|
March 30, 2007
--
I think my throat is going to have to come out. It’s all sore and
inflamed this morning, and I’m afraid the doctors will want to remove
it. My entire throat.
Is that irrational?
I felt fine yesterday, until the evening. I went over to my old office
and finally mailed back my computer and crap, then came home and got
dressed-up in fancy pants and went to a “job fair” at a company
nearby. We had dinner at Applebee’s (which I’ll tell you about in a
few minutes), and during all this I felt completely normal.
Then, suddenly, I was sick. There was no discernible transition period;
I was good, then bad. Just like
that.
It happened as we were preparing to watch LOST.
What did that guy on The Office say? “I’m
going home tonight and getting my beer on, getting my LOST on…” Heh.
That’s exactly when it happened, when I was preparing to get
both those things on.
And now my throat feels like it’s just lousy with disease. I sure hope
they don’t have to carve it out.
-- I don’t have much faith in so-called job fairs, but the one I
attended yesterday was hosted by a company I’m really interested in.
So I gave it a shot.
Most of the positions they’re trying to fill are for general labor,
but their website said they have a few management jobs open as well.
And I figured if I hand-delivered a resume, instead of just
hitting the SEND button while wearing humongous hamburger pants, it
might do some good.
I followed the computer-generated signs with arrows on them, to a room
way down at the end of a hall. As
I walked I passed several offices with people inside. Working.
They all have jobs, and I do not…. And that’s how my brain
sees things at this point.
Inside the room was a big U-shaped table, and about ten people were
seated there, apparently filling out applications.
Most looked pretty normal, but a couple of them were wearing
baseball caps, three or four gigantic t-shirts, and gold chains around
their necks.
Call
me a crotchety old fart if you want, but I wouldn’t even waste my time
talking to guys like that. If I was given the responsibility of hiring a
dozen workers, or whatever, and someone waltzed in with a Yankees cap balanced
on top of his head, and making all sorts of rapper gesticulations, he’d
be out of the running before he even opened his mouth.
And that’s what it was, too: balanced.
The cap wasn’t pulled down, it was just sitting up there all
tall and slightly askew. I don’t
know how it didn’t fall off. And
here’s the clincher: it wasn’t even a real Yankees cap; it was white
with a pink logo. I mean seriously….
The
law says you can’t discriminate because of race, religion, sex, etc.
And I completely agree with that.
But there’s nothing on the books (yet) about assholes and the
practitioners of high-douchery. Right? Shit
man, at the very least pull on a polo shirt.
This is a job interview, not “Bitches Night” at Club Metro.
Anyway,
I was taken to a separate room, for reasons unknown, and spoke with a
person there for about ten minutes. He
was really nice, and asked me some questions and told me a few things
about the company. He barely
glanced at my resume, but said someone would contact me if they wanted
me to come in for a formal discussion. And
that was that.
Right before I left he called me back, tapped his chin in deep thought,
and said, “I don’t know your situation. But
would you ever consider moving to
Houston
?” I
told him I’m not ruling anything out, and he said, “Thanks for
coming in.”
What the?!
-- We don’t eat at Applebee’s
very often. I don’t know
why, but of all those types of chain restaurants, we visit Applebee’s
the least. I’ve got nothing
against the place, really, I just never think about it. Ya
know?
But last night Toney suggested we go there, and I shrugged and said it
was fine with me.
We were seated in a corner booth, and the place was pretty crowded. A
woman who seemed almost giddy appeared at our table without delay, told
us about the “specials,” and took our drink order. She
was just so freakin’ happy about everything.
I started looking at the menu, but was having a hard time concentrating
because the oldest Secret never stops talking (never!), and there was a
stereo speaker right above our heads, blasting classic rock. As
I attempted to make my selection I was also paying attention to a recap
of that day’s Mythbusters,
and trying to ignore a blaring song by Canned Heat, or some such crapola,
that was boring a hole straight though my brain stem.
It seemed that every item they offer at that place contains at least one
ingredient that disqualifies it. Stuff
like garlic and mushrooms and chutney(?!) and any of the novelty
mayonnaises. I felt a tiny
twinge of panic as I realized time was running out. The
shiny happy waitress would be there soon, smiling like a retard and
eager to take our orders.
And you don’t send a waitress away during that delicate part of the
process, because they’ll stay gone for a loooong
time. Trust me, I know about
these things.
The oldest Secret was telling me about a dummy that was hurled out of an
airplane, or whatever, and Aerosmith was now rocking, and everything had
the words Portobello or pesto attached to it…. I
was beginning to run my hands through my hair.
Then the cell phones started ringing, and people began having really
loud conversations into them about delivery confirmations and decorative
gravel and shower gel. Mountain
came on after Aerosmith, and a couple near us, I shit you not, pulled
out a portable DVD player and put it on the table in front of their
toddler. Then they proceeded
to turn on Dora the Explorer,
at full living room volume.
Backpack backpack Backpack
backpack Mississippi Queen
if you know what I mean and the head came completely off the dummy and
one arm too I always liked the apricot gel but whatever is
fine....
It was incredible. I thought
I would surely have a nervous breakdown, right there in the corner booth
of an Applebee’s. I seriously wondered if we were being Punk’d.
I ordered last, so I could have a few extra seconds, and finally went
with the chicken fajita wrap. It
featured some kind of questionable spread, called MexiRanch or
something, but I asked her to leave that crap off. I
didn’t like the sounds of that, not one tiny bit.
The volume never eased up. It
was like eating dinner on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. The
good news? That chicken wrap
was quite good.
And you’re all caught up, my friends. I’m
going to start doing Google searches now, for prosthetic throats. Have
a great weekend.
I’ll see ya on Monday. permalink
March 29,
2007
--
Not to trigger any unpleasant memories of yesterday’s update or
anything, but this one’s gonna have to be brief.
I’ve got a few non-website things to take care of today, and I’m
no longer accustomed to putting on pants and leaving the house.
So let’s jump into it, shall we?
-- Spring is finally making an
attempt at breaking through in these parts, and it’s putting us in the
mood for camping. Unfortunately,
of course, we have no way to haul the rolling box o’ beds anymore,
since I ditched the Chevy TearMaker. Plus,
there’s the inconvenient fact that, you know, we never really had much
fun doing it.
