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February 28, 2006
-- I saw an Adelphia commercial this
morning reminding us that the Winter Olympics start in mid-February, and
promising that "your cable company" and NBC TV will be on the
case. It's comforting to know.
-- A few days ago I mentioned a movie, Damnation
Alley, from the early days of HBO, and how much I was looking
forward to the DVD release later this year. Well, one of your fellow
Surf Reporters has reportedly secured me a copy via the Chinese
underground, or some shit, and I may not have to wait so long after all.
May God bless the vast network of liars and backstabbers.
The whole thing got me to thinking about the movies we watched, and
loved, when HBO first made it to West Virginia, and I remembered another
one that is as obscure as obscure gets. Do any of you remember a flick
called Kenny & Company?
It's about three suburban twelve year old boys, just living their lives
and getting into lots of low-grade trouble. I saw it three or four times
on HBO, back in the day, and thought it was hilarious. A lot of my
friends loved it as well, especially Vincent. He'd walk around quoting
lines from it, and bringing up situations from the movie all the time.
For a few months Vincent was all about Kenny & Company.
Grasping at straws, I did a search for it at Netflix, and came up empty.
No surprise. Nobody's heard of that thing, nobody. Then I started
reading about it at IMDB
and saw that it was directed by Don Coscarelli, who went on to do a
boatload of Phantasm movies. Weird. I returned to Netflix and typed in
his name, and there
was Kenny & Company! I just about hyper-crapped. I guess I'd
searched with and instead of &. Who the hell knows?
Anyway, I watched it on Saturday, the entire DVD. I saw the movie
itself, the short making-of documentary, both trailers, and the movie
again with commentary. It's not Citizen Kane, but entertaining.
Plus, all those kids were twelve at exactly the same time I was twelve,
so it was a trip back in time for me. Same horrible '70s clothes, same
bikes, same attitudes.... Good stuff.
Now does anyone remember a movie from
that same era about a murderous group of old people living in a senior
citizen's apartment in (maybe) NYC? I remember them putting a dead body
inside the cornerstone of a new building. And when the tip of the
cadaver's foot protruded from the concrete, they just chopped it off
with an axe and did a little touch-up work. It was hilarious in a
brutal, mean-spirited kind of way, but I don't remember what it was
called. Any ideas?
-- Speaking of Netflix, if you'd like to be one of my Butt-Buddies(tm),
or whatever they call it, I'm registered under jeff(at)thewvsr.com. Just
send me an invite, and I'll promptly accept it.
-- Yesterday a guy at work invited me to something called the Beast
Feast. Apparently it's the local version of Dunbar's infamous Critter
Dinner. He said they have bear stew, snapping turtle soup, elk,
deer, wild duck, and all sorts of bizarreness. I've gotta go. It costs
$25, for all-you-can eat gopher gravy and coon cutlets (or whatever), an
open beer bar, and entry into the grand finale shotgun raffle. My only
concern: parasites. I'm a very busy man, and don't really have time to
deal with hookworms and lung flukes. Should I worry?
-- It's incredibly cold here, and the wind's been blowing for days. On
Sunday I was wearing my Buttcrack Mountain jacket, and a gust of frigid
air rocketed straight up the back of my shirt. I seriously thought I was
going to be thrown into cardiac arrest. That jacket just doesn't do the
trick when the hawk is out. I've now reached a point where I'm wishing
for spring one minute, then hoping for one (just one) big-ass snowstorm
before the season ends. It's been a highly unsatisfying winter: bitingly
cold, but no snow. Wotta ripoff.
-- I just went upstairs to get a chocolate chip cookie, and our dog Andy
(Blacklips Houlihan) is already on high alert for the mailman. He's not
getting cocky about it, but he's fairly certain that he'll once again be
able to bark until the evil mail carrier retreats from our property. He
has a substantial streak of success going, and has no reason to believe
that it'll be any different today.
-- One of my co-workers, a guy roughly my age, went in for hemorrhoid
surgery more than a month ago, and still hasn't returned to work.
Apparently there were "complications." What do you think
could've happened?! A catastrophic collapse? It's none of my business,
but I want to know anyway. Details, for some reason, are hard to come
by. What could it be? I thought it was a fairly routine procedure: walk
in, pants down, ass up, laser on, out the door. Am I wrong about that?
And, believe it or not, there are other things on my mind as well. But
they'll have to wait.
Have a great day, folks. See ya tomorrow.
February 27,
2006
-- It was another busy weekend for us,
"highlighted" by an all-day endurance test of a swim-meet in
Wilkes-Barre on Sunday. It was the oldest Secret's final meet of the
year, and featured almost every kid on every team in the district
competing for individual honors. An excruciating affair.
The swimmers had to arrive no later than 7:45 AM, and the pool is, you
know, far from here. So there we were, driving down the interstate in
what felt like the middle of the night -- on the day of the week
traditionally reserved for lying around the house and wallowing like a
hog. I did my best to coffee myself into a state of pleasantness, but it
was a case of far too much, way too soon.
The Aquatic Center was/is a nice place, but packed to the rafters with
loud-talking Pennsylvanians. And it was hotter than the proverbial owl
piss in there. The observation deck is a huge balcony overlooking the
pool, and we were packed-in shoulder-to-shoulder. I just knew the
thing would collapse and I'd end up with somebody else's femur plunged
through my chest, but somehow it held up under the strain.
Here's
a picture I took with my half-assed cell phone camera, just to give you
an idea of our perspective.
There were so many kids swimming at this thing, each race was busted-up
into as many as six heats for each age group. That meant that any one of
the thirty-seven races could take a full hour to complete. No shit. It
was like astronaut training.
And we were surrounded by overzealous parents, screaming and wailing
like mental patients. Some even booed our team... parents booing little
kids. What the hell, man? Apparently they don't take too kindly to
getting their asses kicked over and over and over again by our superior
athletes.
Ahem.
Behind us was a family of yellers who never shut the fuck up, all day
long. They all had thick Scranton accents, were wearing matching shirts
that said "Chlorine: Breakfast of Champions," and just talked
and hollered with abandon. The man would scream so loud his voice would
sometimes shatter and splinter-off into high-pitched hysterical shrieks.
The woman would start out at a reasonable volume, but it would escalate
until she was finally emitting a piercing siren-like tone that made me
feel like letter openers were being shoved straight through my temples.
At one point I got up because I needed
to urinate with a great urgency, and was also craving liquefied cheese.
And as we were driving home Toney told me that the hollerers talked
about me while I was away. "I'm glad he's gone," they said,
"I hate when parents come to these meets and give us attitude,
simply because we love our children more than they do." Or
something along those lines. Note that she told me about this after
we'd left.
It was a long painful day, but we finally made it to the other side.
Now the season is over, and I feel kinda sad about it. They run that
team like a boot camp, and expect (and receive) absolute commitments
from everyone involved. This is no piss-ant youth basketball league,
it's serious business. Secret the Elder loves it, and is reaping
the benefits of all his hard work.
It's all good, and I can't wait for it to crank up again. Phantom Ass
Syndrome, or no Phantom Ass Syndrome.
-- Speaking of my cell phone camera, here's
another picture I took over the weekend. It's inside Sam's Club, and the
dude's eating a ravioli sample. His jacket says World Series across the
front; no year or location or anything, just "World Series."
-- I should probably say something about Don
Knotts now, but you probably know how I feel. People are writing
tributes to him here,
and here
too. All I can say is ditto. He was a comic genius, and a great West
Virginian. And he'll live-on as long as there are humans left to laugh.
And since I updated on Saturday, I'm not going to beat myself up about
this one being so short. Screw it.
See ya tomorrow.
February 25,
2006
1924-2006
-- Toney told me she was in a store (I can't remember which one) a few
days ago, and they had new fancy-ass cash registers. Not only would the
machines tell the cashier how much change to give back to the customer,
but it also spelled out exactly how many bills and coins to hand over.
Say you bought something for $5.25, and gave the person a ten dollar
bill... The machine would flash a display telling the zitster running it
that they owe the customer $4.75 -- that's four one-dollar bills, and
three quarters. She didn't say if it showed a picture of a
quarter, so the cashier wouldn't have to guess at it, but it probably
did.
Stuff like that used to disgust me, but not anymore. I'm actually quite
thankful for it now. Because most of those people need all the help they
can get. And I'm a very busy man.
I, of course, learned the fine art of cash registering on big cast iron
car-sized machines at a Fas-Chek grocery store in 1982 West Virginia.
