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June 30, 2005
-- Several weeks ago, back at the
beginning of May I believe, I mailed my friend Brad a CD. It was the
Rhino Records Paul Westerberg anthology, Besterberg,
which I was able to procure through my vast network of liars and
backstabbers. And the thing never arrived. It never got to Brad, and it
wasn't returned to me either; it simply disappeared. I handed it to a
mail clerk in Olyphant, PA, paid him the required postage, and would've
gotten roughly the same results if I'd tossed the thing into a dumpster
behind Denny's.
As surprising as it may seem, I've never had this happen to me before.
And I've used the postal service in my life. Beginning with my
geekish teenage baseball card mania back in the day, all the way through
today's half dotcom/eBay sickness... I'm constantly receiving packages
in the mail. And I've never had a single problem.
Of course I've heard all the stock jokes about the poor service the post
office provides, about how they use the packages marked fragile to throw
up underneath the wheels of their trucks when they're stuck in mud, or
whatever. But I always considered it a myth perpetrated by people
dealing in stale humor. Still do, in fact. I think it's one of those
things that people believe, because it seems that everyone else believes
it.
I'd sure like to know what happened to that Westerberg CD, though.
Wonder where it is, right this minute? Was it delivered to the wrong
address, and the person just kept it? Is some selfish shitbag walking
around humming "Dyslexic Heart" today, because of his selfish
shitbaggery? Did it get shredded by a big sorting machine somewhere, and
will eventually show up in Brad's PO Box, a pile of mutilated plastic
and paper inside a sack? It's something that will nag at me forever, I
fear. I need closure!
But I'll give 'em a pass this time, based on the decades of satisfactory
service I've received. I'm not yet prepared to launch into any
high-grade bitching about it. I mean, I work in the distribution game
myself, and know better than most how things can sometimes get fucked-up.
(Sorry to use such an insider term... it's just something we say, in the
industry, describing a situation when unforeseen problems occur.) So
I'll just chalk it up as an aberration, and try to move on.
Before I do, though... I'd like to take
this opportunity to tell you about a strange event, from a previous
life, when I received a message from God (or whatever) via the US Postal
Service. Hey, I'm not kidding...
When I was but an ugly youngster, back in the Dunbar days, I became
obsessed with the National Lampoon, and that sort of thing. I daydreamed
about someday writing for the magazine, and maybe even working on some
cool-ass movie like Animal House. At some point I made the grand
decision that I was going to be a comedy writer. That was what I was
gonna do with my life. Next question?
I even told somebody this during a job interview once, and he busted out
laughing. Right to my face. Not exactly what I had in mind when I said I
wanted to make people laugh.
But I started writing jokes and stuff anyway (I'd show that prick!), and
sending them off to Johnny Carson and David Letterman, and to the
Lampoon itself. Apparently I thought the concept of starting at the
bottom and working your way up was for suckers. I even sent a large
packet of fat jokes to Phyllis Diller, which I just knew she'd
love. One I can still remember: She was so fat, when she changed clothes
she had to pull the blinds down in three rooms!
No reply.
A big-shot at the National Lampoon, named Matty
Simmons, did send a hand-written note once, encouraging me to keep
at it. I thought that was pretty cool, and hung it over my desk in my
room. But I never sold anything, and after a year or so began feeling a
bit discouraged. I started wondering if I should maybe just enroll in an
air conditioning/refrigeration school, and say the hell with it? Maybe
it was finally time to grow up?
Thankfully, it never came to that.
During this period I was also obsessed with underground music, and punk
and new wave, and whatever else you might call it. The local shops
weren't quite cool enough for me, and I'd sometimes go on record-buying
road trips to Columbus. Ohio State was/is there, and they had some
freakin' great record stores. So I'd save up my money, and hit the road.
God, it was like a trip to Disneyland for me. I'd return home with
stacks of the coolest shit you could ever imagine.
I was telling a guy at a record store in Charleston about one of my
planned music-procurement expeditions (leaving out the part about the
local shops being kind of lame), and he asked if I could pick him up a
copy of something called The Offense newsletter while I was
there. The hell? Never heard of it. But I told him I would, acting as if
I were hip to his request.
The Offense turned out to be something I later learned was called
a "zine," and was dedicated to the bands who recorded for the
British record label 4AD. It was literally ten or twelve Xeroxed pages,
typed on some dirty old typewriter and stapled down the left side. What
the heck? I bought two copies and took them home. I wanted to see what
all the hubbub was about.
And I quickly realized that it was written and edited... by just some
guy. He was no professional journalist or anything, he was just somebody
who was full of passion and energy about the subject. It was like a
swift kick to the luggage. Never had it crossed my mind that something
like this was possible. Do It Yourself? It was as if the sky opened up
and a big lightning bolt blasted me awake. I was fired up, and would do
it too. I'd start my own humor magazine, goddammit, and people in
Columbus would drive down here to buy it!
Then, predictably, I started losing my nerve and it all began to fade. I
mean, what did I know about publishing a magazine? I was just some
shit-kicker in Dunbar, WV, after all. I'd surely make a fool of myself.
Self-doubt started to eclipse the enthusiasm I'd felt earlier, and I put
the project on the back-burner. Meaning, of course, that my inner-pussy
was winning, and this so-called humor magazine would never see the light
of day.
And then God (or whatever) sent me a sign, through the United States
Postal Service. A copy of Rolling Stone arrived in the mail, and there
was a big article in it about the "new underground press." It
was all about the growing popularity of zines, and how people all over
the world were just doing it themselves. I couldn't believe it. I read
the article over and over, the fever gaining steam again. And I
eventually launched my own zine, which I dubbed The West Virginia Surf
Report.
The weird part? The issue of Rolling Stone that arrived that day was
inexplicably seven or eight months old. I'd already received it
once, back when it came out, but hadn't noticed or absorbed the article
the first time around. Then it showed up again, for reasons I cannot
explain. Spooky, huh?
That was in the mid-80s, and I'm still messing around with this stuff.
The zine eventually morphed into this website, of course, and it's all
kept me from going insane. There was a period during the Atlanta years
when I gave it all up and, I'm not joking, I almost lost my goddamn
mind. Apparently I've got to have some kind of creative outlet (hope) to
get me through the day, and this crapola somehow does the trick.
Obviously, in the grand scheme of things, TheWVSR is but a tiny fleck of
fly shit on the dashboard of life. But it's been mighty important to me.
So, that's my mail story. I'll turn it over to Metten
now, and wish you folks a fine, fine Thursday.
See ya tomorrow.
June 29, 2005
-- It looks like the t-shirts will be done late next week. They'll
be dark blue (I don't like the term navy blue for some reason...
it's feels like old lady talk) with white lettering. Reading between the
lines of yesterday's email from my supplier, though, makes me believe it
might actually be the following week before they're in my trembling
sausage fingers. But that's fine. I told her from the beginning that she
could just work us in whenever she finds the time. I vowed that I wasn't
going to be a pushy bastard about it, and I've really tried not to be.
Stressing unnecessarily over stuff like that has already snipped weeks
and weeks off the back-end of my life, and I'm trying to turn over a new
leaf. I was kind of a pain in the ass about the artwork, but
we're past all that now and everything has finally been approved. So,
barring any natural disasters or people being run over by trucks or
whatnot, we should be back in the Surf Report t-shirt business very
soon. And I ordered three times the number I did the first time
'round (in four different sizes!), so you folks better buy 'em or I
could very easily end up in divorce court. Stay tuned.
-- We're leaving for Cooperstown on Saturday morning, and won't be
returning until Tuesday. (So, no updates next week until Wednesday.) The
weather, as improbable as it may seem, is supposed to be perfect. This
has been one hell of a summer already, with high temperatures and
Brazil-like humidity, but the professional guessers, I mean
meteorologists, say we're gonna get a break -- exactly on the days we'll
be camping. How often does that happen? Almost never, right? But they
say the high temperature on Saturday and Sunday will only be about 74 in
Cooperstown. Ya gotta love it. I don't want to set myself up for
disappointment again, but I have a good feeling about this trip. I
believe we're going to have a good time. The Secrets are going to get a
crash-course in baseball history, and I'm going to walk around acting
like Nostrils Doubleday. At this point I don't believe my kids could
even pick Joe DiMaggio out of a lineup, and that makes me sad.
The older one even told me once that baseball is boring(!?). And that
cut me. Deep. But it's all about to change, starting this weekend with
our first family pilgrimage to the holy land.
-- Isn't it great that I'm no longer ranting every day about the Neti
Pot video, and yet another $600 bill received from Earthlink? I simply
couldn't be happier with our new "hosting partner." They've
been nearly flawless so far. I don't even think about it anymore, and
that's the way it's supposed to be. Y'know? A person shouldn't be
walking around all the time obsessing about their webhost. If they are,
something is wrong -- either with the service, or the person. But now
it's not even a concern. I'm free! So, a tip of my tiny Duke
cap to my friends at Hostito,
and also to Jason Headley for
suggesting them to me. Entire clusters of days now go by without
me wanting to gut-punch a stranger. And that, my friends, is progress.
-- Somebody sent this
to me yesterday and it made me laugh. So I thought I'd share. It's
funny, because it's true.
-- I promised to tell you about my close-call on Friday, when my
two-decades long (and counting!) streak of never crapping at work almost
came to an end. But I now realize that there's not much to tell, really.
It was just a case of my tried-and-true suppression techniques suddenly
not working, and me white-knuckling it at my desk all afternoon. Usually
it's not a problem. I've become a master of my own intestines; I rule
them, they don't rule me. But on Friday I had a revolt on my hands, and
it took a little extra effort to keep things under control. Yeah, not
much work got done, and I sat at my desk staring straight ahead, wiping
sweat off my forehead and experiencing mild hallucinations. But I made
it. I mean, that goes without saying, right? And that's all there is to
it. Sure, I nearly ripped the screen door off its hinges when I got
home, trying to get inside. And it turned out to be a twi-night
doubleheader... But the streak is alive!
