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December 29, 2006
-- This is the final update of 2006,
and I'd like to start by thanking Buck, Metten, and lakrfool
for their excellent contributions throughout the year. They've added a
lot of laughter and fun to the festivities, and I don't thank them
nearly enough. So, thanks guys. This is an all-volunteer army, and I
appreciate your service, sincerely.
Tonight I'll hoist yet another golden elixir in your honor.
Pretty special, huh?
Now I'd like to share with you a heartwarming holiday tale.... Steve
told me this one on Wednesday, and it's got Hallmark Hall of Fame
written all over it. You know, if the Hallmark Hall of Fame was
broadcast over on the Fucked-Upness Channel.
Steve's sister Teresa lives in South Carolina. She has a friend with a
beloved dog that was nearing its final days. The animal had already
survived cancer, and had been a cherished family companion for many
years. Now it was very old, and increasingly unstable. Clearly, the end
was near.
A few days before Christmas the man was out walking his beloved hound,
through a wooded area where they'd walked many times before. About
halfway into the journey, the dog began breathing heavily, then
collapsed. Upset, he dropped to his knees and checked to see if his old
friend was still breathing. Then, in a fit of desperation, he attempted
to resuscitate the animal by repeatedly pressing on its chest.
It was no good. The dog was gone. But, he told himself, if it had to
happen, he was glad it happened here, the place where they'd spent so
many fine days in the past. He sat there for a while, emotional and
drained. Finally, he began hoofing it back home to get his truck, so he
could retrieve the dog's body, and give it a proper burial.
And when he returned, he encountered something amazing. He walked into
the woods, and saw his old pet running down the path toward him! He was
wagging his tail and looked friskier and in better spirits than he'd
been in months. It was a miracle, nothing short of a Christmas miracle!
Then the dog died again, right at the man's feet. This time for good.
Happy holidays!
-- Before I call it a year, I'd like to
share with you two of my favorite Christmas presents, and a not-so-fave
that I gave the Secrets personally.
Toney and I focus most or our attention on the kids at Christmas, and
for a long time didn't exchange gifts at all. A couple of years ago we
started giving each other presents again, but they're still fairly
modest. Someday, maybe, we'll get back to the dating and early-marriage
level, but we're not quite there yet.
This is the kick-assiest of the kick-ass gifts that Toney gave
me this year, proving that you don't have to spend a fortune.... It's Quality
Street candy, straight out of England, and impossible to find here
in Scranton. Oh yeah, I'm gonna be all up in that.
And here's
what Steve gave me, a replica jersey of the Charleston
Charlies minor league baseball team, that used to play in our old
stomping grounds of Charleston, WV. The team has been defunct since
1983, but they started going downhill after the Pirates left town
following the '76 season, in my semi-humble opinion. As you can see,
this is a jersey from the glory days, when they were the Pittsburgh
Pirates' AAA farm team.
Steve said, "Is it big enou--? I mean, is it the right size?"
I don't know, it's an XXL. Perhaps if I sew another panel of fabric into
it?
Finally, I went out on Christmas Eve and bought the Secrets a video game
called Bully .
It's something that was quite controversial when first released, but
I've always been intrigued by it. It takes place in the halls of a fancy
prep school, and you're a semi-nerdy kid forced to negotiate the many
bullies, pricks, and assholes also enrolled there. I thought that was a
pretty cool premise for a video game, and have had my eye on it for
months. Toney was completely against it, but I broke her down, and went
out and snagged a copy at the very last second on Sunday.
And on Christmas day I sat in a chair and watched our kids beat the
living shit out of a virtual Mexican, or Puerto Rican, or whatever,
with a baseball bat. Maybe he wasn't Mexican, but that's the way I
remember it, a full-on hate crime. And I told them to hand it over. I'd
made a tactical error, and they'd just have to focus on their other
gifts for a while. The disc is now hidden inside the bunker somewhere,
and I don't know what I'm going to do with it.
Blowing up hicks with a death ray from a space ship is one thing, and
administering a savage beating with a length of lumber is another. Toney
was right, and I was wrong. As usual.
What were your favorite gifts this year? And have you ever given
somebody something that you later regretted? Tell us about it, won't
you? Use the comments link below.
-- And before I go.... I've added a couple of new sites to the official
Friends of TheWVSR list, over there in the long, manly blue column to
the left of this page.
The first is a blog authored by none other than The Genius himself, Phil
Hendrie. There was some debate as to whether it was really Phil, or
an imposter. But he confirmed that he is indeed the man behind the site
in a recent interview. Good stuff.
The second is by a new blogger named Bill
Oates. He's just starting out, but there's something about his
writings that feel right to me.... We've been in correspondence over the
past few days, and once he gets his site up and running at full
capacity, I think we'll all enjoy it.
So check 'em both out. You'll find the links under Friends of TheWVSR.
You guys have a great and safe New Years, and I'll see you on the other
side! permalink
December 27,
2006
-- I've been away for a while, and I'm
not going to apologize, even though I'm feeling the urge. It was
Christmas, it was chaos, and I refuse to say I'm sorry. So there. I
will, however, try to bring you partially up-to-date....
The bottom chunk of Saturday was fairly uneventful. I didn't drag my
swollen carcass downstairs until almost 10 in the morning, and by that
time Toney was long gone. She told me the previous night she planned to
do the grocery shopping early. And when she says early, she means early.
Like 7 am, or some such wack.
By the time I got out of bed she'd already been to three different
stores, and spent a terrifying amount of money. As I was plucking a
nighttime wedgie from the dank, dark recesses out back, Toney was
somewhere contemplating the heated exchange she'd had with a seasoned
citizen at the Wegman's olive bar ninety minutes earlier. She'd already
logged a day's worth....
My assignment was to dust and vacuum the house, but it's necessary to eeeease
into a Saturday. I put on a pot of Eight O'Clock bean coffee (the stuff
she'd left was like something out of a 1970s tire store vending machine
by now) and flopped down with the newspaper. The Secrets were killing
off Krauts or Japs or whatever on PS2, and I decided it was a good
counter-balance to the pussified crapola they're taught every day in
public school. So I contentedly read about the latest house fires and
sinkholes in and around Scranton, and power-farted through thick
upholstery.
Toney came home, and nothing was accomplished. Nothing. I helped her
schlep in the groceries, hoping it would be enough to stave off an
argument. But she was in a good mood, and my half-assery wasn't even
brought up. Merry Christmas!
After some internet time and a shower, I started dusting the house. No
fun. I'm not really a fan of sashaying from room to room with a rag and
a spray can, rubbing wooden fixtures. It's a bit gay, isn't it? But I'd
agreed to do it, so what options did I have? After finishing the task, I
broke out the vacuum cleaner (promptly snapping off the power button in
an explosion of broken plastic) and sucked-up about a dog and a
half-worth of dog hair. The house was slowly taking shape.
In the afternoon we went to a few
stores, to finalize our Christmas shopping. There was very little
remaining, so I wasn't too concerned about it. I knew it would be a
monster out there, but there wasn't much pressure on us, and I was
prepared to laugh right in the beast's face.
Target was our first stop, and it looked like a war zone. At the time
there wasn't an inordinate number of people inside, but there clearly had
been. Many of the shelves were empty, a few were completely
collapsed, and at least one was bent in a giant V, as if someone had
karate-chopped it. I saw a sequined red sweater lying in the middle of
an aisle, with sneaker prints and shopping cart tracks running across
it. A woman in her mid-20s walked past with what appeared to be a large
ham hock, even though Target has no known meat department.
But. surprisingly enough, the place wasn't any more busy than on a
normal day. We found our items, walked right up to a zitster in a
holiday-themed novelty-hat, and paid without incident. It was shockingly
easy. On our way to the car I called a woman in a Ford Explorer, who
almost ran us over, a "pig woman." And the Secrets seemed to
enjoy that immensely.
Drunk with success, I even indulged in another impulse purchase of a
York Peppermint Patty -- the official candy of homosexuality. Let 'em
talk, I don't care.
We drove past the mall on our way to Sam's (our exclusive club), and it
looked like full-on pandemonium. Cars were parked everywhere, including
atop the decorative landscaping. I wouldn't have agreed to submerge
myself in that mess, even if someone had pressed a gun to my temple. I
feared what we might find at Sam's. We'd dodged the bullet once, and
were obviously pushing our luck. I hoped the wheelchair-bound greeter
wasn't tipped over, his clothing shredded.