Those babies didn't powder your ass for you, and hold your hand. No,
cashiers back in my day were on their own, out on the front lines of
marketing.
In fact, register two at our store wasn't grounded properly and would
routinely send a powerful jolt of electricity coursing through the body
of whoever was running it. It wasn't uncommon to hear a crackling sound,
then look over and see the flashing skeleton of one of your co-workers.
Knowing basic math was the least of our worries; we had that part
covered. We were more concerned about simply surviving the shift.
-- Here's the
official Sex Pistols response to their invitation to attend, and take
part in, the next Rock n Roll Hall of Fame shindig. They're being
inducted this year, but apparently won't be at the dinner. Because, you
see, the whole thing is a "piss stain." Heh.
-- A friend sent me this
picture last night, and wanted to know if those are wings
he sees. I don't know what the hell he's talking about. She's not
wearing a fairy outfit.
-- Toney was flipping through a Lowe's
ad a few days ago, and suddenly started laughing. I couldn't remember
ever busting out while looking at photos of guttering and ductwork, and
was understandably curious. She pointed at the description of a really
expensive Cadillac-of-toilets, which reportedly provides
"extraordinary bulk flushing." Then it all came together for
me.
-- And finally, from the Stealing Clive
Bull's Topics desk... What are the worst-sounding names of
towns that you know? He mentioned Slough and Penge, and two immediately
jumped to my mind as well: Saugus (CA) and Snellville (GA).
He's not talking about yuk yuk names, like Cocklips, Missouri or
whatever, but towns whose names just sound really bad rolling off the
tongue. Do you know any more?
And that's gonna do it for this rare Saturday update, my friends. I've
got the youngest Secret's basketball game this afternoon, three Netflix
movies that've piled up and begun causing me anxiety, an all-day
swim-meet extravaganza tomorrow, and hopefully another visit to the
local knife-bar -- all staring me in the face. So I'd better get to it.
Have a great weekend. I'll see ya on Monday.
February 24,
2006
-- On Monday Toney and I took the
oldest Secret to a ski resort not far from here, so he could spend the
day snowboarding with a friend. The friend's mother was there too, and
you can probably guess how that worked out. Yes, Toney and other kid's
Mom chatted the entire time, and I was the big retarded child sitting in
the background with a fake smile plastered on his face for hours on end.
It's an old familiar tale...
But I'd never been submerged in ski culture before, and found it
interesting. At least for a while.
I don't think people I knew went skiing much when I was growing up.
There are plenty of ski resorts in West Virginia, but I can't recall too
many of my classmates doing it. Maybe I was just unaware? Anything's
possible, I guess. But I didn't go as a youngling, and never contracted
the fever as an adult either. The idea of strapping two venetian blinds
to my shoes and plunging down the jagged face of a mountain just doesn't
rank too high on my list of things to do. In fact, it falls at number
243, right behind this.
I knew all about it, though, because I'd seen lots of Elvis movies. I
figured there'd be a rustic lodge with a big stone fireplace, lots of
blondes in tight sweaters, and a wacky, good-natured guy with a broken
leg on the couch. I also assumed there would be some impromptu singing,
and looked forward to it.
Imagine my surprise when I learned that it was nothing like that. (Lied-to
again!) The so-called "lodge" was like an airport hangar
filled with tables from my Jr. High cafeteria. Everybody was sitting
around eating Fritos and M&M's from a vending machine, and it
smelled faintly of feet. There was a fireplace but it was full of coats.
I still don't understand that; is it a custom to throw your jacket
into the fireplace when you go skiing? I'm completely confused.
After we got the kids situated we did locate a bar/restaurant with an
actual fire in the fireplace, and settled there. When the haggard
waitress asked if she could get us anything, I ordered a big basket of
fries covered in sour cream, "bacon" bits. and liquefied
neon-orange cheese. The other kid's Mom said she'd go with a whole wheat
watercress wrap with extra sprouts, or some shit. I just rolled my eyes
and shifted my weight from one ham to the other.
And that's where we remained for what
seemed like an abbreviated lifetime. The place was absolute pandemonium,
and there was a sustained roar, like at a ballgame. Waiters and
waitresses were working their asses off carrying out more and more
deep-fried goodness to an insatiable public, and it was just a sea of
smacking lips and knit caps. Insane. The
Varsity in Atlanta is an exercise in tranquility by comparison.
Once the cheese was consumed, I decided to go exploring and maybe watch
the boys come down the hill a few times. I found them, and it was great
fun. They were like old pros on those boards, moving fast and rarely
falling.
I noticed a group of women skiing in long dresses, and thought that was
odd. But then I saw that their male companions were old-school Jews,
with the hats and the beards and everything. I watched some sort of
snowmobile "ambulance" rocket out of a shack at one point,
then return with a grimacing and writhing Japanese man on the back. A
little while later he was taken away by a real ambulance, with sirens
blaring. Shit! That's why they used to sell fake lift tickets in
the back of Rolling Stone; it was all the coolness without the
danger.
As I stood watching, an old man with an air of authority appeared and
began giving everyone a ration of shit. He told a fat woman on skis that
she should seriously consider lessons before she kills someone. He gave
the people waiting for the lift a stern talking-to about the dangers of
rowdiness. And then he told me I needed to back up, way up. "If
every parent simply ignored the rules like you, we'd have chaos
here," he said.
As he walked away he was mumbling angrily about insurance liabilities
and lack of respect, and I wanted desperately to run up behind him and
give him a swift Kill Bill kick to the small of the back. But I
decided against it.
All in all, it was a good day. A little too long for us cheese-eaters,
but Secret the Elder had fun. I had my camera, and took exactly two
pictures before the batteries shit the bed. Here
they are, for what it's worth.
-- And since I've been milking last weekend for all it's worth, a bunch
of little things have been building-up in my notebook all week. I don't
have time to get to them right now, but I MIGHT do a rare Saturday
update tomorrow. Or later tonight even. No promises, but I'll try.
In the meantime, I'm gonna turn it over to Lakrfool
now, and drag myself into work.
Now go take on the fukkin day.
February 23,
2006
-- I wrote about my Saturday adventures
in donuts, beef, and pork, but forgot to tell you how the weekend
started...
Friday after work I stopped to fill up my tank, at one of those massive
gas complexes. It's a place where you can order a meatball sub at the
pump, and maybe get a haircut and book a European vacation as well. The
place was packed, as usual, and I had to wait for the privilege of
handing over a substantial amount of my "hard-earned" money.
Simply excellent.
Eventually I was able to work myself into position (the bastards). I
brandished my ATM card like a master, then went to work on my gas cap. I
opened the little door and gave it a twist like I'd done a million times
in the past. But on Friday, for some reason, the thing rocketed
from my hand, and rolled under my Blazer. Grrrrr...
How was I going to retrieve it? No freaking way I was going to drop to
the pavement and shimmy; say what you will about it, but Jeff Kay
doesn't shimmy. I wondered if it would be crazy to simply stuff some
paper towels in the opening, and drive away after the tank was filled? A
new cap couldn't cost more than five bucks, and it would be money
well-spent if it meant I could avoid the spectacle of wallowing around
on concrete in front of the entire population of Dunmore, Pennsylvania.
But I was relieved to see that the rogue cap was only a few inches under
my truck, up near the front driver's side wheel. Whew! Another bullet
dodged.
Then I bent over to pick it up, and blew the entire ass out of my pants.
There was a loud ripping sound and I could feel cold air in places where
cold air shouldn't reach. It was a catastrophic breach of denim
integrity, right out in public. I finished the job at hand by awkwardly
keeping my back to the vehicle, and I don't think anyone saw my cottony
ass.
When I got home, of course, Toney buckled over in laughter for what I
thought was an inappropriate amount of time. After she gained her
composure, she said, "I've never known anyone who destroys
pants like you do." That was the word she used: destroys. Again,
inappropriate. Not to mention hurtful.
-- Now let's fast-forward past the
Krispy Kremes of Saturday morning, and the bacon cheeseburger at TGI
Friday's, to Saturday afternoon.
After our late lunch the Secrets disappeared into a Playstation trance,
and Toney was flipping through a magazine, also in a catatonic state. I
was pacing around the house like a caged tiger. I have no problem
hanging out after dinner, with a few adult beverages and snacks, but I
can't just sit around and do nothing in the middle of the day. It makes
me insane.
