April 28, 2006
-- So I was at work yesterday,
listening to the previous day's Phil
Hendrie show, and he mentioned (for about the thousandth time) the
rancid mule turd of a sitcom he appears in, Teachers.
It's a mid-season replacement series on NBC, and Phil plays a
"wacky" secondary character who basically sits around eating
donuts and making sarcastic remarks.
The show is not anywhere near funny, and a complete waste of the
Hendrie genius. It makes According to Jim seem like Dorothy
Parker at the Algonquin Round Table. Here's
video footage of me watching the latest episode.
I wondered how Teachers was doing in the ratings, hoping that
this unsavory chapter would soon be behind us, so I typed Phil's name
into Google News. And this
came up. It was a brand new article, posted just eighteen minutes
before. I read it, blinked a couple of times, then read it again. I was
sure I'd misunderstood what I thought it said.
But apparently it's true. Phil Hendrie is walking away from radio, to
pursue an acting career in Hollywood. And I don't want to say too much
about it, because it sounds silly to people who Don't Know, but I'm
just... profoundly sad. There is nothing in this world like the Phil
Hendrie radio show, it's a lunatic universe unto itself, and it looks
like it's all coming to an end.
And that means no more Bobbie and Steve Dooley of the Western Estates
Homeowners Association. No more Ted Bell, owner of Ted's of Beverly
Hills steakhouse, and inventor of The Ted cocktail (rum and Coke) and
the Baked Potato Tree. No more "gay man and gay journalist"
Doug Dangger. No more Jay Santos of the Citizen's Auxiliary Police. No
more Korean War veteran Lloyd Bonafide, who was up to his eyebrows in
bowl haircuts defending this country. No more Frank Gray, with his
gender confusion and three fingers of Cutty...
Yeah, we're not only losing Phil, we're also losing dozens of old
friends and acquaintenances. The
whole gang is hurtling down a winding mountain road in a burning
bus right now, headed straight for a guardrail and the jagged rocks
below.
Oh god, I can't look...
In twenty years time, when Phil is on
the other side of the dirt, as he might say, future hipsters will latch
on to him, and he'll become an immortal icon. He'll be the Velvet
Underground of comedy, and tapes of his show will be treated like holy
scripture. Rhino will release a twenty CD (or whatever format they're
using then) box set, and liars everywhere will claim to have been Phil
fans all along.
Shit. I haven't felt this way since I was thirteen and the Reds traded
Tony Perez -- I've got the same exact feeling in my gut as I did
then.
But hey, at least I'm not as bad as the guy who posted this
reaction at a Phil fansite
yesterday. Right? ...At least I'm not that bad.
Sorry I'm not funny today. I'll give it another shot on Monday.
Have a good one.
(Other journals commenting on this subject: here,
here,
here, here,
here,
here,
here,
here, here,
here,
here,
here, here,
here,
here.
and here.)
April 21, 2006
-- On Thursday we all piled
into the Sunshine & Mumbles minivan and went to New York City.
Toney's brother had never been there before, and wanted to see it all. A
hell of a lot of ground to cover in a short period of time.... Plus,
Sunny can't walk for more than ten yards without getting winded (unless
she's in a Super Wal-Mart, of course); she claims to have lungs the size
of tea bags. Who the hell knows?
Somebody made the decision that we'd take one of those big red
double-decker tourist
buses around the city. That way the brother would get a crash course
on NYC, and Sunshine could sit in a chair all day long. The downside? It
cost forty bucks a head for adults! With tax and everything, we forked
over $136 for me, Toney, and the Secrets. What am I, Ted Turner??
But the real fireworks happened before we even got there. Mumbles was
driving, Sunny was his co-pilot, and the rest of us were wedged in the
seats behind them. It was an excruciating ride; I was packed in so
tight, it felt like astronaut training.
And Toney's brother was drinking Coors Light from the can at nine in the
morning(?!), belching and what have you. He said he was going to
"drink heavily" while he was on vacation, and had a shitty
beer surgically attached to his right hand almost 'round the clock.
Mission accomplished, I guess.
And then we got lost. We missed an exit somewhere, and ended up in
Armpit Township, New Jersey. Sunshine flew off the handle, and we were
instantly a rolling bitterness wagon. She blamed Toney for some reason,
and me too. "I don't know how you people get anywhere," she
sneered. And then proceeded to give Mumbles (who should be nominated for
sainthood) an undiluted ration of shit for the next hour.
We went through a toll plaza three times, twice going one way and once
going the other. And Sunny had her bitch on. We saw a sign for Vince
Lombardi Boulevard, or some such thing, and I made the mistake of
commenting on it. I wondered why this road was in New Jersey. Toney's
mother spat, in a voice dripping with utter disgust, "He was only
the most famous coach in all of NFL history."
She said it as if she'd just caught a whiff of fresh-cut turds, and it
pissed me off. "Yeah, but Green Bay is in Wisconsin," I said,
"not New Jersey." I thought I'd exercised remarkable
restraint, because other words were galloping through my head.
She just rolled her eyes like she was dealing with a dotard. And I sat
back and remembered an old Phil Hendrie show about a guy who'd had it
with his wife always talking and talking, so he shoved her out of a
moving car at 75 mph and said her jaws were still working when she hit
the pavement. It brought me comfort.
We finally got landed, and Sunshine had gone from hostile, to quiet and
wounded. It's a natural progression. We were at a park 'n' ride on the
NJ side of the Lincoln Tunnel, and while we waited for our bus, Sunshine
looked off into the distance and wouldn't talk to anyone. The martyr.
We had lunch at John's
Pizzeria in Times Square, and it was good. Toney and I certainly
don't claim to be experts on New York, but we do have a couple of
favorite eateries there. John's is one, and Sammy's
Noodle Shop in Greenwich Village is the other. Everybody seemed to
approve of the place (a miracle), and the group polished off three large
pies in short order. Good stuff.
One irritation, though... Toney's brother fancies himself the
full-blooded Italian. In fact, he wore a t-shirt one day that said FBI:
Full Blooded Italian. Whatever. While we were having lunch he started
acting like those people on Olive Garden commercials, holding his food
high above his head and dropping it in like a sword-swallower, talking
with his mouth full and waving his hands all around. Suddenly he was ethnic.
And this really made my skin crawl: he'd bite the tip off a slice of
pizza, then fold it in half sideways. He probably saw somebody do
that in a Godfather movie once. And, for reasons I can't explain, it
really bakes my potatoes.
