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July 31, 2006
-- I happened to catch something
amazing on television Saturday: the triumphant return of a local
celebrity.
He's the weatherman at the most popular TV station in town, and I have a
feeling that if he ever jumped ship and went to a competing station, they'd
suddenly be the most popular in town. Because this dude is the King of
Northeastern PA. I can't begin to understand any of it, but it's true.
I've lived in plenty of places in my life, but I've never seen anything
like this before.
A couple of years ago we went to a mall in Wilkes-Barre on a Sunday, and
it was like Beatlemania inside. There was a long, snaking line of people
extending from one end of the place, wrapped around the end, then back
up the other side. Folks of every age and demographic were wide-eyed and
chattering expectantly, clutching photos and Sharpie pens, and standing
on their tip-toes trying to get a glimpse of something. Way off in the
distance we could hear rolling screams of excitement, like someone had
started The Wave.
What in the brown 'n' serve hell?! Is Madonna here? Johnny Depp? The
Pope?? No! It was The Weatherman. And just how freaky is that?
I started watching him in the mornings, just to see what all the hubbub
is about, and he falls squarely in the "wacky" category.
Likable (of course), but full-blown goofy. He might show a map of the
United States and Telly Savalas's face will be rotating over the entire
state of Pennsylvania, for reasons unknown, then a gang of ketchup
bottles will come down from Canada and push Kojak out into the Atlantic
Ocean. Or something similar.
By the time it's over I generally have no idea what kind of
weather to expect, but am thoroughly entertained.
I was somewhere recently and a woman was bitching about the rain. She
said "Joe" (no last name is necessary) said it would be clear
all day, so she'd left her umbrella at home. "He never gets it
right," she screeched, "but we still looooove him!"
In most places they'd want to burn a bastard's house down if it rained
without warning, but this guy has full weatherman immunity -- something
I'd never even thought possible.
Every year he rides his bike about 500
miles, and takes pledges to raise money for a local charity. It's a big
to-do, and is hyped for weeks in advance. This year he rode from Maine,
back to Scranton, including a much-feared trek through New York City.
And as I was flipping through the channels Saturday night, I came across
his Welcome Home party.
At first I didn't know what was going on. It was happening during prime
time, and they were preempting the network broadcast. Had something
happened? Had another sinkhole opened up and swallowed the city of
Dunmore or something?? Eventually I figured it out, and was completely
transfixed.
Hundreds of people, if not thousands, had turned out to watch The
Weatherman pedal back into town. There were food booths and bands
playing.... Folks were packed up against barriers, and lining the
street. Commentators were there with microphones, talking about the
excitement in the air. A guy who looked like a diesel mechanic was asked
how long he'd been there, and he said he'd arrived two hours earlier
"to get a good spot." It was unbelievable.
Then they started making the announcements: "Joe's only three
blocks away!" A huge roar goes up. Then it's two block, and one.
Finally, on the screen, we see policemen on motorcycles, their lights
flashing, and the crowd is in a full-on frenzy. People are shown behind
the barriers just openly sobbing.
And then we see him come around the corner, it's Joe, pedaling and
waving, smiling and pumping his fists in the air. The crowd is now in a
state of what appears to be collective sexual climax. It's just a big
distorted wall of high-pitched shrieking, unrelenting and sustained. He
dismounts, hugs his wife and kids, then his mother and sister. Nuns are
there, and priests as well. People are wailing and hollering, and I just
can't stop watching.
The whole concept of local celebrity fascinates me to no end, especially
the local mega-celebrity like "Joe." The man probably has to
travel with a bodyguard when he goes to the corner grocery store for a
sack of Funyuns. Yet, if he drives 75 miles in any direction nobody
knows who the hell he is. It's gotta be a bizarre life.
Ya know?
-- And speaking of local celebrities, I'm gonna turn it over now to
Metten, who's back today with a rare and hilarious update. Right.... now.
See ya tomorrow. permalink
July 28, 2006
-- When we were camping a
couple of weeks ago there was a guy who walked past us several times
every day, and Andy hated him. It was a constant parade of people going
by, day and night, but for some reason the hound had a major problem
with this one particular frowning bald man. Most everyone else was OK,
but Andy would go completely ass-over-tits crazy whenever Ol' Midnight
Oil shuffled past.
My instincts told me to yell at the dog and try to get him to calm down.
But the thing was, I sort of agreed with him. I couldn't put my finger
on it, but I had mixed feelings about the guy as well. He seemed angry
and wound-tight, and that's not a good combination. Mix in cheap beer
and high temperatures, and you've got a potential situation on your
hands.
Plus dogs are keen judges of character, and you can't just go dismissing
their appraisals all willy-nilly. Ya know?
So I started yelling at Andy, for the man's benefit, but used fake
names. The first time I said, "Todd, shut up!" When he went
past again, I hollered, "Jimmy, that's enough!!" I changed the
name every time, just to keep things interesting. And, of course, none
of it even registered with Andy. Because, after all, his name is not
Todd.
I reminded everyone, as well, that if the guy would happen to return in
the dark of night, shirtless and brandishing a bloody cleaver, he
wouldn't be able to calm our dog by whispering his name. He'd be calling
him Robert and whatnot, and that would probably make matters worse for
him. I only thought of this part after the fact, but I acted like it was
part of the master plan.... Don't tell anyone, OK?
The Secrets thought it was all a riot, of course, and got in on the fun.
Then Toney started doing it as well. But they took it way too far, and
the air of authenticity was shattered. They started calling him Roland
and Hubert and stuff like that, and I just rolled my eyes in
exasperation. All my important work, being undone in a swirl of
goofiness....
