April 30, 2007
-- We had a great time in
Gettysburg
yesterday. I think it was our
third visit, and I was a bit concerned I might be bored.
I mean, just how many times can a person walk around the battlefields
and stare at the monuments? And
how many times can he wander through the stores and look at shot glasses
with cannons on them? And how
many times can he contemplate five hundred musket balls under glass at
the battle museum? Well…
apparently lots of times, ‘cause we had a blast.
The whole thing is surprisingly satisfying.
It’s like when you’re getting ready to leave on a long car
trip and don’t really have
to pee, but feel like you should try it anyway.
And then it goes on and on and on….
I’m not sure the Chamber of Commerce would approve of such an
analogy, but it’s accurate, I believe.
A Day at Gettysburg
: It’s Like A Great Pee That
Sneaks Up On You!
This one isn’t getting off to a very good start, is it?
When we arrived in town we took a wrong turn and ended up in a park we’d
never seen before. We drove on a
narrow one-way road between the trees, and there were monuments and
markers everywhere.
It was pretty darn amazing, and creepy as well.
I could just imagine being seventeen and scared, and up in those
woods with the knowledge there are hundreds (thousands?) of people in
the general vicinity who’d like very much to blow your freakin’ head
off. I wouldn’t want to be in
that so-called park after the sun went down.
No way.
We drove and drove, and I started to worry we might not find our way
out. It seemed to go on forever,
and there wasn’t even a hint
of civilization in any direction. Finally
we were deposited at the base of a KFC, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
We had lunch at a place called The Pub (I think that was the name of
it), and I ordered a club sandwich but forgot to say “no mayo.”
Every time I bit down on it, that terrible crap (the devil’s
condiment) oozed in every direction, and I was fairly grossed-out.
The food was really good otherwise (provolone = yum), but the restaurant
clearly understands that most people only use sandwiches as an excuse;
in most cases they’re nothing more than a vehicle with which to
transport spreads. And I don’t
swing that way.
After we finished our meal, and I got mayonnaise off my pants and out of
my eyebrows, we walked around the neighborhood there.
We bought the Secrets each an authentic Civil War-era bullet,
which are so plentiful every store in town has buckets of the things,
and sells ‘em for three bucks a pop. They’re
incredibly heavy, and could flat-out ruin a person’s day, I imagine.
There must’ve been
some kind of greyhound convention going on.
Because we saw about thirty of those hilarious, high-stepping
animals being walked by people who looked a little like greyhounds
themselves. Plus, and this is a
new one on me, many stores had professionally-made (permanent?) signs in
their windows that read: Greyhounds
Welcome! Very strange.
Can anyone explain this to me? Because
I’m baffled.
And speaking of animals, we passed a pet store with puppies and kittens
in the display windows out front. Needless
to say, this drew a crowd and everyone was hollering the word “cute,”
and acting like their legs were about to give out.
There were four tiny cats in the cats section, and one was spread out on
the floor like a bearskin rug. The
other three were romping around and putting on a show for us.
One (I shit you not) actually climbed a ladder, which almost
caused an old lady to black-out and fall face-first into the gutter.
I was prepared to step in and catch her if she fully succumbed to
the cuteness, but she was able to dial it back at the last minute.
Toney said, “They sure are cute, aren’t they?”
And I answered, “Yeah, but wonder why they don’t do something
with that dead one?” Man, oh
man. That little joke didn’t go
over very well. I thought it was
pretty funny, but white-hot dirty looks came flying at me from every
direction. Sheesh.
I guess there’s no joking allowed when it comes to kittens? I
felt like Don Imus.
We finally went back to the parking garage where we’d left our car,
and the woman inside the boof had a big ol’ TV with her. I’d say she
was in her early 60s, and looked like a stereotypical school teacher.
But I’m almost certain she was watching Scarface.
I handed her my ticket, she shoved it into a machine on the counter, and
there was just continuous gunfire on the television.
She said I owed her a dollar, I handed it to her, and as we were
driving away I saw a close-up of a man screaming in pain and covered in
blood.
TF??
We spent a half-hour or so at the museum, and that was pretty cool.
They have cannons in there, about a million guns, tents, playing
cards, shaving kits, uniforms, and every tiny (or otherwise) item a
Civil War soldier might encounter.
I was most intrigued by the ammo display.
It appeared that most of the stuff wasn’t even designed to
explode, it was just balls of
metal to be launched in the other guy's direction.
And how bad would that suck? You’d
be sitting there minding your own business one day, maybe eating some
cold oatmeal or whatever, when a twenty pound sphere of iron comes
sailing over a tree and strikes you full in the back.
No, I don’t think I’d much care for that.
They also had a huge display of photographs taken at a reunion in 1938.
It showed very old men, many sporting ZZ Top beards, seated at
picnic tables and eating pie. Supposedly
they were all veterans of the battle at Gettysburg(!), just sitting
around, chilling – blue and gray together - all the old issues long
ago settled. I could be wrong,
but it appeared the only thing on their minds that day was getting
another slice of that good blueberry, and maybe catching a quick nap
under a tree somewhere.
The battlegrounds never fail to get me in the gut.
I’m no Civil War fanatic, and I'm certainly not a member of the
thuper-thenthitive Oprah Nation, but just walking around those fields
where so many people died has the power to move even a cynical bastard
such as myself. I took some
pictures, but when I got home I realized they were almost exactly like
the ones I got last time. So I’ll
just save myself some time and link to the old
ones. Screw it.
Here’s one from yesterday.