But there was nobody in the store, almost literally. We walked around
and it felt luxurious. Now this is an exclusive club! Toney
picked up the two or three items she needed, and we chose one of several
waiting cashiers, paid and left. Kick-ass. The roads were completely
clogged, but we were on a roll with our chosen destinations. A freakin'
roll.
Our shopping done, we headed for a bar/restaurant called Jim Dandy's,
where we planned to have our traditional Christmas Eve martini a day
early. Since visitors would be arriving at the Compound on Sunday, we
decided to recalibrate and go with Christmas Eve Eve this year.
None of us were very hungry, so we just got a few appetizers. And Toney
and I ordered our once-a-year drinks. "Two martinis up?" the
waitress asked. I had no idea what "up" meant, until I got
home and found an explanation on the internet. But I told her yes, of
course, it must be up. Why, you're not dealing with a common gang
of shit-kicking hillbillies here, madame.
We were served vodka martinis, which wasn't what we'd ordered. But
whatever. We nursed 'em slowly, scarfed down the 'tizers, and called it
a day. Our last sane day. Since it was now dark, somebody suggested we
drive around and look at Christmas lights before returning home. With
Russian booze still burning my sternum, I said that sounded like a fine
idea.
And that's when we got into a lengthy conversation that I need your help
with. It's my feeling that white lights only is a bit pretentious, and
kinda uptown. Colored lights are the lights of the common man, I
believe, and Toney surprised me by agreeing. Usually she shoots down my
"theories" with a theatrical roll of the eyes, but she
signed-on completely with my whites vs. coloreds observation.
Yeah, we've had white lights only in the past. And it corresponded
exactly with the period of our life when we were pretending to be
yuppies -- on a Dairy Queen clerk's income. But now that we're older and
more comfortable in our skin (ahem), we've returned to our roots. Our
Christmas tree is now covered in colored lights, and even our
"little tree" in the front yard has gone from blue-only to a
bastardized mix of blue, flashing white, and some kind of pale green.
It's not very Christmasy, but who cares? It's a tree in a yard.
What do you think about this? Are we way off, or on to something here?
Do white lights say one thing, and colored lights another? Tell me about
it in the comments, won't you? I need closure on this subject, straigh'
away.
And one more thing.... I shouldn't have skipped dinner Saturday night, I
really shouldn't have. When we got home I had a few Yuenglings while
watching TV, and before I knew what was going on, I was feeling it.
I woke up the next morning with my first hangover in years. I don't
usually drink enough to generate hangovers, and don't think I drank all
that much on Saturday. But the lack of food did me in.... I arose on
Sunday, Christmas Eve, feeling like someone had snapped-off a
screwdriver in my cranium; I had the liqui-shits and the whole nine
yards. I tried not to be too obvious about it, but I was dragging ass
all day long.
And so it goes.
More of this stuff next time, whenever that might be. And yes dammit,
I'm sorry for the extended downtime. Happy now? Jesus.
See ya soon. permalink
December 22,
2006
-- As another Bourbon Season nears its
end, I'd like to take this opportunity to thank you good folks for
making our little exercise in ridiculousness a daily, or semi-daily,
ritual.
TheWVSR is self-prescribed therapy, and helps keep me, well, saneish.
And it warms my big sluggish heart that it's somehow attracted so many
funny and talented readers. The site got infinitely better the day I
discovered Haloscan, and everyone could suddenly contribute to the fun.
Your comments are often smarter and wittier than my updates, and I
wouldn't have it any other way. I thank you, sincerely.
Things are going to turn quickly to chaos here on the Surf Report
campus, and I can't tell you when (or if) I'll be updating next week. I
certainly plan to, but this place is going to be like a crawlspace just lousy
with critters. The kids are out of school, we're going to have visitors
staying with us, and people will be in and out every day. Plus, you
know, there's adult beverages that need drinking.
So just check back from time to time, and I'll do my best to get
something up during the week. I've got my laptop, so I can barricade
myself inside the baffroom if necessary, and write while pretending to
experience digestive complications. Maybe I'll even go the extra
mile and take a nearly-empty squeeze bottle of ketchup in there, and
create sound effects? We'll see how it goes.
In the meantime, we'll gather 'round the ceramic logs, listen to the
gentle hissing of the natural gas jets, raise a comically-oversized
tumbler of bourbon 'n' something, and enjoy the soothing holiday sounds
of Run-DMC and Bryan "Pockmark" Adams. It'll be an old
fashioned Surf Report Christmas: On Half-Shirt! On Shuffler! On Bill
Oates! On Mumbles!! ...I'm sorry, I'm getting a little emotional
here.
So I hope all of you have a pleasant Christmas or Hanukkah, or any combination
thereof. I hope the food
is good and plentiful, and the cocktails
are flowing. I don't want to catch any of you posting stories at this
site, y'hear?
If, over the next few days, you feel the need for some great, obscure
holiday music in that mp3 format the kids are so crazy about, here's
your resource. And make sure you don't miss this
one, from my spiritual advisor, Father Ray
I've also taken the liberty of
uploading a Christmas-themed Phil Hendrie segment to YouSendIt.
It's from 2002, and features Coach Vernon Dozier, one of my favorite
Hendrie creations. He doesn't much care for people who lie in wait for
prime parking spaces at shopping centers. And it's hard to disagree with
the "man." The first 100 visitors can download it directly to
their desktop computer sets, as if by magic.
And before I call it a day here, I'd like to alert you to a little
non-holiday greatness, right
here. It's not only a list of the 50
Greatest Cartoons of All Time, as decided by the "animation
industry," but there are also links to almost every one of 'em.
Incredibly cool. Needless to say, somebody else did all the work on
this, and I didn't lift a single sausage finger to help. But I hope
you'll accept it as my gift to you....
Have a great holiday, folks. And beware the Nog Lip!
I'll see ya soon. permalink
December 21,
2006
-- Since it's standard operating
procedure for me to stumble around sleep-deprived, I've never really had
a problem drifting off at night. I climb atop the raised platform, start
to read, and in no time begin to feel the pull of the creepy-ass
insect-like dormancy state taking over. Then Toney has to prod me awake
six hours later, and we start the process all over again. Sleep has
never been an issue for me, during my entire adult life.
Until now, that is. A couple of nights last week I hit the sack
exhausted, then proceeded to wallow around in the sheets, flipping and
flopping for what must've been a couple of hours. And it happened a
third time earlier this week. One night I actually got up and found
myself wandering aimlessly around the house, like some old man.
This is completely foreign to me, and freaks me out a little. I'm
nocturnal by nature, and am always fighting an inclination to stay up
late. Then I have to hoist my swaddling heft out of bed before the
rooster crows, to get these ridiculous updates written, etc. It's a bad
combination that's surely shearing years off the back-end of my life.
But what's going to happen if I can't even sleep during the standard six
hour window of time?! How am I going to maintain my high-wire act of
family/work/website? Already I'm wobbling, occasionally nodding off at
red lights and whatnot. If I continue to have these flipping and
flopping episodes, I'll probably end up in the lumber aisle of Home
Depot, with a stranger packed into the wheel well of my car, and a wad
of orange vest embedded in the radiator.
And I can't have that.
-- How much you wanna bet this
kid sleeps just fine? Oh, I imagine he has a few nightmares
(especially after this article was published), where he wakes up
terrified and screaming. But he probably doesn't have a problem falling
asleep. You know, since he's fond of committing "acts of
self-love," all over household items. Heh. Wonder if Katie
Couric covered this story?
-- And speaking of terrified, you've simply gotta see this YouTube
video of Neil Young rockin' with DEVO. It features Booji Boy
inside his playpen, and is one of the most amazing (scary) things I've
seen in a good long time. Sweet sainted mother of Baxter Mothersbaugh,
and Todd.
-- I have a sense of recently seeing,
or hearing, a TV commercial advertising a show called Surgery Saved
My Life. I say I have a sense of it, because I can't really remember
any actual images, only the name of the show. But who would watch such a
thing?
I can't even stomach House, because there's always some sort of
medical procedure happening, and it gives me the freakin' heebie jeebies.
I sure as shit don't want to get myself a big bowl of salted peanuts in
the shell, snuggle 'neath the Scrote-watcher, and tune in for another
exciting installment of They Had My Lungs Out and Lying on a Table!