-- And finally, I need your help with something. Toney and I were
talking, on our drive back from Philadelphia on Sunday, about things
that people do only on television, never in real life. We didn't devote
much brain power to it (we're easily distracted), and only came up with
two: renewing marriage vows and hanging spoons off noses. Both happen
all the time on TV, but I don't know anyone in real life who has ever
actually done either. In fact, that spoon thing has always confused me.
What is that all about?? And how is it done? I'm sure you folks can come
up with lots more, so help me out here.
-- Now I'm gonna turn it over to our good friend Buck,
who's already getting ready for the holiday, and wish y'all a great
Wednesday.
See ya tomorrow.
June 28, 2005
-- So, somebody said we should go to
the pool, and I began the process of peeling myself off the patio chair,
attempting to free my vulcanized ass and upper thighs from the heated
vinyl, without bringing too much attention upon myself. I prayed that
when I stood up there wouldn't be two big sweat circles on the back of
my shorts, or even worse: a big wet crack-stain straight down Broadway.
But somehow everything was OK, and we all hopped in a gold SUV. I don't
mean it was gold in color, I'm fairly certain it was actually constructed
of gold. I thought this pool was right next door? Huh. Apparently I'd
misunderstood. Or, more likely, hadn't really bothered to listen that
closely.
Once we were all safely inside, we rolled down the driveway, then a
hundred yards or so down the street, and parked. (I'm not even sure she
put it into drive.) "We're here!" Toney's cousin announced.
And man, was it great to get out of that car and stretch my legs!
The people who own the pool were in Florida, and had reportedly offered
it up for use during the big "graduation" celebration. He's a
lawyer, we were told, and they had quite the set-up. It looked like a
martini bar out there. There's a big kidney-shaped pool surrounded by
lots of fancy-pants patio furniture, a full bar, etc. Very nice indeed.
The Secrets immediately jumped into the pool, and Toney and I free-fell
into chairs, beneath one of the huge umbrellas. Ahhh... sweet shade. It
probably drove the temperature down to a brisk 92 or 93.
The "graduate" was already there with a hooligan buddy, and
also his younger sister and a friend. The boys each had one of those
fifty-pound Super Soaker water cannons, or whatever, and were squirting
the girls repeatedly, and squarely in the face when possible. The girls
were squealing that high-pitched ten year old girl squeal that makes you
feel like a screwdriver is being driven right through your temple. The
two boys were in full show-off mode and were running around and putting
on a big performance for everyone. I wondered if I could casually stick
my foot out and trip one of them, without being too obvious about it.
And that's what we did for the next
couple of hours. Somebody offered me a Mike's Hard Lemonade, whatever in
god's name that is, and I declined. I'm not a big fan of the novelty
malt beverage, plus alcohol combined with the heat... I'd be asleep
within minutes. So I sat there and watched six kids swim, and drank
bottled water. Paaarty!
Eventually other people started showing up, including a family with two
sulky teenage girls. One sat down in the chaise lounge beside me,
promptly kicked off her shoes, and pulled an iPod out of her purse and
plugged in the earbuds. She didn't say a word to anyone, and was acting
put-out and simply exasperated by it all. She was wearing jeans and
socks in that heat(!?), and maintained a don't-fuck-with-me expression
the whole time. I don't mind admitting that I was a little scared of
her.
The other girl jumped into the pool and was promptly squirted with high
pressure water right in the face, and spent the next fifteen minutes
cursing under her breath and trying to adjust her contacts.
And as the crowd grew, so did the "performance." The two boys
with the big water guns were in a frenzy, blasting everyone and pissing
a lot of people off. At one point The Graduate actually shot his elderly
grandmother full in the face, and sent her sunglasses flying. Her head
flew back like the Zapruder film, and I simply couldn't believe my eyes.
His parents started yelling at him, but they might as well have been
talking to the container of Helluva Good dip on the patio table.
He also shot his dad in the face, causing him to lose his contact
lens. Man, that kid was ripe for an ass-kicking, but he was getting away
with it. Over and over again. Dad was angry, but nothing like I
would've been. God, I probably would've seen a white flash, and woke up
a couple of hours later in a jail cell wondering what I'd done.
Finally everybody was asked to return to the house for dinner. The two
performers just dropped their cannons and left, without helping to clean
up. And the rest of the attendees walked around picking up empty water
bottles and pool toys and whatnot, many holding a hand over one sore
eye. I asked Toney if it was possible to retrieve the $25 we'd put
inside that Congratulations card.
The rest of the afternoon was spent silently baking in the sun, and
taking it all in. It was like My Big Fat Italian Wedding. Everybody was
talking at the same time, waving their hands around and getting all
worked up about stuff. It was great. I thought this kind of thing only
happened in movies, yet here I was sitting right in the middle of it.
Just wild sustained ethnic chaos, with hotdogs and cole slaw.
Of course I secretly assigned a lot of nicknames. That's one of my
things: secret nicknames. Frankie Valli was there, Big Pussy, Janice
from Friends... And the star of Welcome to the Dollhouse,
as well as a girl who reminded me of Dora the Explorer. Every time she
walked past I whispered to Toney, "Backpack backpack, backpack
backpack..." Yeah, a man needs a hobby.
And the conversations! All were extra-loud and overlapping. By simply
adjusting my ears and eyes, it felt like I was channel-surfing.
"Never go to Disney in summer! Only go in October... Well, maybe
priests could just stop molesting children? Wonder if anyone has thought
of that solution??... Oh god, French people are so rude, and what's the
deal with Orientals and their cameras? Always with the cameras!... I
never much cared for the Showboat Casino, it just doesn't smell right in
there. Know what I mean?..." On and on it went. Highly
entertaining.
At one point an older gentleman with a piece of corn stuck to his face
started screaming, "I've always liked Larry Bowa! You're the one
who doesn't like Larry Bowa! Don't even talk to me about Larry Bowa!!"
I mean SCREAMING. And the other guy hollered, "What are talking
about?? I got no problem with Larry Bowa! Why you think I don't like
Larry Bowa?? Why are you always going around accusing people of not
liking Larry Bowa??" Finally the first guy got so worked up the
piece of corn launched off his cheek and landed on the concrete beside a
woman's open-toed shoe.
And that's pretty much our Sunday. It was way too hot, and a little too
long, but not bad. A fairly average family gathering, I'd say. Just
different from what I'm used to. God knows I could make just as many
"observations" about a Kay family picnic. It just wouldn't be
anywhere near as loud or animated. And there would be a lot less talk
about Atlantic City, and more about... oh, I don't know...
carburetors?
So anyway, you're up to date on that deal.
Here's
something new (and good, of course) from Metten, and I'll get back to
the normal stuff tomorrow.
See ya then.
June 27, 2005
-- I feel like I've been beaten down.
We went to Toney's cousin's house yesterday, in Philadelphia, and ended
up spending hours and hours sitting around on various patios in the
blazing heat. At one point I think my core temperature became so
elevated that the top of my head was ready to split and open up like a
clam. This morning I'm completely drained and actually hurt, as
if I dug drainage ditches all weekend.
Of course I was dreading this cookout celebration, in honor of some kid
"graduating" to high school. The hell? Who celebrates that??
Not from high school, but to it. I'd never heard of such
ridiculousness. But whatever. Last time they invited us to their house
we made up some half-baked excuse, and I think we offended them. So, we
had to go.
Well, "had to go" is probably a little unfair. I don't have a
problem with them, and that's the truth. As far as Toney's family is
concerned, these folks are pretty normal. Then again... the Osbournes
are pretty normal compared to the rest of Toney's family. But my deep,
deep dread was nothing personal. I just don't much enjoy social events
where everyone's a stranger. And apparently this was going to be quite
the shindig, with a whole load of family and friends in attendance.
Every time I thought about it my stomach sank.
Toney and I had an extended conversation about what kind of gift to give
this kid, on his so-called special day. And it didn't go the way you
might think. She was the one who wanted to just hand him a card, and I
thought we should do more. See, you thought it would be the other way
around, didn't you? One of the major struggles throughout my adult life
has been trying to learn how to act like an adult, on the rare
occasions when such a thing is called-for. And it's been an uphill
battle, believe me. Many are the times when I've made serious errors in
judgment, and spent the next week or so slugging myself in the genitalia
over it. (Metaphorically speaking, of course.) Socially inept, I
believe, is not too harsh a description.
So I took $25 out of my own pocket, and stuck it in the card. I
wouldn't know this kid if he walked up to our front door, but my
instincts were telling me it was the right thing to do. And, Sweet
Jesus, am I glad we did it.
Toney's cousin told us to get there
around one, and for the kids to bring their swimming trunks. One of
their neighbors, she said, was out of town, and offered up the use of
their pool for the graduating-eighth-grade extravaganza. (Seriously, wtf??)
We arrived at 1:30 and were the first people there. The temperature was
roughly the same in Philly yesterday as it was on the surface of Venus,
and we were led straight through the big, cool house, out the back door,
and onto their new fancy-pants patio. It was nice, to be sure, but,
shit. Every pore on my body had swung wide open, just during the short
walk from the car, and was now pumping copious amounts of fluids. And
that's a whole lot of pores.
