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March 31, 2006
-- Tell me if I'm just being paranoid....
It's time to have the state inspection done on my Blazer again, and
yesterday Toney called a local tire store to set it up (she had a $20
coupon). They said they could do it first-thing on Friday, but I'd need
to have my truck there at 7 am. Needless to say, I didn't like the sound
of that, not one tiny bit, and decided to leave it overnight instead.
So, after work yesterday Toney and I met at the store. I went in to give
them my information and keys and whatnot, and almost immediately the guy
started in with the questions.
"Have you ever had the ball joints replaced on that vehicle?"
he asked. I tried not to snicker at the phrase "ball joint"
and told him that no, I couldn't remember ever bitching about that
particular subject. And as soon as I said it, I knew I'd made a tactical
error. His eyes sparkled, and he proceeded to spin a doomsday tale about
Blazers and their ball joints, "especially after 60,000
miles."
The hell, man?? He hadn't even seen my truck yet, and it felt
like he was already laying the groundwork for bad news. And when I asked
him what time they'd be done with it, he said, "Well, it all
depends on how much work we'll have to do."
I couldn't even enjoy my Mexican dinner; I sat there mumbling to myself
and becoming more and more convinced that the guy was preparing to bend
me over the proverbial couch. It was all I could do to finish my basket
of chips, tub of salsa, mega-burrito, refried beans, Spanish rice,
gallon of iced tea, and plate garnish.
I stewed about it all evening, and eventually called my Dad. (Yes, I'm
43. What of it?) He said he'd be concerned about it as well, and told me
it would cost "hundreds" to have the ball joints replaced. His
suggestion: don't let those people inspect my truck.
And this morning, ten minutes before they opened, I called the store and
invoked the Greg Brady Doctrine. "Something suddenly came up,"
I said, "and I need my Blazer today." I promised to
re-schedule, then took it straight to my regular garage. Twenty extra
dollars is a whole lot better than "hundreds," on any day of
the week.
Now I'm sitting here with my fingers crossed.... I should know something
around one o'clock. And I'm no longer laughing at the term "ball
joint." The bastards have taken all the fun out of it.
You think I'm just being paranoid?
-- Since they're in inventory-mode at my job, I found myself literally
twiddling my thumbs yesterday afternoon. I'm serious, without realizing
it, I was engaged in a rather vigorous twiddle. All the stuff that I,
ahem, oversee is not being done on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday -- the
place is basically shut-down. So I called my boss to jokingly bitch
about it, and he surprised me by agreeing wholeheartedly, and telling me
to take Friday off.
At first I thought he was joking, but he wasn't. "Use one of your
floating holidays," he said, with a casual shrug 3000 miles away.
And I said, what? Floating holiday? What's that, a New Wave band? I had
no idea. But he tells me I get three a year, and was shocked to learn
that I don't take advantage of them. Well, it might help if I knew
about it. Unbelievable.
But it's hard to be too irritated, because it's a beautiful day and I'm
not at work. Yeefukkinhaw. And with any luck, I'll be out of sight out
of mind, and won't be required to go to dinner tonight with the Pressed
Slacks Gang. Wish me luck. I'm laying mighty low today.
-- I watched three episodes of 24 last night, one after the
other, and it was all I could do to stop there. Man, is that show
addictive, or what? It's almost physically impossible to stop watching.
I was in bed at 12:30 am contemplating whether or not it would be too
compulsive and crazy to get up, go back downstairs, and crank it up
again. Then I guess I fell asleep.
-- And this isn't much of an update, I know. But I've already driven all
over town, had a phone conversation with my friend Steve, and taken a
lengthy breakfast break. I'm a tad distracted here.... So I'm just gonna
call it a day.
You guys have a great weekend, and I'll see ya on Monday.
March 30, 2006
-- The big-shots I mentioned earlier in
the week will start rolling into my workplace today, and by tomorrow
it'll be wall-to-wall pressed slacks. It's not a huge deal, really;
they're not coming here to see me, or anything. But it's gonna throw off
the rhythm of my life for a couple of days, and I don't like that.
Over the years I've established an order to my weekday world that
includes these updates, Phil Hendrie, Clive Bull, some work when I can
squeeze it in, then home on the couch by 7 pm for dinner, Scrote, and
snacks.
But all that's gonna come off the tracks for the next three days. I'll
probably be in meetings, out late for expense-account dinners, and God
knows what all. And this could very well lead to chaos, like having to
listen to Clive before Phil, and other such crimes against
nature.
Will somebody please hold me?
-- I was talking to a co-worker in California yesterday who is a big ol'
music nerd, just like me. He's about ten years younger than I am, but
knows his shit. He's made up for being born so ridiculously late by
amassing plenty of geekish knowledge. The dude is a remarkably
well-rounded fanatic, especially when it comes to Americana or
y'allternative or whatever you want to call it, and seems to have
impeccable taste as well.
We don't talk very often, but our conversations always start with one of
us asking the other, "Hey, what's in your CD player?" And that
usually opens doors that lead to other doors, and before we know it
twenty or thirty minutes have passed and we haven't even begun talking
about the boring work stuff.
So he called yesterday and asked what I've been listening to, and I
rattled off a few things. Then I remembered the new Donald
Fagen CD, and told him I'd bought that as well.
And he snorted! He literally snorted like somebody had said something
amusing. Then he added, "And you admit this, in public and
everything?" What in the everloving crap?? I got all
defensive (don't go dissing Fagen), and my words became tinged in
assholism.
But I quickly got it under control, and
made a perfunctory (and civil) effort to defend the work of Steely Dan.
He didn't argue with me, but I could tell he wasn't buying what I was
selling. The guy was just going along with it, like I was some mongoloid
singing the praises of Night Ranger or whatever.
Grrr.... For a split second I wanted to hurt him, I really did. I
felt a powerful urge to deliver a low blow, and almost yelled, "Oh
yeah? Well, Gram Parsons was a talentless junkie hack!"
But something made me refrain from dropping The Big One, and the
conversation eventually returned to Defcon 1. It was a close call,
though. And I shudder at the mere thought of it.
And be sure to tune in next week, for another exciting episode of When
Nerds Attack!
-- Speaking of music, there are rumors circulating of a possible
Replacements reunion(!).
Apparently a picture surfaced a few days ago, of the three living
original members in a studio somewhere, with a session drummer. Several
websites posted the pic, and were apparently "asked" to remove
it by somebody scary enough to make them all comply with the
"request."
Here's
an article about the whole ordeal. And, risking an injunction from
Westerberg Corp., here's
the photo.
It's been nice knowing you.
-- Since we're on the subject... this
is a picture somebody took at the very first Replacements show I ever
attended. Not to be over-dramatic, but it was one of the most memorable
experiences of my life.... Holy crap on a life raft, that shit was ROCK.
I'm near tears just thinking about it.
And I didn't plan on this being an all-music update (go ahead and bitch,
Buck), but sometimes I have no control over any of it....
I'll leave you now with that most dangerous of questions: What's in your
CD player?
See ya next time.
March 29, 2006
-- A cuppa two tree days ago I asked
you folks what TV shows you simply CANNOT miss, and now Stephen King has
weighed in on the subject... Oh, he disguises it as a column for Entertainment
Weekly, but we all know the truth about that one, right?
Here's his list: The Shield, Veronica Mars, LOST, Battlestar
Galactica, The Sopranos, and 24. So there you go. I
haven't seen three of those, but it feels like a sturdy lineup (with one
possible exception).
And for next week's column, expect Mr. King to tackle the question,
"How many different animals have you eaten?" And not even mention
TheWVSR. Ha!
-- I watched an interesting Netflix movie a few days ago. I say interesting,
because as soon as it was over I went straight to their website, and
rated it five stars. Then I thought about it for a while and bumped it
down to three -- all before thinking about it some more and reinstating
the original five.
Searching For The
Wrong-Eyed Jesus was the flick that caused all this extra
thinking and star manipulations. It's a documentary shot in the South,
and featuring Jim White,
a musician I've raved about many times here. And while it's highly
entertaining, it doesn't exactly paint a pretty picture. In fact, it
seems to purposely go in the exact opposite direction of pretty.
The thing is full of the trashiest of trash and the ugliest of ugly.
There are crazy-ass "Jesus freaks," wild-eyed hillbilly
musicians, scary "juke joint" patrons, toothless hash
slingers, creepy convicts, and a whole parade of every Southern
stereotype you can come up with.
And that's what made me temporarily bump it down to three stars. It's
hardly an accurate portrayal of the region, AND it was made in
conjunction with the BBC for broadcast on British television. I can just
imagine 'em over there, just laughing their asses off at all us
hillbilly hicks. And that kinda browns my beef...