It’s the marker for the graves of unknown West Virginia
soldiers. People leave coins on
them, for some reason, and WV’s dead didn’t have too many.
So, most of those are from my own pocket.
The site of Lincoln
’s Gettysburg Address got much
more respect, and I think I was experiencing a mild case of coin-envy.
Next time I think I’ll bring a roll of quarters and even the (four)score
a bit.
-- And that’ll just about do it
for today, my friends. But before
I go… we've got yet another Smoking Fish sighting, this time in
Chile! Check it out. Our logo,
man, he gets around.
Also, I want you to know that your peer pressure worked.
On Saturday I went out and bought a copy of The Stand. I was called some
very hurtful things at this website, and finally broke-down and bought
the damn thing.
But I’m telling you, the book is HUGE.
I don’t think my concerns are unfounded, pussy-boy or no.
Take a look.
That’s me waiting in the checkout line at Borders.
It’s a wonder I wasn’t killed!
I'll see you guys tomorrow. permalink 
April 28, 2007
-- We’re going to spend Sunday
in Gettysburg
, as part of our just-launched Distractions For A Man On The Cusp Of
Losing His Shit Full-Out program. It’ll
do us all some good, I think, to walk around with the ghosts of Civil
War dead for an afternoon. I know
it’s worked wonders in the past.
We also picked our dates for Myrtle Beach
, and made our reservations. It’s
sometime in June; I’m not sure of the exact days.
But my parents are letting us use their big manly camper.
So we’ll get to spend a week or so sleeping almost literally on
the beach, without all the pain of dragging that ridiculous box o’
beds across the full thickness of America
.
No, it’ll just be a leisurely drive in the Camry, with Tom Petty in
the CD player and a big sack of Jelly Bellys on the console.
Just the way God intended.
Like I say, I think it’ll do us all some good.
-- I do have another interview on
Wednesday, so at least I’m getting some
action on the job front. This is
for an inventory manager gig, and the location of their office is
freaking me out, man. It’s
literally on the same plot of land as my former job.
I’m not kidding, the building where they’re based is the former
corporate headquarters of the manufacturing plant where I worked for the
past seven years; it’s located literally in the shadows of my old
place of employment! Several
years ago the powers-that-be decided they didn’t need the outside
building, and sold it off. And
now I’m interviewing for a job there.
And how forkin’ weird would that be?
But it sure would be nice to get back to work, regardless of the
location. I’m starting to go
batty in this house. Lots of
exciting things have happened since I’ve been able to devote more time
to the site, but I really need to get back to a “normal” life.
I think I’m only a few weeks away from building poop castles in
the living room. Or, even worse,
Sudoku.
Will somebody please hold me?
--
Sunshine and Mumbles are coming for one of their marathon visits
soon. By this time next week they’ll
be here, unless something changes, and they’re supposed to stay for at
least ten days. And I have no job
where I can hide-out… Sweet
sainted mother of Luther Mahoney.
While
they’re here we’re supposed to spend a day in Philadelphia
,
and presumably the rest of the time will be taken up with Sunny sitting
around on couches fanning herself, gasping for air like a trout on a
pier, and complaining like a person entered in a complaining contest.
What’s that old John Denver song? Sunshine
on my soooofa, just a-bitchin’? Yeah,
I think that’s right.
Why me, Lord?
-- A man told me yesterday that
many large companies try their best not to hire white males, in an
attempt to demonstrate their devotion to diversity in the workplace.
It’s nothing I didn’t already know, of course, and I shrugged
it off. But I was thinking…
Perhaps if I tweaked my resume a bit, and listed my name as Jeff K’ay?
Or maybe Gephree Que? What
do you think? Would it get me
more interviews? And how else
could I enhance things to get past the moratorium on big fat middle-aged
white guys?
-- Toney got called for jury duty
yesterday, and I’m extremely jealous. I’m
44 years old and have only been called once, and it was for Los Angeles
County
after
we’d already moved to Scranton
.
So I’ve never had the experience of serving on a jury, or even going
through the jury selection process. Why??
I’m always registered to vote, wherever we live, but I never
get called.
All my adult life I’ve wanted to be one of twelve angry men, even if I’m
just pretending to be angry for the benefit of the other eleven.
(Passion is for suckers.) Why
am I continuously denied the right to roll up my sleeves, eat Chinese
takeout at a conference table, and run my hands through my hair at 1 am?
Hell, I can vote GUILTY AS ALL CRAP, as well as anyone.
Have you ever served on a jury? Tell
me about it, won’t you? Use the
comments link below. Since, you
know, I’m apparently never going to be called, and can only live the
experience through others. Wotta
ripoff…
I’ll see you guys on Monday. permalink
April 26, 2007
-- We went to the Old
Country Buffet last night. This
is a significant development, because Toney and both our kids claim to
hate the place. It’s long been
my contention, however, that they don’t really hate the restaurant
itself, they hate the other patrons. And
that’s not really fair.
It’s like people who supposedly dislike Lynyrd Skynyrd.
I’m convinced it’s almost always because a significant
percentage of the band’s fans are shirtless, Old Milwaukee-hoisting,
rebel-yellin’ rednecks. And
that doesn’t have anything to do with the songs, does it?
I submit that it does not.
Oh sure, the Old
Country Buffet draws hillbillies out of their hollers, and there’s
generally people there with catastrophic skin conditions, and botched
grafts, and the like. But that’s
what the sneeze guards are for, right? And
just because there might be a mountain man seated beside us with 6
ounces of Thousand Island dressing in his Robert E. Lee beard… how
does that affect us?