But it gets in your blood for some reason, and the change from winter to
spring causes certain chemicals to slosh together in the brain, and you
start thinking about camping.
I’ve talked to Toney about this, and she sort of agrees.
It is my contention that the best part about camping is the
planning of it. You have all
these romantic visions dancing in your head. You get all the supplies
out and start scratching things off checklists.
You scrub down the camper while whistling a cheerful tune, and
make sure the fishing poles are in good working order….
Yes, that’s the pinnacle of the experience.
When you actually pull away
from the house, I think, is when everything starts going down the
shitter.
Within hours you find yourself plunged inside a laughable chair in the
middle of a mudhole, you’re covered in a mixture of grease and filth,
there may or may not be a tick setting up operations in the crack of
your ass, and it’s way too early to start drinking.
Plus, there’s that nagging fear you’ll wake up one morning like
this.
So maybe that’s what we should do? Just
plan camping trips, and never
actually take any. Perhaps we
should trim away the fat, once and for all?
What do you think?
-- It looks like the good folks
at collegehumor linked to our
Pulitzer-caliber feature,
“People in newspaper ads who look like they’re farting.”
There’s massive traffic this morning, at least to that
particular farty page. Good
times.
-- A few days ago I invited
everyone to join the Surf Report mailing
list. And now it’s
maxed-out at 500 subscribers. Needless
to say, the company that hosts the list wants me to give them money to
increase the number allowed. And,
of course, that ain’t gonna happen. I’ve decided to take a different
route: cheating.
So give me a few hours and all should be well in Mudville.
Or whatever.
--
Earlier this week I spoke with the T-Shirt Lady, to make sure she
still has our logo on file. And
she does. I’m thinking about
making shirts available again, for a limited time, and need your input.
Please take this
poll about sizes desired, and also let me know if you have a
preference for color. Last time
we did black, as evidenced here,
and I’d like to try another one this time.
But, of course, if it’s black you want, then it’ll be black
you get. It’s no skin off my
scrote.
A couple of things I’m NOT going to do:
maintain multiple inventories of different colors, or change the
design. It’s hard enough
keeping track of the sizes requested.
If I had to add colors to the mix, I’d probably just take your
money and never mail you anything. And
I like the design, so it stays.
Oh, and no Cafépress crapola either.
No reason to even suggest it.
They suck on it.
So let me know, and maybe we can get the Surf Report Distribution Center
up and running again.
-- Check
out the new West Virginia Tourism slogan.
And the entire country shrugs its shoulders, and says, “OK. Not
a problem.”
-- Here’s
some crazy news straight from my hometown.
Sweet sainted mother of the entire decorative concrete industry!
-- I
have more, lots more, but I’d better get the show on the road here.
However... I’m going to leave you today with something
extra-special:
a new weekly columnist!
Brad, my old friend from Peaches Music & Video in Greensboro, has
agreed to tell us what’s happening off Exit 149 every week, and I’m
appreciative.
I know you folks will be too.
In addition to being a good friend, Brad is also a talented and funny
writer. And
he wore a Surf Report t-shirt to
his wedding.
How’s that for dedication?
You can read his first column here.
And that’ll do it, boys and girls. Have
yourselves a great Thursday.
I’ll see ya tomorrow.
permalink
March 28, 2007
--
I think I grew up at the height of the tighty-whitey era.
I haven’t researched it, of course, that would be incredibly
creepy.
But it’s what I believe.
As best as I can tell, all boys in the 1970s wore the same kind of
underwear, and it was the style Spongebob
currently favors. In fact, I wasn’t
even aware of any alternatives. Oh,
we’d sometimes happen upon plastic tubes of animal-print flyless
mini-briefs at JCPenney or Sears, but those were just put there for
comic relief, I think. I mean,
seriously. My brother and I would
howl with laughter.
No, there was no known deviation from the norm.
We all wore the same stuff, and it wasn’t even something to
consider. It was purely a
functional item, designed to throw up a cottony barrier between your
jeans and your junk, and cut down on the friction a banana seat can
create. And to the dismay of
mothers everywhere, it also served as a nifty air filter.
There was nothing more to it; it was like putting on a third sock.
Nowadays kids have Ninja Turtles doing battle across their butt
cheeks, and Spiderman swinging out of God knows where.
But we had nothing of the sort; there were no fashion
calculations to be made. It was
either tighties or the Schwinn supernova, and those were your choices.
In those days there was a seam running up the sides, I recall, as if the
fronts and backs were created separately then sewn together.
I don’t think it’s like that anymore, I believe the
practitioners of underwear science have made giant leaps forward over
the years.
I wonder if it was more prestigious to work on “fronts” than “backs”
at the Fruit of the Loom factories back then?
After all, the fronts are far more complicated affairs; the back
is just one big sheet of material. Wonder
if folks went out for celebratory dinners after being promoted to briefs
fronts? Wonder if anyone has ever
been the recipient of a front-themed toast in a restaurant or bar?
Wonder if people were sometimes busted back to backs for
insubordination?
Yeah, these are questions I’d never pondered until today….
And so it went, for many years. I
saw no reason to make any changes. Why
should I? They served their
purpose nicely, and I’d only witnessed one catastrophic tighty-whitey
malfunction in all my days. In
high school I watched a guy (who is now a big-time insurance hotshot)
receive a wedgie so atomic in nature the entire waistband came off.
But
that was a single isolated incident, and word on the street was that the
underwear was already in pretty sad shape before the wedgie even
commenced.
So I had no reason to alter my course. Until
I reached my early twenties, anyway…. That’s
when I suffered my first and only undergarment crisis of faith.
My longtime girlfriend and I broke up, and I was suddenly faced with dating.
I started questioning everything, all the way down to my
skivvies. Perhaps it wasn’t so
cool to be sporting the same style of draws third-graders wear?
Maybe the ladies don’t care for that sort of thing anymore?
I was entering uncharted territory, my friends, and it was all fairly
unnerving. But I made the leap to
boxers cold turkey. I tossed all
my old underwear into the dumpster behind the apartment, and replaced it
with a stack of striped and checkered boxer shorts.