Then I remembered that the thesis of
the film was to go in search of real-life examples of the characters
that populate Jim White's first album, Wrong-Eyed
Jesus! I mean, check the title of the movie.... So I changed it
back to my original rave review.
'Cause, they found 'em! Holy shit.
-- I watched the first episode of Teachers.
last night, a mid-season replacement sitcom that features Phil Hendrie
as a cast member. It wasn't very good, and the talents of Phil are
completely (and predictably) wasted. He's not a writer or a producer or
anything, he's just a "wacky" character goofing in the
background on a mediocre situation comedy. It's enough to give a grown
man stomach aches....
Somebody on the Sweet
Feathery Jesus message board said that it's like Lenny Bruce being a
cast member of My Three Sons. And I think that's pretty accurate,
except Teachers. isn't nearly as good as My Three Sons. So
far, anyway. Maybe it'll get better?
Does anyone have any Tums?
-- I was moving around a bunch of crap (archival materials) in the
bunker last night, and came across an old issue of Zine World
magazine. I used to be a reviewer there, and this is the staff bio I
wrote for myself:
Jeff Kay is a rugged well-hung outdoorsman who enjoys snuggling and
"just talking." He feels that if his West Virginia Surf
Report can help save the life of just one child, it will all be worth
it. He also holds the patent on Cheez-Its.
Good times.
-- Toney received a call last night from our next-door neighbor in
California. She wanted to tell us that our old house is up for sale. I
guess the people who bought it from us are getting a divorce...
Anyway, check
out the asking price! We paid $147,000 for it in 1996, and THAT
was outrageous. It's not a bad house, but pretty small and out-of-date.
Plus, I can almost guarantee that the garage is filled right this
minute, simply filled, with black widow spiders.
Whatever. I'm going to try not to think about all the equity we'd have
if we'd stayed. All that beautiful equity.... Talk about a
retirement plan. Fuck!
-- And I'll leave you now with a classic old video
clip that's always worth watching one more time.
Have a great day. See ya tomorrow.
March 28, 2006
-- You know what's amazing? It is
absolutely impossible to get anything done while listening to the
Grateful Dead. It's true, just try it sometime. I was playing Elvis
Costello's King of America this morning, and everything was as it
should be. When it ended I loaded an old Dead disc, and suddenly I was
like Patrick on Spongebob; I think a little bit of drool even
dripped off my lip.
It was all I could do to gather enough energy to turn around in my chair
and remove the CD that was playing behind me. I was yelling in my head,
"You can do it, Jeff! Pull! Pull!!..." And when the
lofty goal was finally realized, I collapsed in an exhausted and
quivering flesh-pile.
So you can blame the Grateful Dead for the lateness of this update;
today I will not accept the responsibility. I, along with countless
others, am a victim of hippie noodling -- or HN, as its known among
mental healthcare professionals.
-- The site was down this morning, because we're operating at roughly
102% of our allowed bandwidth. I had two conversations with the webhost
last week about the issue, and they assured me there'd be no problem. In
fact, I offered to pay for five extra gigabytes in March, and they said,
"Don't worry about it, man." Since it had never happened
before, they just let it slide. And just how cool is that?
Unfortunately, somebody forgot to check a box or something, and we were
taken off the air for an hour or so. During that time I received more
than twenty emails, most with the subject: WTF?? My sentiments exactly.
I called the host, but they're in California and weren't open yet. So I
sent a message to the support address, and they immediately reinstated
the site and comped me five gigs for the month(!). So, there ya go.
Shit, as they say, happens. And it's kinda hard to build up much
resentment, under the circumstances. Ya know?
-- However.... You want to know something that really bakes my
apples? The janitors at my job work during the day, right up in the
middle of everybody's business. At every other place I've worked, they
were like urinal fairies that came out at night -- mythical beings that
most people never laid eyes on.
But not here. I'll be on an important
call with Burbank, and a man who looks something like
this will come busting into my office with both barrels of a
vacuum cleaner blazing, bumping into furniture and just generally going
to town. I give him the
signal for "interlocking interference, pushing, or helping
runner" but it usually doesn't penetrate the scarring.
I've complained to the building manager, and he just gives me that Oh
look everyone, California Boy is unhappy expression, and that's the
end of it. Highly irritating.
And speaking of that... I'm getting mighty tired of being known as The
Guy From California. Enough is enough! I'm thinking about having a bunch
of these
printed up, and distributed to the staff.
-- My brother is heavily into genealogy, tracing the family tree and all
that jazz. Some of it's kind of interesting, but I don't really share
the passion. From what I can tell, it's mostly about names and dates,
and lots of dry data.
But every once in a while he'll uncover a story, and that's when my ears
perk up. I like the stories.
He recently signed up with a newspaper archive service, and has been
sending me articles about relatives of ours, people I've usually never
heard of.
Over the weekend, for instance, he sent me a piece about my
grandmother's brother. The man died in 1950 when he was reportedly
dipping gasoline out of a holding tank(?!), dropped the bucket, and went
in after it. (Sweet sainted mother of Bobby Buntrock!) He was overcome
by the fumes, and the article said they fished him out by lasoing one of
his feet with a rope. I have a feeling that it was the 1950 equivalent
of a Fark link, what do you think?
And a few hours later he forwarded me a short obituary of a distant
relative who was "enfeebled by illness," and plunged through
an open grate into a fire.
I'm sorry, but I'm having a little trouble not laughing....
Have any of your relatives died in a strange Farkish sorta way? If so,
we'd all like to hear about it. Use the comments link below.
And that'll have to do it for today, boys and girls. I'll stay away from
the noodling, and try to get back on track tomorrow.
See ya then.
March 27, 2006
-- I wish I had some exciting story to
tell about the weekend, filled with sex, violence, and rawk 'n' roll,
but I don't. In fact, I didn't even leave the house on Saturday until
around four o'clock, when I went to the beer store to buy beer, and the
convenience store to pick up a couple of Powerball quick-picks (you
can't win it if you ain't in it). It's too bad I don't smoke; I could've
made it a full-on white trash Trifecta.
And on Sunday we drove to Wilkes-Barre just to get out of the house.
When we woke up there was an inch or two of snow on the ground, and it
was cold outside. I'm not usually one to wish for warmer weather, I'm no
fan of the hazy, humid summer months, but enough is enough. I'm ready to
break out the rolling box o' beds already, and get down to bidness.
As we were exiting the packed-to-the-rafters Barnes & Noble store
yesterday (where we bought the Secrets another Goosebumps book,
something about a blob that eats the entire world...), there was a
strong smell of seared cow flesh on the air, and it was good. I guessed
it was coming from the Outback Steakhouse across the way, and it was
some effective advertising, I'm tellin' ya.
Before we returned to our House of Excitement, we went into Target to
pick up a few necessities. We bought a dozen coat hangers for $1.23, two
packages of light bulbs (60 & 75 watt) for 77 cents each, the kids
some candy, and for me, a Take Five bar (mmmm... chocolate and salt).
Then we were going to go home and cook dinner. My assignment: make the
salad.
But I just couldn't get that grilled livestock out of my head. The
smell, the beautiful, beautiful smell, flipped some sort of switch in
me, and I was under its power. If the steak aroma had somehow
transmitted a command to kill, I probably would've crashed my Blazer
right through the front door of Bed Bath & Beyond.
I don't think we'd been to an Outback since the Atlanta days. Somewhere
along the line we decided that it was overpriced and not any better than
a million other less-costly sear-houses. But I wondered.... Maybe we
didn't have the proper perspective back then? Perhaps our gauges weren't
yet fully calibrated? I could feel myself working up a good
justification.
But, of course, we were right all
along. The check was roughly (and I know my chain restaurants) fifteen
dollars too much. My steak was good, but not that good. Everybody
else seemed to agree. And as we drove, I stewed about being drawn in by
the scent, and costing us a ludicrous amount of money.
"What am I, a freaking dog?!" I shouted. "What's next for
Jeff Kay, yard shitting? Rug gnawing??"
But nobody was paying any attention to me. It was as if they'd heard it
all a million times before....
-- I bought this
postcard through eBay last week, and it arrived on Friday. Do
any of you WV folks recognize it? Yep, it's the late, great Rippling
Waters pool. We, like everybody else in the area, logged many an hour
there, back in the day. The thing was HUGE and the bottom was covered in
white sand(?!). The jukebox was always blasting ("Rock On" by
David Essex is the song that comes to mind), and my childhood memories
of the place are nothing but 100% positive.
Then some church bought it, closed it down, and filled the pool with
dirt. It seems they didn't approve of co-ed swimming or some such
thing....
I wish I were joking, but I am not. It was a horrifying turn of events,
and makes me sad even now.
-- I don't usually link to "wacky" news articles, but felt
compelled to make an exception in this
case. Just so much delicious fucked-upness....