Ya know?
Everybody works with someone (usually a fat woman, for some reason) who
likes to drone on and on about their medical "complications,"
and those of their children. And our brains are always racing, trying to
find some tactful way to extract ourselves from the conversations. Why
would anyone willingly subject themselves to a televised version of
this?
I'm completely baffled.
-- Toney recently overheard two neighborhood kids talking as they walked
past our house, about their MySpace pages. We sorta know one of them, he
used to play with the oldest Secret back in the day. But he's in seventh
or eighth grade now, and is a million miles removed from our kids (who
still act like boys, not pasty-ass gangstas).
Curious, I did some detective work, and found his page. There's a big
Q&A thing on there, where he answers a million or so questions. One
is, "What's the first thing you think about when you wake up in the
morning?" His answer? Yes, that's correct, "titty
fucking."
-- And I know this one is sorta brief, but I need to get to work. Before
I go though, I'd like to get your feedback on something. A few nights
ago a woman, who is working on our mortgage refinance, called our house
around 10 pm. Just as chipper as shit, she said she just wanted to give
us an update.
This irritated me a little, not because I was asleep or anything, but
because it breaks the rules. It's my understanding that you're not
supposed to make business calls after 8 o'clock, and you shouldn't call
friends or family after 9. Isn't that the standard? Or did I just make
that up in my head?
What do you think about this? And what are the other telephone rules? I
need to verify a few things here.
Use the comments link if you have anything on this, or anything else for
that matter.
And I'll see ya tomorrow. permalink
December 20,
2006
-- I'm almost at the end of the road
with 2006, at least as far as my job is concerned. Tomorrow is my last
real workday of the year. I might go in for a couple of hours on Friday,
to take part in the Ballbuster, but then again, I might not. We'll just
see how it goes. My boss left it up to me, and I instantly thought,
"Hell yeah! I'm outta here, jack!" But then the guilt started
creeping in....
In any case, it's almost over. Today they're having the big holiday
buffet at work. As you might've guessed, I'm not really a fan. But at
least it's not a "pot luck" (aka other peoples' filth),
it's catered. Yes, it'll probably be five or six stainless steel vats up
on stilts with fire beneath them, housing canned green beans, some sort
of sausage and peppers conglomeration, and a few other things.
Then we'll get to eat with people we don't like ("Busy?"), and
walk away somehow hungrier than when we went in. Happy holidays!
Wonder if they'll ever find a cure for chronic cynicism?
-- I was at the beer store a couple of nights ago (go figure), and the
whole front end of the building was missing. What was once brick and
plate glass was now outsize sheets of plywood. I asked the guy what
happened, and he said an old woman came crashing through a few nights
earlier. She pulled into a parking space out front, then mashed the gas
pedal instead of the brake. "Jimmy was sitting in that chair right
over there, and could've been killed," he said, with high concern.
I made a joke about her gas pedal getting stuck, a vehicular malfunction
that seemingly happens only to people in their 80s and 90s. But he
didn't think it was funny, and neither did the woman in line behind me.
She looked at me with sadness, then shook her head. And the guy behind
the counter reminded me that "Jimmy could've been killed."
Damn, man. Beer store patrons don't usually have the paint stirrer stuck
quite so deep up their asses. They might need to up the dosage.
-- It could be a bit late to get my requests in, but I'd love for Santa
to bring me one of these
babies for Christmas. For an aging hipster such as myself, it
might possibly be The Greatest Thing Ever. I'm not going to allow myself
to get too excited too early, but if it does all the things they
claim, I'll probably be forced to change into looser-fitting trousers
soon. Hello?
-- Here's
another just-added item to the Surf Report wish list. It's the first
season of Saturday Night Live, complete and uncut. Apparently it
was a wide-open bitch to get all the music rights straightened out, and
it's a minor miracle the DVDs ever made it to market. Season 2, I hear,
might not ever see the light of day.
Anyway, there's undoubtedly big chunks of the first season that I've
never seen, because the show wasn't carried in my neck of the woods
then. I think they just ran old movies, or some such crapola, during the
time slot.
I remember sitting in a waiting room somewhere, flipping through a Time
or Newsweek, and seeing an article about the hippest show on
television. There was a picture of Chevy Chase sitting behind the anchor
desk, and another of Belushi dressed up as a bee. I knew nothing about
it (who are these people?!), and couldn't find it on the dial anywhere.
Surprisingly enough, Charleston, WV was late to the party. And it made
me a little crazy.
So I plan to purchase the box set and exact my revenge on WSAZ TV, just
as I vowed to do thirty-one years ago. Soon, I will rule the world!
-- And speaking of DVDs, Netflix has skipped over Black
Christmas three times now, and it looks like I won't be able to
watch it until after the holiday. Dammit! Brad has a copy at home right
now, and I'm convinced it's the only one Netflix stocks. To help prove
this theory, I've asked him to put a small red dot on the sleeve, before
returning it. If/when I receive the movie, and the dot is there, then...
by golly, I'll know.
-- How does something like this happen?
Today I need a haircut, rather urgently, and yesterday I didn't.
How is it possible?
-- Here's a
heartwarming little video for the holiday season. Gather all the
children 'round, grab yourself a 'nog, and hit the play button. ....I'm
sorry, I'm getting a little emotional here.
-- It irritates Toney that whenever a new issue of Rolling Stone
or Entertainment Weekly arrives in the mail, I immediately turn
to the back and read the reviews. It's one of those unexplainable little
things that gets under her skin, and we've had actual mini-arguments
about it. She says that magazines are not meant to be read
back-to-front, and I ask her why she's getting so worked up about it.
Heck, the reviews are the only things I care about in those magazines. I
have no interest in a 15,000 word profile on Gwen Stefani, and I sure as
shit ain't reading the political articles in RS. I mean, seriously. I'd
rather slam my face into the whirling blades of an industrial fan.
But I understand things like that. Hell, this whole website
exists because of things like that. People get on the tip of my very
last nerve every single day, with their irritating quirks. And it often
sounds ridiculous and nit-picky when I try to explain it to people. So I
usually just keep it to myself until it festers, and I end up writing
about it here.
So, my question today is about things people do that drives you nuts,
unexplainably so. I'm not talking about the smacking of lips and the
mispronouncing of words like "library," Those are highly
explainable. I'm talking about the things that you can't really justify.
Hopefully I'm being clear here....
Use the comments link below to tell us about it, won't you?
And I'll see ya tomorrow. permalink
December 19, 2006
-- In the Circuit City ad on Sunday,
there was a TV listed that I was prepared to buy. "This is
it!" I proclaimed, gesticulating wildly as if I were onstage. I was
ready to take the plunge, to whip out the MasterCard and let the chips
fall where they may. It was, as they say, almost too good to be true.
Here's
the television. It's a 42-inch Samsung, and the ad said it featured a
1080p Full HD picture -- for nine hundred bucks! As we used to say back
home, fuckin' A! I'd be there when the doors opened, inappropriately
aroused.
But, as so often happens, it really was too good to be true.
There was a "misprint" in the ad, and the TV's not 1080p, it's
720p. I did some research online, and went from hyper-excitement to
crushing disappointment in nothing flat. I know, deep down, that I
wouldn't be able to tell the difference between the two resolutions. But
I keep TVs for a long time, and if I'm going to fork over a wheelbarrow
full of cash for a new one, I want to be able to fool myself into
believing that I bought the best.
So, the waiting continues. I read somewhere that after the holidays TV
prices are going to plunge. Supposedly 50-inch 1080p sets will be
available for less than $1000. And when that day arrives, mister, I'll
be there with my fleshy smiling face pressed against the glass, as they
unlock the doors.
-- A week or so ago I mentioned that Sunshine might appear in the studio
audience of America's Funniest Home Videos. Well, we didn't see
her, even when we slowed everything down with the DVR. She was
apparently sitting somewhere where the camera couldn't find her.
However, her friend's son won the ten grand, with a video that featured
a dog playing the drums.
Over the weekend they returned to Los Angeles to compete for $100,000,
and it sounds like it didn't go the way they'd hoped. Because Sunshine
is now spinning wild theories involving the Disney Corporation and the
international Jewish banking conspiracy. Or some such thing.