And thus began the most uncomfortable year and a half of my life.
There was a glacier effect that I hadn’t counted on.
Over the course of a day everything would move southward, I
found, slower than the human eye can perceive, until I ended up with a
situation to contend with. Then I’d
find myself doing these freaky little knee-bends, and constantly wanting
to make “adjustments.”
I hated it, but fought the urge to backslide.
Sometimes I’d pass displays of the old underwear in stores, and
sigh sadly. You’re too old, I
told myself, and would venture on, a-pinching and a-tugging, and doing
virtual squat ‘n’ thrusts in the blender aisle.
Then I started dating a woman who said to me one night, “Why do you
wear that old-grandpa underwear?” This
was the eighties, and apparently it wasn’t yet cool to wear boxer
shorts. And that’s all I needed
to know. It was one of the
happiest days of my life. I
practically danced to Target.
Since then I’ve dabbled in other styles, and made a few minor changes.
Oh, nothing too exotic…. I
never went to the tubes, or the poofter designers, or any of that
strange European stuff with the horizontal wiener slots.
Just some minor age-appropriate tweaks to the original formula.
And, I’m proud to announce, I am once again completely at ease with my
underwear.
Now, if you folks would like to break up into individual discussion
groups and explore this essay further, please do so.
Footnotes and bibliographical information available upon request.
See ya tomorrow.
permalink
March 27,
2007
--
Toney took today off, for no particular reason, and after we
delivered the Secrets to the local indoctrination centers, the two of us
went to breakfast.
Our usual destination is Waffle House, but I had some recent trouble
there and I’m kinda soured on the place. They double-charged my ATM
card a few weeks back, and it took multiple phone conversations with a
woman whose voice sounded like the latter-day Babe Ruth, to get it all
straightened out. And I can’t
have that. I go to Waffle House
for glistening “breakfast meats,” not terrifying relationships.
I suggested a little diner down the road, and Toney groaned.
Once again. You see, I’ve
suggested this restaurant many times before, and her reaction is always
the same: a groan. One of her
friends said the place is constantly full of cigarette smoke, and you
come out of there smelling like you “spent the day in a bingo parlor.”
Always a bingo parlor.
Plus, my wife has a low-tolerance for small town cliques, and that sort
of thing. It pisses her off.
So she steers clear of places where the longtime locals
congregate, and this is definitely one of them.
You get the feeling everyone in the joint went to grade school
together, back during the Warren G. Harding administration.
But I like that kind of thing, and gently insisted.
I’d been there alone several times, and the food is excellent.
The fact that we’ll still be outsiders even if we live here for
forty years doesn’t detract from the quality of the bacon.
Why sweat the small stuff?
So that’s where we went. We
took a booth as deep inside the non-smoking section as possible, and
told the waitress we’d both have coffee, thank you very much.
It’s a great place. It’s been
around since the 1960s, I think, and I doubt much has changed in that
time. There are individual
jukebox terminals at every table, but they probably haven’t worked
since I was in Little League. In
fact, the one at our table this morning was soldered by the years, and
you couldn’t flip the pages inside. Our
best bet, as far as I could tell, would’ve been “Candida” by Tony
Orlando and Dawn.
The walls are covered in dark paneling, and on top of that: framed
pictures, many with autographs and praise of the eggs. They have Kramer
up there, Jesus (not signed),
a few unknown NASCAR drivers, customers in wacky hats, etc.
And way up near the ceiling, in the center of the back wall (a
place of obvious reverence), is a formal portrait of John F. Kennedy.
Toney
went with a bacon and cheese omelet, and an order of hash browns with
onions (yum), and I opted for the breakfast sampler.
It was scrambled eggs, bacon, two sausage patties, and three
slices of French toast, all for $4.75.
While we waited on our food to arrive, we took in the ambience. And by ambience, of
course, I mean the people. We
were children compared with the general clientele, and many of our
fellow breakfast-eaters were all gnarled up, probably with Jap shrapnel
buried in them somewhere. Some
had to basically tuck a fork into a crevice at the end of their arm, and
go to town.
A man seated at the counter went off on a frenzied coughing jag shortly
after we arrived, and was still going strong when we left.
Straight into his pie. I
was worried he was about to go down (or start puking), but nobody else
seemed to notice.
Everyone in the house was talking real loud (needless to say), and if
you concentrated you could eavesdrop on a whole host of conversations.
Two women across the aisle were discussing a granddaughter, and
her lifelong dream to be a nurse. And a man I never actually saw was
railing against tattoos and people with multiple piercings.
“Some of them even have stuff pierced down
there,” he said with a shudder.
Highly entertaining.
Supposedly the owners of this place have some sort of axe to grind with
school teachers, and if they know you are one, forget about being
served. That’s the word on the
street anyway. They reportedly
believe teachers are more dedicated to their union than to the children,
and have a wild hair up their ass about it.
Oh, it’s quite a rich tapestry….
And the food is nothing short of great, far superior to Awful House.
Actually, I like Awful House as well, but this place is even
better. Toney even had to agree.
And while there were some tired-looking people swigging cigs on
the other side of the room, I never caught wind of it.
Another myth busted.
I love little diners, and shady dive bars.
And that's the reason for this late update.
See ya tomorrow.
permalink
March 26,
2007
-- I
returned to my office on Friday, planning to box up my computer,
monitor, printer, and digital camera, and ship ‘em back to Burbank
.
It was pretty freakin’ weird, man.
My passcard worked as normal, and I walked by the security guards as if
nothing had changed. I made my
way across the mezzanine, where the Shuffler works (worked?), and there
was only one guy there. Usually
it’s a beehive of activity, but there was nobody around on Friday.
The dude gave me a knowing nod as I walked past, and I gave him
one back.
I unlocked my office door, and it was like stepping into a Twilight Zone
episode. I know it’s only been
a few weeks, but they’ve been looong
weeks, filled with all manner of exhausting emotions.
Everything was exactly as I’d left it on my last day, including
a half-eaten bag of barbecue chips beside the phone.
I powered-up the computer, and logged into my email account.
All passwords worked without a problem.
I had 1035 unread messages, including about fifty from Friday
alone. I sorted them by senders’
names, and checked to see if there was anything of interest.