I finally told Toney I was going to go out and buy a lottery ticket,
then maybe stop for a beer at a shitty-looking dive bar I'd been
intrigued with.
We'd always assumed it was a place where escaped convicts got together
to socialize, and for years I'd never even considered going inside. But
recently I heard a couple of people mention that they frequent the
place, and it surprised me. Maybe I had it all wrong? Maybe it was just
a classic old dump of a neighborhood watering hole? And in that case...
I needed to get in there.
As I left the house Toney said, "You'll probably be knifed, just
for being an unfamiliar face." The Secrets just went on sucking the
brains out of humans, and leaving the husks behind.
I couldn't remember ever visiting a bar with a screen door before, but
this place had one. And the wooden door behind it didn't want to open,
so I shoved it hard and there was a hell of racket once it gave way.
Everybody in the place turned and looked at the clumsy doucheketeer
stumbling into the room. Let the stabbings begin!
I self-consciously took a seat in the middle of the bar, and asked for a
Yuengling draft.
Wotta dump. It looked like, oh, I don't know, 1969 in there? Not exactly
a romantic era, y'know? There was crap (twenty-five years worth of phone
books?) piled up on all the counters behind the bar, the walls were
covered in cheap-ass wood paneling, and the lights were dimmed. It
smelled like cigarettes, booze, industrial cleaner, and winter coats. I
noticed a room in the back with a battered and cig-scarred pool table in
the middle of the floor, but nobody was using it.
The bartender brought my beer, and asked for two dollars. Well, you
can't argue with the prices, I thought. He mumbled some obligatory
comment about the weather, then returned to his cigarette down the bar.
There was a morbidly obese and expressionless woman sitting there, also
smoking. When I first sat down in the dimness, I thought she was wearing
a neck brace. But she wasn't. To my left was a man sitting in silence,
throwing back pints of Coors and an equal number of whiskey shots. At
one point his cell phone rang, and he started hollering into it,
"I'm on my way! Goddamn. I'm hurrying as fast as I can!!" Then
he ordered another beer and Beam, to uproarious laughter all around.
A few minutes after I got there a man came through the back door(?), and
took a seat at the bar near me. He was in his fifties, loud and
boisterous. He announced to the whole place that there was no need for
anyone to buy more Powerball tickets, because he had that night's winner
in his shirt pocket. Everybody else dug their tickets out and told him
he was wrong, they had the winner. I left mine in my jacket, for
fear of feeling ridiculous.
Then Mr. Boisterous started telling everyone how he'd be level-headed if
he won -- not like "that
idiot" in West Virginia. "He was a holy-roller
preacher-man before he hit the jackpot," he said, "Then
somebody stole a suitcase full of money from him in the parking lot of a
strip club!" On and on it went, to more and more laughter.
Jack Whittaker: West Virginia's goodwill ambassador to the world.
I just stayed out of it. Even though "that idiot" bought his
ticket a mile or so from my parent's house, and I knew a little about
it, there wasn't much to correct in the way the story was being told. Suitcase
was a bit of an exaggeration, but close enough.
The bartender came down and asked if I wanted another beer, and I told
him I did. The place was a bonafide shithole, but pretty entertaining.
When he sat the pint in front of me I offered him some money, and he put
his hand up like he was a member of the Supremes ordering me to stop in
the name of love. "It's cold outside," he said, and kinda dead
in here today. Every other one's on me."
Well, that does it, I realized. I'm hooked for life. They have
themselves a new semi-regular.
As I nursed beer #2 I noticed a bubblegum machine sitting on the bar, a
few feet away from Ol' Beer N Beam (who was still "hurrying as fast
as I can"). I couldn't believe my eyes. The thing was absolutely
filthy. It looked like it had spent a substantial amount of time at the
bottom of a lake. The glass was all cloudy and appeared to have been
smeared with bacon grease. I wondered just how drunk a person
would have to be to buy a gumball from that thing. And would it cause a
more powerful hallucination than a worm in the bottom of a tequila
bottle? The questions just kept piling up.
Yes, it was an enjoyable way to spend an hour on a boring Saturday
afternoon. I considered ordering a third beer, but knew I'd be starting
up the slipperiest of slippery slopes. So I threw in the towel. As I was
preparing to leave, Boisterous was in the middle of a speech about how
he and his wife never hid sexual topics from their kids. "When my
oldest daughter was five," he screamed, "she'd look at our
wedding picture and say 'there's Mommy and there's Daddy and there's
me,' and she'd be pointing at my wife's stomach!"
The place was rocking with laughter as I struggled to get the door
completely shut, without knocking the Pabst mirror off its Nixon-era
nail.
-- And I don't know what's gotten into me, but I'm being awfully
long-winded these days. Tomorrow I'll tell you about spending Monday at
a ski resort -- a brand new experience for me.
In the meantime, here's
the latest from our good friend Buck.
See ya.
February 21,
2006
It was a busy weekend here at the
compound. I'll try to sprint through the highlights for ya...
-- On Saturday I slept-in until the irresponsible hour of 8 am, and
climbed out of bed with a powerful hankering for Krispy Kreme donuts. I
guess it was because I wrote about them on Friday, and the thought got
wedged somewhere in the folds of my battered brain and festered there.
So I popped in my contacts, pulled on some jeans, and Andy and I (dog is
my co-pilot) went in search of fat. Luckily, since I live in America, I
didn't have to go too far. In fact, I didn't even have to get out of my
truck; they have it set-up so that a zitster can simply pass the box(es)
of deep-fried goodness to us through a window, and the fatee
isn't required to go to all the effort of lifting his ass off a chair.
How cool is that?
Andy did as he always does at a drive-through. He growled and snarled at
the worker, then, as soon as the food was in the vehicle, reared his
head way back and began manipulating his nostrils at a high rate of
speed. The appeal of Krispys cuts across all species.
I shotgunned a bunch of those babies, washed 'em down with Eight O'Clock
Bean Coffee, and worked on an extracurricular writing project all
morning. Somehow the planets aligned and I got a lot done, therefore I
was in a really good mood. Toney suggested grilled cheese sandwiches for
lunch, but I proposed we go somewhere instead.
We had a gift card from TGI Friday's that was set to expire at the end
of February, and that's as good a nondescript chain restaurant as any.
They seated us at one of those booth/table hybrids, and Toney and I had
our backs to the wall. We were situated so that we were facing, head-on,
a family in a more-traditional booth across the aisle from us. It was a
little awkward repeatedly locking eyes with another Dad during the
afternoon meal, and there was so much "decorative" shit
attached to the wall I almost brained myself several times on a large
plastic C-3PO.
But, as it turned out, the family
provided an excellent floor show for us. Dad was obviously pissed about
something, and was in full sulk-mode. He was really fat and wedged into
his seat, with the table pressing deep into his gut. I wondered which
organs were being forced from their housing. He was also wearing shorts
on one of the coldest days in recent memory. Whatever. The kids were
crawling all around, under the table, and into various laps, never
remaining still for more than ten seconds at a time.
After a few minutes it became clear that the woman was not the mother of
the children, she was apparently a girlfriend or something. He had the
kids for the weekend, we surmised, and it wasn't going very well.
By the time we got there the waitress had already brought our
sister-family their check, but they were in no hurry to pay. The girl
came by once and attempted to collect the big leather receipt-holder,
but he barked at her, "I haven't taken care of that yet!" Very
nasty and disrespectful, the dude was crying out for one swift kick to
the luggage. I was certain they were planning a dine-and-dash mission,
and settled back for drama.
Eventually one of the kids told Dad, right out in the open, that he
didn't want "her" to come over to their house that afternoon.
And this caused "her" to also start sulking. Yes, it was a
scene straight out of Norman Rockwell.
Finally the rude fat-ass exhaled theatrically, extracted a money-clip
from his big ol' shorts, and began flinging bills into the middle
of the table like he was Sinatra at The Sands. Then they began the
process of putting on their coats, which took in inordinate amount of
time. They were standing in the middle of
the aisle, stretching their arms all out and bumping into people trying
to eat their lunches at other tables. But they didn't care, especially
Tiny.
Before they left one of the boys started whining that he wanted more
soda. Dad acted all disgusted and put-out, and retrieved the slobbery,
boogery cups they'd been sucking on since we arrived, and went straight
into the waitress station(!). He angrily slammed open the door to the
ice machine, and began digging it out with his bare hands(!!). When this
method proved to take too long, he just used the nasty cups themselves
to scoop ice straight out of the bin.