After forty-five minutes or so of stewing in my own natural juices,
somebody suggested we go to the pool. Nobody else had arrived at this
point, and I started to get a little confused. I had it pictured as a
bunch of rich bastards walking around in their pressed shorts with
belts, talking about summering at the Cape, or whatever, and eating
sophisticated finger foods. I'd been stressing about it all week, and
thought banjoes would surely start playing when we walked in. But we
were the only people there, and were swigging Cokes straight out of the
can in the blazing heat. It was nothing like my nightmares had
suggested.
So far, anyway. But that was before Frankie Valli arrived, and Dora the
Explorer, and Welcome to the Dollhouse, and Chandler's girlfriend
Janice...
And I hate to do this, but I'll have to tell you about all that
tomorrow. I couldn't get my sun-dried ass out of bed this morning, and
am all out of time here.
Sorry for the lameness, but it's the best I could manage under the
circumstances.
Oh, and I also need to tell you about my close-call on Friday, when I
was white-knuckling it all afternoon, and my twenty-plus year streak of
never crapping at work very nearly came to an end. But it'll all
have to wait...
See ya tomorrow.
June 24, 2005
-- Toney jumped ship on 24 after
the third episode. She said it was too violent and disturbing, and that
I was on my own with it. In fact, following the episode in which Bauer's
daughter and friend attempt to get away from their kidnappers, and the
friend is run over by a car and left for dead in the middle of the
street (bleeding from the eyes or whatever), my wife said she wasn't
even able to go straight to bed for fear of bad dreams. She went
upstairs instead and watched HGTV, hoping that an hour of "gay men
painting a room" might take the edge off.
I was kind of surprised by this. It was a really exciting show, I
thought, and wanted to do a cannonball into the next one right away. I
hadn't even considered the disturbing aspect of it; it had never even
crossed my mind. I guess it's safe to say that it didn't disturb me?
Thinking back, I can now see that it was pretty brutal. But,
during the show itself? Gimme more, goddammit! Gimme more!!
The next day we had a conversation about what scares us, and I've been
trying to unlock that mystery ever since. Obviously it differs from
person to person.
Of course, I've been scared plenty in my life. I mean, keep in mind who
you're dealing with here... Usually, though, it was because I felt like
I, or someone I cared about, was in danger. Like when I was working at a
grocery store and three guys in ski masks came in with guns, and made
all the cashiers lie face-down on the floor. That scared me. And
similarly, when some drunken shitsack came into the convenience store
where I was working, and began waving a handgun around. Pretty damn
scary. I wrote about that here,
if you're interested.
And I was really scared when my mother had brain surgery, and there were
complications afterward. Yeah, I didn't care for that one bit. And when
we were camping as kids and a tornado, or some such thing, rolled
through... I just knew we were all going to die. It was early afternoon
and dark as midnight outside. Everything was calm and quiet but you
could sense something terrible and strong brewing out over the ocean.
They practically had to put me in a straitjacket that day.
And when I was in third grade my cousin
and I begged my parents to let us sleep in our camper, which was parked
in the backyard on a concrete slab. We thought it would be an adventure,
and they finally agreed to it. My dad ran an extension cord across the
back lawn, and got us all set up. Everything was fine until it got late,
and we knew that my parents were probably asleep. That's when we started
hearing things, and was sure somebody was walking around outside.
We finally turned on a radio to take our minds off it. We knew we were
probably just freaking ourselves out, and running scared was simply out
of the question -- my Dad would never let us hear the end of it. So we
started searching for a good channel, spinning the dial back and forth,
and there were all kinds of bizarre sounds coming out of that thing.
Stations were broadcasting over top of each other... Strange voices were
fading in and out... There was an eerie whistling noise... It was sorta
like the Yankee
Pot Roast Foxtrot (or whatever) clip that I linked to a couple
of weeks ago. Really spooky.
And it didn't take long for the camper door to burst open, and for both
of us to tear ass across that backyard like the hounds of hell were
bearing down. We were completely terrified. We ended up spending the
night in sleeping bags in the living room, safe in front of the TV with
a big bowl of Cheese Doodles between us. My Dad didn't even mock us!
But these aren't really the kinds of things Toney and I were talking
about. I was wondering more about TV shows and movies and whatnot, designed
to scare. Which ones work, and which ones don't? And why?
Monsters never did it for me. Oh, they can be entertaining, to be sure,
but I never really found them too frightening. Even as a kid. I mean,
what are the chances of actually running across, in the normal course of
events, a man constructed entirely of flesh scraps, or a person who
looks like Michael Landon by day and a Welsh Terrier by night? I'm no
mathematician, but I'd say the odds are fairly low.
And gore doesn't do it either. I can watch a zombie gnaw on a
still-beating heart 'til the cows come home, or an escaped mental
patient dig through a person's intestines like he's looking for his car
keys, all day long. This is where Toney gets off the boat, but it
doesn't bother me for some reason. In fact, I often find it to be
hilarious.
The original Dawn of the Dead, I believe, is one of the funniest
movies ever made. It just cracks me up. I took a girlfriend to see it
once, and she practically had a nervous breakdown right there in the
theater, as I sat wiping away the tears of laughter.
But turn on Rosemary's Baby, and I'm checking the door locks and
doing sphincter-flexes. Creepy stuff like that, and The Omen,
give me the heebie-jeebies. When things look normal but are, in reality,
incredibly fucked-up… Yeah, that's when the laughter stops.
There's a scene in a David Lynch movie where Nicolas Cage and Laura Dern
are driving down a country road, and come upon a car wreck that just
happened. There's a woman walking around in the dark, and you think
she's OK. But then she starts talking nonsense, and it becomes clear
that she's all messed up inside and probably dying. Those are the kinds
of things that get to me.
I'll leave you now with three designed to scare moments that
jumped immediately to mind when I started thinking about all this. These
are the ones that REALLY worked on me, and you can make of them what you
will. All three nearly caused my brain to crack in half.
-- Go ahead and start laughing now, but when I was in grade school I saw
a really disturbing episode of Mannix, in which he'd been given
some kind of hallucinogenic drug. There were long bizarre scenes where
he stumbled around inside a mansion with all brands of insanity going on
around him. Bugs, snakes, people milling about with huge gaping sores…
That would've been enough for me, but then he found The Picture. It was
a photo of Mannix himself, and his eyes were closed as if he were lying
in a coffin. He stood studying this picture of himself – when suddenly
the eyes popped opened! I just about power-shit straight through my
flannel Hot Wheels pajamas, and had nightmares about it for days
afterward. My parents were forced to institute a Mannix ban, if you can
believe it, and the whole ordeal messed me up pretty good. Even today,
almost thirty-five years later, I get a little twinge of uneasiness in
my stomach when I think about it. …Yes, goddammit, Mannix.
-- When HBO first came to our area I think I was in Junior High. We all
thought it was just about the coolest thing in the world that people
were actually saying shit and fuck right on the TV, and we watched
pretty much everything they broadcast (much of it behind our parents'
backs, of course). Most movies we saw over and over again, like Car
Wash. God, I must've watched that ridiculousness fifteen times.
After a few beers, Bill and I can still recite whole scenes of dialogue
from that thing. But I'm getting off-track here... One movie from that
era was a low-budget horror film about a sorority house receiving
obscene calls from a heavy-breathing pervert. I guess it was originally
released under the name Black Christmas, but we knew it as Stranger
In The House. It was one of those deals where people start showing
up dead, and the cops tell everyone to stay inside with the windows and
doors locked. Then they trace one of the calls – and realize it came
from inside the house! For whatever reason, that scared the
living hell out of me. I think it was because I was accustomed to seeing
maniacs trying to get in; the thought of one already being in
screwed me up, and good. No other movie that I can think of terrified me
like that one. And I believe it was directed by the same guy who later
did Porky's, if you can believe it. Kind of embarrassing, but
true. I have an old VHS copy of it, and watched it not too long ago. It
doesn't seem all that scary now, but it's still a whole lot of fun. A
forgotten horror classic...
-- I was probably in my early 20's when I read Stephen King's Pet
Sematary, and I don't even really want to go into it. Simply put,
it's one scary-ass book. I had to use Toney's bedtime transition
technique while I was reading it, except I opted for Johnny Carson
instead of homosexuals with paint rollers. The movie (with Herman
Munster) kinda sucked, but the book is spooky. The part where he's
walking through the woods in the dark carrying his dead son -- on his
way to the freaky cemetery -- sticks out in my mind as especially
frightening. Talk about a feeling of impending doom! It may not be art,
but I have a feeling that that ugly mofo did everything he set out to do
in that book. I was afraid of the dark for an entire month.
So there you have it. I'm not smart enough to piece it all together and
make an analysis. I'll leave that to you folks. If you can figure out
what's wrong with me, please let me know. And I'd be interested in
knowing what scares you, as well. Use the handy-dandy comments link
below.
-- And I think that'll do it. Sorry about yesterday, but I started
constructing this towering pillar of crapola and realized it was gonna
take more time than I had. So I took a sick day. But don't worry, it was
approved by the Blogging Commission in Harrisburg, so it's all on the up
and up (whatever that means).
Apparently we're going to Toney's cousin's house near Philadelphia on
Sunday, for a cookout celebrating their son "graduating" to
high school. I guess people make a big deal out of such things? I had no
idea. But we're going to the party, it appears. I have no problem with
Toney's cousin, or her family, but this is reportedly going to be quite
the shindig, with lots of their friends in attendance. And they're all
rich as hell and live in a world I don't know.
I have visions of men standing around a patio wearing shorts with belts
(seriously, how can you trust a man wearing shorts and a belt?), talking
about their golf games and their stock options and the trouble they're
having with the gardener at their summer home on "the
Cape."
Then I'll roll in feeling like Cousin Eddie in Vacation... Oh,
man. Oughta be fun!
Of course I'll tell you all about it on Monday. See ya then.