While we were eating, we saw a shaking woman walk past the window using
what appeared to be cross-country ski poles to remain upright. And this
brought Sunshine out of her shell. Cruel mockery, I believe, has the
power to soothe the savage beast.
The rest of the day was pretty much what you'd expect. We sat on the top
of that bus, and drove past famous Manhattan landmarks. A couple of
times people yelled smartass comments at us from the street below, but
can you blame them? I'd probably do the same thing if I lived there. I'm
surprised they didn't throw stuff at us.
Toney's brother wanted to see Ground Zero, so we jumped off there. We
looked through the fence at the big hole in the ground, walked through
St. Paul's Chapel across the street, and boarded another big red bus.
We were only halfway through the tour loop, and it had already taken hours.
Traffic was a bitch, and we did a lot of sitting still and listening to
the guides tell "witty" stories. A German family was in front
of us, and kept playing musical chairs. They'd sit still for a few
minutes, then the whole gang would get up and move to other seats. Over
and over again. I quickly grew to dislike them.
And here,
for the last time, are some of the pics I took during the day. The
weather was absolutely perfect, and I thought it was a pretty successful
outing. Again, Toney and I vowed to visit New York more often, since we
live so close and love it every time. But Mumbles proclaimed the place
"a dump," and said he doesn't care if he ever returns. I think
it was the only audible thing he said all day.
Hey, to each their own.
And now I'm gonna turn it over to our good friend Buck,
who will close out the week for us.
See ya next time.
April 20, 2006
-- So we parked and made our way into
the massive ballroom where the swimming shindig was to take place....
Along the way we learned that there was a raucous wedding reception
underway in another room, and that's why there were suits and ties in
the parking lot. I was trying to act like I didn't give a shit, but was
secretly relieved that we weren't under-dressed. That "we all look
like hicks" comment had stung a little.
As soon as we passed through the door a gang of the oldest Secret's
friends descended upon him, and that was that. We never saw him again,
until it was time to go home. Members of the swim team sat together at
their own tables on one side of the room, and the parents and
grandparents were segregated on the other side. So it was youth to the
right, old farts to the left. Whatever.
Since we were arriving so late we had a hell of a time finding a table.
They were all large and round, and almost completely populated. Thanks
Sunshine! Eventually we found a spot, so far away from the stage I felt
like I was at a Doobie Bros. concert in 1980. I had to squint to figure
out if I was looking at a potted plant or a man's enormous head. Shit.
They could hold the Academy Awards in that joint.
It was a "family style" dinner, which means we were required
to share our table with complete strangers. Or, as the complete
strangers probably looked at it, they were being forced to share
a table with us. Luckily, though, the couple we were to break bread with
seemed OK. Just another Mom and Dad feeling all uncomfortable and
bound-up in their clothes, like us. Pass the beer nuts.
By the time we were situated in our chairs, Sunshine had already taken
out the large square of cardboard she carries in her purse, and was
fanning herself furiously and gasping for air like a just-caught fish.
I'd been thinking it was a tad chilly.
I got up and wriggled my way through the crowd, in search of the bar.
Toney said she wanted a glass of red wine, and I was more than ready to
kick-off the evening's beer-intake.
Apparently you can't just say "red
wine" to a bartender. Oh no. Those two words unleash ten follow-up
questions, which I can never answer. I told him he was the expert and
waved my hand theatrically, giving him license to freely exercise his
knowledge. What do I know about it?
My Yuengling draft was served in a tiny glass, the kind they use for
tomato juice at Denny's. And I don't like that. Hell, I'd be wearing a
groove in the carpet, walking back and forth to the bar all night; the
shit gave new meaning to the phrase microbrew. I bitched about it
when I got back to the table, and the Dad I didn't know joined in the
protest. We were quickly forming a beer-bond.
Some teenage girls were going around placing large platters of munchy
stuff on the tables, raw vegetables and dips and that sort of thing. And
Sunshine & Mumbles immediately began using the food as nothing more
than a scoop with which to transport ranch dressing to their glistening
mouths. And Sunny promptly slung some of it on her shirt (and a little
in her hair), which triggered an eruption of white-hot rage and
profanity. Good times.
When I finished my beerlet, I went back to the bar and begged the guy to
sell me a pitcher of the stuff. To my surprise, he said no problem.
There was a big cardboard box a few feet away, from which he removed a
large plastic pitcher. Thank you God! I took it back to the table, told
my new brother to help himself, and his wife said, "Oh boy, you've
just made a friend for life!"
Then I noticed that almost every male I'd passed along the way was now
at the bar ordering pitchers of beer. And smiling from ear to ear, like
retards.
There were a few speeches, including one by the captain of the swim
team. The kid is fourteen, and taller than I am. I'm not kidding, when I
first saw him I thought he was a coach. He got up there, in front of all
those people, and spoke without notes. He was making jokes and talking
intelligently, just completely at ease. Amazing. They would've had to
fire up the demumblifier if I'd been required to speak, then broken out
the air fresheners after I shit my pants.
Right before dinner was served, the head coach took the podium and spoke
some amazing words. He said that not only did they defeat every other
team in the district this year, they destroyed every other team.
(Uproarious applause.) Incredible. I'm so used to the hand-wringing
brand of youth sports, where nobody keeps score and they're just tho
thenthitive about the feelings of every fragile child. Not these
guys. They set out to kick ass, and do so. I love it.
Dinner was excellent, not even Sunshine could find anything to bitch
about. They served tossed salad, grilled chicken, ham, five or six
different vegetables, homemade bread, and it was all really good. And
during the whole affair my buddy and I took turns getting the pitcher
re-filled.
As alcohol was consumed, and guards were dropped, the Other Couple
become part of the family. We were all laughing and talking, and having
a good time. At one point I went to the bathroom, and when I returned
Sunshine was saying to them, "...and where we live, there are a lot
of them. They pull up beside you at traffic lights with their horrible
music blasting: boom chaka chaka boom chaka..."
Sweet Jesus.
After dinner they gave out a metric shitload of awards (the Secret
received two trophys and a stack of ribbons), a way too-long video recap
of the seaon was shown, then it was time for dancing! No shit, they had
a DJ, a mirror ball, and everything. Unbelievable. We were at an awards
banquet for little kids, and they had a cash bar and dancing. We were a
long way from West Virginia....