-- A reader tipped me to this
excellent LA Times article, about something near and dear to my
heart. <sigh>
-- And finally, I'd like to ask you about field trips. The oldest Secret
was telling me yesterday about the full schedule his class has lined-up,
and it got me to thinkin'....
The only field trips I can remember taking, as a Jiffy Pop-haired
youngling, was to Sunrise (a local museum or mansion or whatever), the
Symphony (zzzzzzzzz), a bread factory (they gave us Little Debbie
oatmeal cookies at the end), and a man's garage (I shit you not) that
was full of rock-polishing equipment(?).
The middle school kids here get to go to Cooperstown, NY, Broadway plays
in NYC, Phillies games, and all sorts of things. Did you ever go on any
unusual or kick-ass field trips? Or is my experience fairly standard?
Help me out, folks. Did we get the short end of the stick, back in
Dunbar town? I'd like to be completely sure, before I unleash the
bitterness.
More of this golden material tomorrow. I'll see ya then.
March 24, 2006
-- I just can't get it
going this morning.... Sorry, but it feels like I'm trying to squeeze
one last bit of toothpaste from the flattened and re-flattened tube
today.
Fortunately, for all of us, Buck is moving in the exact opposite
direction. And here
he is, second day in a row. The show-off.
I'm going to work now, and will shoot for another afternoon update. But,
just in case the change of venue doesn't help, I probably should say have
a great weekend now.
So have a great weekend. I'll see ya in a few hours or a few days.
March 23, 2006
-- Apparently I overdid it this month
("mumf" for those of you in Atlanta) with the audio and video
files. My webhost is now sending me frantic ATTENTION! emails that say
I'm getting mighty close to the edge of the Earth that is my bandwidth
limit. And that's the bad news.
The good news is that I'm no longer with Earthlink and this can be
dealt-with in a reasonable manner. I'll simply call them today and
purchase ten extra gigs of transfer for March, at a nominal fee, and
that'll be that.
There will be no surprise charges to my VISA card for a thousand bucks.
No screaming, no crying, no threats of violence. I won't be required to
make dozens of phone calls that are routed and re-routed to countries
where elephants run free like squirrels. I won't have to talk to a
person who sounds like she was raised on a bamboo skiff off the coast of
Sri Lanka, but is supposedly named Cheryl.
There will be none of that, because I'm with these
guys now. And they rock da house. (Thanks again for the tip, Jason!)
Years ago, when he was recording for Stiff
Records, Nick Lowe wrote a song called "I Love My Label."
I feel the same way about my host. You know, presuming that Nick wasn't
being sarcastic...
So screw you Earthlink! I know I was but a tiny speck o' fly shit on the
dashboard of your massive corporation, but it feels great to NOT be with
you anymore. Just so great.
-- I did take down the "Sashaying George" McDLT video, because
people were hotlinking to it. Go figure. Watch it here
if you want to see it again. Apparently they're millionaires over at
that site, so let 'er rip.
-- I fed our dog Andy (Black Lips Houlihan, Snoop Manny Mann) a
good-sized portion of ravioli last night, and Toney doesn't approve. She
thinks I'm going to turn him into an ass-blaster like that dog my
parents used to have. Remember that story? They cooked him hot dogs and
hamburgers for every meal, and he eventually brought new meaning to the
term shoot the shit? Good times. But I don't understand how it
could hurt him, it's just smoldering pouches of cheese in a rich
marinara sauce. And they brings him so much doggie joy.... What do you
think? Am I doing Andy harm?
-- In case you should give a crap (and you really should), here's
some exciting Phil Hendrie news for ya. I think the man's a comedy
genius, as you're probably aware. God knows I drone on about him all the
time, and bore my friends with my wild ravings about the show.
But watching the guy actually doing it will blow your mind. He's
the host and the guest, and the way he switches back and forth
between the characters is something to see. It's also pretty eye-opening
the way they screen their callers. They berate and insult and
ridicule... Pretty cool!
So, in case you should give a crap, there you are.
-- Finally, from the Stealing Clive
Bull's Topics desk, what are the TV shows that you absolutely CANNOT
miss? There are only two that currently fall into that category for me: LOST
and The Sopranos. When Deadwood and Curb Your
Enthusiasm are broadcasting new shows, they're added to the list as
well. But right now it's only the two.
I do try to watch Law & Order SVU, but I'm not obsessive
about it. And I like House Hunters and Passport to Europe
way the fuck up the cable dial, but I don't kill myself for either of
those either. No, it's down to only LOST and Tony Soprano at this
point.
What about you?
-- And that'll do it for me, boys and girls. But don't click away just
yet! Our good friend Buck also has a few things to say, and here
he is.
Have a great day. I'll see ya tomorrow.
March 22, 2006
-- Before we get started with today's
half-assery.... I temporarily removed the National Lampoon random links
feed from the homepage, because it wasn't working properly and causing
problems. For long periods yesterday the front page wouldn't load, and
it was making me growl like a dog. Several of you emailed me about it,
so I know it wasn't just a personal problem. In the late afternoon it
seemed to be all better, but this morning it was doing it again.
So screw it; I took it down.
And just to be clear, it's not a Lampoon issue, it's the RSS reader
that's creeping along. (Somebody probably spilled a Dr. Pepper in a
server somewhere.) In a couple of days I'm sure they'll get their shit
correct, and I'll reinstate the links.
In the meantime, I really hope the Comedy Overlords on "the
coast" understand.... I'd hate for Silvio to show up, and offer to
"give me a ride to the hospital." Ya know?
-- Speaking of that, here's
a really good article about Sunday's Sopranos episode. I guess
there was a lot more going on than I realized? Sweet sainted mother of
Larry Csonka. It never occurred to me, for instance, that when Tony
ordered a grouper sandwich at that bar, it meant something.
My inner-cynical bastard is telling me that the chick who wrote the
piece could probably spot classic literary imagery in an episode of Joey.
But you can't always trust the bastard.... In any case, it's a good
read, so check it out.
-- Are the Olympics still going on? Last night I had a strong urge for
some spirited skeleton action, but couldn't find it anywhere. What's the
deal?
-- Next week my office is going to be crawling, simply crawling,
with California big-shots. The local warehouse will be conducting their
semi-annual inventory, and tons of people from the home office are
flying out to "audit" the affair. This group includes at least
two vice presidents, which seems kinda odd to me. I mean, why would
actual VPs risk getting their Dockers soiled in a dusty old warehouse?
It just doesn't add up. Therefore, I've begun spinning wild conspiracy
theories in my head, as mandated by my slightly askew brain
chemistry. Oh, I've got quite the scenario going right now. Stay tuned
for further developments.
-- Speaking of that.... I've been in
bed asleep by 9:30 the past two nights, which feels like late afternoon
to me. But I've been especially exhausted lately, and forced myself to
climb atop the raised dormancy platform and surrender to it. And it's a
funny thing.... When I'm operating under an extreme sleep deficit, which
is most of the time, I never dream. I just figured it had something to
do with my age.
But all sorts of bizarre stuff was going on Monday and Tuesday nights...
You don't need to worry, because I can't remember any of it. But I do
remember that it was really bright and colorful, and was rocking all
night long, both nights. It was far more entertaining than the standard
"death lite" I usually experience.
Wonder what's going on?
-- And what's the deal with that DEVO
2.0? It's kids singing Devo songs, with the real Devo playing
the music? Is that correct? I just don't understand the point of it.
(I'm also very disappointed that they don't do "Mongoloid.")
In fact, I'm not sure I approve of the whole exercise. Because it makes
me a little nervous.
-- Here's
a really interesting New York Times article about a Cold War-era
bomb shelter recently discovered in the base of the Brooklyn Bridge. No
shit. The thing was stocked with 352,000 individually wrapped
energy-crackers, or some such thing. Both bizarre and really fucking
cool.
-- Finally, do any of you remember when McDonald's shook the very
foundation of western civilization back in the early '80s, by offering a
burger with <gasp> lettuce and tomato? It was called the McDLT,
and was packaged in a Styrofoam, um, case, with the cold stuff on one
side, and the hot stuff on the other.
You do? Well, do you recall who was the dancing and prancing commercial
spokesman for this revolutionary product? Check
it out.
And that man wanted to be our Latex salesman!
See ya tomorrow.
March 21, 2006
-- Yesterday evening a guy stopped by
my office with a jaunty "What's up?" and we shot the shit
(where did that phrase come from??) for the last hour of the day. He's
the person who invited me to the Beast Feast a few weeks back, for
critter calzones and coon medallions. Unlike many of my current
"co-workers," he's a really funny guy.
Somehow we got onto the subject of an old department store that used to
be here, called Sugarman's. Obviously it was a much-loved place; I've
heard dozens of people mention it with fondness, even though it
reportedly went out of business "around 1990." From what I can
gather, the father-founder made it great, but it went straight down the
crapper when the son took over. True story? I have no idea.