June 22, 2005
-- I'm not sure what I was dreaming
about last night, but when I woke up this morning my ass was packed full
of fabric. Maybe I was involved in some kind of bicycle race or
something? Seems pretty unlikely, but that would certainly explain it.
As soon as I stepped down from the dormancy platform I sensed the
discomfort out back, and was forced to administer the two-finger crack
pluck. I believe I even had to double-dip to complete the task.
It was if I wasn't getting out of bed
at all, but jumping out of a car at an interstate rest area.
Everybody at rest areas pluck,
immediately upon exiting their vehicles. Pay attention next time and
you'll see that it's true. Sometimes when we're pulling the camper we
stop at these places and have a sandwich and maybe a nice Diet Coke with
Lemon, and I sit there and watch person after person get out of their
cars and promptly pluck their cracks. Some even lift one foot off the
ground, for extra leverage.
This is something that transcends age,
class, race, religion, and body type. At least that's what my research
(a work still in progress) has indicated so far. It appears that an ass
is an ass, and left to its own devices for an extended period, it'll gobble
up some cloth.
Stay tuned for further developments on
this exciting study...
-- A few days ago a close relative (notice the ambiguity?) told me about
a guy he knows whose gut grew so large that he was forced into emergency
surgery for radical reconstruction. He said that for years this guy's
belly was so huge "he could haul it around in a wheel barrow,"
but recently had begun seeing a change.
Apparently it had shifted to the side.
It wasn't centered anymore; he had a beer gut that did a hard left! This
concerned him, of course, and he went to see a doctor about it. The
doctor examined him and determined that a lining of some sort in there
had been stretched to its limit, and had finally ripped open. Now his
innards were just rolling around, all willy-nilly. So they rushed him
into surgery and installed a nylon net to hold his shit into
place, and to center up his massiveness again.
Have you ever heard of such a thing?
Holy crap. When it gets to the point where they have to introduce
goddamn industrial mesh to shore up your gut for you, a few salads
wouldn't hurt a thing. Or maybe a walk around the block or two. But he's
reportedly made no such lifestyle changes, and actually appears to be
larger than ever. "If he doesn't watch it," my source
commented, "he's going to blow out his net."
After I stopped laughing, I reflected
on this troubling story and couldn't help laughing a little more.
-- Buck's recent stories of hillbilly fun, many involving high
explosives, reminded me of a strange public service commercial they used
to show us in WV when I was a youngin'. After school each day everybody
(and I mean everybody) tuned into Mr. Cartoon, on Channel 3, and
took in a few Bugs Bunny cartoons, before catching our second wind and
bursting out the front door for another round of creative
troublemaking.
Mr. Cartoon was also the weatherman at the station (third from left here).
You could easily tell which mode he was in by the jacket he was wearing.
If it was a normal suit jacket, he was doing the weather. If it was red,
white, and blue striped, the transformation to Mr. Cartoon had been
made. He also sported Ray-Ban sunglasses when he was doing the kids show
(wacky!), and would remind us all to attend "the church or
synagogue of your choice" on Sunday. I don't think he did that when
he was talking about "frunnel" systems and whatnot.
Anyway, during the show everyday, they'd run a frightening public
service spot reminding kids to NEVER pick up a blasting cap. Apparently
this was a big problem, since they went to all the trouble of filming a
PSA about it. I never heard about anything specific, but I guess kids
were just exploding all over West Virginia? Their guts must've been
raining down all over the region?? Shit!
I always said to myself, what in the hell is a blasting cap?? What is
that, something used in mining? Would I even recognize one if I saw it?
Why do they just assume I know what they're talking about?? Did they go
over this in school on the day I was out? I'm doomed!!
Hell, I still don't know what they are. But they rammed it down our
throats, day after day, that if we ever found one not to pick it up.
Never pick it up! In the commercial a boy and girl didn't heed this
warning and something terrible happened to them. The reason I know this
is because there was the sound of an explosion, and the kids suddenly
changed from color to black & white. When they go black &
white... well, son, that's something I wouldn't wish on anyone.
Are exploding children still a problem down there? Does anyone know? I'd
like more information, if there is any.
-- And finally, since we're talking about news shows... here's
a short clip from Sweden worth watching. Notice how she blames it
on the chair? Some things are universal. Just like the crack plucking I
was speaking of earlier...
See ya tomorrow.
June 21, 2005
-- A few quick updates on previous
discussions...
I know a lot of you have been concerned about my lost ATM card
situation. I appreciate all the letters and prayers, I really do, but
the problem is now behind me. The new card arrived in yesterday's mail,
and has been activated and added to the starting lineup. Yeah, that's
great, but it took almost two weeks. Two weeks! Pretty damn casual about
it, aren't they? That whole time I walked around feeling like a man with
no thumbs. Everything just felt wrong. I'm afraid to use credit
cards too much (it's a long, sad story), so I've been buying gas with
cash, for god's sake, like it's 1978. It's a wonder they didn't give me
one of those 76 balls to put on my antennae, or a tiger tail to hang out
of my tank, with fill-up. And no online purchases... It's just sad. I
hope I can someday forget any of this ever happened.
And Netflix... I think I'm hooked. It's a lot of fun; it feels like I
have the keys to the freaking Blockbuster in my pocket. Only the
selection is much better, and there are no fat boys with unkempt facial
hair at my house pontificating about Lord of the Rings. I'm
constantly remembering a movie or a TV show I'd like to see, and adding
it to my queue. My list now has 137 titles on it, and continues to grow.
It's a good time. My only complaint: it takes two days for my discs to
reach me, and two more for my returned discs to reach them. So, for
instance, we watched Sideways over the weekend, and I mailed it
back on Monday. They won't receive it until Wednesday. They'll mail me
my next selection same-day, and it'll arrive here on Friday. I don't
like waiting that long. Monday to Friday seems like a looonng boat trip
across the ocean to me. So that's kind of irritating, but overall I'm
pleased. I think it'll quickly become one of those things I can't
imagine living without, like DVR and fudge.
I watched the big Phil Hendrie netcast on Friday night, with Yuengling
in-hand, as planned, and it was pretty interesting. He seemed to be
really keyed-up and was constantly moving and fidgeting about. Wonder if
that's normal, or because a camera was trained on him? Don't know. But
during the commercials he'd fling off his headphones and start screening
calls, like a man possessed. Lots of cussing too. "All these
callers are fucking boring, man! They're really fucking boring!!"
he kept saying. He was kinda maniacal, which isn't too surprising, now
that I think about it...
It was fun seeing how he does the show,
something I'd always wondered about. But I like hearing it on the radio
more. I like imagining his retarded sidekick Bud Dickman is right there
in the studio with him, and his boss "Darth Hall" really is
monitoring his show for FCC violations. Of course I know they aren't,
but it's easier to suspend belief and really get into it over the
airwaves. I had a nagging feeling that I was watching the great and
powerful Oz move levers behind a curtain Friday night, and I'm not sure
I liked it much. It was an interesting exercise, but the finished
product is what it's all about.
And not one of those half-dozen or so car dealers I spoke with during my
recent ill-conceived frenzy ever called my house. Can you believe it? I
mean, I'm glad, but it's just shocking to me. Most had my phone number,
and knew I had contracted the fever to buy a big ol' truck, but none
followed up on it. It's incredible. If I were ever foolish enough to
give my number to five or six car salesmen in Atlanta, I'd eventually
need to have it changed, or be forced to leave the state altogether. But
not here. These guys seem to have a different take on selling cars:
"Buy one, don't buy one, I don't give a fancy crap. ...Pass me a
cuppa two tree a dem beer nuts, will ya?" I've lived all over this
country, but no place like this one. Sweet Maria.
In our continuing effort to visit every chain restaurant in America, we
had dinner at a place called Damon's
Grill a few nights ago. And I must say... the shit was extra-good. I
had a prime rib sandwich that was epic in scale, and almost too much for
me. And that's saying something. I was actually struggling near
the end -- an almost unheard-of phenomenon. This place just opened here,
and was absolute pandemonium; it sounded like a goddamn rock concert
inside. I'm convinced that you'd have to be the world's worst
restaurateur not to make a go of it in this area. These folks will
flat-out support an eatery. They just keep building 'em, and people keep
on comin'. It's not like one is stealing away people from another.
They're ALL packed. Yet I hear folks bitching all the time about the
sluggish economy, and how northeastern PA is a "depressed"
area. Yeah, and I'm TV's Joe Mannix.
-- And this update kinda got away from me... I was going to write about
being scared today, but went off on these follow-up tangents. Oh well,
the scared will keep. I'm just gonna get out of the way now and let Buck
take it from here, because he's on a roll and I never stand in the way
of a man on a roll. Take
'er away, my friend.
See ya tomorrow.
June 20, 2005
-- Now we're talkin'. The high-heat and
mugginess that last week caused me to consider laying my head on a
fucking railroad track is now gone. At least for the time being. The
weather this past weekend couldn't have been better, and it felt like
the whole world was in a good mood. We logged some time on the deck,
engaged in outdoor activities, and everything. At night, during the
Scrote Hour, it was even a bit chilly and I had to get up and
close some of the windows. Now that's more like it. I just love the
Scrote Hour window closings. Ahhh... sweet relief.
-- On Saturday I finally mowed the lawn the way it's supposed to be
mowed. For the past two weeks I've been doing just enough to get by --
which means front yard only. When it feels like the Sudan outside I only
take care of the part that can be seen from the street. It's one of my
"rules." So the backyard was pretty high, and was waving in
the breeze like a field of wheat. Poppa Half-Shirt next door shot me a
dirty look and said (with his eyes), "It's about time, you lazy
hunka shit." But what do I care? It was, like, 68 outside. And how
could a person be angry when it's 68? I just gave him a big Howdy
Neighbor wave, and kept going.