Toney told the Secrets to preserve their drinks, because there wouldn't
be any refills.
Some little sashaying poofter wearing an abundance of flair came running
over as Dad was helping himself to soda from the fountain, and I thought
there was going to be a confrontation. I'm pretty certain Fats wasn't
supposed to be in that staff-only section of the restaurant, and I know
for a fact that he shouldn't be rummaging through the communal ice
supply with his ass-scratching hand.
But the waiter lost his nerve when he saw that Dad was angry and
hostile, and acted like he'd just gone back there to get a straw.
As they were leaving (finally), Ol' Riffle Ass turned back to me, and
caught me staring at him with open-face astonishment. He shot me a look
that said, "You want a piece of me, asshole?" I went back to
working on my (kick-ass) bacon cheeseburger, and was a little
apprehensive walking to our car later. I was certain the guy was going
to leap out from behind a Dodge Ram, stripped to the waist and smeared
in blood, with a machete raised above his head.
But nothing happened.
-- And I'm being far too long-winded this morning. I was going to tell
you about the whole weekend, and haven't even finished with Saturday
yet. Later that same day I went (by myself) to a dive bar that I've been
both intrigued with, and a little frightened of. Before I left the house
Toney said, "You'll probably be knifed!"
But I'll have to tell you about that, plus Sunday and Monday, next time.
See ya tomorrow.
February 17,
2006
-- As you probably know, I'm completely
addicted to buying used CDs via the internet. I'm constantly monitoring
half dotcom, secondspin, and amazon, and snare some great deals. I check
each of my want lists at least six times per day, and can spot a change
like a dog hears the rattle of a baloney wrapper. If I knew of a way to
have an always-running display creep across my computer screen, similar
to the stock market ticker, I'd do it.
Just yesterday I ordered a "like new" copy of an out-of-print
Stiff Little Fingers compilation
that usually sells in the $28 range, for a cool $6.99. It's that kind of
thing that keeps me hungry for the buzz.
And after all this time, following years of crazy activity, I've now
been ripped-off for the very first time. I usually only deal with people
who have a good reputation; if a seller has less than 97% positive
feedback, I'm highly skeptical. If they're in the 80s, forget it.
Generally speaking, anyway...
Back in early January I got greedy, and took the bait of some
doucheketeer in Indiana with an 88% approval rating. He was offering a
copy of "Bad
Music For Bad People" by the Cramps at an impossibly good
price, and I pulled the trigger on it. Now he has my money, I got
nothing, and he's not answering emails.
It's changed everything, and I fear that it'll never be the same again.
Today I feel like I'm naked and sobbing and leaning against the wall of
a prison shower with deep personal bruising. ...Am I being
over-dramatic?
-- Earlier this week two worlds collided on Clive
Bull's show, and I found myself perched on the very edge of
my battered and beleaguered seat.
One of my least-favorite features on his show is the taste test. Almost
every day he, his producer, and the traffic guy converge and eat some
unfamiliar food, then comment on it. What that means for us, the
listeners, is that for several minutes there is only the sound of three
men chewing, smacking their lips, and sometimes making low guttural
moans. I'm just not a fan.
But on Monday or Tuesday they tested.... Krispy Kreme donuts!
Clive's always talking about these
mythical treats, and has long vowed to track some down for a taste-test.
He'd been led to believe (rightly so), that they're the greatest thing
in the history of planet Earth, and wanted to see for himself.
He finally found them, at an upscale grocery store in London, and the
stage was set. Oh, the suspense was substantial.... Would he like them?
Would he be disappointed? What would he have to say about this holy
grail of American excess?
Apparently the word donut means something different in England, because
all three were chuckling that the Krispys were actual rings
"like on the Simpsons." But when they finally chomped down on
one, it suddenly sounded like a porn film:
"Oh my God... yes yes that's it!... more more!!... SWEET SAINTED
MOTHER OF ALL THAT'S GOOD!!"
Suffice to say, they were not disappointed. And I was sitting in
Pennsylvania with tears welling in my eyes.
-- Check
this out, somebody auctioned off a high school yearbook that
features an, um, interesting looking sophomore named Tom Waits. It
finally sold for $288.24, far too rich for my blood. But it reminds me
of a brief story....
Back in my Atlanta record weasel days I worked for a guy who'd been
around for a long time. He was always boiling over with tall tales about
encounters he'd had with various rock stars, and he had a good one about
Waits.
He said that one day the singer was scheduled to make a visit to the
office, and everybody was real excited. This was a long time ago,
probably the mid-'70s. They tidied up the place, brought in a catered
lunch, and waited for his arrival.
And waited, and waited, and waited.
Finally he comes rolling in, drunk as all hell and carrying a six pack
of beer with two cans missing from their rings. He reportedly stunk to
high heavens, sat down in a chair and slid way down on his spine. He
didn't say a word to anyone, and just continued drinking.
Before he left he also slung vomit in the general direction of a sink in
the men's room, and caught a trashcan on fire with a cigarette.
Ahh... the good ol' days.
-- And finally, I need your help with something. For some reason I can't
view anything on my computer that contains Java script. For instance, I
can't see inside my beloved French
laundry at home, and I can't even view the retina-searing Bon Jovi
ad on my own homepage. Why is that?
I stayed up way too late last night trying to figure it out. I did as
many people suggested, and went into the security section of
"internet options" to make sure that Java is enabled, and it
is. What the hell, man? Is it a Norton thing? What's blocking it?
I'm sure it's something simple, and I'd be much obliged if you could
offer some advice.
And that's all the time I have for today. Those reports at work ain't
gonna run themselves. I'm off on Monday, for some reason, and I probably
won't update then.
So have a great long weekend, and I'll see ya on Tuesday.
February 16,
2006
-- I was giving the TV remote a workout
a few days ago and stumbled across a flick on the Fox Movie Channel that
I hadn't seen in years: Damnation
Alley. I couldn't believe my eyes. Jan-Michael Vincent,
armor-plated cockroaches, big-ass scorpions.... a true classic. I saw it
in a theater when I was fourteen, and a thousand more times during the
early magical days of HBO.
And then it just disappeared. It's rarely on television, it's not
available on DVD, and I couldn't even find a VHS copy. Most people I
mention it to have never heard of it, and stare back at me like I've
just begun talking in the language of the majestic porpoise. I began to
wonder if maybe I'd imagined the whole thing.
Because it was feeding time at the Compound, and since I'd joined the
thing near the end, I didn't see much of it on FMC. But check
this out. Coming to DVD in 2006! I will be there as they unlock
the doors, with money in-hand, sucka.
Now somebody needs to release another movie we saw in high school,
called Mannequin. It was advertised in the newspaper with the
tagline "R has never gone this far!" and featured a man
ripping a pair of underwear off a woman with such enthusiasm it looked
like he was starting a lawnmower. It's another one that I'm beginning to
suspect only played inside my head, and not at the Capitol Theater like
I remember. It's not even listed on IMDB.
Do you know anything about it? What the hell, man?
-- It's that time of year again when Toney and I have started making our
summer camping plans. It seems to be an automatic reaction to winter,
designed to help us cope.
I don't believe we're going to do any major treks this season, like to
Myrtle Beach, which requires two full days of driving to get there and
two full days back. That's, as they say back home, boolshit.
We'll probably go to Cape May and Lake George, NY, and places like that.
Here's
one campground we're NOT considering. Holy crap. I think we'll pass on this
one too.
-- Last night I was listening to an
episode of the old Gunsmoke radio show, from 1954 I think, and a
commercial came on advertising an upcoming news special. It was
reportedly about the growing number of people who are entering the
country illegally through "America's unlocked back door" on
the Mexican border. And the name of this program? That's right, it was
called Wetbacks. This Thursday on the CBS Radio Network.
-- I just finished reading 1776 ,
a really good book about George Washington and the Revolutionary War.
Because it focused on the titular year only, the thing ended with the
war still raging, but with Washington having just crossed the Delaware
and kicked some serious Hessian ass.
I loved it, it read like a novel. I had a pretty good idea how it would
wind-up, but learned plenty along the way. And it seemed fair and
level-headed as well; there were no crackpot "revelations,"
like how GW carried his "brother" around in a knapsack, or
whatever.
I don't know what it is about getting older and suddenly becoming
interested in history, but it seems to be pretty standard. Ten years ago
I couldn't have given a single tiny butt-droplet about any of it. But I
read a review of this
book a couple of weeks ago, and found myself getting as excited
as I used to about a new Clash album. Go figure.