I've actually been inside this mythological retail empire, even though I
moved to the area ten years after it closed. The massive abandoned
building is still sitting out there on Route 6, and our company, for a
time, rented cold-storage space inside, to keep ancient and dusty files
from the 1980's or whatever.
For some reason I had to go there one day, and walked all around the
"store." Pretty freaky, man. There are still department signs
hanging up (Lingerie, Men's Shoes, etc.) and even some fixtures and
shelving. It was dark and freezing inside, and there was crapola piled
everywhere, but it wasn't too hard to imagine the way it had been during
the golden years. I even rode in a rickety old freight elevator, just
for kicks. I love exploring in places like that.
I'd always assumed it was a store along the lines of a Sears during the
pre-mall days, a place where you could buy just about anything. But I
guess it was more like a huge Big Lots, specializing in overruns and
seconds and refurbished merchandise. The guy yesterday told me that they
sold t-shirts so cheap, it almost made more sense to wear them once and
throw them away, than to go to all the expense of actually washing them.
Anyway, this led to a conversation about dollar stores, a subject I
actually know something about.... And I was wondering, what is your best
dollar store find ever?
During our California years we would
sometimes visit a place near Valencia called The 99 Cent Store. It was a
dollar store taken to the extreme. They even sold meat!
I'm not kidding. They had big refrigerated cases like a grocery store,
that contained packages of blood-red wieners, and moist-looking baloney.
And, needless to say, it was brands nobody had ever heard of, and didn't
even make much sense. Like Great Blue Fineness Bologna, or something.
They had a grocery section as well, and sold stuff that looked familiar
from a distance, but was a tad off up-close. Instead of Hostess
Cupcakes, for instance, they might offer something called Hostex
Cupcakes. They also carried grocery store brands from chains that aren't
within a thousand miles of the place, like Food Lion. And Kool-Aid
packets that said grape on the outside, but were blue instead of purple.
WTF?
I would sometimes browse their extensive line of toiletries, and
consider buying a tube of Mexican toothpaste, but never worked up the
courage. It was an, um, interesting place.
But one day I went in there, and they all sorts of stuff from the old
Sands casino in Las Vegas(!). The legendary ex-hangout of Sinatra and
the Rat Pack had recently been demolished, and this 99 Cent Store
somehow had their ashtrays and coffee mugs and whatnot.
I bought one of each, and should've bought more. The mug is one of my
most cherished possessions. I saw Nostrils drinking his jet-black hippie
coffee from it once, and nearly lost my shit. Don't touch my Sands cup,
goddammit.
And at a dollar store in Scranton, I once found a copy of the Nick Lowe
CD "Nick the Knife." Check
out the prices for that baby at half dotcom. Oh yeah.
What are your best dollar store scores? Please help bail me out of this
half-assed update, will ya? Use the comments link below.
Holy shit.
March 20, 2006
-- I recently mentioned a book that I
wanted, about the assassination of Abraham Lincoln and the ensuing
search for his killer. This
one ,
to be exact. Remember, I told you about how I used to get excited about
Clash albums being released, and now it's books(!?) about American
history? Yes, it's a sad state of affairs. But what are you gonna do? A
man gets a few years on him, and suddenly it's all about Hitler and
Lincoln and Teddy Roosevelt. There's no use in fighting it.
So I finally bought the book, through half dotcom, and it arrived on
Friday. Supposedly it came from a bookstore in Connecticut, is brand
new, and only cost $9.95. Pretty good deal, huh? There's only one
problem: it smells like goulash.
I'm not kidding, the thing has a strange funk to it. It is, as
advertised, in pristine condition, and you just can't argue with the
price. But it stinks. It's lying on the table behind me right now, and
the bunker smells like a Hungarian kitchen. Apparently every page is
saturated, simply saturated, with the odors of The Old Country.
What the hell, man? Did they have a hotplate in the shop, and a big
humming stout woman in an apron continuously stirring a bubbling pot,
night and day?
That's the way I have it pictured, anyway.
Sure, I know it could be worse. In fact, years ago I bought a book
through eBay by one of the original founders of the National Lampoon,
opened the big envelope it was mailed in, and was punched in the face by
a powerful stench of cat piss and mold. The book itself was horribly
water damaged and sat on a slant, if you know what I mean. It went
straight in the garbage.
The Lincoln book isn't anywhere near that bad, but I still don't like
it. It's the residue of people I don't know, being shoved like a
suppository right up the tail pipe of my life. Or something. I'm simply
not a fan of the funky book.
-- I got up early on Saturday and did some extracurricular writing. I'm
really excited. If I continue at the current pace, I figure I'll have a
first-draft by the fall of 2019! Pretty cool.
After I ran out of coffee energy, I got
dressed and went to the time-warp record store near our house. The place
is straight out of the 70's, man, with incense and haughty "you may
approach the throne" clerks and everything. I'd read a really good
article about Donald Fagen in Entertainment Weekly during my, um,
morning constitutional, and wanted to pick up his new CD.
So I did. They had about ten copies of it, and some were priced at
$11.97 and others were $15.97. Huh. That kind of shit would never happen
on my watch.... But whatever. The cashier said, "Thanks, man,"
and that made me happy. Sometimes they call me sir in there, the little
pricks.
The afternoon was a sucking black hole of dullness, and I sat in a chair
dozing off for a long time. The kids were playing video games and Toney
was flipping through a magazine. I'm simply not wired for such
"activities." It's the type of situation that can send a man
running to a dive bar, but I wasn't in the mood for some reason. I just
sat there with my eyes rolling back instead, and my head whipping around
in circles.
Over the weekend I watched the first four episodes of the second season
of 24, and already my New Netflix Strategy is paying dividends.
Great fun! I can't wait for the next four. And today Journey
to the Center of the Earth should arrive. I'll watch it with the
Secrets, and a splendid time is guaranteed for all. Never again will I
succumb to the lure of the New Release, the devil's temptation.
On Sunday we went looking at camping supplies, even though it was
snowing outside. We're starting to get the fever, and it's fun to plot
and plan. Unfortunately, I don't think we need anything. We bought a
bunch of stuff last year at this time, and I believe we're all set.
Dammit! All that's left to do is fantasize about better
flashlights, and better sleeping bags. Wotta ripoff.
We went to lunch at a Chinese buffet, and it wasn't very good. Usually
it's kick-ass, but not yesterday. I think we got there near the end, and
they weren't replenishing anymore. The fried rice was cold and hard, and
the orange chicken had adhered to the stainless steel. It cost me
$21 plus tip, and I was hungry when we left. Plus, there was a large
group of people in the middle of the room the whole time, talking in
some unrecognizable language: real loud and all at once, in an odd
clipped cadence. It sounded like a dryer full of forks, and I could've
done without it.
And last night we watched Tony Soprano on a really bizarre business
trip, and that's pretty much it.
-- I think you're up-to-date on my exciting life now. I'll leave you
with a sound file from my Atlanta days.
Toney once angrily said to me during those years, "You're being
RUINED by Beavis and Butthead, the Jerky Boys, and Christopher
Rude!" Heh. Apparently I was getting on her nerves?
In any case, I came across some files on my computer yesterday from the
old Christopher Rude radio show, and was laughing all over again. I'm
sorry, but fart and dick jokes are just funny.
A little background on the one I'm going to share with you
today...
There's a lake outside of Atlanta, called Lake Allatoona, that was
closed by authorities for a time, because of "fecal
contamination."
This was a subject tailor-made for Rude, and here's
one of his many reactions. Good times.
See ya tomorrow.
March 17, 2006
A few quick things:
-- I think our dog Andy likes to puke. I believe it's one of
his hobbies. He rarely spews in the house, but I see him out in the yard
all the time doing those slow-walk full-body pumps. Wonder what it's all
about? It's not like he has a photo shoot next week. Ya know? And how
can he puke on cue like that? The whole thing is baffling, just
baffling.
He seems perfectly healthy and happy, otherwise. As best as I can tell,
he just likes to top off a busy day of barking at the UPS man and the
neighborhood power-walkers, by having himself a good vomit at dusk. Ever
heard of such a thing?
-- And no, I didn't start today's update with puking because it's St.
Patrick's Day. It just worked out that way.
-- A few days ago my boss sent me and my counterparts something called a
"morale survey." Apparently we were supposed to make
suggestions on how to boost and maintain morale in our little division
of The Corporation, but I thought it was a joke. I really did. The note
he sent along with it was seemingly sarcastic, and I believed he was
being a smartass. So I typed Morale is for suckers on the form
and sent it back.
Well, I guess it was real.... Yesterday I received a summary of the
"study" from one of our VPs. And I just about shit.