The dance floor instantly filled with younglings and a few (probably
drunk) adults. They lined up and started doing something where they'd
slide to the left, slide to the right, hop forward three times (ONE!
TWO! THREE!).... I don't even know. They were all into it, apparently
familiar with the "dance," and it was just a full-on roar of
noise.
After all the sliding, clapping, and hopping, they started pumping out
the standard Earth Wind and Fire, and "Super Freak." And
that's when we spotted The Woman.
She was probably in her mid-forties, dressed in an expensive business
suit, and just throwing down. She was in the middle of a pack of
kids waving her arms in the air, thrusting her pelvis forward, and
screaming, "Woooooo!!!" It was like that shampoo commercial
where the woman gets a little too excited.
All of us stood there and watched this amazing spectacle, and I had to
wipe away the tears of laughter a few times. I just couldn't believe
what happening before us.
I looked around and half the room was watching her, and just laughing
and laughing. At one point she kicked it up another notch, and it looked
like she was caught up in a swarm of bees. She was flat-out bringing
it.
I wondered if she even belonged there. Perhaps she'd been at the wedding
reception, gone to the bathroom, and returned to the wrong function? It
wouldn't surprise me; I don't think she knew where she was.
In any case, I'm fairly certain she woke up the next morning, and
thought, "OH NO! What did I do?! Was I surrounded by... children??"
Against great odds the evening turned out to be a lot of fun. There was
plenty of beer, good food, blue ribbon mockery...
Who could ask for more?
April 19, 2006
A few quick things...
-- Why are people now using the phrase on accident? I'd never
heard anyone say such a thing in my entire life, and over the past year
or so it's suddenly everywhere. "Yeah, and then he knocked over his
beer on accident, and his wife got really pissed..." On?? What in
the honeysuckle hell? How do these things take hold? Is there a
newsletter of wrong talk or something?
"On accident" is apparently the new "You know what?"
and I'm not a fan of any of it. It's almost as irritating as "You
wanna go with?" And that's saying something. Crazy.
-- Toney and I are seriously thinking about ditching our home phone. I
almost never use it, and she's on it less and less. Cell phones are just
so much better, with the free long distance and the convenience and
everything. And our landline, I'm told, costs us almost fifty bucks per
month. What do you think about this? What are the pros and cons? Is
there a downside that I'm not thinking of? 'Cause we're ready to pull
the plug on that crap.
-- Sunday's episode of The Sopranos was hilarious. I guess it's
safe to say that none of those guys ever attended a sensitivity seminar?
Heh. And the whole springer spaniel thing.... I'm laughing just thinking
about it. It's all saved on the DVR, and I have a feeling we'll be
revisiting it soon. Like tonight.
-- I watched a really good documentary yesterday evening, called New
York Doll. It focuses on the recent life of Dolls bassist Arthur
"Killer" Kane -- but it's not really a music movie; I don't
think you need to have even heard of the New York Dolls to enjoy the
flick. Check it out sometime. It's one of the best things I've rented
from Netflix in a while.
-- Finally, my Blazer may be mended now. My mechanic, Johnny
Sack, swears it's all better. But, of course, he told me the same thing
last Friday. Time will tell, I guess.... He claims that the
"secondary" problem was caused by an aftermarket remote
ignition system that a previous owner apparently installed.
He yanked all that shit out of there,
and said it was like doing exploratory surgery. Supposedly there were
two long antennas that snaked all the way into the roof, and everything.
He promises that this will take care of my problem. I wish I could
believe him, I really do.
And it's chaos here. Sunshine & Mumbles are preparing to leave, and
there's quite a bit of distracting activity. I'll try to finish
up the country club tale and upload it later in the day.
So check back, if you should give a crap.
See ya soon.
April 18, 2006
-- Ugh. Is it possible for a person to
actually grow tired of beer? Two weeks ago I would've had to wipe
away tears of laughter if someone had suggested such a thing, but now
I'm starting to wonder. Holy crapballs. It takes an awful lot of
medicine…
Since we last spoke the gang has completed a trip to New
York City, Toney, her brother, my friend Steve and I toured the Yuengling
brewery, and I've dealt (and am still dealing) with an irritating car
issue.
We made it through the "Mexican fiesta" without a catastrophic
deck (or toilet) collapse, and so far there haven't been any major
emotional melt-downs, or blow-ups. Quite a few small ones, of course…
but nothing that will lead to any permanent scarring.
I'd intended to keep updating the site all last week, with a rolling
commentary on the fucked-upness, but I just couldn't do it. Sorry about
that. Things should return to normal very soon. Toney's brother leaves
town today, and her mother and stepfather are SUPPOSED to be a day
behind him. So, if all goes as planned, it'll be our house again
in just a matter of hours.
And man, the stories have been piling up….
Today I'll tell you about something that seems like ancient history by
now: our evening at a country club with Sunshine & Mumbles. So let's
get started, shall we?
-- The oldest Secret joined a youth swim team this year, and it's turned
out to be one of the best things ever. It's very well-run, serious
business without being crazy-intense, and a real confidence booster. My
only regret about the whole thing is that we didn't steer him into it
earlier.
A few months ago Toney told me that the team holds a year-end
extravaganza dinner at a local country club, and that made me nervous.
I'm a bit more pizza joint than country club, ya know? I mean, what if
I'd be required to wear slacks or something?! I can't have that.
During the ensuing weeks Toney learned
that the dinner would happen during a visit from her mother. Not good.
We had visions of her throwing coffee in somebody's face, or calling
someone a "Jew bastard," or some such thing. I've personally
witnessed her being barred for life from a sandwich shop in
Nevada, so I know that the potential for almost anything exists.
But what were we to do? Toney tried to paint it as something they
wouldn't enjoy, in hopes that they'd opt-out. But, of course, her mother
was enthusiastic about it. So we bought them a pair of tickets, and
started saying our prayers.
Toney told everyone that we needed to leave the house at 5:15 on the
night of the Big Event. In fact, she reminded everyone over and over
again for emphasis.
And at 5:00 Sunshine was still sitting in the floor of the family room,
casually flipping through the latest Star magazine and snickering at
unflattering photographs of famous people. I was even ready by then, and
that's saying something. But Sunny hadn't started yet, and Toney's face
was cycling through the full spectrum of colors, and she had some sort
of John Wayne Gacy look in her eye that I'd never seen before.