The Secrets especially have dug their heels in about the place, and we’ve
had actual arguments about it in the past.
One time we were driving to meet Toney at a Chinese restaurant
both boys love, and I pretended to be talking to their mother on my cell
phone – and changing the plan.
I acted like Toney and I had decided at the last minute to go to the
Buffet instead, and nothing good came from that, nothing at all.
I think somebody eventually started crying, everyone was mad, and
I ended up calling my sons Niles
and Frasier.
But last night I floated the idea, and there was surprisingly little
resistance. So I seized the
opportunity, and we went.
It cost $33 for admission into the Gravy
Kingdom
, which is pretty damn steep, I think. But
whatever. Since I only get to go
there once every six months or so, no use focusing on the negative.
One thing you’ll notice about those kinds of places:
the Keeper of the Meats is the anchor position.
Everything revolves around that one person.
They’re in place to make the customer believe they’re
receiving hand-carved freshly-prepared ham, turkey, or steak, just like
in fancy restaurants on TV shows.
But, of course, their true role is to limit the consumption of the
Expensive Stuff. Truly
accomplished keepers can make a person feel like a disgraceful glutton gently, and discourage most folks from asking for more.
The Keepers of the Meat are the goalies of the standard family
buffet, and a good one is invaluable to the entire organization.
At least that’s the way I see it.
Last night I had two full adult meals,
possibly three, and it was good. The
only thing I didn’t care for was the meat loaf, which was kinda saucy.
My last trip to the bar featured said meat loaf, taters ‘n’
gravy, a fully-loaded taco, and some sort of Chinese stir-fry.
All on one plate. I wanted
to wedge a little lasagna in there, but was afraid the plate might
fold-under while I was carrying it.
Toney and the boys ate their share too, but I couldn’t get the Secrets
to admit they liked it. They’re
fully invested in hating the Old Country Buffet, but I know the truth.
The truth lives inside me.
-- After we left the restaurant,
we went to Borders. I wanted to
have a look at The
Stand ,
and try to decide if I really want to undertake a 1200-page novel.
I found the thick-ass thing, and opened it to the middle.
Immediately I saw that not only is the book ridiculously large,
but the print is ridiculously small. My
pupils began to dilate as I tried to read a random paragraph; the font
was, I think, the same as used in those disclaimer pamphlets they put
inside packages of cold medicine.
Ferget it. No way I’d read some
shit like that; I’d probably end up having a seizure.
They did have a
hardcover version, with a less-painful print-size, and it was only
$14.99. The paperback was $8.99,
so that would be an easy decision to make.
But I just couldn’t do it. I
left every copy sitting there. I’m
sorry, but I’m intimidated by books that carry a warning label on the
outside that shows a man lifting with his legs and not his back.
Then I happened upon the Score of the Day, my friends.
It was in the bargain books section, and the floor of my ass
nearly fell out when I saw it: the
National
Lampoon Sunday Newspaper Parody,
for $3.99!
This thing was originally published in 1978, in the format of an actual
Sunday newspaper. For reasons I
can’t explain, I never owned a copy of it.
I had the 1964
high school yearbook parody
(genius!), and most other Lampoon products from that era, but never the
Sunday newspaper. I tried to buy
a copy on eBay several times, but the prices always got way out of hand.
Then I recently learned that it was reissued as a book, and it’s been
on my Amazon wish-list ever since. And
now it’s mine, all mine, for less than five bucks.
Not to be too graphic, but I think I had to stand a little
farther from the shelving than normal.
And speaking of that… seconds before the Score of the Day, the oldest
Secret almost caught me flipping through another bargain book, called
the Bible of Great Sex, or somesuch. It
was a big glossy hardcover, and I’m only flesh and blood here.
I flipped it open to a random page, and it seemed to feature hundreds
and hundreds of color photographs of a Barbie and Ken couple pretending
to have sex in improbable positions. The
man looked like that guy on the news, Stone Temple Phillips, or
whatever. And the woman was
sporting a Hitler moustache in an area of the female anatomy Hitler
himself probably never saw.
When the oldest Secret came bounding around the corner, I slammed the
thing shut and hid it behind my back, like I was ten years old again.
Indeed, it reminded me of a time in fifth or sixth grade when I was
sneaking a peek at a Playboy
in the local Kroger, and a female classmate (Janet S., who sometimes
reads this site…) caught me. I
think I literally shrieked and dumped the magazine in a freezer full of
Eggo waffles, before bolting the store, completely horrified.
More recently, I was
in an airport somewhere, casually perusing a rack of magazines.
I reached for a copy of Hustler
that was missing its plastic wrap, and the second I touched it the
entire shelf of smut came loose, and crashed loudly at my feet.
Every head in the place turned, and there I was, standing amongst
a pile of close-up vaginas.
And I don’t know how any of this happened today, how I went from
chicken gravy to pornography. I’d better just wrap things up here.
But, you know, if
you've got any embarrassing porn stories to tell...
Tomorrow I’m supposed to take part in something called a Supply Chain
Roundtable, which is apparently a schmoozing event for out-of-work
operations managers, or some deal. I’ll
have to leave the house at 9 am
, so there’s a real possibility I won’t update on Friday.
I’ll try, though. And if I’m
unable to pull it off… check the site over the weekend.
I’ll do my best not to shortchange you folks this week.
I really will.
Before I turn it over to Buck, can any of you guess who this
is? (No, not Booji Boy.)
Brad sent me the pic yesterday evening, and it caused me to toss
and turn through the night. Sweet
sainted mother of Danny O’Day.
