed completely. I picked it up, and the entire bottom fell out of
it. I was left with shredded produce, pinched between two halves of a
ripped and wet tortilla. All the stuff inside was now on the edge of my
plate, and/or the table. Grrrr....
By this time Toney had adopted a look of distress. She said, "This
was good for a few minutes, but now it's not so good anymore." I
was worried we might be seeing those quesadillas again, but everything
worked out in our favor.
The Secrets said their ribs "rocked," so at least they were
happy. And I gave the Sideways Poofter a seven dollar tip, so maybe he
was satisfied as well. But me and Toney? Not so much. As chain
restaurants go, I'd have to rate Chili's down near Bennigan's, way at
the bottom of the list. In fact, it might be another fifteen
years before I return.
Oh, and for the record.... Don Pablo's and TGI Friday's are at the TOP
of my mega-chain list. Both are surprisingly good. What do you think?
What's best and worst, in your opinion? Use the comments link below.
And tomorrow I might write a 1500 word essay on oats, or possibly fabric
softener.
See ya then! permalink
January 8, 2007
-- I woke up in a foul mood this
morning, as if I'd been conceived on the wrong side of the bed. Which,
of course, is a real possibility. I stopped in the living room to spend
a few minutes with the Secrets, before retiring to my subterranean
dungeon of "comedy," and one of them immediately farted. It
sounded like a tire spinning in mud, and I just stood up and walked out
of the room.
I'm sorry, but I hadn't even managed to take my first sip of coffee yet;
under the circumstances, I saw no humor in the wanton venting of a
digestive tract. What is this, Roseanne?! Now I'm down here
listening to Tom Petty, who is also irritating me, and mumbling to
myself. The chemicals are not my friends today.
-- I lost two pounds last week, by not eating garbage and staying away
from the Mountain Dew machine. Yeah, I know, two pounds doesn't sound
like much, especially considering the fact I've got, like, a fourth
grader to go. But just think about a two-pound can of coffee. That's
been removed from my ass: a can of Folger's. This week I'm introducing
daily exercise into the mix, and hopefully the blubber will start
disappearing a lot faster. I'm completely disgusted with myself -- for
more reasons than usual. I'm tired of being a pile of meat with a snarky
attitude. The thought of drinking a beer even makes me sick right now.
....Will somebody please hold me?
-- Speaking of semi-healthy foods, have you ever put berries on your
cereal? I see that on TV commercials all the time, and on the front of
cereal boxes and everything, but I've never actually seen anyone do it.
In fact, who eats berries at all? I don't eat berries, it never even
crosses my mind. I mean, seriously. Berries?!
-- On Saturday the oldest Secret had a much-anticipated swim meet with
another undefeated team, at an away pool. And it was a long trek from
here. We had to take a highway I didn't even know existed, and drove
forever. I'm not even sure we were still in Pennsylvania, although Toney
assures me we were. The cars in the parking lot seemed to have an even
mix of PA, NY, and NJ license plates. So who the hell knows?
The school was, shall we say, a bit rough around the edges? Apparently
the cost of groundskeeping is simply not covered in the budget. Plus,
there was a lot of your standard Wal-Mart shoppers milling about: women
sporting gargantuan pastel t-shirts with teddy bears on the front and
forearm tattoos, men with mullets and vests, and fat little Campbell's
Soup kids, many with modified mohawks. Oh, it was a heady stew.
But their swim team is tough, and a
rival of ours, so there was electricity in the air. Toney is now
involved with the team in a formal fashion (it's always only a matter of
time), and immediately left me and the youngest Secret to ourselves. We
were on our own in this foreign land, and both sighed loudly and went in
search of the "observation deck."
It was upstairs in a balcony, and already depressingly crowded. We saw
no open seats, and were forced to stand with our backs to the wall. It
was roughly 120 degrees in there, and we were looking at three full
hours of it. Simply excellent.
After the teams finished warming up, a little dumplin' child on the
other team came up into the stands, still dripping water, and asked his
dad for two dollars, so he could buy something at the concession stand.
"What are you doing out there?!" the dad bellowed, "It
looked like you were taking a freaking coffee break every time you got
to the wall! You've got to make those turns quick, quick, quick!!"
The man had a tone of utter disgust in his voice, and I felt sorry for
the kid. All he wanted was some Twizzlers, and got public humiliation
instead.
The Secret was in the third race (which he won, thank you very much),
then he wasn't supposed to compete again until twenty-two. Screw this, I
said, let's go out to the car. My face was shining like James Brown (two
weeks ago) and I was starting to develop a mild case of claustrophobia,
up there in that packed-out subway car in the sky. So the youngest
Secret and I went outside, listened to an entire Fountains of Wayne CD,
ate some SmartFood, and let the cool breeze perform its magic.