Everything's a conspiracy with that woman. It's hilarious. When
her candidate loses an election, it was stolen. When her football team
gets beaten, the mob had it fixed for gambling money. Nothing is as it
seems. We're all being fooled, and it's so completely obvious to anyone
willing to open their eyes. Highly entertaining.
-- A few days ago I linked to a list of
the 10
Creepiest Fast Food Mascots, which I thought was incredibly on the
mark. Surf Reporter Carolyn has now upped the ante, and taken it
international. Here's
a pic she snapped in Paris, of a horrifying fry man. You can actually
see others doing double-takes in the street. Good stuff. Thanks Carolyn!
-- Yesterday I picked up the latest addition to the world-renowned
Bunker Collection. I'd planned to have my Shane
MacGowan poster framed, along with an old poster advertising the
notorious Mr.
Mike's Mondo Video, but got cold feet. The guy wanted way too
much to frame Shane (I don't think he cared for it), but gave me a
decent price on Mr. Mike. So I decided to just go with the latter.
And here
it is, finally in its rightful place on the babyshit green walls of the
Surf Report bunker. Don't worry Shane, you're next....
-- This doesn't have anything to do with anything, but Toney bought two
pounds of Dunkin' Donuts coffee
a few days ago, and the shit is damn good. It'll keep your
regular too.
-- It's Tuesday, and that means it's time for another dispatch straight
outta Normal, over at Jason Headley Dotcom. Right
here. I think I forgot to link to last week's update, and it was
especially good, so be sure to check
it out as well.
-- This
is a funny promo for the new season of 24, that Brad alerted me
to. Happy holidays, from the folks at the Christmas Toys Unit.
-- And it's time once again for the question of the day. Let me set this
bitch up, like I'm on Letterman.... Yesterday I told you about an
encounter my brother and I had with a rogue turd in a motel swimming
pool in Canada. I'd like to flesh that story out a bit, if I might.
When I was twelve or thirteen we went on a great family vacation to the
northeastern part of the country. We visited New York City, took in a
game at Fenway Park, and went to the Baseball Hall of Fame in
Cooperstown. It was the best vacation ever!
We also saw Niagara Falls, and ventured into Canada for a day or two. On
the first night inside the exotic foreign land, we stayed at a motel on
the other side of the border from the falls. It was just full-on
tourist, with hotels and motels and cheesy wax museums lining the
streets. My parents chose a place that looked OK from the outside, but
was pretty goddamn shabby on the inside.
I remember there were little tables beside the beds, with no legs. They
were just attached to the wall, and were slanted radically, as if people
had sat on them with their big fat American asses. When I flipped on the
bathroom light, roaches scampered in every direction. And on the wall,
between the beds, was a print of Blue
Boy, and it looked like someone had shot out one of his eyes with a
.22 caliber rifle.
My brother and I began howling in protest, and my Dad got mad. He rarely
loses his cool, and when he does it'll get your attention. I can't
remember the exact words he used, but he basically accused us of being a
couple of pampered fancy lads, and went on at length about some of the
places he stayed when he was our age. This is like the Plaza compared to
those dumps, he told us. He made it very clear that we would be
staying there, and it was in our best interest to just shut up about it.
Tension hung in the air during the silent minute that followed his
diatribe, then he looked over at one of those comically slanted tables,
and said, "And if any of you see that glass start to slide off that
nightstand, try to catch it. I don't want it to break."
Uproarious laughter, and an instant end to hostilities....
After we got settled into our horrible room, my brother and I wandered
down to the pool. And we found kids scampering for the ladders, and
screaming in horror. The hell? There was a turd floating in the water!
How in God's name does something like that happen? It had to be on
purpose, people don't just go around accidentally ejecting full-sized
logs all willy-nilly through a leg of their swimsuit. Ya know? At least
not here in America.
A boy, roughly our age, was standing on the side of the pool, doing a
play-by-play and quoting the opening segment of the Six Million
Dollar Man: "It's breaking up! It's breaking up!!"
Yes, it was quite a memorable stay, there north of the border. And I'd
be much obliged if you could tell us about your worst hotel/motel
experience. Use the comments link below. I have a feeling this could be
a good one....
Have a great day, boys and girls.
I'll see you tomorrow. permalink
December 18,
2006
-- I'm not working today. A couple of
weeks ago Toney and I circled December 18th on the calendar
(figuratively speaking only... no actual circling took place), and vowed
to use the day to finalize Christmas shopping, and generally tie up
whatever holiday-related loose ends remained. This had to happen on a
weekday, of course, when the Secrets weren't around. So, I asked for the
day off, it was approved, then everything promptly went to hell.
I won't bore you with all the boring details, but I'm on my own here.
Toney has to be elsewhere today, so it's all up to me. And not only will
I be shouldering responsibilities, but our pleasant lunch without
the younglings won't be happening either. It's not exactly the way I had
it pictured.... It went from being a nice time away from the office,
submerged tits-deep in Christmas, to a day of chores all by myself.
Sucks. My usual role in these situations is to tag along, make sarcastic
comments, and mock the general public. To have me actually in charge
is risky, at best. And it casts a whole different light on the day. I
think I'd rather just go to work....
-- A week or so ago I told you about my internet being down, and how
Adelphia (Comcast?) blamed it on my wireless router. Remember that?
Well, at the time I didn't believe them, I figured they were just
engaging in a wee bit of blame-shifting. But guess what happened?
That's right, the router shit the bed.
This occurred last week sometime, and I tried everything to get it going
again. I reset it multiple times, read the manual and did all the Stupid
Human Tricks it suggested. I may as well have been blowing diarrhea in
the wind.... The thing would function correctly for five minutes, I'd
get all excited, then it would go down again. Finally it just stopped
working altogether.
Grrrr... I bypassed the router, and plugged the cable directly into my
computer. And that was fine for me, but Toney couldn't access the
internet upstairs. Plus, we're supposed to have visitors for Christmas,
and I'm gonna need my laptop so I can barricade myself in the bathroom
with a Yuengling, cry softly, and surf the Web in peace.
On Thursday (I think), I passed one of the MIS guys in the hall at work,
and jokingly asked how much he'd charge to come out to my house and get
our network straightened out. Without hesitation, he said, "My
standard fee is fifty dollars." I started blinking real fast, and
said, "What do you mean, standard fee?"
Turns out he does a lot of that kind of
thing on the side, and said he'd be happy to get me squared away. For,
you know, fifty bucks. I didn't commit to anything, but it sounded
mighty tempting. I'd somehow screwed-up the passwords on the thing, and
was worried about uninstalling the software and reinstalling the new
stuff, etc. It had fiasco written all over it.
Long story short, I called him and he came out on Sunday. He told me on
the phone that he'd installed dozens of networks, and it should be quick
and easy. I explained that I already had a wounded router, and he'd have
to rip all that out and replace it with a new one -- which I planned to
buy later in the day. He said no problem.
But it was a problem. The dude was here for hours, and that made
me happy. Not because I especially enjoyed his company or anything, but
because I felt like I got my money's worth. If he'd come in here and set
it all up in ten minutes, then took fifty off me, I would've been
pissed. So I was silently cheering all the problems he encountered, and
kept noting (accurately, I believe) that for every hour he worked, it
would've taken me ten.
Money well-spent. Pass the goddamn beer nuts.
-- Speaking of work, the Shuffler actually said something to me a few
days ago. Usually she just shuffles past my office door, like she's
cross-country skiing, with the same expressionless expression frozen on
her face. But one day last week she stopped me in the hall and asked me
a question:
"What exactly do you do here?" That second do seemed to
be loaded with implications, and I didn't much care for it. Plus, I was
amazed that her expression still didn't change, even when she was
talking.
I told her my job title, and that didn't seem to register. "Yeah,
but what do you do?" she demanded, again putting emphasis on
the do out-back. I started to answer, and she interrupted me.
"Every time I walk past your office, you're in there watching that
television."
The crap? It's not a television, I explained, it's a computer monitor.
And, I wanted to add, you're taking great liberties in calling that
walking.
Ho-ly shit.
-- Mark Maynard has involved me
in some sort of questionable chain-letter type of deal, where I'm
apparently required to tell you folks five things about myself, that you
probably don't already know. If I don't, I'll be blind by dawn, or
experiencing something akin to a projectile miscarriage, or some such
thing. Boy, he's gonna pay for this one....