Also, I added a new item to the Ads vs.
Reality page, one that probably pruned two full weeks off the
back-end of my life. Damn
good though. Check it out, at the
top o' the page.
Now here’s something new and good
from our old friend Buck.
And I’ll see you guys again real soon.
permalink
April 25, 2007
-- Last night Toney was on the
phone with her mother (Sunshine), and the boys were playing on the floor
of the living room making one hell
of racket. The TV was on as well,
and it sounded like there were 25 people talking at once.
I couldn’t take it anymore, so I yelled, “It sounds like a freakin’
Chuck E. Cheese in here!” and went upstairs and started reading on the
bed. Andy apparently couldn’t
handle it either, and joined me.
So it was me, Bentley
Little,
and man’s best friend, in the quiet sanctuary of the bedroom.
Then Toney opened the front door downstairs, and our stupid dog
was thrown into one of his frenzies. His
ears perked up, he stood on the bed at high-alert, then used my right
thigh as a launching pad for his investigation.
He cut a twelve-inch swooping gash in my leg with the big Kruegers
on his rear paws. Well, gash might be a bit dramatic, but it was a big honkin’ scratch.
And I started howling like a retard at a potato-sack race, as
that idiot dog crashed through the hallway, and down the stairs.
And when I showed Toney the giant blood-drizzling rip in my skin, she
laughed. Laughed!
I don’t know what it is, but whenever I get hurt my wife thinks
it’s nothing short of hilarious.
Every. Single. Time.
Yes, it’s very important to have a strong support network.
-- Since we’re on the subject,
I’ve got a little more information on the ridiculous novelty dog I’ve
been seeing tip-toeing around at the neighbors’ house all week.
Before he nearly amputated my right leg, we took Andy for a walk
yesterday evening. The neighbor
with the new laughable dog was in her front yard when we passed by, and
Toney struck up a conversation.
Apparently they're only keeping the hilarious Dr. Seuss hound for a
friend, and it doesn’t actually belong to them.
But check this out: she
said it’s a chow.
Now, I’m no expert on the subject, but I’ve never seen a chow
with long spindly legs, and a mane. I’m
highly skeptical. I think she’s
hiding something. It reminds me
of the Coneheads telling everyone they’re from France.
And another thing… there were delays in the conversation,
disconcerting delays. Toney would
ask the woman a question, and there’d be a gap of silence before she
answered, as if she were speaking via videophone from Iraq
.
What up wit’ dat? Do you think
our neighbors are from outer space? I
believe it’s a real possibility. I’ll
try to get a picture of this so-called “chow” in the coming days,
and maybe we can put this mystery to bed.
Unless, of course, I’m sucked into the mothership the very
moment I upload this. Holy shit
on a sugar cone!
-- We’re planning to spend
Sunday in Gettysburg
. We
need distractions, people. I’m
losing my flakin’ mind hanging around this house, just eating chicken
salad sandwiches and looking out the windows all the time like Mrs.
Kravitz. A day away will do us
all some good, I think.
And we’re also going to take my parents up on an offer they made us a
few weeks back. They have a big
camper in storage at Myrtle Beach
, and they said we could use it
whenever we want.
It’s one of those big babies, with the slide-outs and the whole nine
yards. And all we’ll have to do
is make reservations at the campground, and the people there will have
it all set-up and ready for us when we arrive.
How cool is that? No dragging the
rolling box o’ beds up and down the east coast.
No more emasculating camper-backing episodes.
No propane tanks working themselves free in Virginia
, and blowing up a Stuckey’s.
None of that, with all the benefits.
So, when Toney gets home this afternoon we’re gonna pick four or five
days on the calendar, and just do it. Because
we need distractions, people.
-- I received an email this
morning from a guy who wants to interview me for a radio show in
Switzerland
. He’s
interested in the Ads vs. Reality page
(of course), and says he read about it in an Italian newspaper.
My brain is starting to hurt…
-- Yahoo sent me this icon
yesterday, and urged me to place it on my website.
So, I’m doing as I was told.
-- Surf Reporter Matt sends along
these photos he snapped in the
parking lot of a school near his house. Man,
those auxiliary classrooms are getting smaller and smaller, aren’t
they?
-- Here’s
a handful of fresh new Smoking Fish sightings, including one that might
be pushing the limits a bit. But
thanks folks, I really appreciate it. And
keep ‘em coming!
-- Before I turn it over to Brad,
I have a quick question (or two) for ya….
For reasons I cannot figure out, I’m suddenly very interested
in reading Stephen King’s The
Stand.
The problem? It’s 1168
pages long.
I’ve never read anything that thick. I
did read a biography of Benjamin Franklin once that was something like
800 pages. I didn’t think I’d
ever get to the end of it, and the thing hung around my neck for weeks
and weeks, almost causing me to cry a few times.
But this Stand deal is that,
plus another book or so tacked-on!
Have you read it? Is it worth the
pain? And if you haven’t read
it, what’s the tallest book you’ve ever taken on?
Can you beat my 800 page Ben Franklin book which seemed to unfold
in real-time, and lasted roughly as long as the man actually lived? Tell
us about it, won’t you?
-- But not before you read the
latest from Brad, right here. Do that
first.
And I’ll see you guys tomorrow. permalink
April 24, 2007
-- Before I took the Secret to
school this morning, I put on a pot of good ol’ Eight O’clock bean
coffee, so it would be ready to go when I got home.
It’s part of the unemployment ritual I find myself settling
into.