Nothing.
I sighed loudly, and began deleting files from the desktop.
Most were Phil Hendrie mp3s, and I started one playing while I
worked. It had something to do
with a “retard” on an airplane that kept licking a slice of baloney
and sticking it to a window.
I also had this
file saved, for reasons unknown, and this
greeting by Richard from Greenford, a regular caller to the Clive Bull
Show. The man’s voice box has
been completely destroyed by decades and decades of smoking “ciggies.”
So many cherished memories….
Then people began stopping by and asking what I’d been up to.
It was a parade of folks and I was glad to see them.
Many will be in the same situation as me, starting in June.
So we talked about our plans, and what we hoped to do.
We’d been forced together by work, and spent a substantial chunk of
time in each others’ company, and now it’s over.
That particular group will soon be gone, never to return.
Sure, I was always the outsider, the “guy from California
,”
but it was a role I played well. I
was a part of the group that is being scattered to the wind.
I
spoke with the General Manager, and he sounded depressed.
He told me he’s down to one shift now, instead of three running
‘round the clock, and if I wanted to ship my computer back I’d
better hurry. They’d be closing
soon, he said.
Closing! I never thought I’d
see the day.
Screw it. I’d just send the
stuff back next week. I deleted
everything that wasn’t crucial to the computer, including the temp
files and surfing history, stripped it completely to the bone using a
savage little program called CCleaner, and shut it all down.
I know they could recover all that crapola in one of those Law & Order labs, but just a regular ol’ douche in Burbank
won’t
be able to see any evidence I’d ever even used the computer.
And that’s the way I prefer it.
But what should I leave on the memory card in my camera? Perhaps just a
single well-considered snapshot as my going away message?
Help me out with that one, folks.
It needs to be something dramatic.
Yeah, I admit that I get sentimental about things, even things I don’t
really like. Whenever I move I
invariably begin thinking about all the fun times I’ve had at that
particular house or apartment, even if it’s a shitty dump.
And then I get a little sad.
Same goes for the cars I trade in. I
remember walking away from a beat-to-hell Chevy Luv truck with a
baseball-sized hole in the floor, through which mud and rainwater would
regularly rocket, feeling like I was about to start crying.
I hated that thing, but we’d been through so much together.
Yep, I have a hard time closing doors. My
parents on the other hand… they just make huge life-altering decisions
all willy-nilly, and seemingly don’t give it a second thought.
I don’t think they have a sentimental bone in their bodies.
It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that they long ago tossed my
baby pictures into a dumpster out behind the Union
76
station, to give themselves more drawer space.
Me? I’ve got boxes and boxes of
souvenirs in the basement, and am guilty of romanticizing the past.
Like Atlanta
for
instance. When we lived there we
wanted out. In fact, I remember
us buying out-of-state newspapers (places like Portland
,
OR
),
and plotting our escape. But when
I think about Atlanta
now,
it was all fun, all the time: a freakin’ paradise.
What about you? Are you the
sentimental type like me, or a Klingon like my parents?
Use the comments link to elaborate, if you’re so inclined.
And I’ll get back to the funny stuff next time.
I promise.
Oh, and just so you’re up to date…. I
did indeed eat a few of the chips I found in my office on Friday.
They weren’t very good, but I had
to know.
See ya tomorrow. permalink
March 23,
2007
--
I’m living with a dark, dark shame, my friends. I can barely
look at myself in the mirror. When I awaken in the morning there’s a
split-second when it feels like everything is still normal and good,
then reality comes crashing down and I’m plunged, once again, into a
horrible despair. I cannot believe what I have done….
Are you all sitting down?
This is so difficult to talk about. But they say it’s best to just get
it out there. Right? So that’s what I’m going to do. Oh God…
Earlier this week Toney and I, um, watched, that’s right, an
entire episode of Dancing With The Stars.
There, I said it. And I won’t blame you at all if you now click away
from this site, never to return. It’s a fair reaction. But in my own
defense, just let me say: there was a one-legged woman on there. And she
was, you know, dancing. So it’s
not as bad as it might seem. …Or am I just making excuses?
Also, there was the spectacle of Billy Ray Cyrus doing some sort of
frenzied cha-cha-cha that
resembled a gas-huffing hillbilly caught up in a swarm of hornets out
behind the shithouse. Man, he was going to town.
And the one-legger isn’t even a sympathetic character; she’s always
up on her high-horse about something or other, and is currently in the
process of Screwing Over a Beatle. So there’s little to no guilt when
you sit there and pray that
she does one of those big leg kicks, and her prosthetic comes flying off
and hurtles end-over-end into the audience, with shoe still attached.
So anyway, it’s all out in the open now. Do what you must, my friends.
I am so ashamed….
-- I have to go to my old office today, box up my computer and printer
and crap, and UPS it all back to Burbank
.
I’ve been putting it off, but they’re starting to bitch a little on
the left coast. So, I guess, today’s the day.
Earlier this week my ex-boss’s assistant called me, and said, “What’s
going on?” I answered, “Oh
nothing. I’m just sitting here pushing pins into a voodoo doll.” She
didn’t know what to say to that, so she got right to it and asked
about my computer. I promised to overnight it someday this week.
And if I were a less-mature man (ahem), I might consider ending my
twenty-five year streak today. Right in the pencil tray of my desk
drawer. But, of course, that ain’t gonna happen.
--
Yesterday I received my THIRD damaged and unplayable 24 disc from Netflix. Since I’ve been a member of that elite
outfit, I’ve rented dozens and dozens of DVDs, maybe even a hundred or
more. And the only problems I’ve
ever encountered were 24-based.
I don’t know what the story is. Perhaps folks get all cranked up on
Jack Bauer, start walking different and being rough with things. I’m
just not clear on it. But those 24
discs are beat all to hell, and sometimes arrive with a milky glaze that
I don’t even want to think about.
Pass the 409.
-- Yesterday I sent out a brief Note From The Bunker email, through the
Surf Report mailing list. If you believe you’re signed-up for that
so-called newsletter and didn’t receive it, there’s a problem with
your email address. In fact, about seventy-five bounced back to me as
undeliverable.