It's only a matter of time before I'm painting Civil War figurines and
staging "battles" on the dining room table, isn't it?
-- I know that when your ears burn it means that somebody's talking
about you, but what does it mean when your love handles itch? Just
curious.
-- You know how I'm always going on and on about the genius of Phil
Hendrie here? Well, I believe I've identified a clip that perfectly
illustrates it for the uninitiated; it's Phil in a nutshell. I'd love to
upload it to the site, but it's kinda long and I'm afraid I'll get
myself Neti-Potted again. So if you'd like to hear it, send me an email
(thewvsr(at)gmail.com), and I'll forward it to you. It features Korean
War veteran Lloyd Bonafide talking about March of the Penguins,
and is nothing short of excellent.
-- And that's gonna do it for today, my friends. These updates are
getting screwed up, and are often written on the fly (Monday's was a
real turd), because of a seemingly insignificant change at my job. Every
morning I'm required to run reports, analyze the data, then distribute a
fancy-pants spreadsheet that summarizes everything, before the second
conference call (the 1 o'clock ballbuster). Recently somebody requested
that the spreadsheets go out two hours before the call starts (grrrr...),
and that's sent me ass-over-tits. I've tried to write at night, but so
far it hasn't worked. It's gonna require an adjustment on my part, but
everything will be OK. Just wanted you to know what's going on....
See ya tomorrow.
February 15,
2006
-- I hope everyone had a pleasant
Valentine's Day. Toney and I don't do much in the way of Hallmark
holidays anymore. We used to, of course, but if I showed up with a
comically-oversized "heart"-shaped box at this point, there
would be uproarious laughter all around.
They all know me too well, and would instantly see right through such a
calculated charade. There would be lots of hurtful eye-rolling and
people yelling, "Oh, riiiiiggght!" I might as well slip
into a sequined jumpsuit and try to convince my family that I'm one of
the Asian figure skaters we've been watching on TV all week. What ain't
just ain't, I'm afraid.
In fact, Toney wouldn't even give me a goodbye kiss yesterday morning as
I was leaving for work. She'd apparently heard me burping, theatrically
and with great gusto, in the bunker a few minutes earlier, and
stiff-armed me at the door. What was she afraid of, residue?
Yes, it's a regular den of romance around here these days.
-- A few days ago I mentioned two things that make sick by association,
long island iced tea and an old Utopia album, and I believed that to be
a complete list. But I forgot one....
When we lived in California I contracted some sort of soul-sapping
illness; the doctor claimed it was bronchitis but I'm almost certain it
was malaria and/or tuberculosis. It happened in the middle of summer and
the temperatures were rising to triple digits every day, yet I was
huddled under blankets on the couch, shivering and sweating and
chattering my teeth.
I was absolutely miserable for days on end, and afraid to go to sleep
for fear of seeing The Light. Our oldest Secret was really young then,
and watched Barney videos all the time. And the one he was hooked on at
the time featured a big black woman with a ukulele, who played a song
that went something like this:
Miss Mary Mac, Mac, Mac
All dressed in black, black, black
With silver buttons
Stuffed up her crack, crack, crack
I might not have the words exactly right, but it's close. Whenever I
think about it, and hum the tune or whatever, I'm transported back to
hell. It's a powerful, evil song, I'm telling you. Both powerful and
evil.
-- And since we're on the subject of
near-death experiences, have you ever found yourself in a situation
where you think your time might be up? Luckily I haven't been in any
real car accidents in my life, or experienced an illness worse than
bronchitis, but I have been scared, as they say, shitless, a few times.
In high school I used to "run around" with a guy named Mike.
That's what we'd do back then, run around. He'd come by my house after
dinner, and we'd just tool around the valley and see what kind of
trouble we could get into.
He was always pulling crazy-ass stunts with his car. One time we were on
Fairlawn Avenue in Dunbar, traveling at 40 mph or so, when he suddenly
reached down and yanked the emergency brake. For no reason
whatsoever. There was a loud squawling sound, lots of smoke, and then it
was 360 after 360, just spinning down the road.
He thought that shit was hilarious. Me? Not so much.
One night he came by to pick me up, and I didn't feel like doing
anything. It was highly unorthodox, but I decided to stay home that day.
And he rolled his car a few minutes later, turning it into a smoldering
pile of metal that looked as if it had been hit by a train and dragged
for several city blocks.
He wasn't hurt too badly, but who knows what would've happened if I'd
been in the passenger seat? Nobody wore seatbelts back then, and I
could've easily been killed. After I saw the blackened scrap heap that
was previously his car, I walked around looking like Edgar
Winter for a few hours. Horrifying.
The ironic thing is that Mike didn't even drink much. I was always
riding around with people who were slamming back copious amounts of
cheap-ass beer, blasting Van Halen, and cutting loose with unscripted
rebel yells. And nothing bad ever happened. The worst thing I can
remember is when Bill would borrow his older brother's car, and then
return it later that night littered, simply littered, with
shredded lettuce and taco cheese.
Bill's brother would routinely threaten us with bodily harm, but that's
about as scary as it ever got for us. Mike was stone-cold sober, yet
dangerous.
I was also working at a grocery store once when three guys came in
wearing ski masks and carrying shotguns. They made the cashiers and the
manager lie face-down on the floor, and I was in the backroom dribbling
liquified waste matter down my legs.
A similar thing happened at a convenience store where I worked.... My
co-worker committed the sin of insulting a man's car stereo, telling him
"it sounds like shit." The guy left and returned a few minutes
later with a handgun, and commenced to pointing it at us, shaking, and
hollering nasally belligerence for a few minutes. Again with the
moistness.
What about you? Have you ever had your life flash before your eyes? Why
not use the comments section to tell us about it?
-- I'm going to provide you now with a link to a video that made me
laugh so hard I had tears streaming down my face. However, I must warn
you that it's really gross. ...Not in a bloody medical procedure kind of
way, but gross nonetheless. Click
at your own risk. I will not be held responsible.
-- And now I'm gonna turn it over to our good friend Buck,
and call it a day.
See ya tomorrow.
February 13,
2006
-- Unfortunately, we were only grazed by the "storm of the
century" this weekend. Folks just a few miles down the road from us
felt the hammer of the gods, but we missed out on all the fun somehow.
We only received two or three inches of snow, and it was so light and
powdery you could walk around your car and just blow it
off.
Seriously, I opened one of the doors of the Blazer to retrieve my ice
scraper yesterday morning, slammed it shut, and all my windows were
instantly clear; the shit just fell to the ground. By nine or ten in the
morning even the residential streets were completely free of snow, and
it was not even close to being a big deal. Wotta ripoff.
-- For some unknown reason I find myself watching the Olympics this
year. Yesterday I logged a substantial amount of time in front of the
TV, staring at stuff I generally don't understand. Like that
"sport" where they shove a crockpot full of beans down the
ice, then frantically mop in front of it. What's the deal with
that? Whatever it is, Poppa Half-Shirt should get into it, because
that's the speed at which he rakes his yard; the man is a natural-born
crockpot mopper if I've ever seen one.
I also watched a bunch of manly women speed-skating, a gang of potheads
snowboarding, ugly people lying on their backs and rocketing down an ice
track, and lots of Asian men skating in a tight circle really, really
fast.
Most of the time I don't have a clue what's going on, but find myself
enjoying it anyway. I feel like Andy (Black Lips Houlihan) tied to a
bench somewhere, just watching and snorkeling and smiling.
-- I went looking at TVs again yesterday afternoon (I'm in a frenzy). I
visited three different stores (Sears, Best Buy, Circuit City) and not a
single person asked if they could help me. Usually they descend en masse
the second I set foot in the department, but yesterday I was starting to
develop a complex. Do I now look as if I don't have the means to
purchase a television, for some reason? Is there some sort of Costanzaesque
odor that I'm not aware of? Is it because I was wearing my LL Bean
"Buttcrack Mountain" jacket,
and they feared I might be interested in, as Phil Hendrie would say,
"ranch-style homosexuality?" I just don't know. They were
helping other people, but nobody came near me. Whatever. I'm still
jacked up about this
one. Any opinions?
-- When I was a senior in high school I was on the staff of the school
newspaper, and the teacher in charge was named Mrs. Knighton. During
most of the year she was pregnant, and here's
what was gestating in there. The dude hosts a show on that new Al Gore
cable network(?!), and I used to hang with him before he was even born.
Yes, it was obvious even then that he was talented.