Toney usually comes upstairs and prods my back fat around 6:45
,
and tells me to get up. I wallow
around in heavy fabrics for the next ten minutes or so, then finally
hoist myself off the dormancy platform. After
an urgent visit to the Smallest Room, I go downstairs and sit around for
a while, grunting reactions to whatever is being said at the time.
I usually have a cup or two of the coffee Toney brewed when she came
downstairs, hours earlier, and it’s pretty much like something from a
1970s Esso station by the time I get to it.
But it’s there, and it’s hot, so screw it.
When I can’t take anymore Danny
Phantom at Cheap Trick volume, I shuffle down to the bunker and
check my email and see if there’s anything exciting happening in the
world. Like, you know, celebrity
death.
Then I click over to my special “employment search” mailbox, hoping
for the best, and finding instead a computer-generated message from
CareerBuilder: “We have two new
hand-picked, specially-selected opportunities for you today, Jeff!
Nuclear physicist, and assistant key-person at Lids.”
I sigh with deep, deep sadness, take a shower, pop in my contacts, and
all that crapola. Then it’s
time to start the real pot of
coffee, the one that will fuel my Surf Report update that day.
I drive the Secret to school, and sometimes allow our dog Andy (Black
Lips Houlihan) to ride shotgun. As
we wait for the aides inside the building to finish their honeybuns,
wipe the glaze off their lips, and lick their hotdog fingers clean, we
concoct elaborate stories featuring the other people waiting in line
there. This morning High Neck was
hit with a powerful diarrhea ray, and comedy ensued.
Then I come home, pour myself a freshly-brewed cup of good ol’
Eight
O’clock
,
and we’re off and running.
But not this morning.
Today I pressed my Baseball Hall of Fame mug against the
dispenser button on the front of our fancy-ass coffeemaker, and hot
water came out. Nothing but clear
water, heated.
The shit?! I’d forgotten to put
the basket with the coffee in there. It
was still sitting on the counter, over by the toaster.
Grrr…
So, needless to say, my whole day’s shot.
-- Our neighbors have apparently
purchased some sort of ridiculous dog. I
keep seeing the thing walking around down there, and find myself doing
repeated double-takes.
I can’t begin to tell you the breed of this animal, since I’ve never
seen anything like it before in my entire life.
In fact, I’m not even 100% certain it is a dog. But I think it is.
I think it is, in fact, a dog.
It has tall skinny legs, like a greyhound, but there are rings of fur
around its body. It seems to walk
on tip-toes and has, I’m almost sure, a mane.
It’s a real high-stepper, and possesses a tail that looks like
a single Arby’s curly fry sticking out of its ass.
At least that’s the way I’m remembering it.
I could be slightly off…. But
believe me, it’s full-blown Dr. Seuss down there these days.
I’m fully expecting to be walking to my car soon, and seeing
that thing spinning plates on a stick.
Those folks obviously don’t believe in having just a regular ol’
mutt from the pound. Their
previous dog was some sort of designer deal as well, completely white
and as big as a Shetland pony. He
could walk up to our house and look in the front windows, literally.
He was almost exactly the same age as Andy, but contracted a
neurological disorder when he was four and began walking on a slant.
Eventually the owners were forced to put him down.
It was really sad, because that dog was big, dumb, and eager to
please. It seemed like he was
smiling all the time, and you couldn’t get mad even when he ripped
open every single one of your trash bags, and dragged the
contents halfway to Dunmore
.
Andy hasn’t had the opportunity to interact with the exotic new
pipe-cleaner dog yet, and it’ll be interesting to see how it goes.
I’m not sure he’ll know how to react to something so delicate
and hilarious. But, of course, I’ll
let you know.
-- I’m listening to the latest
CD by John
Wesley Harding. His voice
reminds me of Atlanta
.
Because, you see, I was a big fan of his when I lived there.
And, if I’m not mistaken, he lived there as well.
His early albums sound exactly
like Elvis Costello. But they’re also really good, so he got away with
it. He used to play around town
all the time, and I probably saw him five or six times.
He’s one of those guys who talk as much as they sing in
concert, and is completely hilarious.
I actually shot a game of pool with him once, back during the record
weasel years. It was upstairs at
the Variety Playhouse, and I think the Judybats had just finished
performing. He kicked my ass, all
up and down.
So anyway… I’d kinda lost
track of the guy over the years. Then
I read a gushing
review of his latest, and picked it up at half dotcom.
It’s really good, and his voice reminds me of Atlanta
,
in case I hadn’t mentioned it. Are there any voices that remind you of
a city? Or am I the weird one, again?
And that’s about all I can muster today, my friends.
The coffee situation has me all out of sorts….
I’ll be back tomorrow. permalink
April 23, 2007
-- Check this
out. Is that not excellent?
I submit that it is. But
you know what they say… Take a
blurry picture of a hamburger, and the world will beat a path to your
door. Then demand better
lighting.
-- The Ads
vs. Reality page is still kicking, in case you give a tiny
seahorse-shaped craplet. I
figured it would last for a couple of days, then start to fade.
But it’s not fading, it’s not fading at all.
In fact, it looks like today might be the biggest traffic-day so
far. Completely amazing.
And all I can say is I’m thankful I changed webhosts a couple of years
ago. I’m with Hostito
now and have been in constant contact with them during this whole crazy
ordeal. Yeah, the extra traffic
is costing me some money, but nothing like the old days.
Right now, as I type this, I’m a whopping 151 gigabytes over my
allowance for April. But the good
folks at Hostito have acted like partners, not enemies, and we came to a
fair agreement.