I haven’t been maintaining the list very well, which is but one of the
many half-asseries in the world of Jeff Kay, and it’s been a long time
since I’ve even used it….
So, I’m going to clean up all the bad mojo on this end, and if you’d
like to receive periodic updates on Surf Report happenings, please
subscribe here.
You can expect a short email note, every month or so, with bits of
information that might be of interest.
And I’m suddenly very, very tired.
-- Remember how I was worried that LOST
was starting to list a bit toward suck? Well I take it all back. The
last several episodes have been excellent, as great as ever.
I didn’t much care for the six or eight shows that started the “Fall
Season,” where Sawyer and Kate were locked in tiger cages, or
whatever. But they’ve got the old magic working again, and I’m back
to proclaiming it Best Show on Television.
It’s so good, in fact, we don’t even fast-forward through the
commercials, so we can stretch it out longer and savor the experience.
And that’s sayin’ something.
-- I’m thinking about buying one of these;
I’m most-definitely an edge man. Man, I love me some edges. Toney, on
the other hand, likes only the land-locked variety. Weird, huh?
-- This is
a really cool collection of TV show opening credit sequences, that
supposedly fit each program perfectly. And it includes freakin’ Mannix.
Oh yeah.
Which ones did they miss?
-- And finally, here’s
a short video clip entitled West Virginia
911.
Check it out.
You guys have yourselves a great day.
I'll see ya on Monday. permalink
March 22,
2007
--
What does it mean when light bulbs just start burning out on you,
all willy nilly? Over the past
couple of days it seems that every time I turn on a light in this house
there’s a hollow popping sound, then darkness.
Nobody else has had this problem, only me.
I’m all the time changing bulbs, first screwing to the left,
then screwing to the right, and muttering Very Bad Things.
Toney says it might be a sign of some sort, and I don’t like the sound
of that. I’m no expert on the
subject, but “signs” that involve sudden blackness concern me.
Ya know?
What do you folks know about this? Should
I be getting my will in order? Should
I be making a list of friends and family members I’d prefer “tote me
to the hole?” Wonder if it has
anything to do with that pineapple? So
many questions.
-- While I was sitting outside the
elementary school this morning waiting for the aides to finish off their
bear claws, wipe the glaze off their quivering lips, and finally open
the doors, a few things occurred to me….
When I was a kid my Dad used to threaten to box
my ears all the time. He’d
say, “Jeff, if you don’t stop that racket, I’m gonna box your
ears!” What in the hell?
Also, I had an aunt who was a teenager in the late ‘60s, and I
remember her and her friends using the phrase, “Oh, suck my nose!”
It was injected into situations where “bite me” might be used
today. Suck my nose.
Man, that’s about as disgusting as it gets.
I’m surprised the phrase hasn’t stood the test of time.
During that same period, I recall my grandfather promising to set my
aunt on fire. I think he was
threatening to spank her, but he’d always get mad and holler, “I’m
going to set you on fire!!” Holy
crap! When you’re five, or
whatever, that’s some scary-ass stuff. I
had visions of kerosene slinging, maniacal laughter, and the whole nine
yards.
What are some of the other disturbing and bizarre down-home threats or
put-downs? These are just three
that popped into my mind while the bear claws were being polished-off.
I’m certain there are many others.
-- Speaking
of disturbing…. I get some
great email. And by great, of
course, I mean quite fucked-up. I
guess I bring it on myself, I don’t know.
Anyway, check this one out. For
reasons that are unclear even to me, I’m going to withhold the person’s
name. This note was received
last night under the heading, “I Nearly Prolapsed.”
Tuesday
afternoon before we were to go to the Funeral Home
(?! –ed.) I was in terrible pain and in need of a poop. I went to the bathroom
where I found the process very uncomfortable.
It
seemed that my bowels lacked the proper moisture to properly dispense my
shit. I was in misery as I tried to push and nothing moved. My butt hole
would not close, there was shit stuck in there and it would not move.
I sat on the toilet for a long time and finally had to get up and try to
go about my duties with my butt hole still opened. I felt horrible. Here
is a picture of what I felt like at this moment.
I soon cramped something awful and had to return for another round. This
was much like the first go around except my asshole did close after I
was able to drop a couple of marble sized pieces out.
But
this did not mean the job was finished, not by any long shot. I was
still full of shit that just would not go. About 30 minutes after this
second incident I once again returned to the toilet and after a rough
start was able to push out a large load and rid myself of the pain that
I had felt. However, I am not sure that I may not have hurt myself,
it hurts to fart with any kind of force now.
Thank you, Reader, for the update. I’ve
forwarded your note to other equally relevant recipients, folks like
Willie Mays, Boris Yeltsin, and the Supernanny. Please
keep us apprised of any further developments.
-- I spent a good part of
yesterday in Allentown
, attending career counseling seminars. Specifically: self-marketing
and networking. It wasn’t
as satisfying as usual, for a number of reasons.
First of all, we were packed into a tiny conference room (the main room
was already in use), and about fifteen of us were sitting literally
shoulder to shoulder. I don’t
much care for the shoulder to shoulder, if you want to know the truth. When
you can smell another man, you’re entirely too close, I believe.
Also, the advice we received seemed a tad, you know, crackpot. Oh,
some of it was solid, but many of the things they suggested we do I will
never do, in this lifetime or the next. So
I spent considerable energy rolling my eyes, and chuckling inside my
head.
At one point I realized I was scribbling a note to myself, while my
entire professional career hangs in the balance, about the teeth of a
woman seated across the table from me.
They were black & white! I’m
not kidding, the rest of her was in color (of course), but when she
opened her mouth it was pure American Movie Classics in there. How
does something like that happen? How
does everything just go gray?
And is it possible that I’m not yet taking this job search thing
seriously enough? I’m starting
to wonder.
-- I’ve got more, lots
more, but I’d better pace myself here. I’ll
leave you now with a Few Cool Things.
This
is a photo of Surf Reporter TxTy backstage at a recent Toadies show in
Houston
, along with an honest-to-goodness Toadie.
Check out Ty’s excellent choice in wardrobe.
And here’s
a really funny YouTube video, short and, um, sweet.