When we returned, a full CD later, they were still only on race sixteen.
But at least there was a place to sit now, way down on the end of a
bench seat. We grabbed it, and I had half a cheek hanging over the edge.
Within minutes phantom ass syndrome kicked in, and the suspended quarter
of my rear end was completely robbed of blood flow. Somebody could've
stabbed me in the ass with a hunting knife, and I wouldn't have felt it.
Oh yeah, it was nothing short of paradise.
Long story a little less long.... Our team won, but it came down to the
final race. It was very exciting, and people were screaming their heads
off. After it was over I heard a few parents raising hell about
something or other, claiming one of our swimmers should be disqualified.
I was afraid things were about to turn ugly (forearm tattoos, remember),
but the complainers weren't getting any traction with their bitching, so
they let it drop.
By the time we got home it was completely dark, and the day was pretty
much shot. The meet had eaten up an entire Saturday, but, in retrospect,
it was time well-spent. Pass the yogurt nodules.
-- Today's question is kinda abstract, but I'll give it a shot anyway. I
was listening to Lynyrd Skynyrd on Sunday, on our way to Chili's in
Wilkes-Barre (which I'll tell you about tomorrow; Sweet Jesus), and
started thinking.... What would've become of that band, if their plane
hadn't, you know, plunged into a swamp.
And I believe Ronnie Van Zant would've eventually left them, and become
a "serious" songwriter. I think he would've outgrown the
drunken boogie band image, and went off on his own. Of course, when
money was tight, he'd embark on a summer tour with his old friends. But
for the most part, he'd become a Steve Earle type of guy. At least
that's the way I see it.
So my question today.... What do you think would've happened to
musicians and actors who died young, if they'd lived a full life? Tell
us about it in the comments, won't you?
Or, if you prefer, you can just talk about today's Further Evidence
link. Heh.
See ya tomorrow. permalink
January 5, 2007
-- Wow, it's Friday already. How did
that happen? Pretty cool. I guess it helps when you're actually busy at
work, and arguing with people, and muttering profane insults under your
breath all day, huh? Awesome. Another successful and fulfilling work
week in the bank.
Tonight I'm going to watch a movie called Christmas
Evil, which was suggested by one of your fellow Surf Reporters.
I'd never heard of it, know nothing about it, and am not sure what to
expect. Just the way I like it.... It's so much better when you don't go
into something with a handcart full of prejudices, ya know? When it
comes to this movie, I'm as open-minded as we all pretend to be about
everything.
I rented the DVD from Netflix, which continues to skip right over Black
Christmas, even though it's been at the top of my queue for
weeks. The pricks. I need me some old-school holiday-themed mass-murder.
To add insult to injury, they sent me a Homicide: Life on the Streets
disc that was broken in half. I'm not kidding, it was in two pieces.
Plus, the sleeve looked like somebody had recently wiped their ass with
it.
George is getting irritated!
-- I got a message yesterday that chilled me to the bone. It said it's
now time for me to migrate from my Adelphia email, to Comcast.
"It's simple!" they say. And "it only takes a few
minutes!" Yeah? Well, how come my nuts already hurt?
-- Toney and I are trying to buy a new stove for our kitchen. The one we
inherited when we bought the house is, as they say, shit. All the rest
of our appliances are the same brand and white. The stove is another
brand, and some kind of sickly beige. The oven gets red-hot on one side,
and a mild pinkish hot on the other. And it's just crying out to be in a
landfill somewhere.
So, we've been looking around, and found one that meets our needs at
Sears. It's on sale for eighty bucks off, and we almost bought it. But
wait! Through my job they offer us discounts on various items, and we
can buy Sears gift cards at fifteen percent less than face value. Maybe
we should order the cards, I told Toney excitedly, then use them to buy
the stove?! She reluctantly agreed, and that's what we did.
And now Fed-Ex has been trying to
deliver the damn things all week. Somehow they seem to know exactly when
nobody will be home, and they require a freakin' signature. The sale
ends tomorrow, and today is our last chance at receiving the gift cards.
I'm probably going to end up driving around in the dark tonight,
frantically running my hands through my hair and trying to hold back the
tears, in a desperate attempt at finding the Fed-Ex distribution center.
We should've just bought the stupid stove.
-- On a happier note, I had a little birthday money still festering in
my savings account, left over from late |
The State of My
Fat Ass
January 2007