Jason Headley hooked me up
with those guys, and I owe him a huge debt of gratitude.
If you’re looking for a new host, do yourself a favor and
consider Hostito. I (and Jason)
couldn’t be more pleased.
I don’t want to embarrass anyone by mentioning my old host by name (Earthlink),
but I did the math a few minutes ago and I’d be looking at a charge of
$15,100(!!) if I was still a customer there.
I don’t think they’d hold me to that, but they’d probably
insist I pay half, or something. Anyone
who was around during the Neti
Pot Debacle knows it’s true.
And divorce proceedings would be underway in Scranton
,
the movers would be here, and I’d be sitting on a box in the basement
blubbering softly in the darkness....
So there you go; you’re up to date on all that crapola.
Let’s move on to the Regular Stuff, shall we?
-- The weekend was incredible,
weather-wise. Maybe it’s the
contrast with last weekend, when there was nearly a foot of snow on the
ground, but the past few days have seemed like paradise itself.
The sun is shining here, the temperatures are reaching the high 70s
every day, and the bugs aren’t awake yet.
Perfect!
Because of this, we spent a lot of time outside on Saturday and Sunday.
I think we visited every park within a 25-mile radius of our
house, and logged many miles of walking and sun-soakin’.
We
even fired up the grill on Saturday, popped open a few Magic
Hat #9s, and had ourselves a full-on summer-style cookout.
It was great. I hope it was the
same in your neck of the woods.
-- Not to turn a positive into a
negative here (ahem), but why are state parks such trash magnets?
Can anyone explain this to me? Like
I said, we went to several parks over the weekend, and the state
park alone was crawling with white trash.
The whole time we were there, I was humming this
song without even realizing it.
We walked beside the lake, and I think there were people actually
fishing for food there. They didn’t
look like they were out there for the sport of it, or for leisure, I
think they were making arrangements for supper.
Most of the guys were shirtless and heavily-scarred, and the women were
tattooed, pushing their tube-tops to the very limit, and hollering at
their little buzzcut hicklets with terrifying cigarette and bourbon
voices.
I saw what I presume to be a man fishing near the pier, and he looked
like a human embryo in a NAPA
cap.
Remember the “baby” in Eraserhead?
It was something along those lines.
I wondered how he’d ever reel in a fish, if he actually caught
one. But something tells me that
embryonic man-husk is shockingly strong, and could probably kick my ass.
As we were walking back to our car we encountered a morbidly obese woman
with a cig dancing on her lips, having a shouted conversation with a
chinless man down by the lake. Always
with the shouting…. She
hollered that Bobby was getting a timeout in the truck, because he’d
gone “over the line.”
I told Toney their “line” was undoubtedly located somewhere other
than our line.
Wonder what Bobby had done, anyway?
Burned down a church? I
just don’t know.
Here are some pics I snapped at the
same park, a few years ago.
The other parks were far less colorful. However,
we did see a deaf couple arguing, and that’s a new one on me.
Man, they were going to town with their signing.
Both were stabbing at the air, and getting all violent with it.
At one point the woman let loose with one of those big swooping
signs where the pinkie is extended, and I thought the man’s head would
surely explode. He didn’t much
care for the swooping.
What did you guys do this weekend? Anything
exciting? Tell us about it, won’t
you?
And I’ll be back tomorrow. permalink
April 20, 2007
-- I went for a long walk
yesterday afternoon. I needed to
clear my head and get away from this babyshit-green subterranean bunker
for a while. The
walls are closing in on me, man. So
I put on some sneakers and a jacket, and went wandering like an escapee
from an Alzheimer’s camp.
I thought about taking Andy with me, since all dogs live for that sort
of thing. But he’s a huge pain
in the ass, both east and west
of the Great Divide, and I didn’t need it.
So Andy stayed home. Poor
Andy.
For reasons unknown, I’m fairly stressed about my job situation right
now. I wasn’t stressed a few
days ago, but I am now. And I don’t
know why.
I read in a book, or maybe it was mentioned in Allentown
,
that many people experience an emotional crisis around the two-month
anniversary of losing their job. In
fact, a significant percentage of folks temporarily give up their
employment search at that point; they decide it’s hopeless, and just
say screw it. Or so I’ve heard.
Crisis is a bit melodramatic
in my case, but something is definitely happening – and it’s been
almost exactly two months. I don’t
know about you, but I don’t take kindly to self-help books correctly
predicting my emotions.
I thought if I burned myself down to a smoldering nub it might relieve
some of the tension. So I set out
for the longest of walks. I
wanted to be exhausted when I returned, and maybe have a few blisters to
bitch about as well.
So I hoofed it all over town, must’ve walked miles. It was a beautiful
day: the sun was shining, the snow was melting, the birds were talking
amongst themselves… And I
answered interview questions the whole time.
It wasn’t something I’d planned, of course.
I even tried to change the subject in my brain a few times.
But it just wasn’t going to happen. For the entire two hours a
man (sometimes a woman) inside my head asked questions, and I answered
them in full interview mode – always mindful that I’m trying to sell
myself.
And when I got home I was exhausted alright.
Oh, I was exhausted real good. I
did a free-fall into a couch, and promptly fell asleep.
Yeah, the walk was a good idea, I guess.
But it’s been my experience that beer works better.
-- I listened to George
Noory again last night. I
think I’m becoming mildly obsessed. His
guest was an “expert” on secret government facilities, like Area
51.
Apparently there’s a massive
underground complex right here in Pennsylvania
, called Site R, where guards are
instructed to “shoot to kill” if any unauthorized person comes near
it. Here’s
some info on it.