On Sunday Toney and I pushed the box o' beds out of the garage, and did
a quick clean-up in preparation for our big Fourth of July Cooperstown
camping extravaganza. When we returned from the ill-fated Myrtle Beach
trip last month we just stuck that thing in the garage and walked away.
The sheets were still on the beds, there were towels and stuff crammed
in there, etc. But neither of us wanted to even look at that damn
camper, for weeks afterward. So we figured we'd better tend to it while
the weather is decent, and whip things into shape.
There must've been twenty pounds of sand inside. It was everywhere.
Toney kept sweeping and sweeping and sweeping, and probably reduced it
down to two or three pounds. I'd left my fancy-ass flip-flops/shower
shoes right inside the door, and they were completely encrusted with
South Carolina. I accidentally dropped one on the driveway and sand flew
out of the treads in every direction, leaving a big tan circle the size
of a manhole cover on the blacktop. Crazy.
But we took care of business, and it's
ready to go again. Hopefully we'll have better luck in Cooperstown in a
couple of weeks. 'Cause if we don't... If we see another return of Camp
Slop, our outdoorsman days may be over. If we find ourselves knee deep
in filth again, there might just be a bunch of La Quinta Inns in our
future. I hope that doesn't happen, but we'll see.
-- On Sunday afternoon the Secrets and I went fishing. Our poles were
inside the camper and when I saw them it gave me the idea. As usual,
though, I had to spend a half-hour or so on the deck getting our
equipment ready for action. One was missing a leader and hook, and
another had a reel that was all screwed up. It was just a big jumbled
mess of line, and I began hacking at it with my pocket knife. I think I
got a little carried away, though. When I did a test-cast into the back
yard about a hundred yards of line shot out, and it was attached to
nothing. The bobber, hook, and all that nylon landed in the neighbors'
yard. Woops.
But I finally got it together (despite all the hurtful laughter), and we
went to the lake at the State Park near our house. It was extremely
crowded, but we staked out a spot on the pier. A couple of teenage boys
were out there too, and a grade school-aged brother and sister team. I
don't like fishing so close to people, because I'm always convinced one
of us will get hooked and have an eyeball yanked straight out of our
skull. But what are you gonna do? It was almost shoulder-to-shoulder
around the lake.
I got bait on all of our hooks, and everybody's lines cast out and
everything, when a group of unusual women invaded our space. I
think they were old school Cajuns or something(!?). They were dressed in
brightly colored tribal wear of some sort, and I decided they were
speaking French. There must've been twenty of them! They came out on the
pier and freaking sat down. Right on the wooden planks. What in
the hot buttered hell?? All twenty were talking at the same time, in
some bizarre language that upon closer inspection I realized wasn't
French at all. Latin, perhaps? Who the hell knows? I told the Secrets to
be careful with their hooks, because we didn't want to make anyone mad.
I had visions of one of those bizarro women springing to her feet and
flinging a handful of voodoo dust in my face. And I don't like that.
But they finally moved on without incident, and we actually caught a few
fish. Nothing too exciting, but fish nonetheless. It was a good
time.
One of the teenagers started talking to us, just shooting the shit, and
I thought he might be semi-retarded. He had a strange way of talking,
and I had him on the short bus, window seat near the back. But the
oldest Secret thought he was Russian. There are a bunch of Russians at
his school, for some reason, and he knows a little bit about it. But I'm
not fully convinced... We had a fairly lengthy Russian-or-Retard debate
later in the day, and nothing was really resolved.
In any case, he was a nice kid and knew a hell of a lot more about
fishing than I do. He even helped me out when that stupid reel got
messed up again. He proceeded with the confidence of an expert, and had
our shit correct within seconds. But when we were leaving I saw him sniffing
a grub worm. So I just don't know. So many mixed signals...
Yes, there was quite an eclectic mix at the lake on Sunday. Shit. It was
like a David Lynch film.
-- And, believe it or not, I have lots more, and no time. Surprising,
huh?
I'll just leave you now with this
strange new Smoking Fish sighting. (Speaking of David Lynch.)
And a treat: a rare Monday update
from Buck! Enjoy.
See ya tomorrow.
June 17, 2005
As is becoming the tradition here, I'm
getting a really late start this morning and am being forced into a
quarter-ass effort (at this point I'm only aspiring to half-assery.)
But I'm just gonna quickly clean out the crumbs of my notebook, and hope
for the best. I apologize in advance.
-- The beer bear story coming out of my hometown of Dunbar, WV is
taking on a life of its own. In case you haven't read it, here
it is. And here's
a partial list of the news outlets that have carried the piece.
Including this
one in India(!). I can't claim to actually know these two guys,
but I know who they are. The older brother is more commonly known as Mad
Dog, and they've been around town all my life. "Either relocate
them or let me eat them." You simply gotta love it. I'm starting to
get a little homesick here...
-- Tonight Phil Hendrie is
going to stream live video of his entire show, and I will be there,
Yuengling in-hand.
I've been a big Hendrie fan since we lived in Southern California. One
night I was driving home from work, it was really late, and I stumbled
upon his show somehow. Just pure chaos. I remember sitting in the
parking lot of our apartment, not able to turn off the radio and go
inside. "What in hell is this??" I kept thinking. It sounded
like three people were talking at the same time, one guy was complaining
of a rash and kept scratching himself, another man was sobbing
uncontrollably... It was insane. I finally went in and tried to tell
Toney about it, but she just looked at me with concern.
After that I began seeking him out, and quickly realized that Phil
himself is both host and guest. The "stories" he covers are
ridiculous by design, and never fail to whip the callers (who are real)
into a hilarious frenzy. To the casual listener it all sounds like a
real radio talk show, but it's actually absurdist theater.
And Jesus J. McChrist is it funny! I remember driving on the 405 freeway
in LA, heading toward the airport, and laughing at something on the Phil
Hendrie Show to the point where I literally became lightheaded, and was
afraid I might crash. One of Toney's friends claims to have actually
pulled off the road and parked because of this. She said she was
laughing so hard she almost lost control of her vehicle.
I've always wondered how he did the
show, and what it must look like. And tonight I'll get my chance. You
need to be subscriber to access the stream, but, of course, I already
am. Every morning as I prepare for the 12:30 conference call I listen to
the previous night's show, and it makes a stressful process bearable.
It's the best $6.95 I spend every month.
And I see that he's now posted a fifteen minute sample video on his
site, of an earlier bit. Check
it out. I just noticed this and haven't watched it yet. I hope
it's a good representation, since I've now played him up so much. Oh
well, it's not like I'm risking a lot of hard-won integrity here, or
anything... Let me know what you think.
-- I'm supposedly getting my own personal DSL line installed today at
work. I've complained so much about the oppressive firewall and various
filters associated with the network I'm forced to go through, my boss
got an approval for me to bypass all that crapola. And if all goes well
I'll be able to actually see this site from work soon, and read the
comments and everything. Plus, I'll be able to check on benefits, and
access internal company websites and whatnot, without an act of Congress
or a signed letter from George W. Bush.
I don't work for the company whose servers I now rely upon, and they're
obviously paranoid about "outsiders," and have me locked out
of everything. It's gotten to the point of ridiculousness, but hopefully
it'll all be behind me after today. Of course, I'll undoubtedly have a
whole new set of problems... Oh, I've been around long enough to know
how these things work. Wish me luck.
-- There was a little old lady in Target this week handing out full can
samples of something called Jones Soda. She gave me one flavor, and
Toney another. They weren't cold, so we took them home to
"enjoy" later. Last night I saw them sitting in the fridge and
decided to try one. Holy shit! I nearly went into diabetic shock. It was
just a container of thick sugar syrup, and I nearly upchucked into the
sink. Nasty. I invited Toney to try her can, and she took a sip, was
still for a split second, then I watched her lower jaw retract just as
mine had. Both cans were promptly emptied down the drain, and we
frantically drank tall tumblers of water in an attempt to wash away the
taste. Do you think we were punk'd? Is that shit for real?? Sweet
sainted mother of Bonnie Franklin.
And I think that'll do it. Did I at least reach the quarter-ass plateau?
Am I setting my goals too high here?
See ya on Monday. Have a great weekend.
June 16, 2005
-- I was talking to Toney yesterday
about Jarts. Do any of you remember these
things? They were sharpened steel daggers with wings, designed
to be used in a modified game of horseshoes -- with the added excitement
of possible death or impalement.
My brother and I had a set back in the '70's, as did a few of our
friends. We'd take them out in the yard, start by playing the way they
were intended, then, inevitably, take it all to the next level. We'd
start flinging them straight up in the air, and run for cover. Good
fun.
Thinking back on it, of course, I now
realize that we could've easily met the same fate as Ralphie's
arrow-catching son on The Sopranos. But we were dumbasses, what
can I tell you?
I remember one kid sitting on the curb and rubbing the heavy steel tip
of one of these so-called lawn darts on the concrete, attempting to make
it razor sharp. Not surprisingly, that kid is now dead. It wasn't
a Jart-related death, as far as I know, but it may as well have been.
Wotta psycho hillbilly douche.
Toney has no recollection of this particular childhood relic of
unintended consequences, and apparently she'll never get the chance. It looks
like they're not only banned from sale in America, but we're not
even allowed to play the game anymore. Sad. I was gonna try to buy a set
off eBay, but I guess we're not allowed? Even try it, they say, and the
Jart Police will get you.
Too bad. I wanted to have a few beers, slip on a "space
helmet," and enjoy a nice nostalgic afternoon in the
backyard. The meddling bastards!