-- Speaking of Google Video, do
you ever search around on that thing? I typed the words "west
virginia" into it on Saturday, and this
was one of the highest-ranking results. What in the honeybaked hell?
Have you ever found anything interesting there? Why not share it with us
in the comments? We'd like to know.
-- On a semi-related
note....
-- When I was in the shower yesterday I started thinking about stuff I'd
like to do before I die. One of the things I came up with is to have a
few beers with my deceased grandfather in 1948. Do you think I'm setting
my goals too high?
-- And I know this is a short and disjointed mess this morning, but I'm
afraid it's the best I can do under the circumstances. One more
ridiculous thing before I go....
By now I'm sure you've heard the
news about the Vice President accidentally shooting a man while on a
hunting trip in Texas? Yeah, I'm thinking about recording Leno and
Letterman for the next few nights, then playing a drinking game where I
toss one back every time somebody says "Or you could just go
hunting with Dick Cheney!" Yuk yuk yuk.
Anyway, one of your fellow Surf Reporters sent me some really bizarre
information last night, and I thought I'd share it with you this
morning.
Apparently there was a book published several years ago, called Trance:
Formation of America. I'd never heard of it, but as best as I
can tell it's a collection of pure undiluted crackpot conspiracy
theories about our elected leaders. Here's
the Amazon link.
One of the many shocking "revelations" in the book is that
Dick Cheney is addicted to something called "The Most Dangerous
Game," aka the hunting of humans. Here's
an exceedingly sleazy excerpt.
So, you see, it wasn't a hunting accident at all. Cheney had obviously
gone to Texas to do what he loves the most: setting free a bevy of
elderly lawyers, then hunting them down with a shotgun. What better way
to spend a winter afternoon?
It's all coming together now, isn't it? The secret is out. And remember,
you read it here first.
See ya tomorrow. ...Unless the Men In Black come knocking.
February 10,
2006
-- Have you ever found yourself locked
into a pee schedule that exactly corresponds with one of your
co-workers? Over the years it's happened to me several times. After a
day or so I'll start noticing that I've been standing
shoulder-to-shoulder with some guy a little too often, and will feel the
need to somehow break the rhythm.
But now it's happening with a woman. All week, it seems, we've been
brothers-in-pee, always entering our bathrooms at the same time and,
shockingly enough, exiting together as well.
I thought it took women longer? Isn't that the prevailing wisdom? There
are always lines in front of ladies rooms, and I've been told that it's
because there's "more to it" for them. What with all the
dobbing and whatnot.
Is that yet another fallacy? I'm starting to wonder. Either this woman
is an especially no-nonsense urinator... or she's forgotten her pledge
and is unwittingly exposing a conspiracy.
I demand an investigation!
-- LOST is really getting under our skin. We watched it on
Wednesday night and so much shit happened we spent thirty minutes
afterwards analyzing the previous hour. And, as usual, came to no real
conclusions. One gets the feeling that every word spoken on that show,
and every movement made, "means" something. It's maddening.
During our impromptu discussion group this week one of us said, "I
think Locke is the key." Locke is the key!
See what I mean? We're like '60s potheads now, sitting on a big woven
rug and listening to Dylan.
-- You may have noticed the small National Lampoon navigation box that I
added to the homepage? Yeah, it's part one of a three-part series.
Eventually there will also be an RSS feed with ever-changing links to
content on other network websites, and finally the ads. This will
require me to alter the layout of the page somewhat, but shouldn't be a
big deal.
I'm certain the Lampoon folks already view me as uncooperative, because
I'm refusing certain types of ads. But I have real opinions on what's
acceptable and what's obnoxious. I just want the page to load as normal,
and not have King Kong's face (or whatever) overtaking it all. We'll see
how it goes; I'll probably be booted before it starts.
-- Through my vast
network of liars and backstabbers I was able to procure a gratis
copy of the latest Paul
McCartney CD. Yesterday as I was driving home from work I decided to
pop it into the player for the first time -- and very nearly nodded off
and crashed through a fucking guardrail. Sweet Maria. I don't want to
pre-judge, but that thing sounds like music to dust furniture to. Good
thing I had Heart's "Bebe Le Strange" with me, or I could be
writing this update with a forehead-mounted typing stick.
-- Our tax refund was direct-deposited into our checking account last
night. Under normal circumstances this would be an exciting day for us,
but we made the decision to pay down debt this year. We still owe Dell
some money for the two computers we recently bought from them, and
there's a small balance left on the living room furniture. Add in a few
other odds and ends, and it's all gone. And just how sad is that? Paying
money for stuff we already have (and in some cases already power-farted
into)? What am I, Clark Howard? It's a sad state of affairs.
The only instant gratification we'll see from that money is a
weekend-upgrade to Samuel Adams. At least it's something....
-- Toney did a household survey this morning on cereal. She's going to
the grocery store today, and wanted to see what we prefer. The kids, of
course, requested all that novelty stuff that makes you crap cobalt
blue, and I went with the classics.
Like candy bars, I only eat cereal that was around before World War II.
Like Cornflakes and Rice Krispies, and that sort of thing. Are there any
cereals that have been introduced since Roosevelt that are actually
worth eating? Tell me about it.
-- Check this
out. At first it irritated me, but upon further review, I believe I'm
all for it. Some folks are obviously scamming the system; they're
burning copies of discs the moment they arrive in the mail, then
returning them within the hour. Throttle the bastards!
Here's
further evidence.
-- And that's all the time I have for today, my friends. I'm gonna turn
it over to Metten
now, and wish y'all a great weekend.
So, have a great weekend, and I'll see you on Monday.
February 8, 2006
-- Last night after work I met Toney
and the younglings at Bennigan's for dinner. I was in the mood for one
of their big-ass burgers, Toney didn't feel like cooking, and it was
Secrets Eat Free night. So the planets were aligned, and we didn't
really have a choice in the matter. ...Hello?
When this particular Mega-Chain outlet first opened in our neighborhood
they had shockingly good hamburgers. I'm serious, they were big,
seemingly handmade, and tasted like they'd been cooked by master
craftsmen on a backyard charcoal grill. They were damn good, and
I wanted to go there all the time.
Then they changed something, and it all went to hell. Suddenly the
patties didn't seem handmade anymore; I got the feeling they'd arrived
from a distribution center in Columbus, Ohio, or someplace, via United
Parcel Service. And the backyard smokiness was gone as well. They'd
ruined everything, the fools. And I mourned my loss deeply and
thoroughly.
Yesterday, for reasons unknown, I started experiencing burger nostalgia,
and felt compelled to give them another shot. It had been many months,
and maybe they'd switched back to their previous methods? I had to know.
So I called Toney when I left the office, and we met up at the
restaurant. The place was packed and it sounded like there was a sizable
collection of drunkards in the bar area.
As the twelve year old hostess led us to our table, she told us that
Long Island Iced Teas were on special all night, for just $2.49 each. I
thanked her, and gave her a Charlie Manson stare until she finally
scampered away.
When the waitress arrived she was also pushing those "iced
teas," and didn't want to take no for an answer. What the hell,
man? Are they having a contest or something? Is a member of the staff
going to win an all expense-paid trip to the Redneck Riviera? It was
getting on my nerves. I had a burger experiment to conduct, dammit, and
wasn't much interested in getting bed-shitting drunk on cut-rate hootch.
And, of course, there was the other reason...
You can read the details here,
under the heading National Lampoon Scouts. It was a terrible night that
featured puking near a Ferris Wheel, and lying in a heap on a friend's
floor with a gang of cats napping on my back. Thanks Rocky! Thanks
again.
To this day I can't stand the smell, or
even the sight of a Long Island Iced Tea. Even after twenty years, or
whatever, it makes my stomach churn and gurgle. And that's no joke. Just
seeing the tell-tale brownish cloudiness in a highball glass, from
across a room, makes me sick.
The only other thing in this world with that kind of power over me is this
Utopia album, which I played repeatedly while suffering from a bad
case of flu in high school. A couple of notes from that CD and, brother,
it's every man for himself.
Do you have personal puke triggers like that? I have a feeling everybody
does.
Anyway... I ordered a root beer, thank you very much, and my big-ass
burger. And as we waited, a group of middle-aged men flopped down in the
booth behind Toney. I got the feeling they were on some sort of business
trip, and were probably staying at the hotel across the street.
Predictably, they did their part to help their waitress win the trip to
Florida. They ordered up a round of the devil's cocktail, and told her
to keep 'em coming.