At this site you can do a
search for your surname, and find out where other folks with your last
name are living. Supposedly there
are more Kays in California
than in West Virginia
. I have a hard time
believing it, but whatever.
And finally, here’s
something new from our good friend Buck.
I’ll see you guys tomorrow. Have
a great day. permalink
March 20, 2007
--
When I started this website, back in the early days of the
universe, the only people who visited it were my brother and a few guys
I went to high school with. I’d
spend a couple of hours writing my daily updates, and seven people would
read them. Or six, if Rocky’s
computer was on the blink. I felt
like that guy in the Lyres.
Before TheWVSR I published a paper zine. Since
I had no deadline, real or imagined, things moved s l o w l y, and I’d
publish, on the average, one new issue per year.
So, I’d spend literally twelve months or so “writing” it,
have 500 copies printed, and mail out about half of ‘em.
Yeah, you can do the math on that one. A
full year’s worth of effort for 250 readers – at the most.
I mean, just because I mailed people a copy didn’t mean they
actually looked at it, right? I
received lots of zines in the mail that were hardly even glanced at.
I’m certain my little Surf Reports received the same treatment.
So, I’d frequently get frustrated and quit.
Then, like clockwork, I’d start acting all squirrelly and
pacing the apartment. I’d stand
around looking out the windows like a dog, run my hands through my hair
as if I were funky on the junk, and wanted to be out doing something all
the time. An old girlfriend and I had constant arguments about this;
I never wanted to be home.
I eventually realized that I need to have something creative happening
in my life, or I’ll very likely end up in the wacky shack, talking to
foil.
During one of those dark periods when I’d given up on the zine, I came
across something called an “online journal.”
This was shortly after I’d bought my first computer, and the
internet still seemed like fantastic voodoo black magic.
It was written by another zinester, named Krista
Garcia.
Krista published the always-excellent Scaredy
Cat Stalker. She grew up in
Oregon
, but had recently moved to
New York City. Her journal (the word “blog” hadn’t been invented
yet, as far as I know, and it was a better time) was nothing more than a
daily, or semi-daily, recounting of the things that had happened to her.
And it was highly entertaining. I
began reading every update, and thought it was just about the best thing
ever.
I
sent Krista a few gushing emails in the early days, but got the feeling
she was a mildly frightened by them. So
I disappeared into the shadows and became a lurker. And
I’m still there, grunting softly in the darkness.
Somewhere along the line I started thinking…. Hell,
I could probably do one of those journal things as well. It
wouldn’t be as good as Krista’s, but it would be something to keep
me busy, and possibly out of a mental institution.
So I started TheWVSR. I
wanted it to be simply WVSR, but the West Virginia Split Rail Company already
had that domain name. The
bastards. In the early days I
only updated on Mondays and Thursdays, and I had the aforementioned
seven readers. Or six.
During that period I also won at least one prestigious award for
Shockingly Ugly Web Design. It
was something I’m proud to say I earned.
Then everything promptly went ass-over-tits. Through
my vast network of liars and backstabbers I got my hands on a scan of
one of Mike Piazza’s paychecks. I
posted it to the site, and it felt like a scud missile hit the bunker. Fark
linked to it, and many others followed suit. Suddenly
I went from no traffic, to hundreds of thousands of unique visitors per
day. I received actual death threats, and people were talking about my
little site on the radio, and everything.
It was great! Scary, but
great. I met some of the best
and most loyal Friends of the Surf Report during the Piazza era, folks
like NJGirl, Lucas, and MsDeniseWight. And
man, I wanted to keep it going. I
was intoxicated by it all. It
had been a long time coming.
So I worked hard at building readership. I
put in massive effort, and it often felt like I was bashing my skull
against the bricks. For a
while I was literally doubling my traffic every few months. But
it was hard work, real hard.
Along the way I had a couple of other Piazza situations, most notably
the Deadwood Fuck
Count, which was simply insane. In
fact, I turned down a lot of interview opportunities during that
craziness, for reasons I still don’t want to reveal. (Maybe
someday.) It could’ve been
even insaner.
Anyway… I’ve gotten lazy with the site. That’s
the point of this whole longwinded update. I’ve
been on autopilot for the past year or so, and haven’t been putting
forth as much effort as I once did. And
I’m making a vow to rectify the problem.
Yep, I’m all fired up again; I’m a street-walking cheetah with a
heart full of Wendy's. Soon
this site will be more than
just reports of my latest visit to Sam’s Club, even more!
Not tomorrow, though. I’m
taking tomorrow off to attend a networking strategies seminar in
Allentown
. Soon though, very soon.
Please stay tuned for the new era. You
know, as soon as I can get around to it…. permalink
March 19,
2007
--
This time they were right about the snow, the pricks.
We got about twelve inches of the stuff on Friday, and I spent a
big hunk of the following morning shoveling the driveway and sending my
back muscles into a state of distress.
Folks are driving around with a big snow mohawk (snohawk?) on the
tops of their cars again, and parking lots are just a gray slushy mess.
And all of this happened after daylight saving time had already kicked
in. I don’t much care for
it.
-- I’m not feeling so hot
this morning. I think my
husky torso is acting as an incubation chamber for some sort of
quickly-mutating illness. Like
maybe a cold, or something. I
want to lie on a couch ‘neath the Scrote-watcher, turn on the TV and
hope for the best. And
nothing else. Just thought
you should know.
-- Yesterday Toney went to
Sam’s, the exclusive club that pursued us as members, then asked me to
help carry in the stuff she’d bought.
I sighed loudly, put down my steaming vessel of Eight O’Clock,
and began hauling the crap indoors.
”How much did all this cost?!” I asked, with genuine alarm.
Hell, I’m unemployed. What
are we doing filling an entire trunk of a Honda with food??
Hondas have big trunks.
We finally got it down to the last few items, and I spotted a full-on
pineapple in there. No way
was I touching that thing. Pineapples
are menacing; they’re sharp in every direction.
So I refused to carry it in, and we actually got into a mini-argument
about it. Toney said I was
being purposely “ridiculous,” and I asked her what’s wrong with
just canned pineapple. I
mean, who buys the whole thing, with those razor-sharp Bowie knives
sticking out of the top, and needle-like briars going everywhere?