Why can't Sunshine just go along with the program once in her life? Why
must she insist on turning otherwise normal people into The Killer
Clown?
Around 5:30 she finally emerged from the bathroom, huffing and puffing
and complaining of the suffocating heat. (I was waiting by the front
door in a winter coat.) She was ready, she said, but it was easy to see
that she had a full-bitch on. And Toney wasn't exactly happy either.
Yes, it was all coming together…
And when the front door was opened Andy took off like a bullet and began
running laps around the yard. I was so ratcheted-up about Sunshine's
antics and complete lack of respect, I snapped and started yelling like
a maniac and chasing the dog around. It was like something off cartoons.
Then he leaped into the open side door of S&M's van, huddled
down in the floorboard and refused to move.
I thought I was going to have a stroke. I headed back into the house to
get his leash (so I could commence to dragging), and almost fell on my
ass after stepping in a pile of dog shit.
By the time I'd changed my shoes, extracted a stubborn dog from a van,
and we were actually rolling, it was almost time for dinner to be
served. And I think my head was literally expanding and contracting.
Sunshine was playing some godawful hippie music on the way, quite
possibly Jethro Tull. It was almost a thirty minute drive to the country
club, and I'm almost certain the same song played the entire time. It
was just flutes and noodling guitars and keyboards… It was all I could
do not to break down in tears.
When we were almost there the road narrowed and Sunshine freaked. She
grabbed the dashboard and started hyperventilating. "Oh my
god," she wailed, "I've only seen two-lane roads in movies! I
didn't know they actually existed!!" Batshit crazy.
This continued, with Sunshine clamped to the dash and acting like we
were in the midst of a death plunge, until our destination came into
view and we spotted a group of people in the parking lot wearing suits
and ties. "Oh noooo!" she hollered, loosening her grip
on the air conditioner vent, "They're all dressed up, and we look
like a bunch of hicks!!"
Gee thanks.
And from there, if you can believe it, we had a really good time. But
I'll have to tell you the rest of the story tomorrow.
Believe it or not, I'm still hassling with my Blazer. I paid Johnny
Sack, or whatever his name is, the four hundred bucks he asked for --
and I'm still having the same problem as before. In fact, I had to
abandon my truck at work last night, because it simply refused to start.
Toney had to come rescue me at 8:30, and by that point I'd said quite
a few bad words.
The guy promised to "make it right," but I've got to try to
get the vehicle to him today. If it doesn't start, it's his problem; I'm
washing my hands of the deal. He can have it towed at his own expense,
I'm not dealing with it anymore. Screw it and screw him.
Tired of beer... yeah right.
April 12, 2006
-- I took my Blazer to the Italiano
garage early this morning (hence the lack of an update), talked to the
guy, answered a few of his questions, then went to work and waited. With
my sphincter pinched off like a Russian submarine. Finally the call
came, and it wasn't good news. Not good at all.
Have you ever heard of a passlock sensor? Yeah, me either. But that's
what I'm being told is shitting the bed this time. Supposedly
it's an anti-theft feature that prevents someone from starting the
vehicle with an "unauthorized" key. So it was going haywire
and shutting my engine down all willy-nilly.
And, of course, it's even more of a kick in the balls because I'd
WELCOME a little grand larceny at this point. Ya know? Anti-theft??
Where's Allen Funt?
I hesitate to even tell you how much it's gonna cost me, because the
comments section will instantly fill with "you got raped!" and
"it's a six dollar part!!" messages. I know how you guys
operate. But screw it, I'm too tired to fight.
Four hundred bucks is the bottom line, and I don't know if I'm picking
up some residual effects from Sunshine's no-fat Pringles or what, but
I'm feeling the beginnings of an oily discharge taking shape. I really
am.
-- I apologize now, but I seriously don't know when I'll ever be able to
update this site again. Today was screwed because of that Chevy shitbox,
tomorrow we're going to NYC for the day, and Friday I think Toney, her
brother, and I are going to make a trek to the Pottsville holy land, and
tour the Yuengling brewery.
I might be able to write something on Friday morning, but I can't
promise anything. It's utter chaos at our house right now, and it's only
going to get worse.
The best I can do is promise to take good notes.
-- Here's
a very cool, and semi-obscure, Smoking Fish sighting. Oh yeah. Our logo,
man, he gets around.
-- This
is an amazing story with the power to bring tears to the eyes of aging
record geeks everywhere. Incredible!
And that's all I can manage today. I'll do better next time. Maybe.
Where am I? What is my name??
April 11, 2006
-- Everybody, except for me and the
Secrets, went to Philadelphia yesterday to pick up Toney's brother at
the airport. The kids went to a friend's house after school, and I made
arrangements to leave work a little early to pick them up.
Miraculously, I was able to get out of my job exactly when I'd planned,
and was looking forward to a few hours of peace before the insanity was
ratcheted up yet another notch.
But, with impeccable timing, my truck refused to start. I cranked it,
everything fired up as normal, then immediately died the second I let go
of the key. And this happened over and over again. WTF?? It's literally
one thing after another with that rolling shitbox. Now the kids were at
somebody else's house, I was stranded fifteen miles away, and Toney was
in Philadelphia. Simply excellent.
I found the receipt in my glove compartment from the Italiano
garage that diagnosed and corrected the last batch of electrical
problems I had with that Blazer, and gave them a call. The guy said it
sounds like an ignition switch, but he couldn't be sure. I asked if that
was a bend-me-over-the-couch type of item, and he never really gave me a
straight answer.
I went back into the building to urinate furiously, and to see if I
might be able to bum a ride home from someone. The first item was
handled without incident, but everybody who lives near me was already
gone for the day. I called a cab company and the guy said it would be
about thirty bucks, plus tip. I told him he could jam it deep in his
ass, and hung up.
It was like something off Candid Camera. I called the woman who was
watching the Secrets, and she told me not to worry. Our kids were
outside playing with her kids, everybody was having a great time, and it
was not an issue, she said. But I thought I could detect a hint of
irritation in her voice, like she thought I was really at a bar
somewhere, knocking back the Jager shots. The whole situation was
starting to make me run my hands through my hair.
During the ordeal I spoke with Toney
several times, and we were discussing our options. We decided that
they'd pick up the kids as soon as they got back, I'd make arrangements
to have the Blazer towed to the Italian Wiring Masters, and eventually
she'd come pick me up at my job. And I heard Sunshine in the background
screaming, "I thought we were going to order cheesesteaks when we
got home?! Oh grrrrreat!"