-- I mentioned yesterday that my office at work is situated straight
across the hall from the bathrooms, and that I am regularly treated to
the soothing sounds of an exploding ass serenade. ...And now that I
think about it, I don't believe it happened quite so frequently before
Starbucks came to town. Interesting. Anyway, it appears that I'm not
alone in my situation.
A reader sent me this note yesterday
afternoon:
Per your update today, I have a story of my own. I happen to be
stationed right next to the ladies room at work. Seems safe, right?
Allot better then the Men's room, one would think... NOT. It is worse.
Much, much worse. I would prefer the delightful sounds and smells of the
local truck stop shitter to this. Maybe it is the fact that these
disgusting poop sessions are coming out of some women who I am attracted
to that makes it all the more worse? A few months ago, I saw Stacy 'X'
(to remain nameless) go into the bathroom and not more then 10 seconds
later hell was unleashed. A series of plops, rips, farts, gushes and god
knows what else was heard by everyone within a 10 cube radius. What is
worse is that Stacy is about the best looking women I have ever seen in
real life!! Drop dead... A female co-worker of mine (who shares any and
all information about women) told me later that Stacy pees like a horse.
It is like a waterfall that goes on for a good 2 minutes. That explains
the gushes...
Have a great day.
Oh, I will. Thank you very much for that. I am jealous of your ladies
room pee spy, though. I have no such surrogates at my office. How might
a person go about recruiting such a person, without being slapped with a
restraining order? Hmm... I need to put some thought into that.
-- I watched two more episodes of 24 last night, and I think it's
starting to mess with my head. After I turned off the TV I came in here
to see if I had any email, and there was one from the woman who'll be
making our Surf Report shirts. And as I was reading it I started to
wonder if she was REALLY a t-shirt lady, or if she's just posing as
one.
Perhaps I should take a day off from
that show?
-- Here
are two more Smoking Fish sightings. And no, I have no further
information about the second one. Things are starting to get a little
strange, aren't they?
-- Now here's
Metten with a fresh and tasty dispatch from the Great Midwest.
And I'll see you good folks again tomorrow.
June 15, 2005
-- Over the weekend Toney and I went on
an Easter egg hunt for yet another window air conditioner. We have two
of these ludicrous hum boxes for the bedrooms, and need about two more.
But I ain't a Vanderbilt here, and all this has to be done in measured
steps. Without mentioning the recent weather specifically (I promised)
enough is freaking enough, and I wanted one for the family room window.
At least we could watch Scrote capture the whore killers in relative
comfort, y'know? But, as it turns out, I'm a foolish, foolish man.
There are no air conditioners to be found within a hundred mile radius
of this place. Yeah, these folks are just proud as all hell about the
weather (supposedly) being so mild here that houses don't need to be
equipped with central air. I think it's actually incorporated in the
official county seal somewhere. But, boy, let it be hotter than the
proverbial piss of an owl for two weeks straight, and there's a stampede
for relief. Predictable.
Just a week or so ago Sam's Club had an entire aisle of General Electric
air conditioners, in many different sizes and flavors. They were stacked
far and high. And on Saturday not one remained. It looked like a scene
from the old Soviet Union; the shelves were completely bare. And it was
the same at Lowe's and Home Depot. One of the places had a single unit
left. But the box was opened and bashed in, as if an angry mob had
descended upon it. Plus, the thing was HUGE and had a plug that
resembled a Victorian torture device. I'd probably have to rewire the
house for that crap, so forget it.
So, in a nutshell, we drove around for a couple of hours, bouncing from
store to store and getting more and more irritated. And that night we
watched Scrote while stewing in our own natural juices, just like the
night before. It's a sad state of affairs at the compound these days...
-- I saw Dick Cavett on Larry King Live a few nights ago, and he now
resembles a human skull sprayed with flesh-colored paint. The man has
not a single ounce of head padding. How does something like that happen?
How does a person lose all their face beef? He's taken it too far, but I
see a lot of people walking around who could undoubtedly
benefit from learning his secret. You know who I'm talking about, ol'
Jiggle Neck down at the grocery store? Or Pizza Pan over at the bank?
Maybe he should do an exercise video? Slim Down That Hideous Head, with
Dick Cavett!
Or am I getting completely off-track here? I believe I am... Blame the
heat.
-- Last week I left my ATM card in a bank machine (again, the heat) and
when I went back to retrieve it, there were no happy endings. I walked
in and asked if they'd found my card, and the teller said, "Oh, are
you Jeffrey Kay?!" Not believing my good luck, I confirmed that I
was. And she said, in a chipper and friendly tone, "Yeah, we
shredded your card!" Then there was a pause, and I got the feeling
that she wanted me to thank her. I just turned around and walked out. I
had all the information I needed, thank you very much.
And for almost a week I've been in a strange limbo with no direct access
to my bank account. I don't like the feeling. I have to pay CASH for
gas, fer god's sake, and just feel kind of... adrift. A new card is
coming they say, but it's not here yet. I'm not completely comfortable
without my debit card; what is this, 1974?!
How could they just kill my friend like
that?? Maybe I should've requested the shavings, and said a few words?
-- This
is an actual complaint letter received by Continental Airlines,
purportedly written by a passenger during a recent flight.
I know this man's pain. My office at
work is situated straight across the hall from the rest rooms, and I
hear people blowing ass all day long. Sometimes footsteps rumble past,
the sound of someone running, then, within seconds, a high-pressure
assplosion echoes off the walls, followed by the kind of smells I
haven't encountered since my parents used to take me to circuses as a
child. Yes, I carry a lot of clout down at the office...
-- Here's
a new Smoking Fish sighting, this time at the Great American Ballpark in
Cincinnati. Very cool! Let's try to get one at every ballpark, what do
ya say?
-- And I also received another one that I have chosen NOT to add to the
main Gallery. Be careful when you open it, because it features nudity.
Shiny nudity, in fact. Yeah... this could take the concept of the Fish
Sighting in a whole other direction. Check
it out.
-- And on that note, I'm gonna turn it over to Buck,
and go to my aromatic little 85-degree broom closet across town.
See ya tomorrow.
June 14, 2005
-- So, we sat there and watched the
long, drawn-out Michael Jackson verdict yesterday. (Did I mention that I
had the day off?) We saw the convoy of menacing black SUVs make its way
to the courthouse, and all the Jackson family members get wanded and
patted down as they entered the courtroom. (When did Janet start looking
like Yoko Ono??) And we saw the big gangs of nutcases and mental
patients outside crying and waving signs and releasing doves(?). It was
quite the spectacle, and suspenseful to boot.
I was convinced that Michael would make a run for it, and head for the
Mexican border, and that only added to the entertainment value. Good
good fun.
The only downside? The so-called analysts. God, a bigger group of
douches I don't think I've ever encountered all at once. It was just
pure undiluted douche. Like any self-respecting TV owner, we were
flipping around from channel to channel and hoping for the best. If
somebody was saying something remotely interesting we'd stick around for
a while. Then when the cliches kicked in again, we'd jump ship.
One guy, on Fox News I think, was getting angrier and angrier as the
reading of the verdict grew closer. He kept saying that Michael had been
railroaded by con artists and an overzealous prosecutor, and that the
jury was mostly made up of white conservatives. If I had ten bucks for
every time he said, "this is NOT a jury of Michael Jackson's
peers," we could have central air conditioning installed in our
house this afternoon. By the time the SUVs arrived at the courthouse,
this guy was practically calling the jury a group of Klansmen, itching
to lynch a coon. He was wound tighter than an eight-day clock, and
seething with fury.
I have no doubt that this man calls himself a "progressive."
A woman, over on CNN, said that the jury had deliberated far too long to
acquit. She was practically guaranteeing, based on her vast knowledge,
that Michael Jackson was going down. And this was all said in a smug,
knowing tone, as if she were delivering Great Truths to the masses from
on high.
Later, when word leaked out that the
jury was supposedly staring straight at the judge, and avoiding looking
at Michael, they had him in an orange jumpsuit serving Veg-All and
salisbury steak to men with tattoos on their necks. The only question
was how many years he'd get.
And, of course, there were the people who seemed to want him to go to
prison, if nothing else, for being a goddamn freak. And the ones who
would make excuses even if they had video footage of a naked Michael
Jackson body-surfing across a sea of boy ass. The whole thing was quite
depressing... Yet I couldn't stop watching.
In retrospect, I probably should've just turned the sound down, put on a
Devo CD, and watched it that way. It would've been much more enjoyable,
of course, and the commentary would've been just as relevant.
Oh well, you live and learn... In five or ten years I'll undoubtedly get
a chance to make the proper adjustments; there's always a second chance
in such matters. Maybe during the Tom Cruise trial? Or while they're
reading the verdict sent down by the Kelsey Grammer hatchet murder jury?
Whatever. There's no doubt I'll get the opportunity to make it right
soon.
Shit, I was only going to write one paragraph about Michael Jackson
today, and it turned into the whole update... I'll try to get back in
the real world tomorrow. I promise.
Have a great day.
June 13, 2005
-- No work today. I'm taking vacation
and creating one of those homemade three-day weekends. Ahhh... I think I
could get used to not working, yet continuing to be paid. Yes, it's a
concept I believe I could warm to. Around 12:40 I may raise a glass of
sweet tea in tribute to the conference call that I'm not on. Now that's
something to be celebrated. The poor ball-mashed bastards.
-- I think I'm going to get things rolling with the t-shirts this
afternoon. Here's
the design I came up with. As you can see, I'm not much of a graphic
artist, but I believe it'll do the trick. If you have any
"suggestions" on how I might make it better, let me know.
'Cause I'm placing the order today. For quite a few of them too. I
figure that if they don't sell, I can donate them to a homeless shelter,
and get some free-roaming human advertising out of the deal. I mean...
help a worthy cause.