This is
America
,
for crying out loud.
She apparently thought I was joking, and wasn’t in the mood for that
particular brand of levity. But
I wasn’t joking, pineapples
are scary. Those things
could cut a man wide open.
--
On Saturday I almost called 911 because I needed a haircut, bad.
It seems like I just had one, but it was clearly time to do it
again; the back of my neck was all fuzzy, and the top of my head was
thick and misshapen. And I
can’t have that.
So I went to my regular shop (the place where I met the Brit who smelled
like poop), and nobody was home. There
was a CLOSED sign in the window, and the parking lot hadn’t even been
plowed. The hell, man?
I thought about giving up, but I looked in the rearview mirror, saw
something that resembled Bert Convy on a five-day drunk, and decided to
press on. I’d try the
other place a few blocks away. They’re
too expensive, and you always have to wait there, but this was an
emergency.
I put my name on the list, and settled down with a battered copy of Us
magazine, prepared to log some substantial time.
It’s one of the reasons I gave up on the joint….
But to my surprise, I was barely into an article about Mary Kate
Olsen when they called me back.
I’d forgotten that they wash your hair in that place.
And it’s another thing I dislike.
I wash my hair at home, thank you very much.
I don’t require a hair-washing professional, at an offsite
facility. Plus, they use
some kind of shampoo that makes a person smell like a walking, talking
salad bar. But whatever.
When I finally got to the elevated chair, the girl started in with the
forced chit-chat. How’s
your weekend going? Just
hanging out today? Have I
cut your hair before? On and
on it goes.
Needless to say, these types of conversation-starters don’t go very
far with me. I’m like an
emotional cul-de-sac when it comes to forced chit-chit.
When they ask me how my weekend’s going, I always want to tell
them not so good. I can’t
stop the music that’s playing in my head, I’d like to say, the
merry-go-round music that just keeps getting louder and louder, and
makes me think Very Bad Things.
But I usually just answer, “fine.”
-- Speaking of music, I
watched the Rock n Roll Hall of Fame ceremony on VH1 Saturday night.
It was pretty good, especially REM’s performance.
Perhaps I was slightly drunk, but I thought REM sounded damn
good.
The Van Halen situation was fairly pathetic.
Nobody showed except Sammy Hagar and Michael Anthony, and another
band, Velvet Revolver, performed Van Halen’s songs. Apparently
Eddie is in rehab (again), and David Lee Roth was engaging in some sort
of hissy fit (again). Sad.
What’s the deal with the lead singer of Velvet Revolver, anyway?
It’s the guy from Stone Temple Pilots, correct?
Why does he act like Dieter in Sprockets?
“Would you like to touch my monkey?”
Freaky.
In any case, I thought it was a good show.
And it caused me to break out my REM CDs yesterday, and get all
excited about them again. Especially
this
one ,
the most overlooked album in their catalog, and one of my all-time
favorites. Oh yeah.
-- A couple of things before
I call it a day here…. I
need your help in solving a crime. That’s
right, a crime. Please view
the evidence here,
and I’m confident we can bring a murderer to justice.
Pass the beer nuts.
Also, I’ve added a new friend to the Big List of Friends over on the
sidebar to the left. Longtime
Surf Reporter brianf has started a blog, and you can check it out right
here.
That’ll do it for today, boys and girls.
This afternoon I’m going to Staples, Long John Silver’s, and
JCPenney to buy slacks. Not
pants, mind you, slacks.
Will somebody please shoot me? permalink
March 16,
2007
-- What in the wash and wear hell??
There's up to twelve inches of snow coming our way? A day after I raved
about the changes of season?! It's unbelievable. Twelve inches! Oh, that
might not be a full-blown Milton Berle storm like last time, but it
sounds like it could be a Don Johnson, and that's bad enough. A Don
Johnson is nothing to dismiss, my friends.
I didn't know anything about any of it, until Toney told me last night.
I never turn on the TV during the day (fat people crying on couches),
rarely glance at the newspaper (house fires and people bitching about
change), or listen to local radio (more bitching about change, only in a
real nasally voice), so I'm pretty much cut off from society. The world
could be coming to an end, and I'd be sitting in the bunker smiling and
listening to Barenaked Ladies.
I do pay close attention to the news during some of those old Jean
Shepherd broadcasts, but they're from, you know, 1960, and don't really
help me much. I tried to strike up a conversation with a man at the
credit union the other day about all the vacation-time Ike has been
taking, but it didn't really go anywhere.
I was planning to drive down to Allentown today, for another
"seminar," and maybe a cigar and snifter of brandy with my colleagues.
But I guess I'd better stay close to home. I don't want to spend the
night in the Lehigh Tunnel, sobbing into my airbag and sucking the
grease out of old Burger King sacks for sustenance, after another
well-managed Governor Rendell "snow event."
Hello?
-- Last night we went to an art show at the oldest Secret's school. It
was your standard stuff: watercolor paintings of soccer matches between
two teams of men with elephantiasis, or some similar disease that causes
one leg to grow real big, papier mache sculptures of striped snakes or
what appears to be angry potatoes, and so on. I walked around, scratched
my chin, and made the approving noises required of a father in such a
setting.
Then I got to the Big Wall of Self Portraits, and everything began to
break down. I try hard to be a mature adult, I really do. But it's just
so difficult.... Check
it out. I have no idea who drew this, or his (her?) story, but I
do know it's funny. Real funny. Sweet Maria.
-- Since I suddenly have a lot of free
time on my hands, I've been observing our dog Andy (Black Lips Houlihan),
and his various pee methods. He has three, in case you're interested,
and switches back and forth depending on situation and/or terrain.
If he's in a hurry, if there's an urgency of some sort, he'll just drop
down in the back, like a girl dog. I'm not really a fan of this style of
canine whizzing, probably because I'm not accustomed to it. I've never
owned a female dog, they've all been boys, and this dropping-down
technique still feels foreign to me.
I cringe when Andy does it, but, I'm sorry to report, it's probably his
most-favored method. Perhaps we should let him out more frequently? I
don't know. But he often walks into the middle of the yard, the back-end
collapses, he raises his head high in the air and makes his body into a
45-degree angle. Then you hear it slapping the grass.