-- Last night I watched an episode of Law & Order LMNOP that
featured skinheads and neo-Nazis and other such happy-go-lucky
individuals. At first the characters were using standard and familiar
racial epithets, but by the end of the show I'm almost certain the
writers were making up new ones. Apparently they simply ran out of
slurs, and were forced to pull together the staff and brainstorm. It's
the only explanation I can think of.... Holy crapballs, Batman.
-- Surf Reporter Roger sends along this
very cool Smoking Fish sighting. Keep your eyes open folks, especially
since the weather is getting warmer. Our logo, he gets around. Thanks
Roger!
-- Yesterday I received in the mail an item that's been on my various CD
want-lists for years. It's a bunker-buster UK
box set that features EVERY studio recording ever released by The
Jam(!). Oh, it's the freakin' ultimate. I've wanted the thing since it
was released, but it was impossible to find at a price that didn't give
me hand tremors and/or a deep-cramp sphincter-flex. Until last week.
Somebody with 100% positive feedback offered a "like new" copy
at Amazon for a crazy-low price, and I was all over that thing like a
dingo on a Cub Scout. I didn't allow myself to get too excited
though, because I suspected that it was a mistake. I figured I'd receive
an apologetic email from the seller, and a full refund.
But yesterday the set arrived, and it's a beautiful thing. In fact, I
nearly wept.
-- Speaking of music, I made mention of Roky Erickson in a
link on the homepage this morning. If you don't know who he is (or
even if you do), here's
a really good and brief audio introduction.
Somebody should make a movie about that man's life, they really should.
You know, as long as Clooney isn't involved....
-- Here's
a fake commercial for a fake sponsor of one of Phil
Hendrie's fake radio programs. It was done by a (real) fan of the
show, and Phil now features it from time to time. It's for Mint Green
Anal Wipes.
-- I know I shouldn't laugh at this
headline, yet I do.
-- A caller to yesterday's Clive
Bull show said that he was thinking about moving to San Jose, CA,
from London. He claimed to be tired of the cold weather in England, and
wanted to give California a try. I'm not sure why he zeroed in on San
Jose, but he did.
Clive asked people to call in with advice. Should he do it, or not?
There were some interesting responses...
One guy was convinced that everybody in the United States carries a gun,
and that the man would surely be shot and killed within months, if not
days, of his arrival here.
Several people said that California is full of shallow, plastic people,
impossible to talk to; the men, one reported, only care about their cars
and the Lakers.
An old codger was pissed off about the whole thing, and said that the
man was being disloyal to his country for even contemplating such
a move.
So what do you say? Should he stay or should he go? Also, have you ever
had an impression of a place, visited it, and realized you were all
wrong? Or maybe you learned that the stereotypes were, in fact, true?
Any stories to tell on this subject?
And that's all I have time for today, boys and girls. Have yourselves a
great weekend.
See ya on Monday.
March 16, 2006
-- I think I've lost my way with
Netflix. When I first joined that particular "community," it
was a lot of fun. I rented the first season of 24 right out of
the box, as well as lots of movies I missed during my lost weekend (the
1980s), and it was a blast. But, over time, it's turned into just
another chore.
Somewhere along the line I convinced myself that it was important to see
all the new releases, as soon as they became available. I believe it was
a reaction to the ten or fifteen years that I walked around completely
out of it, not knowing the latest catch-phrases or understanding the
yuk-yuk references of drive-time radio hosts. ("Love you long time?
Why is that funny??")
Clearly, I over-corrected. For the past several months I've been
front-loading my queue with new releases, and it's taken all the
electricity out of it. I'm now sitting at home watching boolshit
like the remake of Bad News Bears and mongoloid jamborees such as
Mr. and Mrs. Smith.
What was once great fun is now duty. Those red envelopes lie on top of
the TV every night, and just make me feel bad. I don't have much
enthusiasm to watch the flicks inside, but know I'm not getting my
money's worth by letting them collect dust. So I drag myself into the
family room again, and assume the position. After it's finally over, I
often feel compelled to shower repeatedly.
It all bottomed out for me over the weekend, when I traded almost two
hours of my precious time here on Earth for the privilege of watching a
chunk of cinematic yard biscuit called Just Friends.
It's about some fat-ass douche-nozzle who went through high school
pining for a girl way out of his league. Humiliated and sad, he moved
away after graduation and eventually became handsome and rich. And you
know everything that happened after that... even if you haven't seen the
movie.
This thing was purportedly a comedy, but was about as funny as a cluster
of tumors. Here's
video footage of me watching it on Saturday.
So, enough is enough. Yesterday I sent
back, unwatched, The Constant Gardener, a disc that hasn't moved
from its spot on top of my television in weeks. I rented it, even though
I had (have) a strong suspicion that it's plodding and preachy and
boring, and has some sort of political axe to grind. Life is simply too
short.
I also devoted substantial time to rearranging my queue, in an attempt
to recapture the magic. The first disc of 24's second season is
now on the way to me, and a
documentary about the South hosted by the mad musical genius Jim
White. I moved Munich way the fuck down the list, and the black
& white George Clooney movie too. In their place I plugged in Journey
to the Center of the Earth (my favorite movie when I was ten) and a
Kojak DVD.
I feel like a weight's been lifted from my shoulders.
Oh, I'll still rent new releases, but only if I genuinely want to see
them. And I'm also going to watch Jaws and Vanishing Point
and A Fistful of Dollars, goddammit. Possibly even the first
season of Land of the Lost. I'm sick and tired of being sick and
tired.
And this doesn't really have much to do with anything I'm writing about
today, but earlier this week one of Phil Hendrie's characters called
George Clooney "a full-bore roaring homosexual." I
quite enjoyed that, and thought I'd mention it.
I'm aware that this isn't much of an update, but I had to get it off my
chest. Admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery,
right?
Once again, if you'd like to be one of my Netflix Butt-Buddies(tm), I'm
registered under jeff(at)thewvsr.com.
See ya tomorrow.
March 13, 2006
-- I had computer problems at work on
Thursday, and there was a guy from the IT department in my office all
day long. All. Day. Long. I sat in the visitor's chair taking phone
calls, and he was behind my desk typing and clicking and grunting, for
hours. I even had to call my boss and tell him I wouldn't be able to
make the one o'clock ballbuster, which is something that's simply not
done. It was nothing short of suck.
By the end of the day they had my shit correct again, and I was up and
running. But there was no time to get my email caught-up and
write Friday's update. And that's why the bunker was dark on Friday. I
had good intentions, but the wheels flew off, once again.
And so it goes.
-- I took a vacation day on Friday, and Toney and I planned to spend it
out and about. We had a few errands to run, and since the kids were in
school we could proceed at our own pace, without any whining or
feet-dragging. Well, OK... with less whining and feet-dragging.
Somehow we ended up having all three meals in restaurants that day. It
wasn't planned, it just happened. We started our tour of excess at
Waffle House, where I had the traditional Swaddlin' Boy Special. Then I
bought almost five hundred dollars(!) worth of tires for my Blazer, and
soothed my shattered nerves with one kick-ass cheeseburger at Five
Guys. Mmmmm... That night all four of us had dinner at a little Mom
n Pop Italian place near our house, and that closed-out the category.
I probably should feel guilty about it, shouldn't I?
On Thursday UPS attempted to deliver a package to our house, but nobody
was home. Toney found a note that said my employer had sent it, and a
signature was required. The hell? They're constantly sending me memos
and various crapola, but I never have to sign for anything. In fact, a
few months ago they sent thousands of dollars worth of computer
equipment, and I think the UPS driver just slowed down as he passed our
house and hurled the boxes into our yard. But this thing, whatever it
was, required a signature.
Needless to say, I assumed the worst.
Words like "downsizing" danced through my head. I just knew
it was bad news, and my stomach churned whenever I thought about it. The
note said they'd attempt to deliver it again on Friday, between two and
five. Toney told me I was making something out of nothing, but a fiber
optic cable couldn't have been run through my sphincter.
And so I sat on the couch, looking out the window, starting at 1:45 or
so. Every time I'd hear the rumble of an engine I'd be thrown into a
full-body flex. It was excruciating, waiting there for the Grim Reaper
to arrive in his big brown truck.
Yeah, it turned out to be a gift from my boss's boss's boss (or
whatever) with a form letter that said, "Thanks for all your help
during the fourth quarter." When Toney saw it she rolled her eyes
and had a good laugh at my expense. Very hurtful.
-- Saturday was like spring here, and we spent a big part of the day
outside. Toney cleaned up the front yard, we took Andy (Sirius Black
& White) for a long walk, and the boys and I washed both vehicles.
I even took my truck to the car wash and vacuumed out the inside. It was
in a horrible state. The Secrets basically use the backseat of my Blazer
as a dumpster, and I had to start the vacuum three times to get
the job done; at one point I became concerned that the thing might catch
fire, because its suck-tone suddenly changed.