Yes, it’s all very interesting. But
do you ever get the feeling every woman who calls into that show is
morbidly obese? It might just be
my imagination, but sometimes I think I can actually hear fat pressing
up against their voiceboxes. And
the men, I believe, are all skinny, middle-aged, and balding, each with
a ham radio license and all manner of antennae bolted to their roofs.
Or is that just me?
In any case, I’d like to make a standing offer.
If anyone can capture an image of the Smoking
Fish inside Area 51, I’ll send you a free t-shirt.
Same goes for a pic of J.D. Salinger holding our logo, or a shot
of it on the moon, or imbedded in bin Laden’s beard.
What other Ultimate Fish Shots can you come up with?
There’s gotta be a million of them.
Help me out with that one, folks.
-- And speaking of radio shows, a
few nights ago I was listening to an old Jean
Shepherd program from 1961. He
was talking about hipsters, and how they’re prone to rejecting and
mocking the culture of their own country, and embracing and elevating
the cultures of other countries.
He told a story about visiting a friend in Rome
, and the guy was eager to take him
to the hippest place in town. He
kept going on and on about it, saying it was the coolest, most
cutting-edge joint in all of Italy
.
So they went there, and it turned out to be a fake Brooklyn hamburger
stand. There were guys behind the
counter wearing white t-shirts with the sleeves rolled up, and trying to
talk with a New York
accent, and the whole nine yards.
The place was completely packed with Cool People.
And they were serving, he said, the worst
hamburgers he’d ever tasted.
It's amazing how the douches of 1961 are
almost exactly like the douches of 2007...
Of course Shepherd’s description of all this is completely hilarious.
If you ever get a chance to listen to him, you should do it.
I bought a collection of 700+ shows (spanning the late '50s to the late
'70s) in mp3 format off eBay, for around fifteen bucks.
And I’m here to tell ya, it was money well-spent.
-- I wandered into a Big Lots
store a few days ago. I don’t
like those places, and generally try to steer clear.
But I needed batteries, and they always have ‘em cheap.
I do enjoy browsing the strange shit they sell there, I guess I should
admit that. Especially the food.
You’ll see something at a distance which looks
like Pringle’s potato chips. But
when you get closer you find the color of the can is slightly off, and
it’s actually called Bringle’s. Or
whatever.
I passed through the toy department the other day, and I’m almost
certain I saw a big canister of Nixon Logs.
But, of course, I was in a hurry and could be mistaken.
I bought eight AA alkaline batteries there, for about three dollars.
And some kind of freaky candy that tasted like meat.
I guess I don't dislike Big Lots, after all? What was I thinking??
-- Check it out.
They’re talking about us over at Metafilter.
Smile and wave, everyone! And here's
a snippet of Surf Reporter Barbra, aka CitizenX, calling into the
national Computer America radio show last night, and spreading the good
word. Very cool.
And I think that’s enough for one day.
I have more, but it’s feeding time.
...Hey, a man needs to eat. You
guys have yourselves a great weekend.
I’ll see ya on Monday. permalink
April 19, 2007
-- I missed the garbage truck this morning. Thursday is Trash Day here,
and I usually drag our cans to the curb after I take the youngest Secret
to school. Since it’s usually
not collected until the afternoon, this is a system that’s worked well
for me.
Some of the neighbors put out their drums of nastiness the previous
night, but animals get into it. I
told you about the time I looked out our front window and saw a massive
white dog strutting up the middle of the street with a full-on
Thanksgiving turkey carcass in his mouth.
I can’t have that.
It’s often windy here as well, and shit starts flying around.
I was once nearly decapitated by a pizza box (I had to bust out
with some ancient Kung Fu techniques to get out of the way of it), and
several times I’ve been driving and an airborne Tide bottle, or
whatever, comes sailing through the air and crashes violently into my
quarter panel.
So I’ve developed a Trash Day routine, in an attempt to avoid such
things. And it’s been highly
successful, until today.
This morning I was sitting in the living room talking to Toney, and
having my second cup of good ol’
Eight
O’Clock
bean
coffee, when I felt a low rumble in my sternum, and heard loud
Scranton-talk off in the distance. The
crap??
Then there it was, the maggot-masher -- at
6:45
am
.
I watched helplessly as a guy dropped off the side of the truck
and emptied our neighbors’ trash. I
sat paralyzed, and saw the same man lift a can high above his head like
King Kong, and hurl it into
the middle of our neighbor’s driveway.
(I knew they did that!) Much
laughter ensued, the rumbling started up again, and they were gone.
And now we’re going to have to hang onto our garbage for another week.
By next Thursday our garage will smell like an open grave, and
there will be trash bags stacked up with various sauces and gravies
pressed against the insides, wanting desperately to come out and play.
Grrrr…
But, at least it’s not as bad as it was in California
.
Out there we had one big can on wheels (known as a wheely bin),
and that’s what you had to work with. They’d
only take what could fit inside that thing, with the lid completely
closed. If the lid was lifted a
bit, they’d leave your crap sitting there.
There was also a weight limit, 75 pounds I think, and their trucks were
apparently equipped with a scale of some sort.
If you happened to have 76 pounds of garbage that week, well, you’re
out of luck, sucker.
California: better living through regulation.
Those
assholes were on high-alert for reasons not
to pick up your trash. I was in a
constant state of aggravation because of it.
They had little pre-printed explanations that they’d stick to
the lid of your can, telling how you’d violated the intricate garbage
code that week.