His second-favorite is the much more acceptable hike-the-leg technique.
This happens when he's just out there taking his time, tiptoeing around
and snorkeling everything. Like most dogs, he simply cannot walk past a
tree or a post or a mound of snow, without raising his rear
passenger-side leg and slinging a little piss on it. I'm often amazed at
how long he can hold his balance while in this tripod configuration. I
guess it's just a natural doggy talent?
Andy's third, and rarest, pee method is the "going statue"
variation. It's very similar to dropping-down, but is done standing
completely upright. Sometimes he'll be walking and suddenly stop, then
let it go without changing his posture whatsoever. I like this one, for
some reason. Maybe it's the element of surprise? Or perhaps I envy his
ability to seamlessly work peeing into his lifestyle. There's no fuss,
no prep work, nothing. He's just walking along, needs to take a leak,
and, by God, does. Right where he's standing. ....I'm sorry, I'm getting
a little emotional here.
I've seen our dog kick after peeing as well, I call it urination
punctuation. But he usually reserves this for post-crapping festivities
only. And he doesn't do it every time, just sometimes. I haven't been
able to figure this one out yet. What triggers a kicking episode, and
what doesn't? Is it weather-related? Does it matter if he's on grass or
on gravel? Perhaps it's no more complicated than mood? I just don't
know.
But rest assured, I'm working on it.
-- Have you ever heard of a band called the
Lyres? They're from Boston and were (are?) led by a maniac who calls
himself Mono Man, or somesuch. They sounded like a sixties garage band
all cranked-up on, um, coffee, and I really liked 'em back in the day.
The reason I bring this up is because I heard one of their songs
yesterday on a Rhino punk compilation, and it brought back a memory that
I'm now going to attempt to work into a Question of the Day....
When I lived in Greensboro there was a funky little club in operation
called Underground. I used to go there to see Dash Rip Rock and Jason
and the Scorchers, and bands like that. One night the Lyres were
supposed to perform, and I was highly excited. Their On
Fyre album was a favorite, and it didn't seem like the band
played outside of New England very often. No way I was going to miss
this one.
So, my friend Cam and I went to the club, and there was almost nobody
there. It was just the two of us, and maybe ten other people. When you
talked there was a slight echo, and you could actually hear other
people swallowing their beer. Unbelievable. I felt uncomfortable, and
embarrassed for the band.
But to their credit, the Lyres came out and played a full set. Oh, they
rocked the place, and all twelve of us had a great time.
Afterwards, this Mono Man character walked off the stage and went to the
beer window. We walked over to congratulate him on a great show, and the
dude went off. "What's wrong with this town?!" he snarled.
"Don't you people support live music here?? I was told this was
going to be a show tonight, not a fucking garden party!"
That's exactly the phrase he used, garden party.
Oh man, he was spewing venom. And one of the Faithful Dozen said,
"Dude, don't be pissed at us. We're here." Mono Man
considered this, accepted it, and apologized. Then he stood there and
talked to us while finishing his Budweiser, or whatever. From that point
on, he was, well, semi-friendly.
So that's the Question: have you ever been at an event where the crowd
was so small you felt uncomfortable? It doesn't have to be a
concert, it can be a baseball game, or whatever. Use the comments link
to tell us about it, won't you?
And I'm going to go watch it snow.
See ya on Monday. permalink
March 15, 2007
-- When I took the youngest Secret to
school this morning it felt like baseball season outside. I didn't even
wear a jacket, and can't remember the last time I left the house without
first encasing myself in some sort of commercially-produced quilt sewn
roughly into the shape of a man.
The thick granite-hard snowpack that's been on the ground for the past
month is melting away, from the bottom up it seems, and it feels like
the whole world is getting a much-needed bath. Birds have been chirping,
caribou wandering around....
Man, you'd have to be one hard, hard sumbitch not to love the changes of
season.
-- I went to Subway yesterday for lunch, and they now offer apples as a
sandwich topping. Apples! They sure are attached to the novelty fixin's
at that place, aren't they?
Perhaps I'm out of the loop (anything's possible), but I have a hard
time with a lot of that stuff. Even back in the old days, before things
went completely crazy, they would ask if I wanted black olives on
my seven dollar lettuce sandwich. Do I look insane? Am I wearing a
sombrero of turds here? Is my wiener out? Olives? On a sandwich?? Blecch.
Those things taste like a mouthful of buffalo nickels.
Hell, they're not even shaped right. You can't have a sandwich topping
that rolls. Am I wrong about that? It seems to me society decided the
sandwich rules a long time ago, and Subway is in repeated violation.
You're supposed to stack it up with stuff that's generally flat. You
make layers between two slices of bread, or inside a bun of some sort;
it's not a difficult concept. Keeping the sandwich level should NOT be a
concern.
And don't even get me started on fruit. That's just showboating, plain
and simple, and not worthy of a reaction.
-- I finally received my Shoes
CD a few days ago, and it was indeed a CDR. A bit of a pisser, but
not completely.... Sure, I would've preferred an actual, collectible,
commercially- produced compact disc. But, I didn't buy the thing as an
investment, I bought it to hear all the great songs again. So mission
accomplished on that front; it sounds great, all the music is there,
blah blah blah. I'll just try to ignore the little "Is it live or
is it Memorex?" printed around the middle of the disc. Try,
I said.
On a similar subject.... I received a
note from eBay yesterday informing me that the person from whom I bought
a four-year subscription to Blender magazine is, apparently, a
complete fraud. They'd shut down his operation, etc., and are urging me
to "take all possible steps to receive reimbursement." Bastard
took off with my $1.99!
-- I saw this today in an
article about the death of Boston lead singer Brad Delp:
Toxicology tests by the state medical examiner's office showed that
Delp committed suicide by carbon monoxide poisoning, said Lt. William
Baldwin. Police said Delp had sealed himself inside a bathroom with two
charcoal grills sometime between 11:30 p.m. Thursday and Friday
afternoon, when he was found by fiancee Pamela Sullivan.
Locked himself in a bathroom with a bunch of grills going?! Have you
ever come across that one before? Yeah, me either. That's the |
The
State