To maintain my "health," here are five things:
I've never smoked pot, or taken any so-called recreational drugs.
(Except for alcohol, of course.) It's never even crossed my mind.
I've never been outside of the United States, except for one brief (and
terrifying) trip into Canada, where my brother and I encountered a turd
in a motel pool. A kid stood on the edge and did the play-by-play:
"It's breaking up! It's breaking up!!"
I've never been in a real car wreck. I once sideswiped a woman driving a
shiny Camaro, in Parkersburg, WV, but that can hardly be considered a
wreck. She did, however, call me a fucker.
I've never eaten Lucky Charms.
I'm very good with tongue twisters.
So there you go. I'm now supposed to pass this hex on to five other
"bloggers," but I refuse to perpetuate it. If that sends me
into miscarriage, then so be it. Of course, if you want to list five
things on your own (and maybe save my life), that's your business. Use
the comments link below. I'm washing my hands of the whole thing, right
here and now.
Thanks Mark! That's simply excellent.
-- Speaking of tongue twisters, here's the hardest one I've ever
encountered: Which wristwatch is a Swiss wristwatch? Just so
you're up to date on it.
-- Dwight from The Office was in Scranton this weekend, for a
paid public appearance, but I didn't go. I briefly considered trying to
get a picture of him holding the Fish, but common sense finally
kicked-in. And judging from this
article, it was a wise choice. People flew in from Boston to be
there!? I would've surely had a nervous breakdown in a crowd like that.
-- On Saturday the four of us went to Five
Guys hamburgers, in Dickson City, for lunch. It was very good, as
always, but check out the
way the charge appeared on my bank's website! I'll never be able
to look those people in the eyes again....
And I've got lots more of this dingleberry material, but I'd better get
the highly disappointing day started.
See you folks tomorrow. permalink
December 15,
2006
-- I made it through the company
Christmas party last night without incident. No fires, no fist fights,
and no uncontrollable sobbing.... You won't find my photo on the Smoking
Gun this morning, and I didn't spend the night in a jail cell with a man
known only as "Chicago." I consider it a victory.
The party was scheduled to start at 5 o'clock, and was held at a bar I'd
never been to, in a town I'd never heard of. I followed another guy from
work, and we wound through residential areas, across bridges, and past
grocery stores with unfamiliar names. I began to wonder if we were even
still in Pennsylvania. How in God's name would I find my way home?!
Finally we arrived, and it was a drinking establishment of the
shitkicker variety. They were blasting horrible contemporary
"country" music inside (Hank Williams is spinning in his
grave), and the bathrooms were labeled, Cowboys and Cowgirls. There were
dozens of strangers surrounding the bar, many still bound-up in work
clothes, talking real loud and pouring draft beer down their necks as if
they were entered in some sort of contest.
And, of course, smoking. The whole world, it seemed, was smoking. I
think I'm going to have to throw my coat in the trash.
They'd partitioned-off a corner of the bar for us, and a few people had
already arrived. Nobody seemed to know what to do, and there was a brief
period of standing around and feeling uncomfortable. But a hostess(?)
finally passed out stickers that said PARTY on them, and we were told to
put them on our shirts. These stickers, she said, gave us full access to
anything and everything served there. "So, have fun!"
she shouted, just as chipper as shit.
Most acted like it was Christmas morning, and almost sprinted to the
bar. They were treating it like a buffet of booze: let's see, I'll have
one of these, and maybe a couple of those....
But, because of the full line-up of mental illnesses, I started looking
into the future, and saw myself pulled over by a cop with five or six
beers sloshing around in my belly, and a comically-oversized signboard
stuck to the front of my shirt that read PARTY. And it wasn't a pretty
picture.
I ordered some kind of Samuel Adams
winter brew (tasty!), and got a few, "Well get a load of Mr. Fancy
Pants" glances. But I'll be damned if I'm drinking Coors Light, out
of the plastic bottle with easy-pour neck, or whatever. Especially when
everything is free. I defiantly took my fag beer and returned to our
corner.
And it wasn't too bad. They eventually brought out a bunch of pizzas and
hot wings and a giant sub sandwich cut up into about a hundred
individual servings. I talked to people, drank a few more of those spicy
beers, and ate sausage pizza. But, way back in the musty recesses of my
mind I worried about a DUI. It was nagging at me, not allowing me to
fully cut loose.
Lord knows I never used to give it a thought. I'm not proud of it, but I
have a long history of not giving it a thought. I used to quote
Kinison, the great philosopher, who once said, "How are we supposed
to get home?!"
But, of course, that was in the old days, before I was married and had
kids and responsibilities and common sense. Now I live in fear of the
DUI roadblock, and "Mr. Kay step out of the vehicle, and remove
your pants and undergarments." I don't know why that last part is
always tacked-on, but it is.
I talked to a guy who saw the queer beer in my hand, and was shocked to
learn that he has an apparent encyclopedic knowledge of microbrews. Who
knew? We talked for a long time about the Pacific Northwest beers I
love, and not only had he heard of them, but also knew their history. I
would've never guessed him the type. And now I suppose we'll have
something to talk about at the office, besides, "Busy?"
There was only one uncomfortable moment. A woman asked where I live, I
told her, and her face scrunched-up with open disgust. It was as if she
went from liking me to hating me, in an instant. But, of course, this is
nothing new, and I shouldn't let it irritate me. I shouldn't but I do.
Somehow we ended up buying a house in a town the locals view as uppity
and snooty. When we moved here we knew nothing of the area, and based
our decision on school district, and nothing else. As it turns out, our
town has a reputation for being full of rich snobs who believe their
solid waste carries the aroma of fresh flowers and apple pie.
It's not really true (if I'm rich then the Pope plays bass in Night
Ranger), but that perception took hold a long time before we got here,
and there's no changing it. And folks will let you know how they feel
about it too, loud and clear. Just speaking the name is like blowing a
big saucy cauliflower fart in their presence. Assumptions are jumped to,
and opinions are formed, all willy-nilly.
Whatever. I slowly savored four beers, between the hours of five and
eight, and got the hell out of there. By the time I left, a big chunk of
the group had splintered off and were doing shots and getting wild.
There was chanting going on, and the whole gang was sporting big ol'
Jack O' Lantern grins. I have a feeling many of them won't be at work
today....
But that's their problem. Fuck 'em. Have Jeeves bring the car around.
-- I promised to tell you about my conversation with the Shuffler today,
but it'll have to wait until next time. I need to call it a day here.
Before I go, though, I have a few bloggy links for ya.
This
is an excellent list of the Ten Creepiest Fast Food Mascots. I think
I've written about Mr. Softee before. Holy shit! And who can argue with
their number one choice? Certainly not me.
And here's
another list, also excellent, of the 40 Best Celebrity Rumors. Some of 'em
are new to me, and most of the descriptions are hilarious. Be sure to
check it out.
Did they miss anything on either of those lists? If so, tell us about it
in the comments. Tell us about it, real good.
And finally.... a Surf Report holiday tradition. This
is Red Sovine, performing the seasonal favorite "Billy's Christmas
Wish." As I've mentioned before, I am a blood relative of Red
Sovine; he was my paternal grandmother's first cousin. I'm not sure
what that makes him to me, but something. The song is a real uplifting
experience, featuring Santa Claus, tales of drunken abuse, and orphan
death. Pass the eggnog!
You guys have a great weekend, y'hear?
I'll see ya on Monday. permalink
December 14, 2006
-- I was coming out of the oldest
Secret's swim meet on Sunday, when my cell phone rang. It was Steve, and
he wanted to know if I'd heard the news. What news? I asked.
"Charlotte died!" he shouted.
What in the stir-fry hell?! My aunt Charlotte died? I think my Dad said
she was supposed to have dinner with them that very day. Wonder what
happened? And why was I getting this information through Steve?! It was
all so very confusing.
"No, no," he hollered, "Not your aunt Charlotte!
Charlotte, the owner of Charlotte's Grocery in Dunbar!"
Wha'? Charlotte's Grocery? That place was open when I was in grade
school, we're talking the early 1970s, and closed by the time I reached
Junior High, I think. What did he mean, had I heard the news? Did I miss
an episode of Obscure Retailers of the Distant Past on the
Discovery Channel, or something?