Serenity now!
I decided to go out and give it another try. Maybe it healed itself
while I was inside whining? Or perhaps the gods of car repair saw fit to
grant me some mercy?
And it worked! The thing fired up like normal (after more than an hour
of playing havoc with my stomach lining), and I tore ass down the
interstate, Pearl Jam a-blasting. I was almost giddy; I estimated that
there was still two full hours remaining before the gang returned. Maybe
the Secrets and I could go somewhere for dinner, and decompress before
the craziness kicked in? Perhaps even a place that offers up sweaty
pints of Harp to its adult patrons?
But did I dare risk turning off the engine? Dammit! I just couldn't do
it.... We ended up going through the Burger King drive-through instead,
for a big greasy sack of heartburn.
Tomorrow the Blazer is going to spend the day with Vito and Frank (or
whatever their names are), and have even more repair work done.
What do you think? Am I going to be face-down in a couch cushion? How
much is this going to cost me? Those Italianos are really good at what
they do, and charge accordingly. How bad is it going to hurt?
-- And speaking of nervous breakdowns... Yesterday morning Sunshine was
doing some laundry, and said she doesn't like to put her shirts in the
dryer. She asked Toney if it would be OK if she hung them from the
tree in our front yard(!). I thought Toney was going to have a
stroke. She's pretty good at going with the flow, and not getting
herself all worked-up over the ridiculousness, but this touched a nerve.
"No!" she yelled. "Nobody's hanging laundry from the
trees! This is not Kentucky!!" Good times.
And I know I said I'd tell you about the country club today, but it'll
have to wait. I'll get to it eventually, I promise. The gang is on their
way to Gettysburg right now, and I probably won't see them much today.
I'm taking Toney's car to work this morning, and it'll just be me and
the Secrets alone for dinner, with that long-overdue pint of Harp.
See ya tomorrow.
April 10, 2006
-- Sunshine and Mumbles (S&M) arrived on Friday evening, we had
dinner, then they wanted to dig right into the four new episodes of The
Sopranos that we had saved on the DVR. They're obsessed with the
show, and have spent hundreds of dollars buying the box sets, first on
VHS then DVD, but won't spring for the eleven bucks a month (or
whatever) it takes to subscribe to HBO.
Toney tells me that they sometimes become hypnotized by the program, and
go for days on end with the DVDs playing 'round the clock in an endless
loop. They watch it for fifteen hours straight, fall asleep with it on,
then go for another fifteen hours the next day. Rinse. Repeat. She says
they've lost four or five whole days at a time to these types of
frenzies.
I watched the first episode of the new season with them, so as not to
appear rude, then bailed out for the night. I went upstairs and fired up
the portable DVD player, watched a couple of 24s, then hit the
sack.
A fairly painless beginning.
-- On Saturday morning Toney came upstairs and told me to get my big ass
out of bed (or something along those lines), then asked me to please not
come down the stairs hollering and screaming and waving my arms about
the temperature in the house. We don't need to start the day with a
fight, she pleaded. Heeeere we go.
It was about forty degrees outside, and Sunshine had all the windows
thrown open, and was sitting at the dining room table fanning herself
and gasping for air. She's always saying she's hot and on the verge of
blacking out, regardless of the actual temperature. Could this possibly
be true, or do you think she's showboating? I have my opinions....
I grabbed a cup of coffee, grunted good morning to everyone, and went
straight to my subterranean bunker and rock 'n' roll sanctuary -- in
order to keep my promise to Toney. Grrrrr.
Eventually we went to lunch at Wegman's, as Sunny requested. Wegman's is
a big-ass grocery store, with a really good (but far from cheap) food
court. I opted for the Chinese food, at $6.49 a pound. Shit! My lunch
alone, which was a normal-sized portion (I was holding-back), came to
almost nine dollars. We probably could've gone to Damon's for ribs with
the amount of money we spent.
But whatever.
During lunch Sunshine told us that she didn't like seeing the dreams
that Tony Soprano had while in his coma. "It makes me sick to see
Tone (she refers to them all by shortened versions of their names, like
intimate family members) acting like such a pussy,"
she said. Good ol' Grandma.
After our expensive meal, we went to a giant indoor flea market not too
far from the store. Toney hates that kind of thing, but I don't mind it
on a limited basis. I'm always on the lookout for cool old beer
advertising and whatnot, and can spend some time rooting through, as my
wife calls it, "other people's old shit."
Unfortunately I found nothing I couldn't live without, and it was all
for naught. And the place was pretty grotesque (just as Toney
predicted), full of morbidly obese people in huge retina-searing
Garfield t-shirts hollering, just hollering, at their buzz-cut
hillbilly kids, and carrying their cigarette packs in leather
snap-cases, complete with lighter pocket on the outside.
Since we'd been to the flea market with Sunshine before, we'd insisted
on taking two cars and it was a wise move. When we found S&M, to
tell them we were leaving, they were only the second aisle, with about
ten to go. Mumbles was elbow-deep in a wooden crate full of what looked
to be old shopping cart wheels (wtf?), and he raised one at us to say,
see ya later.
I went through the Krispy Kreme drive-thru (my blood sugar was
plummeting), then went home and scoured my hands and forearms with
antibacterial soap, before polishing off one entire row of chocolate
iced glazed. Purely for medical reasons.
Saturday night we went to a country club(?!) for dinner. Yes, you read
that correctly. It was the big year-end banquet for the oldest Secret's
swimming team, and it was one fancy-pants shindig. But I'll have to tell
you about all that tomorrow... There's a lot to tell, and I just don't
have time to get into it today. Stay tuned, though.
On Sunday Toney and her mother went out shopping for many, many hours.
Therefore, it was surprisingly laid-back at the compound. I talked to my
parents on the phone, washed and vacuumed my truck, and generally lazed
around.
In the afternoon we all went out to a few stores together. Mumbles
forgot and left his expensive-ass DVD camcorder at home, and it had been
eating at him for days. The man is all about his camcorder. Finally he
snapped and said he was going to buy another one. He'd rather have two,
he announced, than miss an entire trip's worth of footage.
I was getting a little antsy by this point, so we all headed to Best
Buy, packed inside the S&M mini-van with the weird seatbelts that go
straight across your throat.