Many of you suggested I use CafePress for the shirts, but I think their
prices are too high. I've heard they produce a good product. But it'll
sure cost ya. I should be able to offer these Surf Report version 2.0
shirts for around fourteen bucks each, postpaid. If I went with Cafe, it
would most likely be ten dollars more per shirt. Way too much, in my
opinion. This ain't a Motley Crue concert, goddammit.
No, I'm trying to keep the prices down, and also maintain the quality.
And if that means forking over a little cash up-front, and setting up a
freaking distribution center in my house, then so be it. Twenty-five
dollar t-shirts would make me feel way too guilty, and I can barely look
at myself in the mirror as it is...
-- The reason I said Motley Crue up there is because I'm listening to
them as I type. Decade
of Decadence, to be exact. It's just me and Andy at the compound
this morning, and it's time to rock! While getting paid!! I wish I could
teach Andy to throw up a set of devil horns, I really do. Black Lips
Houlihan is a natural-born spaghetti-eating rock star.
-- I talked to my parents yesterday and they said their two dogs
captured and killed a blue jay last week. And now other blue jays
are swooping down at them while the hounds are out snorkeling around in
the back yard(!). It's apparently becoming a big problem. One dive-bombed
and hit Pepper full in the back, and a few have even come at my Dad(!!).
These birds ain't half-steppin'; they're obviously bent on animal
justice. And now my parents have a real-life Hitchcock movie on their
hands. Shit, I'd be afraid to leave the house. At the very least I'd
invest in a batting helmet or something. Freaky.
When we lived out in that spider-infested desert in California, there
were big black birds that would fly low over our house all the time.
They were huge and you could hear their wings go whoosh whoosh whoosh
as they passed over. Absolutely horrifying. Off in the distance there
was always a whole gang of them sitting on rock cliffs, just looking
down on us dumb white people barbecuing and washing our cars. I was
certain one of these nightmarish creatures would eventually swoop down
and carry off one of our babies; just pluck one right off the front
lawn. It never happened, but I feel in my bones that we got out just in
time.
If one of those pissed-off blue jays were to dive at me now, I'd surely
lose my mud. I don't think it's even a question.
-- On a related note... I was leaving for work on Friday and had my
backpack, my big oversized travel mug, a couple of CDs, and a bunch of
other necessary road items loaded in my arms. I was standing there
trying to juggle all this crap while attempting to put the key in the
lock of my Blazer, when a big bee flew straight into my left ear! It was
large and furry and looked like a flying teddy bear. It was making that
scary buzzing sound that bees make, and I shrieked like a school girl.
Shit went flying in every direction, and coffee went all down the front
of my shirt and pants. I think I slung a little on the side of the house
too. It was a great way to start the day, let me tell ya. I'm pretty
sure I cleaned out all my veins and arteries, though. I'm not a doctor,
but I'm almost certain I experienced a case of insta-angioplasty,
standing right there on the driveway.
-- I used the kick-ass Hostito webstats feature to update the search
engine page this weekend. Check
it out. The new phrases are at the top, and are all genuine and
real. Further evidence the end is near...
-- And for those
of you keeping score at home, I'm now blasting Alice
Cooper's Greatest Hits. Alice always reminds me of Atlanta,
because I worked with a woman there who looked just like him. I don't
think she got much sleep, for some reason. Apparently it's extremely
time-consuming being a bitter and angry hick?
-- I'll leave you today with a fresh quote from Nancy. She and the whole
gang traveled to Florida last week for something dull, and she told
Toney yesterday, in an exasperated tone: "We had no idea
that Orlando was so touristy!" So, there you go. I'll make no
comment, and just let that stand on its own. But please keep in mind
that these people have doctorate degrees, and help shape and mold the
minds of the next generation.
And that's gonna do it, folks. More tomorrow.
Did I mention that I'm
off today?!
June 10, 2005
-- Sorry about yesterday, but I'm under
a great deal of pressure here and had to get away for a while. Despite
what you might have heard, I was NOT in a nuthouse in South Africa; I
want to put a stop to those rumors right now. I was only visiting
friends there. And I'm feeling much better, thank you very much. Well, a
little better anyway...
No, actually I got up yesterday, started writing, and quickly realized I
was boring myself. The weather, looking for a new car, freakin'
Netflix... Jesus man, enough is enough. You're turning into a
blue-ribbon dullard. So I turned off the computer in a huff, and had
coffee with Toney instead. We sat on the deck, I bitched until I grew
tired of bitching, and finally went to work. And all day I fantasized
about going out into the hall and just punching the first person I
encountered, full in the gut. Sometimes I wonder if I was conceived
on the wrong side of the bed?
But the chemicals are being my friend today, and I think I can do this.
I wouldn't be expecting too much, though...
-- For the sake of closure, I'll quickly update you on the three
subjects I'd been beating like the children of Bing Crosby, and never
mention them again. ...Unless, of course, something truly interesting
happens. <ahem>
The weather: A big part of the problem, I think. For days on end it's
been disgustingly hot and humid, and I feel like I'm walking around with
a blanket soaked in sea water over my head. I hate it. And our
stupid house, built by insane people when I was three, doesn't have
central air conditioning because that's a badge of honor in this crazy
region of the country. At this point it looks like the Malcolm In The
Middle house, because I'll be damned if I'm going out there and
doing any yard work. I will be damned.
The new car: I've thrown in the towel on that deal, because it was
causing me to lose my shit. What I wanted to buy cost more than what I
was willing to spend, so it was a case of self-inflicted frustration.
And those salesmen... Sweet Maria. All I can say on that subject is lake
of fire. I'm just going to continue driving my Blazer, and spare
myself the wear and tear on my stomach lining. There's nothing wrong
with the vehicle, and it serves my purposes. All this happened because
of want, not need. So, screw it.
Netflix: I got my first two discs, and
everything's good. I watched Team America, and thought parts of
it were really funny. Other parts? Not so much. And last night we saw
the first episode of 24, which we both enjoyed. Mesmerizing
information, huh?
And that's that. I will now make a conscious effort to stay away from
these subject, for the sake of us all. Thanks for sticking with me
through these dark, dark days.
-- I called Toney yesterday afternoon and asked if she wanted to hit one
of the thousands of chain restaurants around here, for dinner. The
thought of going home to an oven-like house, sweating into a plate of
spaghetti (or whatever), then cleaning up, just wasn't very appealing to
me for some reason.
Of course it sounded good to Toney too,
and after a brief discussion we decided on Uno
Chicago Grill, or whatever that place is called. Is it a pizza
joint? It feels like it might be, but isn't, really. It's all very
confusing.
Anyway... We met there after I left work, and it turned out to be a good
choice. We'd been to these Uno deals before, in other cities, but this
one just opened, and it was our first visit locally.
They led us to a giant booth (or boof for those of you in
Atlanta), big enough to seat four people on each side. Only there was a
planter in the middle of the table, and that supposedly turned it into two
booths. So, we were sitting there with another family, separated only by
this symbolic fern. I didn't really care for that too much, but it
wasn't the end of the world. (I try to be reasonable, I really do.)
Another thing I didn't care too much for was the distance between the
table and the back of the seat. Apparently they used Japanese specs when
they designed this place, and that's a mistake for Northeastern PA. I'm
fairly thick, front to back, but I'm positively petite compared to some
of my fellow Scrantonians. I had to wedge my gut in there, and
experienced a mild case of claustrophobia during the entire meal. I felt
like a pig in a crate.
But, luckily, the food was really good. I had some kind of smoked turkey
club sandwich, and Toney opted for one of those huge dinner salads
served in a bowl from Land of the Giants. And we had their
homebrewed amber ale in big-ass glasses, and it was mighty tasty. Very
hoppy, which I love.
A satisfying outing, indeed. And it was air-conditioned, and somebody
else did the dishes (I suppose). Until this heat wave is over, I'm now
prepared to propose we have all of our meals in chain restaurants. Maybe
we could get a home equity loan?
-- As I was polishing off my comically oversized beer, a teenage girl
who was seated across the aisle from us returned to retrieve the doggy
bag she'd left behind. I'd noticed her earlier. She was with, I think,
her mother and grandmother, and was probably fifteen or so. She had the
sleeves and neck cut out of her t-shirt, and was apparently cultivating
some kind of Avril Lavigne look. And when she bent to pick up her
leftovers, a pair of underwear constructed entirely of rope and steel erupted
from the back of her pants.
I'm not joking, it was two strings, one
going horizontal and the other vertical, joined above the ass crack by a
piece of heart-shaped metal. What in the hell?? What is the purpose of
such a garment? I'm not a woman, but I can't imagine a length of crotch
rope being very comfortable. And who thought it was a good idea to
incorporate stainless steel into underwear? I'd be terrified I'd
make a wrong move and slice something off. Maybe it's supposed to be
sexy? I don't know... maybe if you're turned on by cheap trampiness.
Anyway, she was fourteen or fifteen years old! What's she doing??
If I were her father there'd be a short family meeting on the
subject, followed by the presentation of a big bundle of pastel granny
panties. Then I'd confiscate her ass ropes and bungee down my propane
tanks. ...Hello? Is this thing on?
-- Speaking of 24 and underwear,
remember this
pic? It was taken at a bar in Burbank, called Dimples. (A place
in which I have personally partaken of adult beverages.) Apparently ol'
Kiefer likes to feel unrestricted when he's drinking?
-- Here's
a Starbucks commercial that makes me laugh every time.
-- And here's
a fresh Smoking Fish sighting, this time in San Francisco. Very cool!
Have a great weekend folks. I'll see you on Monday.