But, of course, Charlotte's was mighty important to us when we
were younglings. In fact, as best as I can tell, it existed exclusively
for kids. My recall capacity might be a tad skewed (anything's
possible), but I can't remember any adults ever being in that store. No,
it was all about candy, ice cream, and soda.
I'm pretty sure they stayed afloat almost exclusively because of
allowance money.
And I used the term soda up there, but that's not what it was called. It
was Coke, regardless of the flavor or brand. This led to people saying
things like, "Dr. Pepper is the only Coke I like." I had
cousins who lived in Ohio, and they called it "pop," which
made (and makes) my skin crawl. But I digress....
Charlotte's was your standard neighborhood store, a small cinderblock
building with glass doors in the front, planted in the middle of a
residential area. When you walked in, the counter was to the left and a
big chugging ice cream cooler was to the immediate right (I think). The
entire front-end of the place was piled high with candy and baseball
cards and all manner of greatness. If a kid went in there with a
quarter, they could spend upwards of thirty minutes deciding on what to
buy, because the selection was so massive. It was best to just limit
yourself to one dime at a time.
I remember buying comically oversized
blocks of bubble gum there, roughly the size of a pack of cigarettes. I
believe it was called Big Mouth, but I could be wrong about that. The
block was perforated down the middle, and came in regular bubble gum
flavor, grape, and green apple. That shit was a dentist's wet-dream. And
we treated it as sport to see if an entire pack could be crammed inside
our mouths at once. The whole kiddie population of Dunbar, it seemed,
was walking around with green juice dribbling off their lips, and
gasping for air.
I also bought a lot of those giant Pixie Sticks there, which were
nothing more than a length of rubber tubing filled with processed sugar.
It was diabetes by the yard! (Or, as the disease was called back then, sugar.)
And those round orange ice cream deals, called Push-Ups.... I remember
eating about a million of those babies. I liked when they started
melting a little, up against the cardboard. Yum, I wish I had one right
now.
Charlotte also introduced us to gambling. She had a bubble gum machine
by the cash register that took nickels. Inside was the normal crapola,
but mixed-in were several striped balls. If a person was lucky enough to
get a striped ball, they won one of the coveted "purple cows"
on display high on a shelf behind the counter. The cows were plastic
figurines, or some such, and I have no idea why everyone wanted one. But
it was very exciting indeed, gaming there at Charlotte's Casino.
My cousin Larry and I bought a metric shitload of trading cards in that
store as well, with pictures of motorcycles on them. But not just any
motorcycles, choppers! Between the two of us, we surely had the
complete set of that dubious series. It's too bad they didn't include
any actual bikers in the set, perhaps pictured with their boot on the
neck of a hippie or something. And maybe a glossary of the terms they
used, like "riding bitch."
And even more bizarre.... Do any of you remember a brief but baffling
trend where folks plastered stickers all over everything, that said
nothing but VOTE? It was probably around the 1972 presidential election,
and every kid had the word VOTE, in varying fonts and designs, stuck to
their notebooks. Needless to say, you could purchase the stickers at
Charlotte's, in packs of five. And what the hell, man? VOTE??
What are the other strange-as-crap non-sports trading cards? I seem to
remember an unpopular series that featured inventions of the future,
or something along those lines. And founding fathers trading cards!
"I'll trade you an Alexander Hamilton for your Aaron Burr...."
I mean, seriously. Who did they think would actually buy something like
that?!
Ahem.
So there you go. I guess the news of Charlotte's
passing wasn't so obscure after all? In fact, the update you just
read was almost twice as long yesterday morning, and I decided not to
use it. The thing was so rambling and batshit, it felt like a Robert C.
Byrd speech on the floor of the Senate. And I can't have that. So, I
spent this morning unwriting -- for what it's worth.
The building that was once Charlotte's is still standing in Dunbar, but
it was turned into a "house" somewhere along the line. It
still looks exactly like a neighborhood store though, except there's a
wooden door on the front, and a porch light. Apparently some folks
believe a porch light possesses the power to transform any structure
into a home. And they are sadly mistaken.... I bet drunks still
occasionally stumble into the current owners' living room, and ask for a
pack of Pall Mall straights.
-- And that's all I can do today.... My brain is fried-up like a skillet
of pork. For the first time in my life, I'm having trouble sleeping at
night. What's that all about?! I don't know, but I don't much care for
it. In any case, we can all be thankful we've got Buck to bail us out of
this thing. Right
here.
Thanks man, your timing is impeccable.
I'll be back tomorrow, hopefully refreshed and amongst the living again.
I've got my Red Hatter Christmas party tonight, and I really need to
tell you about the insane conversation(!) I had yesterday with the
Shuffler. Ho-ly shit.
So don't touch that dial. permalink
December 12,
2006
-- I'm invited to join a bunch of
people from work Thursday night "for a few drinks," some sort
of informal Christmas party in lieu of, you know, an actual
company-sanctioned event. We're supposed to meet at a bar in a town I've
never heard of, at five o'clock. The ending time, according to the
email, is a wink-wink nudge-nudge question mark.
I automatically accepted the invitation, but now I'm hearing talk in the
halls that concerns me. Apparently everybody, everybody, is
planning to get bed-shitting drunk. I'm not sensing even a hint of
restraint among the participants. There's discussions of kamikaze
pitchers and shot slamming and toasting the sunrise with tequila. One
guy, in regular conversational tones, said, "I'm going to drink
myself straight into a coma."
An older lady, who is, I think, a member of that Red Hat gang of
shrieking senior citizens you see at malls and whatnot, has vowed to
"get crazy."
What am I getting myself into? I don't even know what a kamikaze is, and
have no intentions of finding out. I don't want to get trapped with a
bunch of pukin' assholes inside a musty wood-paneled "banquet"
room in the rear of a neighborhood tavern, all of 'em slurring, "Oh
come on Jeff, you California faggot, drink like you're from
Pennsylvania!" If I'm here for fifty years, I'll still be from
California to these people.....
And the thought of Red Hatters Gone Wild is not exactly my idea of a
pleasant evening. Ya know? She'd better just keep her hands to herself,
that's all I'm sayin'.
Have you been to any of these so-called parties this year? How did it
go? I know it's important to be semi-social, but I've got a bad feeling
about this thing. Visions of paramedics are dancing in my head. There's
a palpable and still-gathering dark energy surrounding the event, a lot
of pent-up aggression, or some such.
I'll probably end up on the Smoking Gun.
-- On Saturday I went to church. No, that's not a typo, it actually
happened. Several years ago we decided the Secrets should have at least
a casual exposure to religion, and Toney started taking them to the
local Catholic church. She was raised a Catholic, and went to Catholic
school, and all that stuff, so it was a natural thing to do. The bulk of
my religious background is confined largely to the half-season of Seventh
Heaven I watched a few years back.
This weekend our youngest boy had to
apologize for the first time. Is that what they call it, apologizing?
I'm not sure, but it's a big deal. I got myself all trussed-up in dress
clothes, and the four of us went to the church. Our Lady of the Perogies,
I think.
Our names were posted at the end of a certain row of pews, and we took a
seat there. A woman was up in the balcony playing an organ, something
slow and mournful. Once she got all cranked up, and I could've sworn she
was about to break out with "Crocodile Rock." But she got hold
of herself, and quickly backed it off.
It's all very ceremonial, isn't it? I found myself feeling intimidated.
When the priest arrived the whole crowd began standing and sitting in
unison, and there was some sort of mysterious call-and-response going
on. At one point everybody in the place yelled out, "Lord have
mercy!" Where I come from, that's what you say when the chili's too
hot.
I was completely confused, and thought the crowd was about to start
doing The Wave. I felt like I was the only person in the house who
didn't know what he was doing, and that everybody else knew it.
Finally they had all the kids line up, and there were four
priests there to expedite the process. Each child waited their turn,
then approached a priest to confess their sins. I'm not sure what an
eight year old has to confess, probably some cookie-based crime in most
instances, but that's what they were doing.
The youngest Secret went into it without any obvious traces of fear. I
would've been a basket-case, needless to say, so I was proud of him.
After the apologizing was over, we made a beeline for home. I stripped
out of my sausage-casing dress slacks, then it was time for the
all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet. There I committed the sin of gluttony
with cashew chicken, followed by an afternoon of blatant bald-faced
sloth.
And I plan to do it again.