It turned out to be a huge error in judgment. We ended up going to all
sorts of horrible places, not just the fun ones like Best Buy, and
Sunshine can disappear inside the horrible ones for hours. At
K-Mart I sat on a bench outside the store for what must've been sixty
minutes. I'm not kidding, I was ready to wrap my lips around a tailpipe
by the time it was over. Nothing short of excruciating.
When they finally emerged from the store, and after we'd wedged
ourselves back into the strangulation buggy, Sunshine offered me some
Pringles from a can that was printed in black & white (who the hell
knows?). As I was lifting the first chip to my quivering lips, she said,
"These are those no-fat Pringles, with the weird stuff in it that
makes you fart oil."
What in the everloving crap??
I don't know what she was talking about, but was having none of it. Fart
oil? The hell?? I hid the chips behind my leg, and planned to ditch them
as soon as possible.
Toney asked to stop at a grocery store, for salad fixins, and I saw my
chance. "I'll go in with you," I said, and tossed the chips up
underneath the van as I was getting out. We bought our lettuce,
cucumber, and tomato, and returned. Sunshine asked if I wanted anymore
chips, and I politely declined.
And as Mumbles backed out I saw, with horror, about ten Pringles
scattered over our former parking space, spinning round and round in a
mighty vortex. I just about swallowed my tongue. But nobody else seemed
to notice. Heh.
More of this golden material tomorrow, including the tale of Sunshine
& Mumbles at a country club.
See ya then.
April 7, 2006
-- A few nights ago I attended a PTA
fund-raiser at the Secrets' elementary school. Needless to say, this was
all engineered by Toney. She coaxed me into it by spinning intoxicating
tales of "all-you-can-eat pizza," and that's the only part of
it that registered with me. It wasn't until I actually arrived there
that I realized I would also be forced to play multiple games of
Bingo.
I'm not really a Bingo kinda guy. In fact, I don't much care for games
in general. I don't play cards, do my best to stay away from Monopoly
and that sort of thing, and make a beeline, a fucking beeline,
for the exit whenever someone breaks out the Pictionary box, or one of
those "adult" party games. I think I'd rather put my head in
an oven...
But we were "doing it for the kids" at the school, so I
suppressed my natural instinct to bitch, and just went along with the
program. I bought three cards and lined them up in front of me, and put
on a big frozen charley-horse smile.
The markers were pieces of dried corn(?), and I couldn't understand the
caller over her tinny piece-of-shit $99 Radio Shack amplification
device. It sounded like she was saying things like
"unfortunate" and "free byzantine." WTF? I was lost
within minutes, and wished I'd thought ahead and sneaked-in a flask.
Then somebody hit me with a piece of corn. It was a kid at another
table, and he got me right above the left ear. I looked over and there
was a whole gang of fourth-grade smartasses just laughing and laughing.
Oh, this meant war.
And by the time it was over a bunch of kids AND ME, received a stern
talking-to by the youngest Secret's teacher. (I've never seen my
son look quite so mortified.) There was corn everywhere, and some people
even had it in their hair. Other adults were shooting me dirty looks,
and I was giving it right back to them.
Shit. I don't know why everybody was getting all high and mighty, and
giving me attitude. Because, as I explained to the teacher, they
started it.
-- As I was driving home that night I
began worrying about all those corns we left littered around the gym.
What if somebody slips on one, I thought, and brings a lawsuit against
us?! We could lose everything: the house, my Jam box set, everything! My
brain is constantly in scan-mode, trying to figure out the worst
possible outcome of every situation.
But it's not inconceivable, you know. Right off the top of my head I can
think of three instances where a person I knew (or sorta knew) was
injured or killed in a slapstick comedy-style accident.
At my grade school we were explicitly banned from bringing raisins as
our daily snack. It seems that an elderly second grade teacher
(ironically named Mrs. Young) once slipped on one, and exploded her
pelvis, or some such thing. I'd be willing to bet that they're still
banned, to this day. Do any of you have kids at Dunbar Elementary? What
do you know about this? It's still a raisin-free zone, isn't it? I knew
it!
The mother of one of our classmates worked at the Dunbar Bowling Alley,
in the snack bar. One night she stepped on a frozen package of wieners,
her foot whipped high in the air, and paramedics had to carry her out on
a stretcher. (Now that shit is funny.)
And a really tragic one... One of my former co-workers at the toll
bridge, a nice old man, got his feet all tangled up in the power
cord of his vacuum cleaner, and went cascading down the basement steps
at his house. Broken neck. Dead.
So there you go. It could happen. I bet you know some of these stories
too. If so, why not tell us about it in the comments? I think I'm in the
clear with the kernels; it's been several days now and I've heard no
horror stories. Heh.
-- A little while ago Buck sent me a puzzling email, something about
seeing Katie Couric "stroking her monkey" on the Today Show
this morning. I'm unclear on it. Is the woman just saying screw it
now, and going all Crispin Glover over there?
Here's
a screen shot of her yesterday, announcing that she's leaving NBC.
Bizarre.
-- And finally, a fellow Surf Reporter is turning to us in her hour of
need. Here's her story, in her own words:
I could use some suggestions. I
know it occurs often, but I am getting so tired of dealing with it. My
food at work is constantly getting stolen. So far this week alone I have
had a frozen breakfast sandwich & a SoBe Black and Blue juice swiped
out of the fridge. I am walking around pissed. I don’t think it is an
office worker (although I am starting to treat everyone like a suspect)
I think it is a night shift employee out in the warehouse. I went to the
boss and was told it was my fault for bringing in food, but
everyone who wants to eat has to! And most employees do, except the
managers who can afford to order out every day. We have cameras, but the
asshole boss won't waste his time (rather be surfing the internet)
looking back on the cameras to see who our thief is!
I need some ideas on how to exact
revenge on this faceless sticky fingers (with a full belly). I thought
of buying another SoBe and tampering with it, but don’t want to go to
jail for killing a son-of-a-bitch by poisoning MY OWN FOOD! .. but
making them a little sick or finding a dye that goes on clear, but shows
up bright purple would be cool. I just need some ideas to get this jerk
back (this has been going on for months & I am not the only victim,
just the most frequently stolen from.)
I don't know if she wants me to
reveal her name, so I won't. (Lucie.) But please help her out with this.
We need to stick together in our daily battles. ...Or something.
And that's all the time I have for today, boys and girls. I'll see ya on
Monday.