June 8, 2005
-- It might be this disgusting weather,
I'm not sure, but it feels like time is standing still. There's no way,
no freakin' way, that this is only Thursday. I'm dying here. Slowly and
painfully. I'm thinking about going to a grocery store and kicking back
in a meat case. Under the circumstances I'm sure they'd understand.
Right? How could anyone deny a man the use of a pork shank as a pillow,
considering the humidity we're living with? (Ahhh... the eternal
question.) The weekend really needs to get here so I can become one with
a chair. How could it only be Thursday??
-- The car buying experiment isn't going very well. For one thing I
can't settle on a vehicle. I'm bouncing all around, one day looking for
one of these, the next day looking for one of those. There's no focus or
clear goal. So I'm taking a day off. I'm getting myself all worked up,
and not thinking straight. I stopped at another dealership last night,
and apparently the asking prices on used cars are a closely-guarded
secret, and can't be divulged to just anyone. Is this a new development
in the retailing of automobiles, where they won't tell you the price?
I'm not sure I care for it. I'm finding it kind of hard to make a
decision when I don't know how much anything costs. Or am I just being
old-fashioned and stuck in the ways of the past? I'm taking a day off to
regroup...
-- My first two Netflix discs should arrive today. I was hoping for
yesterday, but it didn't happen. I read somewhere that the company's
goal is to eventually have enough distribution centers so that every
address in America is a one-day shipping point. Apparently they're not
all the way there yet. But that's cool. Tonight I should be able to join
the cult of 24, and I'm looking forward to it. A few of you
signed up to be my Netflix Butt Buddy(tm), and you're all welcome. I'm
registered under jeff@thewvsr.com Through modern technological advances
you can now mock the viewing choices of your fellow man from the comfort
of your own home!
-- I'm not yet as old as Uncle
Ray, or quite as crazy, but I think I may be traveling the same
path he has taken. Give me fifteen years...
-- Here's
a virtual Lite-Brite, goddammit.
-- Earlier in the week I checked the description of the Law &
Order SVU episode that would be shown that night on TNT, since it's
now getting to the point where I've seen them all. And this is what it
said: The victim of a sexual assault is unable to identify her
attacker. That's every episode! That or: Detectives investigate
the mysterious deaths of seven whores. I need more information,
people!!
-- My brother saw this
in a newspaper in North Carolina yesterday. Have you been voodooed?
-- And it's a good thing we have something new from Buck today, because
I'm all outta gas here. Take
it away, my friend.
See ya tomorrow.
June 7, 2005
-- Yesterday as I was driving to work I
called about the menacing black Durango we spotted on a car lot over the
weekend, and the guy gave me a price that was incredibly low. Too low,
in fact. My first thought, when he gave me the numbers: wonder what's
wrong with it? Then late in the morning Bill forwarded me your comments
(I can't access them directly at work, for national security reasons),
and absorbed all the Durango negativity... At the same time Toney was
checking Consumer Reports, and it was pretty much all-bad as well. So,
forget that. I don't see any Dodge Durangos in my future.
But I've still got the fever. I'm ready to change vehicles, goddammit.
Yesterday afternoon I called a Chevy dealership to ask a few general
questions about used Silverados, and it didn't go very well. I only
wanted to know if they had any 2002 or 2003 extended cab models in
stock, and their asking price. The guy wouldn't tell me anything.
Instead of answering my questions, he asked a million of his own.
Almost immediately he wanted to know what I do for a living, and that's
when I shut down. What does that have to do with anything?? Do they set
their prices based on vocation at this joint? What am I, a complete
dumbass?! I wouldn't tell him anything, and it got kinda tense. He
finally said, in an exasperated tone, "Sir, you can't buy a truck
over the phone." And I said, "Maybe not, but I can sure buy
one somewhere else."
And so it goes.
On my way home last night I stopped at a dealership in our little town,
and they probably had a dozen used Silverados on their lot. One in
particular caught my eye, and the guy gave me a price that was about two
thousand dollars more than the number I'd pulled out of my ass as the
maximum I'd be willing to go. I told him what I wanted to pay, and he
didn't have much of a reply. So I started to leave, and he called me
back. He wanted my name and cell number "for his records."
What do you think are the chances I'll receive a call from him today,
offering to sell me that truck for $500 above my ass number? I'd say the
chances are pretty high. But we'll see what happens...
-- Something really strange is taking
place at our house. It appears that our spoons are turning into forks!
I'm not kidding. We used to have an almost equal number of each, but
that sure ain't the case now. Recently we've noticed that we're always
running out of spoons, and, indeed, after I emptied the dishwasher last
night it looked like there were about 25 forks in the drawer, and only
about eight spoons. How does something like that happen?! How does the
calibration get so far out of whack? I think a transformation is taking
place inside the silverware drawer as we sleep, I really do. I believe
the spoons are defecting to the other side. Perhaps it's more
prestigious to be a fork in their world? I don't know. Or maybe some of
them felt like they were a fork trapped inside a spoon's body, and grew
tired of living their shameful lie? It's a baffling situation. I may
start tagging the spoons in some way, to prove my transformation theory.
But in the meantime, we have more friggin' forks at our house than the
average Denny's. We're up to our butt cheeks in tines here! Somebody
please make it stop!!
-- How was I not aware that the entire Boomtown Rats catalog had been
remastered and reissued
on CD? This is information that should be piped directly into my
brain; something obviously broke down somewhere. The original Rats
albums were only available on CD for about fifteen minutes during the
late '80s/early '90s, and then disappeared. Over the years they became
highly collectible, and fetched upwards of a hundred bucks each -- when
you could find 'em. Now, you can apparently pick them up for ten
dollars, or whatever, at Amazon... Why wasn't I informed of this?? I
need to be doing some of my own fetching, at this new lower price, and
right away.
They changed my life, you know. That's right, the Boomtown Rats changed
my life. I was a dumbass of the highest order, but they showed me the
way. When I was a young ugly teenager with unfortunate hair, I found
myself trapped inside a cage of Beatles snobbery. For several years I
wouldn't listen to anyone else. The way I had it figured was that they
were the best, so why waste my time on anyone else? I had t-shirts for
every day of the week, each emblazoned with a different Beatles album
cover. And, needless to say, I'd only seen photographs of naked
women.
One day I went to Budget Tapes and Records in Cross Lanes, WV, to buy a
George Harrison solo album, and there was something crazy playing in
there. It was turned up really loud, and sounded kinda good. What
in the hell? What was happening to me?? This was treasonous! But the
longer I listened, the more I liked it. And finally I went and asked the
hipster behind the counter what he was playing. He handed me the cover
of A
Tonic For The Troops, I took a look at it and shuffled away in
my ludicrous size medium Let It Be shirt.
Needless to say, I ended up buying it. It made me feel kind of dirty and
dangerous, like I was shoplifting porn. I took it home and played the
living hell out of it. God, it was just so damn good. To this day
I could sing you every word of every song on that record. Of course,
nothing good would come from that exercise... I'm just sayin'.
And that purchase turned out to be one of the slipperiest of all
slippery slopes. I became completely obsessed with "new wave"
and punk and all that strange shit from England. It took over my life,
and that's no exaggeration. And, eventually, it led me to interesting
books, and good movies... Everything changed after that first big jolt
of Boomtown Rats. It was like a kick to the balls, if, you know, getting
your balls kicked were a positive.
Have a great day.
June 6, 2005
-- Suddenly it's hot and muggy up here. It's my least favorite kind
of weather. When it gets all hazy and humid like this, and you walk
around wearing a patina of facial sweat... well, I can do without it.
Right now it's 7:35 am, and I'm shining like Nat King Cole. I have
nothing else to say on the subject. I just wanted my protest to be noted
in the official record.
-- I told you last week that I was absolving myself of all
responsibility, and allowing you folks to decide whether or not I should
give Netflix a try. Well, there were a few nays in the mix, but the
overwhelming consensus seemed to be that I should go for it. So I have.
I pulled the trigger on Saturday morning, and had some fun adding
selections to my queue all weekend. I'm starting out with the first
season of 24 (I've never seen one second of that show), mixed in
with a few intriguing new releases, like Team America and Finding
Neverland. We'll see how it goes. I went with the two-at-a-time,
$14.99 per month plan, and can always pull the plug if I'm not getting
my money's worth. Right? If you want to be my Netflix Butt Buddy (I
think that's what they call it), I'm registered under jeff@thewvsr.com
And, as always, thanks for making my life decisions for me!
-- And speaking of pulling the plug... my relationship with Earthlink is
now officially over. Late last week I called and drove the final nail
into that coffin. They made a perfunctory attempt to change my mind, but
it was all scripted and half-assed. So, that's that. I'd been with them,
off and on, since the mid-1990's (I believe I was one of their first
dial-up customers), and used to be an Earthlink cheerleader. Not
anymore. In the old days they felt like a partner, and in the end
it was like dealing with the fucking bank. Too bad.
-- On Saturday we made reservations at a campground near Cooperstown,
NY, for the 4th of July weekend, and I guess we'll give this camping
thing another try. I'm gonna take Tuesday off, and we'll stay three
nights. This is high-stakes, my friends. If things don't go very well, I
suspect that we may throw in the towel. I could be wrong, but that's
what my gut is telling me. And my gut, in addition to its impressive
second-trimester appearance, is in-tune with the cosmos. So, it'll be an
interesting experiment. As incredible as it seems, we've yet to take a
camping trip in which other family members weren't involved. So,
Cooperstown will be our first true solo flight. Not sure if that's good
or bad. In any case, wish us luck. The future of the box o' beds could
be hanging in th |
The State of My
Fat Ass
June
2005
I'm loaded with
tumors darling, and I don't even know it.