The folks seated across the aisle from them, a youngish couple, were not
amused. They were both eyeing the men suspiciously, over the rims of
their coffee mugs. And that made me a little queasy as well. Who drinks coffee
with a steak (he), or a giant dinner salad (she)? It's like the people I
sometimes see drinking a piping-hot cup o' joe at Taco Bell(!?).
Disgusting.
It was slipping away from me. I was being distracted by rogue beverages
all around, and my study was now in jeopardy. And there's nothing more
tragic than a scientist who's lost control of his own experiment. Ya
know?
By the time they brought us our food, the "tea" drinkers had
significantly elevated their volume, and one had already yelled the word
bullshit! at the top of his lungs, causing the place to go
instantly silent. They were also getting a little touchy-feely with the
waitron. On Secrets Eat Free night.
Because of all this, I'm not completely confident in my findings. But I
believe the burgers at our local Bennigan's have improved slightly.
They're smoky again, at least. I still suspect that the patties were
stamped out by a machine in Ohio (or possibly Indiana), but they tasted
better than they did six months ago.
Clearly, further research is required. I'll keep you updated on this
developing story….
And not that it really matters, but as I was exiting the parking lot of
the restaurant I'm almost certain I saw, through the window, one of the
businessmen eating a chicken tender with his shirt off.
-- On a related note, Tim sends along more
good news from (and about) my old stomping grounds. Pass the
beer nuts.
-- Now here's
lakrfool to close out the category.
See ya "tomorrow."
February 7, 2006
-- Apparently the Winter Olympics are
about to start? Is that correct? Based on the fragments of
previously-ignored crapola that's been collecting in my mental lint trap
over the past few weeks, I believe that to be the case. And by now the
TV networks have probably finished with all their "rags to
riches" and "against all odds" background stories, huh?
Awesome! I can't wait.
When I was a kid the Olympics were really boring. Back then they seemed
to focus more on the events, and who was performing well, etc. But now
it's so much better. Today it's more than just dry competition, it's
like extended episodes of Oprah and Extreme Makeover Home
Edition (without all the gay men in protective eyewear, of course).
Now we get to see inspiring backstories about a deaf orphan from the
Eastern bloc persevering and on the verge of becoming a superstar in the
pressure-cooker world of amateur luge. And a heart-tugging tale of a
person who turned an unfortunate childhood landmine accident into an
internationally-recognized figure skating move known as the "flying
stump roundabout."
Or whatever.
I'm being sarcastic, of course. I can't stand all the melodrama; it's thenthitive
and makes my ass hurt. Just once I'd like to see a biographical feature
on an athlete that starts this way:
"Rich, cute, and white, Megan wanted for nothing during her
storybook upbringing in the affluent Connecticut neighborhood where her
family still lives. And today she makes official what was, by all
intents and purposes, her birthright: a prominent spot on the United
States Olympic Team!"
At least it would be something different.
-- I've now watched the first disc of the new Tom Snyder/Tomorrow
Show punk
interview
DVD box set, and here are some quick thoughts….
Joan Jett/Paul Weller/Kim Fowley "punk roundtable" episode:
Joan and Paul look like high school students, both impossibly young.
Joan is wearing a Peaches t-shirt, and that's always cool. Kim Fowley --
wotta douche.
Elvis Costello: Funny and smart. So
much so, I think it caught Tom off-guard; he was undoubtedly braced for
assholism. Elvis performs two songs off Trust, with the
Attractions.
Iggy Pop: One of his front teeth is rotten and as black as anthracite
coal. He's fidgety and acting all weird during the interview, and
performs two and a half roarin' songs.
Plasmatics: Wendy sprints all around, shows her panties, then blows up a
Chevy Nova. She sounds pretty ditzy while talking to Tom, and I still
think they were one of the worst "bands" from that magical
era.
Stay tuned for disc two.
-- Speaking of music, the new Pazz n Jop survey is
out. Two of my favorites from last year, Marah
and Eels,
get bent over the proverbial couch, I think. Boo hoo. From the top 40
albums, I only own numbers 4, 9, 17, and 26, just so you know.
-- I heard "The Devil Went Down To Georgia" this morning and
I'm sorry, but I still prefer Satan's solo. It's something I've been
struggling with for twenty-some years now…
-- Phil Hendrie's show was a rerun last night (again), and he was
talking about a group of people who live near NYC, called the Jackson
Whites. Are you familiar with them? Sounds pretty bizarre to me. Here's
some info. Apparently they're inbred and often exhibit webbed fingers
and toes, as well as "pie baldness." All of it's new to me
(except for the first time I heard him talking about it), and is
freaking me out a little. What do you know about these so-called Jackson
Whites? And what the hell is pie baldness?
-- Check this
out. Harper Lee actually spoke with a reporter. Maybe it'll inspire
Salinger to make up for this
affront, and sit down for his long-overdue Surf Report interview?
-- And finally, here's
the latest from our good friend Buck, straight from the holler.
Sorry all this is so late today. I'm operating on half an ass here. Or
something.
More tomorrow.
February 6, 2006
-- It snowed last night, just a little
bit, and I've been outside already shoveling and sweeping and cleaning
off the cars. And you know what would hit the spot right about now? Yep,
a big sack o' Sausage McMuffins. But, of course, when is that not
true?
-- I'd rate Friday's experiment a B. I got up early as planned, and
accomplished some things. It wasn't the eight hours of solid
extracurricular writing I'd fantasized about (always with a pencil
behind my ear), but it wasn't a bust either. Around one o'clock I asked
Toney if she wanted to go to Damon's for lunch, and that was my
downfall. Not much got done after I ingested that prime rib sandwich.
But I'm perfectly happy with a B; I think it's a respectable showing.
When the lure of slow-cooked beef only causes me to lose one
letter grade, how can I bitch?
-- On Saturday we ventured into downtown Scranton and took in a
"travel show" at the Hilton. We've been to this shindig
before, and it's basically forty or fifty travel agencies and tourist
authorities handing out brochures and Jolly Ranchers and refrigerator
magnets. We picked up a bunch of stuff about England, and had a
conversation with a woman who strongly suggested that we travel with an
organized tour group the first time we go. I don't know about that. I
have visions of us being trapped inside a bus for a week with a gang of
senior citizens eating baloney sandwiches and smacking their lips. But
she claims we'll waste a lot of time trying to do it on our own, and
will miss plenty of stuff. We're stubborn, and probably won't take her
advice. Any opinions?
-- After the travel show we stopped at Sam's, the exclusive shopping
club we were invited to join, and the place was full-on pandemonium. It
looked like everybody in the world was having a Super Bowl party, buying
up pillowcases full of shrimp and giant Flintstones-style racks of ribs
and entire flatbed carts full of crap. We had to park way out in right
field, and it was hard to even walk inside the store. Toney was going to
pick up a few things, but it was like Christmas Eve in that place. So
screw dat.
I checked on my Samsung TV, and they
still don't have it back in stock. (I'm very nervous.) We tried to
browse for a little while, but it was just too crowded. The hell, man?
If everybody's having a Super Bowl party, then who'll be left to
attend any of them??
People were really starting to get on my nerves with all their
football-fueled giddiness and whatnot.
And there was an overzealous sample lady there, handing out chips and
salsa, who was actually chasing people through the store with her snack
wagon. I'm not kidding, the thing was on wheels and she was pushing it
through the aisles commanding people, ordering them, to try her
products. I'd never seen one go mobile before.
By the time we threw in the towel, about ten minutes after we arrived, I
was in a complete state of agitation. And when a couple of little girls
outside the store asked if I wanted to buy Girl Scout cookies, I snapped
and said, "Cookies are for suckers!"
That night I broke my Yuengling moratorium.
-- On Sunday I took the Secrets to lunch at Wendy's (Toney refused). And
as I was eating my burger I saw a woman blow her nose with a napkin. She
held it up to her face, began making great snorkeling sounds, and then
the napkin went dark. I wasn't really all that hungry anyway...
-- Then it was time for another marathon PAS session at the oldest
Secret's swim meet. This one was pretty exciting though, because the
other team was really good. Usually it's a complete blowout, and the
only thing I care about is how my kid performed; there's generally not
much drama or suspense about the outcome. Yesterday, however, there was
a real possibility of actually losing, so there was electricity in the
air.