April 6, 2006
-- Yesterday I went to the post office
to check on the contents of good ol' PO Box 4. I knew there wouldn't be
anything there, but a man can always dream. Right?
I swung open the little door, and to my surprise it looked to be
completely packed-out. There was a copy of Jeff Somers' always-excellent
Inner Swine zine crammed
up-front, and some other stuff too. Cool. Few things are more exciting
than the promise of quality mail.
I began extracting it all from the tiny space, then lowered my head
until it was even with the box, so I could peer through and make sure
there wasn't anything left. And I was hit squarely in the face by the
clenched-fist stench of a molten-hot cauliflower fart.
There was a doughy man back there, humming and sorting -- and apparently
channeling the ghosts of last night's supper. And every time somebody
opened a door on the Big Wall of Doors, some of it escaped into the
commons area. I guess there was enough to fill every box, and more?!
Sweet sainted mother of Blue Moon Odom.
I'm not proud to know this, but I'm fairly certain that on Tuesday night
my postal buddy had baked ham for dinner, green beans, cauliflower
casserole, rolls, and a single ring of pineapple. I bailed-out before I
could get a good read on dessert, but if I was a betting man I'd go with
chocolate cake.
-- And since we're on the subject... Surf Reporter Jennifer made me
aware of this
new product yesterday, and I'm very excited. Wonder if it can be
set to play "Dixie?"
-- Our dog Andy (Black Lips Houlihan, Sirius Black & White) is
starting to shed, just like he does every spring. There are tumbleweeds
of fur cascading through our house, and he looks all unkempt, like a
doggish version of Bob Geldof. So I asked Toney to pick up one of those
fine-tooth wire brushes the next time she was at Wal-Mart, and I vowed
to take a few pounds off the hound.
And I did. He hated it (anything out of the ordinary sends him reeling),
but I combed so much hair off of him we could've built another dog.
Insane.
However... he wouldn't let me near his
ass for some reason. He reluctantly allowed me to tend to the rest of
him, but drew the line at the hindquarters. It still looks pretty
Boomtown Ratty back there, but I'm just not willing to risk losing a
hand to fix it. Ya know?
The exercise did give me a new threat to throw around, though.
And last night Andy was snorkeling around in the yard, sniffing every
blade of grass and taking his sweet time as usual. I wanted to free-fall
into my chair, dammit, and was getting pretty tired of waiting on
him.
"You better hurry up, dog!" I shouted out the front door,
"Or I'll comb-out your ass!"
I really wish I'd known that Half-Shirt's wife was out there.
-- Over the weekend I bought a copy of Def Leppard's Greatest
Hits
for $7.99 at Circuit Shitty. And man, that stuff sounds mighty fine
blasting inside a car that's careening down an interstate highway. Mighty
fine. In fact, it's enough to make a person contemplate playing hooky at
work, buying a couple of six-packs of Mickey's Big Mouths, and letting
the chips fall where they may.
I was thinking about picking this
one up
as well, but decided to wait a few weeks. I've got responsibilities,
and just don't know what might happen if I were to introduce both CDs
into the mid-life crisis setting at once. Clinical tests, so far, have
been inconclusive.
-- Last night's episode of LOST: completely baffling. What in the
open-face hell is going on??
-- Here
is, apparently, the complete story on the so-called Replacements
reunion, including a quote from the always-cool Slim Dunlap. Can't
hardly wait to hear the new songs!
-- And I think that'll just about do it for today, kiddies. I'll leave
you now with yesterday's Clive
Bull topic: What cartoon character do you think you most closely
resemble?
I'm having a little trouble with this one... Does Duke
count as a cartoon character?
See ya tomorrow.
April 5, 2006
-- Yesterday I told Toney that I was going to stop at the store after
work for a gallon of ice cream. All day I'd had a powerful hankering for
a big bowl of Moose Tracks (or as it's known around our house Moose
Crack), and I was bound to remedy the situation. She said OK (and
undoubtedly rolled her eyes in exasperation), and I turned off my
computer and prepared to call it a day.
Then my phone rang, and it was the oldest Secret. He asked if I was
going to the store, and I told him that I was. He said, "Can you
get me a jar of dill pickles?" The hell? I'd never seen him eat a
pickle in his life. Where was this bizarreness coming from? But
whatever. I told him to sit tight, the dills are on their way.
So there I was, standing in line at the
store with my second-trimester gut, holding pickles and ice cream in my
arms. Some things are just a matter of destiny, aren't they?
-- My friend Tim just sent me this in an email:
Does it bother you that Cap'n Crunch's voice is totally different
than it was when we were kids?
I guess I'll just answer that here... Yes Tim, yes it does. And the
same goes for that fake Fred Flintstone they're trying to pass off to us
on those brake commercials. That's not Fred, it sounds more like the guy
who does the Step Back! announcements at the Atlanta airport. Who
do they think we are, a bunch of idiots?
And not only is it insulting, but it also makes me a little sad. I can't
explain that part of it, but it does.
-- Remember how I told you that it was like spring here over the
weekend, and we cooked burgers on the grill and had a marathon Yuengling-fueled
deck-sitting session? Well, check
it out this morning. It's the day after tomorrow!
-- Surf Reporter Brian sends along this
interesting photo. Does it mean that I'll have to begin fashioning
myself after L. Ron Hubbard now, and sign my name J. Scott Kay? I really
don't think I can do it. ...Hello?
-- I also received this
puzzling photo yesterday, along with a short note written in (I think)
German. Um... what the fuck?? Does anyone know what "Eyecatcher im
Eingangsbereich: Lagerregale mit blindem Hund" means? I'm extremely
confused.
-- And Lucie says Toney should buy this
alarm clock for me, so I can't "puss out" anymore in the
mornings. Puss out?! It's the Buckification of TheWVSR! Deeply
offensive, to Night People everywhere...
Anyway, that thing would last exactly one day, and I'd throw it straight
through the wall. It pisses me off just looking at it.
-- Believe it or not, I have more. But, alas, I'm all out of time. I'll
gonna turn it over to lakrfool
now, and wish you folks a wonderful, wonderful Wednesday.
See ya tomorrow.
April 4, 2006
-- A few days ago we were walking
through the exclusive club that we belong to, a place called Sam's, and
passed the soda department. And I think I actually did a double-take.
How could the containers get even bigger? How is it possible?