I also spent about fifteen minutes prying what looked to be a Jolly
Rancher (cherry) from the inside of one of the door compartments, where
it had become one with my truck. There was a lot of filthy
mumbling during this part of the process.
That night we cooked burgers on the grill, had a few adult beverages,
and it was all good. As we wallowed in the fake spring day, we got
ourselves all jacked-up about going to Myrtle Beach again, even though
we'd vowed to skip a year. Last trip didn't go very well, and we decided
to not attempt any such challenging (and expensive) journeys this
summer. But before it was over, we'd made reservations at Lakewood
Campground for a week in June.
When you find yourself in the grips of a good Yuengling &
beef-fueled planning frenzy, there's no use in fighting it.
-- I don't think I did anything of any consequence on Sunday, so fuck
it. Let's get to the stuff that you guys sent in...
Will, the keeper of the Blanket, has added a couple of new selections to
the quotes page. Check 'em out here
-- new ones at the bottom. Thanks again, dude!
National Lampoon reportedly passed out these
postcards at the Aspen
Comedy Festival, promoting the NLHN. So who knows? Maybe Larry David
is walking around right now, with our URL in his jacket pocket? Hey,
it's possible.
Buck sends along shocking news from West Virginia. It seems that
somebody stole a rug from the Upshur County Courthouse! Yes, it's
becoming a swirling cesspool of lawlessness down there... But rest
assured, the authorities are on the case, and have this
dramatic surveillance footage to work with. Stay tuned for further
developments.
Mike Riley alerted us to this
photo, which appeared in Thursday's Charleston Daily Mail.
As you can see, the guitar strap says FUCKER on it. Boy, things have
really gone downhill at that publication since I hung up my canvas
paperboy sacks in 1980. Obviously, I was the moral anchor.
Here's
a staff memo that was sent to me by an anonymous reader. I don't know
anything about it, other than what you see. But it's more than enough.
-- And that'll do it for today, boys and girls. I'm gonna turn it over
to lakrfool now, who has a story that you don't want to miss. Right here.
Oh, and if you have anything to say about last night's Sopranos,
let 'er rip. I'd like to know your thoughts.
See ya tomorrow.
March 9, 2006
-- My internet connection is currently moving at the speed of an
Alabama Sunday, and I just know it's about to shit the bed again. I'm
trying not to get myself all jacked-up about what I just know is
around the corner, but it's not really working. Stupid money-sucking
ass-smoking turd-juggling Adelphia...
-- Do you ever read something about a person becoming seriously ill or
dying, then, over the next few hours imagine that you have the very same
symptoms? I do.
Earlier this week I read about Kirby Puckett dying of a stroke, at
roughly my age, and all day I walked around believing that my brain was
a ticking time bomb, ready to go off. I could even pinpoint where it
would happen, about three inches above my right ear. I could sense the
weak spot in there.
Then it was Christopher Reeve's wife, who died of lung cancer even
though she never smoked. I also have never smoked, and once again, she
was only about a year older than me. And every time I needed to so much
as clear my throat for the rest of the day, I viewed it as my body
sending a telegram filled with bad news.
I can't really remember, but when Reeve himself broke his neck, I was
probably convinced that I would wrench something vital while cutting a
piece of steak, or scratching a lottery ticket, and be paralyzed for
life.
It's just the way my mental illness works.
-- Even though my desk is in northeastern Pennsylvania, my job is
technically based in Burbank, California. It's a complicated and boring
story... But because I'm virtually there, they copy me on all
office email announcements and send it to me here.
For instance, when they're planning a potluck lunch (yecchh),
3000 miles away, I'm reminded to bring something. And when they're
having a blood drive, in Southern California, I'm urged to participate.
I also receive sternly-worded messages about the state of the
refrigerator, in the break room in Burbank, complete with the promise of
a new get-tough policy on abandoned sandwiches and moldy Tupperware
containers and whatnot.
I've never even been to this office, but know it intimately.
Yesterday I received an urgent alert about a toilet in the ladies room
-- the stall all the way to the right, against the wall. Apparently it's
"cracked" and should not be used until a replacement is
installed (which might take several weeks). I forwarded it back to my
boss and wrote, "Burrito day at the cafeteria again?"
I guess they're not familiar with the concept of the 'out of order' sign
out there? I have no doubt the same thing has happened here on multiple
occasions (there's no shortage of "porcelain-busters" in NEPA),
but they don't generally send out worldwide dispatches about it. Heh.
Ironically enough, just an hour or so after receiving the All Points
Bulletin from Burbank, I saw this
article linked at (I think) Drudge. Further evidence the end is
near.
-- And I know this is a tad brief, but I'm going to have to stop right
there. I'll leave you with yesterday's (rather bizarre) Clive
Bull topic, and you guys can take if from there. Or not.
Have you ever spotted a celebrity in a bathroom?
I gave this one some thought, and came up with two. I once urinated
shoulder-to-shoulder with George Benson, during my old record weasel
days in Atlanta. And, when I lived in California some lesser-known actor
from Beverly Hills 90210 was a-peein' and a-washin' along with
me, in a hotel restroom. Jamie Waters? Jamie Walters? Something like
that. He was roughly the size of a fifth-grader. And, just to be clear,
I'm talking about his height and weight.... Smartasses.
So there you go. I'm off from work tomorrow, but will make an attempt
(ahem) to update anyway.
See ya "then."
March 8, 2006
-- I'm taking a vacation day on Friday,
so today is my Thursday, Thursday will be my Friday, and Friday will be
a bonus day just shoe-horned into the week. Pretty cool, huh?
After we drop the younglings off at the indoctrination center, I mean
school, Toney and I are going to have a nice breakfast together Bonusday
morning. Then I'm going to get a few things done that have been hanging
over my head. For one, I need a haircut so bad I almost called 911 this
morning. Plus, I want to have four new tires put on my Blazer. How's
that for exciting?
There's a whole history behind those tires. A couple of months ago I
mentioned that I've become obsessed with checking my air pressure, and
am constantly at the Sheetz air pump making adjustments. And I've
realized that the tires I currently have on that truck are, for all
intents and purposes, rings of shit. I bought them at Pep Boys, using my
old Atlanta-era logic of "yeah, whatever's cheapest." They're
a brand that nobody's heard of, at least associated with tires (possibly
Jordache?), and look like balloons.
So over the past couple of weeks I've gotten it into my head that I want
four new quality tires. And it will be done on Bonusday. I have a
brand and model picked out, fully researched, and price-compared. I've
ran it past my Dad (yes I'm 43, what of it?) and received his blessing.
(The man has some opinions on tires.) And I'm not going to tell
you what I've settled on, because I don't want to hear all the horror
stories.
Ahhh... I just can't wait to start riding around town on those luxurious
babies. Ain't the aging process grand?
-- Sometimes when I'm sick, or hurting for some reason, I always think
to myself that I need to stop taking for granted the days when I feel
fine. So, this morning I'm feeling pretty darn good, and making a note
of it. Pass the Funyuns.
-- A few days ago I checked my webstats and saw that somebody from the
Department of Homeland Security was on my site, reading the Ryan's
Steakhouse assplosion
story. For some reason I find that to be hilarious. I told my friend
Bill about it in an email, and he replied, "Meanwhile, a missile
just took out the Statue of Liberty." Also hilarious.
-- A little-known fact about your, um,
humble correspondent: I've never worn a watch in my entire life. Over
the years I've received many watches as gifts (most from my former
employer, back when I worked for cool-ass fringe benefits instead of
actual money), strapped them on, and felt ridiculous. I'm sorry, but I
simply won't walk around with gauges lashed to my body. What's next, a
compass? A speedometer? No, they're all in a drawer upstairs, still in
their original boxes: just a shitload of watches. Is this
unusual?
-- One of your fellow Surf Reporters is asking for some assistance in a
matter weighing heavily on her mind. It seems that her boyfriend
recently joined the Knights of Columbus, and she's having trouble
figuring out what it all means. Here's part of her email:
It has come to my attention that all Knights (when inducted) are told
a secret at each level of their progression to "knighthood". I
need to know what this secret is. I am making it my mission to find out.
When I joked around with [my boyfriend] about doing some research to
find out, he told me that I would find myself being kidnapped by a bunch
of old men wearing pillow cases over their heads. What could this secret
be?? I need to know. Your assistance would be greatly appreciated!
I don't know if she wants me to reveal her identity, so I'm being
vague here. But she jumped aboard way back in the Mike
Piazza days, making her a charter member of the Surf Report family.
So help her out, will ya? I'm afraid I can offer nothing; I thought the
Knights of Columbus was something performed at dinner theaters.
-- And I'm all out time here, so I'm going to show you a
chart that I wish were true, then hand over the reigns to our
old friend Buck,
and let him call me a pussy some more.