I’d see the bright green card as I pulled into the driveway
after work, and that was that. Another
evening ruined.
Because of all this, a Garbage Underground emerged.
Various neighbors began helping each other out, on the sly.
No doubt it was against the rules, but if someone had been out of
town for a few days, or whatever, and found themselves with extra room
in their bin, they’d invite others to fill it.
So we spread it around, and utilized every available square inch
of garbage space.
It takes a village.
When I was in grade school a teacher asked us what we wanted to be when
we grew up. Being a smart-assed
little prick, even then, I answered, “garbage man.”
This made the teacher mad, and she called my mother at work.
My mother was always getting called at work, because of something I’d
said or done. But this time she
flew off the handle. “It was a
joke!” she hollered into the telephone.
“Aren’t you familiar with the concept of jokes??”
She still talks about that one, as well as the time I smeared Elmer’s
Glue all over a toilet seat. Those
are two that she found funny. Other
such calls? Not so much.
Yeah, I was making a joke. But
Toney knows a woman whose husband travels to Staten Island
,
NY
everyday,
where he’s employed as a trash collector.
And his salary is reportedly $80,000!
That’s one hell of a commute, but shit… I might have to give
the man a call.
My great fear, though? The first
thing out of his mouth would be, “Do you have a four-year college
degree?”
Anyway, if this update doesn’t prove that I can go on and on about
almost any subject, I don’t know what will.
I’m gonna turn it over to Metten
now, and go fix myself a big ol’ chicken salad samlich.
See ya tomorrow. permalink
April 18, 2007
-- Our little Ads
vs. Reality page has officially joined the ranks of the gargoyle,
Mike Piazza, and the guys and gals of Deadwood.
Unbelievable traffic. In
fact, there’s been so much activity it makes me nervous.
Twice yesterday the entire site went down, and I had to call my
webhost and plead for mercy.
Today is starting out just like yesterday, and I’m kinda wishing it
would slow down a bit. Sure, I’m
happy so many people are interested in what we do here (these
folks, for instance), but can’t we spread it out a little?
Jesus J. McChrist.
I’m never satisfied, am I?
-- I haven’t written about
this, because I feel like I’ll jinx myself, but I had a second
interview last week with a company I’d love to work for.
That happened on Wednesday, and I haven’t heard a word from
them since.
I know it’s only been a week, but it’s making me crazy.
Crazy, I tell you! As one
of our great philosophers, Tom Petty, once said, the waiting is the
hardest part.
There are lots of exciting things happening on the website/writing
front, but I’d feel like a million pounds had been lifted off my
shoulders if I could land a new job so early in the process.
I don’t want to go into all the details, but the current situation has
cast a gloom over the House of Kay. Toney
and I don’t do uncertainty very well, it’s becoming clear, and are
both craving a return to normalcy.
So, since not writing about it
didn’t seem to help, maybe writing about it will?
I’ll let you know how that goes.
-- And speaking of job interviews…
That gives me an excuse to link to this
again, the best Dilbert ever. Man,
that is Nostrils, personified.
-- My Netflix queue has fallen
into disrepair, my friends. I
have no passion for it anymore, and everything’s gone to hell.
There are weeds in the yard, a rusted-out washing machine 'neath
the oak tree, and a muddy tractor tire on the front porch.
I hate to admit it, but I’ve become a flixbilly.
Oh, I still enjoy watching the discs, that hasn’t changed.
But I no longer move things up and down my queue, or add new
releases, or any of the maintenance necessary for a full and rewarding
Netflix experience.
Also,
I’m finding I prefer old TV shows to movies these days.
My mind is constantly racing and besodden with worry, and it’s
hard to focus for two hours straight. So
I’m clinging to Homicide, Veronica Mars,
and 24.
They’re just what the doctor ordered, it seems.
I’ve had The Good Shepherd
here for several days, and don’t have even the tiniest of desires to
watch it. It’s almost three(!)
hours long, and I just can’t see that happening.
I think I’m going to send it back this afternoon, unwatched.
Like I said, flixbilly.
-- Jason
Headley sends along this
glistening jewel of video brilliance. It’s
purportedly taken from an Atlanta
public
access TV show, and you owe it to yourself to watch it.
Just about as good as it gets….
-- Remember those pills they used
to give us in school that made the filth on our teeth turn red?
Wonder if they still do that? I
have a feeling it was outlawed years ago, because of concerns about
self-esteem, etc.
Indeed, there was a girl at our school, Cathy S., who looked like she
was wearing a boxer’s mouth guard after chewing up one of those
things. Just solid red, all the
way around. I bet that didn’t
exactly make her day.
But I think they should bring back the Filth Illuminating Tablets, don’t
you? It’s was a simpler time
when authority figures forced us to turn bad hygiene into whimsical
novelty colors. Ya know?
Hell, I think they should take it one step farther and make every kid
put on a funk suit. They could
slip it on over their regular clothes, and the thing would change colors
in places where it doesn’t smell
quite right.
I can hear it now: “Here comes
Sister Blue Crack!” or “Everyone make way for Johnny Red Pits!!”
I think that would be excellent.
-- I don’t really have a
question for you today, unless you’d like to suggest some other TV
shows for me to watch through Netflix. I’m
not interested in sitcoms right now, just crime stuff, mostly.
I’m very intrigued by The
Wire, and might go that route next. Any
other suggestions?
I’m gonna turn it over to Brad now, and call it a day.
His latest can be found right here.
Hopefully the site will stay up long enough for you to read it.
See ya tomorrow. permalink
April 17, 20 |
The
State April
2007