Well, electricity and the sour funk of the fat man sitting in front of
me.... The dude's face was fire engine red and sweat was cascading down
his skull the entire time. He was wearing what appeared to be a blood
pressure cuff on his upper right arm; apparently it monitors his shit
constantly? I just don't know. He smelled like it was high-time to break
out the sponge-on-a-stick, and get down to business. And I was seriously
concerned that his temples might burst open, and streams of blood would
start spraying over the crowd.
The Secret's team won, as usual, and then I broke the moratorium again.
-- So as not to feel like a complete social misfit, I watched
most of the Super Bowl last night. Decent game, huh? Aren't they usually
lopsided and boring? That's what was filed inside my head, anyway.
I thought the Stones were pretty good during half-time. I noticed they
bleeped out the word "cum" during "Start Me Up." Heh.
The new song sounded really good, and you can't go wrong with
"Satisfaction."
It was a solid performance, I thought. But there's just one tiny thing I
can't get past:
Mick, 62 years old
My Dad, 64 years old
Mick, strutting and thrusting, showing his belly
My Dad, playing bingo in Florida
But maybe that's just my hang-up?
I didn't think any of the commercials jumped out as exceptionally
brilliant this year, but I didn't see them all. What were the good ones?
After the game I watched some interviews being conducted in local sports
bars, and people were slurring about how "we did it!" and all
that stuff. I love that: WE did it. The guy's completely shitfaced in
Scranton, works for Stanley Steemer during the week, and is taking
partial credit for a Super Bowl victory. Simply excellent.
More tomorrow. I'm running way behind
here.... See ya then.
February 2, 2006
-- We did our taxes last night. Well,
to be more precise, Toney did our taxes last night. It was made
quite clear that she didn't really need my "help." (Hurtful.)
So she fired up the TurboTax on my computer and did all of our
federally-mandated bookkeeping, while I had salted peanuts in the shell
and tried not to make too much noise with all the cracking.
We're getting a refund again, thanks to our little Gameboy playin'
write-offs, but not as much as last year. Toney's part-time job messed
that up for us. Why does that always happen? She only made a few
thousand dollars in 2005, but I think they withheld something like a
buck twenty-nine. Wot's up wit dat?
Whatever. I'm not really feeling it this year. The whole amount is going
right back into debt-reduction projects, and it's hard to whip up much
of a passion for that sort of thing. Last year we overhauled the living
room, and I was all into it. But paying for shit we've already got? It's
a cruel and sick joke.
-- I'm taking a vacation day tomorrow at my job. There's not much going
on right now, so I'm gonna stretch the weekend a little. My plan is to
hit the sack early tonight, get up before the rooster crows on Friday,
and work on my extracurriculars.
I have a writing project that I'm all jacked-up about (not the
"novel"), and I want to devote six or seven hours to it
tomorrow. I'm always whining about not having enough time to do
anything, so tomorrow's my chance. It'll just be me and Andy and our
considerable neuroses until late in the afternoon.
The reason I'm telling you all this? To put pressure on myself, so I
won't waste the day eating sausage at Waffle House and flipping through
the used CDs at Gallery of Sound; it'll hopefully work as an incentive
to go against nature.
I will report back on Monday with a truthful account of the day. Please
beat me unmercifully if I fucked-off. I beg of you.
-- I received an email yesterday from a
guy I used to work with in Atlanta. I hadn't had any contact with him in
years, and it was a true voice from the past. In fact, his note could've
been written in the distant past -- he's roughly my age, and is still,
as he puts it, "rockin'!!!!!!"
Hey, somebody's gotta do it.
But he mentioned a person that I'd almost forgotten, a former co-worker
who mispronounced lots and lots of words. She also dressed like a
million dollars, but the doors on her car wouldn't open from the
outside. We'd see her out in the parking lot climbing into the
hatchback, while wearing a custom-tailored business suit. Oh, she was a
classic.
From off the top of my head, here are some of her greatest hits:
salt = "sot"
plastic = "plascit"
straw = "skraw"
basket = "bakset"
Pier One = "Prior One"
There are plenty of others, but I'm just not coming up with them right
now. Do you know people like this, who mispronounce common words? Tell
us about it, we'd like to know.
-- Check this
shit out. I haven't seen anything like it since we visited the
blowfish house at the Myrtle Beach Aquarium. I mean, seriously.
-- And I'm not completely sure, but I believe this
video was filmed next door to us, at Poppa Half-Shirt's house.
It may be a genuine Half-Shirt Production! I'm going to have to watch it
a few more times, but there are a lot of faces in there that sure look
familiar. Plus, I noticed that their recycling bin was overflowing with
Coors Light cans this week. Coincidence? I'm just not sure. The kid at
the end threw me for a second, but then I remembered: Halfy's oldest son
is an academic genius. It's probably one of his friends from the math
club!
Of course, I could be completely wrong about all of it...
-- And finally, I'm gonna turn this bitch over to Buck, and drag my
sorry ass to work. Right... now.
See ya tomorrow.
February 1, 2006
-- Yesterday I drove past a Goodyear tire store and had a negative
feeling down deep in my soul, like I do every time I drive past there. I
hate Goodyear with such a white-hot passion that it's now hardcoded in
my DNA. I'm not kidding, just seeing their logo makes my blood
boil.
And as I continued driving, I realized that I no longer remember why. I
know it has something to do with an episode in Atlanta, but I can't
recall the details of it. In fact, I can't remember anything
about it, except that they pissed me off and I vowed to never set foot
in one of their stores again.
Apparently only the bitterness remains at this point. But it's enough.
-- After one week of hemming, and another of hawing, I've decided to
give this a try. It seems
like an excellent deal, with no downsides. (Am I missing anything?) And
it'll help with my "quest."
I'm getting the ball rolling today with the latest Franz Ferdinand.
Because, as you may be aware, rock 'n' roll ain't noise pollution.
On a related note, I applied to take part in the yourmusic affiliate
program, so I could run ads on TheWVSR and maybe pick up a few nickels
from the actions of fellow travelers. But a couple of hours later I
received an email back that said something along the lines of, and I'm
paraphrasing, "Ha!" In good conscience I can't really hold it
against them.
-- And speaking of music, I'm listening to a Foreigner best-of
CD right now, for the first time in years, and.... I'm shocked, simply
shocked, at how bad they sucked.
A lot of that classic rock stuff, I've found, sounds pretty good when
you go back and revisit it (especially after a dozen or so years of
hiding from it). Like Billy Squier, for instance. You guys were mocking
me a few days ago for listening to him, but I think you might be
surprised at just how fun his greatest hits CD is. Sure, there's a lot
of finger-snapping and hand-clapping, and there was that unfortunate
video where he danced around a bed like a full-on homo, but he had his
moments. Same goes for Bad Company and Def Leppard, and that sort of
thing.
But Foreigner? No. I liked them when I was in Jr. High, but I was wrong,
so tragically wrong.
-- I think our Adelphia internet connection is about to shit the bed
again. It's now moving at the speed of a rash on a tuba player's ass.
And that's not a good sign, is it?
-- There's something I've been meaning to ask... At Saddam's trial in
Iraq, why is everybody standing around inside those big playpens? I
don't understand. I think the judge actually has a rotating Duck Duck
Goose mobile hanging above his desk. What's it all about?! I'm baffled.
-- From the Stealing Clive Bull's
Topics desk: Do you have any celebrity autographs? If so, give us a call
and share it with London! Or whatever.
I personally have many prized autographs, including baseballs signed by
my two biggest baseball heroes, Johnny Bench and Mickey Mantle, and this
poster from Shane MacGowan.
As I look around the bunker here, I also see a picture autographed by
all four member of REM (Michael signed it with a peace sign, the
pretentious fuck), another from the Barenaked Ladies, a Soupy Sales
8x10, a poster signed by my spiritual advisor Paul Westerberg, a
soup ladle autographed by the Soup Nazi, a signed pic of Carl Reiner,
and another from the Olsen Twins (Thanks for believing in us!).
And while not technically an autograph, Toney has a cassette of Weird Al
Yankovic leaving a message on her home answering machine, from back in
our record weasel days. And just how cool is that?
What's in your collection?
-- Speaking of answering machines, this
is always worth another listen.
-- And I know this is kinda lame today. I had other plans, but I got
very little sleep and my brain is expanding and contracting inside its
housing. All I can say is thank God for Metten, who's returned from the
dead today to take up the slack, the terrible terrible slack.
Here ya go. Whew!
I'll try it again tomorrow.
|
The State of
My
Fat Ass February
2006