Already they're so large it almost takes two hands to lift them to your
mouth, yet it's not enough to satisfy the national thirst? Apparently
not. There was pallet after pallet there, piled high with bottles the
size of oxygen canisters, filled with neon-brite liquids.
It was almost shocking.
Every once in a while I fall prey to a short-lived Mountain Dew frenzy
(especially the variations like Mountain Dew Black Death), but I don't
generally drink sodas. Thick sugary syrup just doesn't do it for me,
over the long-haul. I know people who live on the stuff, it's
literally the only fluids that pass their lips, and I don't know how
they avoid lapsing into a diabetic coma.
Nobody in our family drinks it; the only time there's soda in our house
is during bourbon season. The Secrets think of it as a rare treat, and I
like it that way. They're both skinny, while many of their classmates
are Campbell's Soup Kid dumplin' children. They can get fat in their
mid-thirties, the way God intended.
No, I'm a water guy. When I'm not drinking coffee, or beer on weekends,
I'm pouring great amounts of water down my neck. I buy a bottle from the
vending machine every morning at work, then refill it over and over
again from the bloop-bloop coolers located around the office.
I drink so much of it, in fact, my pee is crystal clear. I'm not
kidding, it looks the same going in as it does coming out. When you walk
into a public restroom and find a urinal filled with something that
looks like Tropicana Homestyle Orange Juice With Pulp, you can rest
assured that I was not the culprit, thank you very much.
When we first moved here I started
hearing bizarre (crackpot?) commercials on the radio about something
called The Water Cure.
These ads were presented by the owner of a local chain of auto parts
stores(?). The guy claims that we're all severely dehydrated, and if
we'd just drink water every day we'd avoid most common health problems.
He's decided that he's going to make it his life's work to spread the
word, and continues to spend large amounts of money promoting "the
cure." So much, in fact, it's reportedly caused friction within his
own family. Apparently the man's a tad obsessed. Here
are some of his letters.
I'm not quite ready to go all Scientologist about it, but I have a
feeling that there's some truth to the theory. I've been drinking a lot
of water ever since I heard one of his infomercials while driving to WV
early on a Saturday morning, several years ago. Consequently, I now view
soda as kinda pukey.
The ads have recently started lapsing into Art Bell territory, ranting
about grand conspiracies by the medical community to suppress the word,
and whatnot. I don't know anything about that, but I'm still on the
water, and still urinating like a pure glacier stream. Oh, it's a
beautiful thing to behold. Maybe I'll post some photos?
And on the rare occasion that I do crave a soda, I try to find
just a regular 12 oz. can. But it's getting harder and harder.
Convenience stores only stock the two-fisters that won't fit into the
cup holders in my truck, and block the radio dials with their great
height. I feel like an idiot carrying one of those things, all elongated
and brightly colored; they may as well call it Mountain Douche. When a
store does carry the old-style cans, I get the feeling they're
being presented as whimsical retro novelties, like cinnamon toothpicks
and Mallo Cups.
Whatever. I don't even know how I got started on this... I have a whole
list of things I wanted to talk about this morning, and got all carried
away like an auto parts guy. There's always tomorrow, right?
And luckily, for all of us, there's always Buck.
See ya.
April 3, 2006
-- Toney and I kicked off the
deck-sitting season yesterday, and it was good. I brought the cushions
up from the basement, went at the chairs and table with 409, then
settled in for some open-air Yuengling and pretzels. The weather was
perfect, exactly right in the sun and a little nipply in the shade, and
I doubt even Sunshine herself could've found anything to bitch about.
In fact, I made that statement yesterday afternoon, and it led to A New
Concern.
I mentioned on Friday that Toney's family will be converging here for
Easter - eight extra people and a filthy satchel o' ticks mongrel dog -
and Toney is planning on staging some sort of Mexican night of
drunkeness on the deck. She's going to have nachos and homemade salsa
and margaritas and whatever else goes with the theme. Sounds like fun,
but I'm seriously concerned that the deck might collapse.
As far as I know, everything is sound out there. In fact, we had a guy
look at it a couple of years ago (I'm neurotic), and he said it was
"solid as a rock." But there's gonna be a lot of heft on that
thing, and I'll be a nervous wreck that it'll just say 'fuck it,' come
off the house, and fold up like a giant TV tray. I can already imagine
the news reports: "What started as a fun-filled Mexican fiesta
quickly turned to tragedy Saturday night...." And I don't like
that.
The upstairs toilet too. When I think about it logically, I know that it
should be the strongest room in the house. Because a few weeks after we
bought this place we found a bad water leak in there (something the
expensive home inspectors missed) and we had to have the entire floor
rebuilt. But even though I know that, I can't help but worry. Once a
weak spot, always a weak spot....
Maybe they did a shoddy repair job? Hell, how would I know? Maybe it
won't hold the load that is Toney's brother, and he'll end up in
the family room with his pants around his ankles, wearing a fez of turds?
Even if he wasn't seriously hurt, he'd sue our asses via one of those
"lawyers" that advertise on Maury! or whatever. Yeah,
there'd be no happy outcome of a full toilet collapse, none whatsoever.
It doesn't help that he spends an
inordinate amount of time atop the throne either. He once stood up during
Thanksgiving dinner at Sunshine's apartment, walked straight into
the bathroom and unleashed a five-megaton assplosion that could be heard
for a city block, then returned to the table and said, "Could
somebody pass the mashed potatoes?" Constantly with the
crapping.
So, in addition to the normal concerns (the translucents having one of
their "episodes" and hurling a fifteen-pound rusted-iron
1970s-era Tonka truck through our storm door, Nostrils burning the
Olympics logo into our kitchen counter with his ridiculous Soviet coffee
maker...) I've got a few new things to worry about.
And so it goes.... It all starts on Friday and, needless to say, I'll
keep you updated.
-- I can't even begin to tell you how crazy this morning has been...
I've already walked, in the rain, to the elementary school and back, and
sent Andy frantically scampering under a bed with some sort of wild
primal scream that came out of nowhere. Maybe I'll tell you about it
tomorrow, and maybe I won't... Fuck it.
In any case, this update is a lot shorter than I'd hoped. But I'm gonna
have to call it a day, my friends.
I'll leave you now with a slightly disturbing picture
of Buck in a Box (not our Buck, thankfully), and a brand new Smoking
Fish sighting.
See ya tomorrow.
|
The State of My
Fat Ass
April 2006