See ya tomorrow.
March 7, 2006
-- Yesterday was the day of the Beast
Feast, the big local wild game dinner that I'd agreed to attend (back
when it was still a whole week away). According to the ticket it was to
start at six o'clock, and a few minutes after four Mike, the guy who
invited me to the thing, came busting into my office and hollered,
"Whooooo's ready for coon fritters!!"
He wanted to leave right that minute, and said that the time printed on
the ticket was a ruse designed to keep the newbies and amateurs away, so
the pros could get good seats and a head-start on the beer keg. The
hell? I hadn't even fully prepared myself for the evening, and was now
being flung into it all willy-nilly.
My quitting time is officially six o'clock, and I wondered if I should
call my boss and tell him I'd be sneaking out early. But then I imagined
me trying to explain it to him, and decided to just turn off my computer
and walk out the door. It's been my experience that business executives
in Southern California don't generally appreciate the concept of the
gopher pot pie. So screw it.
I would follow Mike to his house, where he'd change clothes and meet up
with one of his friends. Then we'd all go from there to the
"feast." <gulp>
And we drove and drove and drove, way out into Children of the Corn
country. Houses were about a mile apart, and there was rolling farmland
in every direction. Instead of Burger Kings and Targets, I could now
look out my windows and see cows chewing on grass. After a while I
noticed that my cell phone said NO SERVICE, and I don't like that. Ten
years ago I'd never held a cell phone in my hand, and now I feel naked
and vulnerable without one.
Mike lives on a chunk of land that's roughly the size of Santa Monica.
And that's no exaggeration. He keeps buying adjacent property, and now
owns massive acreage. Despite the fact that he's a big-shot, executive
super-duper vice president or some such thing, he's also a nice guy. And
funny too.
His buddy was waiting for us as we pulled into the driveway, and Mike
disappeared into the house somewhere, leaving me and his friend standing
in the kitchen to make awkward small-talk. A few minutes later Mike
re-joined us wearing an untucked flannel shirt, farmer jeans, ratty
sneakers, and a brown baseball cap with a leaping fish on the front.
Sweet Jesus.
They assumed we'd all ride together in
one car, but I knew I'd never find my way back to civilization from
there, especially after a few beers. I could imagine myself tooling
around those fields, half-drunk and sobbing into a phone that might as
well be a corncob. So I insisted on following them. Supposedly the place
we were going was close to an interstate highway, and that was good
enough for me. Which highway wasn't important.
The Hall of Critters, or whatever it's called, was already crowded,
despite the advertised starting time. Apparently there are a lot more
pros than newbies in the wild game game? I just don't know. Inside the
front door a guy dressed in the same "uniform" that Mike was
now wearing hit us up for a shotgun raffle. I bought five dollars worth
of chances, and had a strong feeling that I'd be walking out of there
with a gun.
Mike knew everybody in the joint, and it took us forever to get to our
table. He was meetin' and greetin' like the president at a State of the
Union address. In the middle of the room was a buffet that featured a
big basket of dinner rolls, a huge tub of garden salad, all sorts of
pastas, and steaming tubs of stuff that turned out to be bear stew,
turtle soup, and venison chili. Here we go, I mumbled in a shaky voice.
I got a little of the garden salad, and a cup of bear stew. And when I
returned to our table there was a young girl there delivering three
pitchers of beer. I'm not sure what kind it was, but nothing of any
consequence. Probably Miller Lite. But as each pitcher was depleted, you
could just take it to a guy standing in a window at the front of the
room, and he'd cheerfully refill it for you. It was a set-up I could
easily warm-to; they should do the same thing at Long John Silver's.
I hesitantly tasted the stew, and was a little surprised (not to mention
relieved) that it was good. In fact, it was damn good. If I
hadn't been told that it was bear meat, I would've assumed it to be
really tender and lean chunks of beef.
Wow. This might not be so scary after all.
After I finished off the ass of Gentle Ben, I went back and got a cup of
turtle soup. And I'll be damned if that wasn't good too. It looked and
tasted like a seafood chowder of some sort. I polished off the whole
bowl, then a couple of cups of the see-through beer, and was starting to
let my guard down a little. When the beer steward returned with a big
plate of what was reportedly venison kielbasa and it was also very
tasty, I could feel myself getting cocky.
The place was starting to get really packed, and really loud. At one
point a guy walked past our table with a fork, leaned over and speared a
hunk of kielbasa and just kept on moving. The teen girls were now
walking around pushing raffle tickets, and some were carrying the
shotguns that would later be given away as prizes. (An unusual sight,
waitresses with rifles...)
Already I could sense that the room was mildly drunk. I heard somebody
shout across a neighboring table, "These pickled eggs will make
your beer farts smell great!" I looked over and it was a man
roughly my Dad's age.
The place was roaring when a guy stepped up to a microphone and
asked everyone to stand for the pledge of allegiance. Kinda odd, I
thought: not the national anthem, the pledge of allegiance. Then
somebody said a prayer over the PA system, and it was officially dinner
time.
Every table was issued the same assortment of bowls, containing God
knows what. They were passed around, each person spooning or spearing a
little onto their plates. I kept hollering over the din, "What's
this?" And I frequently was given conflicting answers by the man to
my right, and the man to my left. I don't think most of the people there
had any idea what they were eating.
As best as I can tell I had sliced bear, sliced elk, wild turkey and
rice, some kind of goose dish, and deer in many and varied ways.
And... some of it was OK, and some of it was not. I liked the bear and
elk, but, surprisingly enough, it was the turkey that nearly ruined it
for me. It was gamey as all hell, and made my lower jaw retract. After a
couple of bites of that, I was spooked again. What in the pan-fried hell
was I doing?! This shit is roadkill!
During dinner people started breaking out what they called
"homemade wine," and passing jugs around the room. I took a
sip, just to say I had, and it was what I imagine Fred Sanford's
"ripple" tasted like. So far I haven't heard about anyone
going blind, so I guess it turned out OK. But I'm a little surprised, if
you want to know the truth.
Then they gave away the guns, which I didn't win. And they handed out a
metric shitload of door prizes, which I also didn't win. The evening
dragged on and on. Everybody was drunk and hollering, there was
incessant mumbling into an amplification device, and I was sitting there
belching up pigeon, or whatever. I wanted to go home.
Finally it started to break up. I saw a few people slipping into their
Teamsters windbreakers, and a wave of relief washed over me. As I drove
I reflected on the evening, and realized that I only liked the stuff
that tasted like beef and chicken. So why not just stick with beef and
chicken?
A year will pass before they do it again, and I might change my mind
before then. But if I were invited to one of those shindigs for next
Monday, I'd politely decline. It was an interesting exercise, but not
exactly satisfying. I'm still tasting that nasty-ass, stringy
yard bird.
And don't tell anyone, but I stopped at Wendy's on my way home for a
burger and fries, and the shit was good. Real good.
March 6, 2006
-- So I didn't do so well at picking
the Oscars? Oh well. What do I know about it anyway? Maybe next year I
can improve my performance by actually seeing some of the movies? I
doubt that would help, but anything's possible.
I stayed up late last night and watched-at the awards show, shuttling
between the bunker, the TV, and the microwave where I was preparing even
more Mexican white cheese. Mmmmm.... I thought the show was a little
better than last year's fiesta of dullness, but not much. Here are the
highlights that I noticed:
My hero George Clooney, in his acceptance speech for the best supporting
actor award (grrrr), said that if Hollywood is out-of-touch with
mainstream America, like Jon Stewart suggested, then he's proud of the
fact. "Have you seen some of the people outside this room?
Holy shit! Most of them probably don't even wipe!" he said. Or
something along those lines.
I'm not kidding, I had no idea that there were TWO Wilsons. I seriously
thought that Owen Wilson and Luke Wilson (is that right?) were the same
person. When they walked out together it took my brain a second or two
to process the information, and there was a brief halt to the
cheese-intake.
Lauren Bacall apparently forgot to bring her glasses to the theater, and
couldn't read the teleprompter. She was supposed to introduce yet
another clip montage, this one from film noir movies, and
stumbled and sputtered and hesitated through the whole thing. It was so
painful I finally had to look away. And it was like I was listening to
an old Phil Hendrie bit.
Have you ever noticed that Keanu Reeves talks exactly like Tonto?
A hip-hop group that I'm not familiar with picked up the Oscar for best
song, and during their speech it looked like there were about twenty
people on stage, all saying, "Know what I'm sayin'?" over and
over again. When the next presenter came out she slipped on something,
and almost fell on her ass. My guess: cologne.
I was glad to see Crash
win for best picture, because it's one of the few nominated movies that
I've watched, or will ever watch. I thought it was a great film, and
gave it five stars at Netflix. A pleasant surprise.