-- Speaking of religion, the Pastor McPurvis sends along this
photo of himself sporting the Surf Report colors during a recent
hospital stay with his daughter. He reports that she's now doing well,
and the shirt easily withstood the stresses of the event. Good deal, all
around!
-- Surf Reporter Brian has contributed two new extra-cool Smoking Fish
sightings, right
here. This land is your land, this land is my land/From the Pink
Pony, to the grassy knoll, man.... Thanks, Brian!
-- Here's
a Christmas tree infinitely cooler than ours -- dryer
lint or no dryer lint. Next year I might try that out with the
golden elixir. It would make everyone so proud!
-- And finally, the
video for one of the greatest Christmas songs of them all:
"Fairytale of New York." Oh yeah.
See you folks tomorrow. permalink
December 11,
2006
-- We got the Christmas tree up this
weekend, and it's a darn good thing we employed the strategy of tree and
lights one night, decorations and ornaments another night.
Because there were some problems.
Last year we bought all new lights for the tree. We used them, then took
time to roll the things into neat loops, gingerly placed them inside a
box, and stored it high on a shelf in the basement. And now, one year
later, half of one string won't work. The artificial made-in-China tree
went up without incident (although the paint has started wearing off a
few of the limb tips, pointing to future "opportunities"), and
there was no issue with stringing up the lights either.
Cocky and drunk with success, I wondered if we should just go for it,
and do a full-on decoration in a single evening? We were on a roll!
Then Toney plugged the lights in, and there was a big chunk of
the tree that remained dark. WTS?! I did some investigating, and it
wasn't a complete strand that refused to work, it was half a
strand. We pinpointed where everything shit the bed, and checked the
wires around it. It looked fine. I changed the first bulb in the
non-cooperating section, thinking that maybe we'd gone back to the 1960s
somehow, but it was a laughable waste of time. Grrrr....
My right hand involuntarily began running through my hair, and I yelled,
for reasons unknown, "Balls and bitches!" (It takes great
effort not to just let if fly in front of the kids, and things sometimes
get mixed-up during the editing process.) What would cause a string of
lights to just suddenly stop working? They were fine last year,
and were put away and stored in the proper manner. Now they're all
shorted-out and mis-firing? Infuriating.
We reviewed our options, and Toney suggested we simply rearrange the
lights, space them differently, and leave it as-is. I didn't like the
sound of that. I had visions of a giant smoldering black spot where our
house used to be, with a toilet and chimney the only things left
standing.
Screw it. We'd have to buy more lights. I yanked the offending strand
off the tree, then made a big production of carrying it to the garage
and flinging it into the trash. Then I built us a cuppa two tree stiff
drinks, and the Secrets had themselves yet another cherished holiday
memory to cling to. Pass the beer nuts.
The next morning Toney pulled one of
the bulbs from the strand in the garbage, and went to Target.
Miraculously, she was able to find the exact same lights, and we were
back in business.
Then Saturday night we put on the Elvis and Sinatra CDs, and our copy of
the original A
Very Special Christmas,
and had ourselves a fine time with the ornaments and whatnot. Everyone
was in a good mood, and a splendid time was had by all.
Yes, I highly recommend separating the bad part of the job from the
good. It's the only way to go. ...At least around here.
-- A few years ago we tried to start a tradition of us all going to a
store every December, and choosing one new tree ornament each. This
lasted, I think, two seasons, then just kinda petered out. One of the
Secrets brought it up on Saturday, and asked why we don't do it
anymore.
I told him they should make new ornaments every year, and that
could be the tradition. (Notice how I never actually answered his
question?)
The boys didn't seem to care for the idea too much, and asked what
materials could be used to make a real Christmas ornament. Clearly they
weren't interested in the half-assed paper versions (with yarn loop),
like they do in grade school. I said they should be creative, then
illustrated it by creating a new ornament right there, on the spot.
Check
it out. It's a wad of dryer lint with a metal hook through it!
Pretty cool, huh?
-- This
is an old picture, but the pickle is officially on display for another
season. Toney and I bought that thing at a hipster emporium in Atlanta
years ago. I think it's straight out of Germany, and cost a small
fortune. Those were the days when we were trying to act like
sophisticated yuppies, even though Dairy Queen clerks were likely
pulling down more bucks.
Ahhhh, the memories....
-- Brad sent me this
a few days ago, and it's one of the more disturbing things I've ever
encountered. In case you can't tell, that's my face stuck to a
sashaying elf's body. Scary, man.
-- And since we seem to have a theme of sorts going here, here's
an mp3 of the Flaming Lips doing "White Christmas." Check it
out, it'll grow on ya like black mold.
Waaay better than that Sting song on A Very Special Christmas.
Holy crap. Have you heard that pretentious pile? Every time it comes on
I get a powerful urge to sit in an empty room, in a straight-back chair,
and repeatedly slug myself in the genitalia. It's something I'm unable
to explain....
-- I've got more, but suddenly lost the will to continue. I'll leave you
now with a vague question, about cursing in front of your children. How
do you handle it? I try (and succeed, I think) to keep it to a minimum.
But I'm only flesh and blood here, and you'd have to be some kind of man
o' steel to not let fly while driving.
I never say any of the sexually-based curses in front of 'em, it's
mostly ass and shit-themed. Like, for instance, if some Civil War
veteran is driving forty-five in the left lane of the interstate, I
might holler, "Get out of the way you turd-gobblin' ass-faced piece
o' crap!" That sort of thing. I keep all the really bad stuff under
wraps, and somehow refrain from cutting loose in front of the Secrets.
My Dad was/is the same way. He liked to add "shit" to
seemingly random words, and apparently created his own phrases. Like
shitheel and shithook, etc. Are those legitimate cuss words? I don't
think I've ever heard anyone else use 'em. ....I'm sorry I'm getting a
little emotional here.
So there you go. If you have anything to say about that, we're all ears.
And I'll see ya tomorrow. permalink
December 8, 2006
-- Earlier this week I hired a guy to
clean our gutters, and do a few minor repairs. A nail had come loose on
the front of the house, for instance, and the gutter was drooping like
Buddy Hackett's bottom lip. And I can't have that. I'm not a fan of
heights, and since the rear of the Compound is way the crap up there, I
much prefer to just let my fingers do the walking.
No, I'd likely get to the top, look down, and it would be like the
standard vertigo scene in any movie: much spinning and zooming in and
out. Then I'd surely free-fall into foliage, and explode all my organs.
Every single one. And I have a feeling something like that could very
well cast a gloom over an otherwise fine day.
So anyway, I thought our dog Andy was about to spontaneously combust. He
completely loses his shit if a Fed-Ex trucks even drives past our
house. When the people across the street turn on their porch light, it
triggers a maniacal barking jag. Any deviation whatsoever from the norm
makes him crazy, and a man walking around on our roof was almost
more than he could handle. I was afraid he might take off running and
crash straight through a window. And I'm not kidding.
This morning we're preparing for our Christmas tree, so he's at it
again. We moved furniture around in the living room, and Toney's going
nuts with the vacuum cleaner. Andy's pacing the house, looking over his
shoulder (do dogs have shoulders?) and generally acting like a mental
patient.
One of these days something inside him is going to just let go, and
they'll find our bodies in the spring once the funk really gets going.
-- We're late with the Christmas tree this year. Last weekend we talked
about it, and it had felt too early. I see now that it was a
miscalculation on our part, but what are you going to do? Tonight, after
dinner, the tree itself is going up, and all the in-house doodads are
coming out of the boxes, etc. Then tomorrow it'll be time for the
official Decoration Festival. The Elvis and Sinatra Christmas CDs will
find their way into the Surf Report ghetto blaster, some whiskey will be
poured, and we'll whip that baby into submission.
Then, of course, it'll be time for the first seasonal viewing of The
Homecoming.
"John-Boy, what are you doing up here with your door locked?! Is it
something you're ashamed of?" It's a cult classic without a cult!
Just an FYI.... I find it much better
to put the tree up the night before any actual decorating takes place.
And that's because I always get pissed off and in a bad mood about
something. The stupid stand won't cooperate, an item's missing or
broken, the damn thing insists on leaning to one side like my Little
League coach.... Before it's over, I'm invariably raging about something
or other, and nobody wins.
So it's best to just remove all that unpleasantness from the Decorating
Festival itself. For the good of the family, and humanity in general.