And that's enough of that crapola. Let's return to the real world, shall
we?
-- On Saturday I spent most of the day lying around the house and
watching The Andy Griffith Show marathon on TVLand. I have all
those B&W episodes on DVD, but for some reason they're better when
they're shown at random. I just couldn't get enough.
Late in the afternoon I realized I was home alone. Toney and the
youngest Secret went somewhere I can't now remember, and the oldest
Secret was at a friend's house. So I hoisted my bulk off the couch and
decided to run some errands. I had to pick up a few things at the store,
and drop a Netflix movie in the mailbox. And while I was out, I figured
I might as well pay the dive bar another quick visit. You know, for
sociological reasons.
This time it was really crowded in there, and I had to squeeze between
two seasoned drinkers to get to the bar. I didn't hang around long, but
long enough for the guy to my right to tell me about his adventures
working aboard a 300-ft fishing boat off the coast of Alaska, back when
he was "much younger." He seemed nice enough, and knew his way
around a story.
There was a guy roughly my age in a Hawaiian shirt sitting at the end of
the bar, who looked like he was drunk off his big ass. He was completely
silent, staring straight ahead, just pouring beer after beer down his
neck like a piece of machinery. I hoped he'd hold off on vomiting until
after I was gone. Somebody brought up the subject of music, and
mentioned Frank Sinatra. And Hawaiian Shirt blurted out, real loud and
with no change in expression, "Frank's the man!" Then he went
back to the business at hand, and never said another word.
Once again they were selling beer for two bucks a pint -- every other
one free. You gotta love it.
-- Here's
a search that somebody did over the weekend, which led them to TheWVSR.
Yes, apparently at weather dotcom.
-- Since we're on the subject, traffic to the site was massive on
Saturday and Sunday because of a Surf Report-related Fark photoshop
contest. Check
it out. Very cool.
-- And as if that weren't enough.... Take
a look at where the Smoking Fish was spotted recently. Our logo,
man, he gets around. Thanks to the Fark czars for their continued
coolness, and good taste. I feel honored.
-- Yesterday I pulled a baseball book off the shelf, and an old picture
fell out. It was taken during my Atlanta record weasel days, and is
proof that I didn't always hang with cool people like Iggy
Pop. Check
it out.
-- A reader sends along this
link, and suggests that Toney buy one to wake me up in the
mornings. Fire in the hole! Yeah, I'd probably kick a window out
before I knew what was happening, if she threw some shit like that into
the room. Heh.
And that's all the time I have for today, my friends. Tonight I'm going
to the Beast Feast(!), so I should have some stories to tell tomorrow.
Hopefully nothing like this one.
See ya then.
March 3, 2006
And now for the moment you've all been
waiting for....
It's time once again for our annual analysis of the year's Academy
Awards nominees, and the official TheWVSR Oscar Predictions for 2006!
Well, at least in the categories people give a crap about. I mean, I'm a
very busy man and don't have time for such things as choreography and
films in which people talk in languages that sound like somebody's
clearing their throat. Let's be reasonable here.
And I'm a little confused about calling this the 2006 awards, since it's
really the 2005 awards being handed out in 2006. But whatever. You know
what I'm talking about. Sweet sainted mother of Wolfman Jack.
Let's get started, shall we?
Actor - Supporting
George Clooney Syriana
Matt Dillon Crash
Paul Giamatti Cinderella Man
Jake Gyllenhaal Brokeback Mountain
William Hurt A History of Violence
I can't stomach George Clooney. He's one of those people who, no matter
how hard I try to avoid it, always makes me shout "Oh, blow it out
your ass!" whenever I see him being interviewed. So he's
automatically out. I'm not familiar with Jack Glockenspiel, and have
only a vague idea of who William Hurt and Paul Giamatti are. I actually
saw Crash, and liked it. And Matt Dillon was in one of my
favorite teen angst movies, Over the Edge. (Yes, in 1979. What of
it?) But he won't win; I don't believe he's viewed as a serious
artist by the Hollywood ass-stick crowd. My ever-expanding gut is
telling me that Paul Giamatti will take home the trophy. I
haven't seen the movie, but I'm getting strong vibrations from his name
when I scan the list.
Actress - Supporting
Amy Adams Junebug
Catherine Keener Capote
Frances McDormand North Country
Rachel Weisz The Constant Gardener
Michelle Williams Brokeback Mountain
I saw Junebug and thought it was great. And wasn't Frances
McDormand in Fargo talking all wacky and wearing comical hats?
Beyond that, I don't know who any of these people are. But I'm going to
go with the woman in Brokeback, Michelle Williams. Because
I think it would be ironic for a much-hyped movie about a couple of
closeted shepherds to produce only one acting award -- and it go to a
woman. In the end (so to speak), I think it'll be Michelle. Whoever she
is.
Actor - Leading
Philip Seymour Hoffman Capote
Terrence Howard Hustle & Flow
Heath Ledger Brokeback Mountain
Joaquin Phoenix Walk the Line
David Strathaim Good Night, And Good Luck
I haven't seen any of these films, but I have seen TV
commercials for many of them. And I know that the guy who played Truman
Capote used a novelty voice, which I think will ultimately tip the
scales in his favor. The Academy can't seem to resist actors portraying
the retarded, the afflicted, and the irritating. People like Nicolas
Cage have built a career around it. And Philip Seymour Hoffman's
memorable "effeminate man with jaws wired shut" performance
will make him an Oscar winner on Sunday night.
Actress - Leading
Judi Dench Mrs. Henderson Presents
Felicity Huffman Transamerica
Keira Knightley Pride & Prejudice
Charlize Theron North Country
Reese Witherspoon Walk the Line
Reese Witherspoon will win this one. I hear she was brilliant
at portraying the late, great Johnny Cash. She's come a long way since Miss
Congeniality, huh? Judi Dench is nominated for something at every
awards show but never wins; I believe she was once even nominated for
Controller of the Year by the company I work for, and was beaten by Joe
MacDonald at the Chicago branch. I've heard of that Charlize person, but
wouldn't know her if she knocked on my front door. And I don't have a
clue about the other two. The Johnny Cash movie is in my Netflix queue
(currently listed as "long wait"), but I'm not familiar with
the rest of the films. The entire category is fairly mysterious to me,
yet I know who the winner will be.
Directing
Bennet Miller Capote
Ang Lee Brokeback Mountain
Steven Spielberg Munich
Paul Haggis Crash
George Clooney Good Night, And Good Luck
Here's where the gay sheepherder train really starts rolling…. Ang
Lee will easily take the prize, for his tale of forbidden prairie
love. Or whatever. It's one of those I dare you to criticize it
movies, and the Academy really gets behind that sort of thing (so to
speak). Crash is a great stylish movie, but it came out a
lifetime ago and wasn't controversial or popular enough. The others? No.
I hope ol' Ang has his brave and inspiring breaking-down-the-barriers
speech ready, because America is ready to pat itself on the brokeback.
Best Picture
Brokeback Mountain
Capote
Crash
Good Night, And Good Luck
Munich
Brokeback Mountain will be the movie of the year, obviously.
And I wouldn't see it if it were about a man and a woman, so why should
I watch it just because it's about a man and a man? To show how deliciously
sophisticated I am? Please. I think I'll just stick with the Deuce
Bigelow series, thank you very much. I will rent Capote when
it comes to DVD, but am still on the fence about the other two. There's
only so much "brilliance" that one man can take. Ya know? And,
of course, there's that whole Clooney insufferable-prick factor to
consider.
Now it's your turn. Leave your picks at the comments link below, and
we'll compare notes on Monday. What? You say this wasn't at all
what you were waiting for? That there must be some misunderstanding?
Yeah, quit yer bitching and pass the liquefied cheese.
For your convenience, here's
a printable version of my uncannily correct predictions. Keep them with
you at all times.
Have a great weekend, folks.
March 2, 2006
-- The oldest Secret had a friend over
a few days ago, and they were running through the house acting like
mental patients, as required by law. I'm pretty good at tuning most of
it out, but at one point I heard the friend talking in a fake British
accent, and it touched off a full-body shiver.
Fake British accents are, as you're probably aware, the distinctive call
of the wild geek. When I was a kid it was Monty Python skits being
recited (and you ain't lived until you've heard a bastard-mix of British
and Appalachian hillbilly), and today it's Harry Potter and whatnot.
Whatever the catalyst, a geek simply can't help himself.
It got me to thinking about a couple of blue ribbon doucheketeers we
worked with in California. They were brothers, and were every nerd
stereotype rolled into one.
The younger of the two was into martial arts, and wore a satin jacket to
work every day with Korean letters on the back. He was always talking
about nunchucks and flying stars, and once told Toney that his entire
body was registe |
The State of My
Fat Ass
March 2006