-- I saw in the newspaper this morning that a new restaurant just opened
in Scranton, serving "contemporary Southern cuisine." From
what I can piece together, that means traditional Southern dishes
done-up fancy-pants. I don't know about that.... Slow Roasted Pork
Shoulder on Roasted Corn, Jalapeno, and Cheddar Foccacia Bread?
Color me skeptical.
I'd love the opportunity to put some South in my mouth, but have a
sneaking suspicion I'd leave that joint desperately looking for a
Wendy's. What the fuck's foccacia?! Sounds like something a
dermatologist might treat with steroids. Why can't they just put it on a
hamburger bun? Is that too prole, or something? Man, I'm starting
to get irritated, just thinking about it.
What I'd rather see is a restaurant that offers fine West Virginia
cuisine. Hell, maybe I could do it? We'd serve things like hot baloney
sandwiches, pizza bread, half-runner beans, chicken-fried steak, and hot
dogs with cole slaw. It would be great!
But I need your help with this. I only have a germ of an idea here, it
needs some fleshing-out. What would be the name of this restaurant? And
what other foods would we serve? Help me out, people. And please stay
away from the standard yukkity-yuk "jokes" about 'coon
casserole, and that sort of thing. I want to tap into the real
West Virginia experience at my restaurant.
Hello?
-- I'm not sure what to make of this,
but I'm going to try to take advantage of it. I believe it's high-time
to put my flaps to work for me.
Oh, I understand what they're attempting to do (lure us back into their
stores and hope we become intoxicated by the idea of instant movie
rentals), but don't believe it'll work. I think they'll just end up
doling out a bunch of free rentals, and at the end of the promotion
we'll all return to the cool and sexy world of Netflix.
Oh well. 'Tis the season for flap-whorin'.
-- Speaking of Netflix, here's
another great and obscure Christmas movie that I didn't even realize was
available on DVD. It's from 1974 (I think), and aired constantly during
the early days of HBO, under the name Stranger In The House. It
scared the ever lovin' ice water out of me, back in the day. In fact,
for a long time I considered it the scariest movie I'd ever seen.
A few years ago I got my hands on a VHS copy of it, and watched it
again. I figured all the passing time would've surely rendered it lame,
but it scared me all over again. It's certainly not high art, but
it is a nifty little horror flick. Check it out, if you're so inclined.
And what are the other great and obscure Christmas movies? I'm sure
there's a bunch of 'em. Right?
I have more things I wanted to talk about today, but I'd better stop
right here and drag my ever-thickening torso into work. You guys have a
great weekend, y'hear?
I'll see ya on Monday. permalink
December 7, 2006
-- Have you seen the commercial where a
guy is sitting in a comfy chair 'neath his Scrote-watching blanket, and
suddenly gets a wild hair up his ass to order a Dell computer for his
daughter? He shrugs his shoulders, picks up the phone, and within
seconds he's talking to a nice, helpful woman who speaks clear English,
and proceeds to walk him through the process easy as pie. Then his chair
and side table start rocketing through the town, but that's a
subject for another day....
Have you ever actually called Dell? I have, and my experience was
nothing like the man's in the ad. Every time I've spoken with them I'm
almost certain I could hear elephants going off in the background and
bamboo being crushed, the person couldn't speak a lick of English (even
though his name was supposedly "Mitch"), and I'm running my
hands through my hair faster than you can say Lower Congo Basin. Once I
think I even heard the sound of someone shooting a blow dart, but I
could be wrong about that.
I like their products; I'm using a Dell-made PC right now, and have a
Dell laptop as well. But what happened to truth in advertising? The
commercial should show the man frustrated and perplexed, and eventually
shouting into the phone receiver. Then when he hangs up, he should shake
his head in amazement, and mutter, "Lord only knows what they'll
send me. Probably four monitors and a goddamn croquet set."
You know, if they were interested in making it accurate.
-- On a semi-related note, I got my cool new cell phone a couple of
weeks ago. I had fun setting it up, choosing the ringtones, transferring
my phone book, etc. Is there anything more exciting than fresh gadgetry?
I submit that there is not.
Anyway, I was reading all the warnings in the user's manual, and found
some of them to be a tad curious. I've noted a few below, along with a
fake and completely absurd one that I wrote. See if you can figure out
which one doesn't belong. I bet you can't.
Never place your phone in a microwave oven, as it will cause the battery
to explode.
Make sure that no sharp-edged items, such as animal's teeth or nails,
come into contact with the battery. This could cause a fire.
Do not expose the battery charger or adapter to direct sunlight or use
it in places with high humidity, such as bathrooms.
Never set the device to vibrate, place adjacent to genitalia, then
repeatedly call the number from another phone. This could cause injury,
followed by a Fark link.
-- This is going to
sound like a joke, but it isn't. There's a good chance my mother-in-law,
AKA Sunshine, will appear in Sunday's episode of America's Funniest
Home Videos.
Please allow me to explain....
Sunny has a friend, a woman who reportedly has "an ass so big you
could sit a tray of food on it," with an adult son. This adult son,
who still lives at home, recently videotaped one of their dogs doing
something "hilarious." I have no idea what this means, even
though I've begged for more information.
But he had this so-called funny video, and mailed it to the show. And,
amazingly enough, a producer contacted him and said they'd like for him
to be a finalist, eligible for the $10,000 prize.
So.... A few weeks ago the son, his girlfriend, Sunshine, and her buddy
went to Los Angeles for the taping. They all sat in the studio audience,
and were sworn to secrecy about the outcome. (Do people in Vegas have
money riding on it, or something?!)
The "boy" and his lady sat down front, and Sunshine and her
friend were up in the stands somewhere. Sunny doesn't know if they'll
actually appear on camera or not, and she's not even 100% sure of the
air date (typical). She thinks it'll be this coming Sunday, but
she could be wrong.
In any case, we'll be there, way out on the edge of our seats, and I'll
let you know on Monday.
Pass the ass tray.
-- For some reason it irritates me when the media
reports that the recent E. coli outbreak was likely caused by
tainted "scallions" at Taco Bell. Um, they're called green
onions. Quit being such pretentious pricks already. What is this, the
south of France? We're talking about shit-saturated produce at a
cut-rate fast food chain, popular with folks on a three-day drunk. It's
not a review of Loire Mountain cuisine. I mean, seriously.
-- Speaking of fast food, I was handed this
highly disturbing flier a couple of days ago at Wendy's. Will someone
please hold me?
-- And finally, here's
a great addition to our Big Swollen Gallery of Smoking Fish Sightings.
This one comes from Richard H., from the good Dunbar High Class of '81.
Thanks Rich, I appreciate it!
-- Before I go, I have a quick question for you. The oldest Secret came
home yesterday, just bursting with excitement. It seems that a girl
puked right in the middle of class, and the whole school is abuzz. He
gave me the entire thing, complete with animated facial expressions and
sound effects. It was quite a compelling tale, I have to admit.
I've told the story, probably more than once, about the kid who vomited
in a trash can when I was in Junior High. Everybody in the class began
hollering in protest, and the teacher (Mr. Yerrid) ripped into us
unmercifully.
"Can't you see the boy is sick?!" he screamed, "What's
wrong with you people??"
Chastened, we all sat quietly as he told the vomiter to go on to the
clinic, and he'd be there to check on him in a few minutes. Then, as
soon as the kid left the classroom, the teacher turned to us and said,
"Oh God, did you see that?! Baloney sandwich and bean with bacon
soup!"
Uproarious laughter followed, for five solid minutes. And I'm still
talking about it today, thirty years later....
So, my question is about non-drinking related puking. I'm almost sure
we've covered the drunken variety already, but what about the
standard-issue flu puking? Tell us about it, won't you? Use the comments
link below.
And I'll see you good folks tomorrow. permalink
December 6, 2006
-- A guy was in my office earlier this
week telling me about the deer he killed over the weekend. He seemed
exceedingly proud of himself, and that's fine. I have no problem with
hunting, it's just an activity that never much appealed to me
personally.
When I was a youngling, many of my classmates would go out in the woods
with their fathers and uncles and whatnot, and shoot squirrels and
rabbits. I was always happy that my Dad never invited me to join him for
an afternoon of slaughter, but it was something I kept to myself.
...That, along with the fact that I couldn't give one tiny butt squeezin'
about |
The State of My
Fat Ass December
2006