"Roland's as legitimate a dog name as Robert," Toney said,
"Who names a dog Robert??" Then I heard one of the kids say,
"Calm down, Billie Joe Armstrong! Calm down!!" and I stormed
off in a huff.
No respect for the art of fake dog-naming, none whatsoever.
-- I signed a contract today with the National Lampoon, allowing them to
use the Wal-Mart Game in a book to be
published in October, called Not Fit For Print. They're to pay me
a small amount of money (and I do mean small), and I'll get a new
eye-catching credit to add to my resume. Then I'll put the resume in a
box, put the box into the car, drive the car around the world, until I
get heard.
Or whatever.
-- I've been meaning to mention this for a while now, but keep
forgetting.... Over at AOL
Radio, previously Radio@Netscape, previously Spinner, they have a
new all-Replacements channel. It's called Replacements O.D., and
unfortunately, I believe it's only temporary.
But check it out while you can. They not only mine the old Twin/Tone
catalog, but bootlegs and solo albums as well. It's pretty damn
ass-kick. A few days ago at work I heard them play at least one whole
side of The Shit
Hits The Fans. And that's not something you hear at work every
day, know what I'm sayin'?
-- And since we're on the subject, here's
a funny article about Paul Westerberg.
-- And now a completely unrelated
link to an interesting article about horror films that are so
bad they're good, shoe-horned right into the middle of this thing.
-- Over the weekend I'm planning to take your advice and switch from
Norton to AVG anti-virus. My Norton "subscription" is up, and
I'm not giving them anymore of my money. I asked you folks for guidance
a while back, and the response was loud and clear. Now if I contract
some sort of tunneling Singaporean worm that destroys my hard drive and
causes a house fire, I won't have to blame myself. I appreciate it!
-- Now I need a little more help.... What is StumbleUpon?
As best as I can tell it's something along the lines of MySpace, and
that sort of thing, but I can't really figure it out. In fact, I can't
really figure out MySpace either, but that's another story....
The reason I ask about StumbleUpon is because they're driving
substantial traffic to TheWVSR. For the past couple of months they've
been the number one referring website, and I can't really get my arms
around any of it.
What's it all about? I need closure, people!
-- And finally, something that should make me happy but, I'm sorry to
say, only succeeds in scaring the living crap out of me. Below are two
excerpts from an email conversation between two of your fellow Surf
Reporters, forwarded to me yesterday after one participant dared the
other.
If you need something MORE to laugh about than that, I could sometime
tell you about the "adult" dream I had starring one Mr. Jeff
Kay. Not a daydream, mind you, but a real one. I didn't know what to
think when I woke up....
Then, following a little "you've got to be shitting me"
back and forth:
That's about how I felt when I woke up. And it shall never be spoken of
again.. Because, really I don't want to think about a half-naked Jeff
Kay all too much, even if he WAS rubbing me down in the back of a camper
trailer....
Nice technique, though.
After I read this, blinked
about twenty times really fast, then read it again, I sent portions of
it to a close friend. Here's what he had to say:
I'm speechless. You have now reached the point in your artistic
career that you have women out there dreaming about you in your rolling
box o' beds. You are my idol!
If I weren't so rattled I'd say something like, "Hey, it's all
in the technique, my good man, it's all in the technique." But I
can't manage even a half-assed joke here. Because the thought of a
"half-naked Jeff Kay" in the back of a camper trailer gives even
me a full-body shiver. Holy shit!
Have a great weekend, folks. I'll see ya again on Monday. permalink
July 27, 2006
-- After Toney and I finally stopped laughing at the big retarded
woman on the bumper cars (Wheeee!) at Knoebels on Tuesday, we had
a conversation about dating services. Yes, you read that correctly....
Toney actually brought it up, and she had a really good point.
On the millions of TV and radio ads for services like eHarmony that we
hear every day, they always mention a free "compatibility
test." This is presumably used to match you up with a person who
has the same interests as you. Blah, blah, blah.
Toney contends that our relationship works so well, at least in part,
because of a shared interest in such things as cruel mockery. And most
people, she believes, won't admit to that particular darkened corner of
their personality -- especially when trying to attract a mate. She
doubts that they even attempt to measure it, and this reveals a huge
flaw in the system.
Because, you see, we believe that sarcasm and a penchant for ridicule
are just as valid as any of the more fancy-pants character
traits, such as compassion and caring. I mean, seriously.
Can any of you shed some light on this for us? Do you have experience
with a dating service, and if so, do they gauge the more socially
unacceptable side of human personality? Because if they don't,
they're completely missing the boat....
And we see an opening for a business opportunity. Good afternoon,
thanks for calling ePrick!
-- A couple of weeks ago a California-based bigshot at work asked me for
local airport and hotel information. He said he was planning a quick
visit to our office, on his way back from a meeting in Toronto, and
needed my help. I gave him everything he asked for, and that was that.
He never told me the dates of his proposed visit, and not another words
was said about it.
Needless to say, I'm paranoid. In his first email he mentioned that he
would fly in on a Wednesday night, tour our facility and meet with
people on Thursday, then take a late flight back to LAX Thursday night.
But which Thursday?? That's the 64 oz. question. Sweet sainted
mother of Cesar Geronimo, I'm gonna be blind-sided here!
So, last Thursday morning, very early, I called both hotels I'd
suggested to him, and asked if he was registered. Then I repeated the
exercise this morning. And I feel like Cannon now, doing investigative
work and waddling from room to room. It's a sad state of affairs.
-- I overheard two people talking at work yesterday about a person they
know who reportedly has a secret recipe for cornbread. WTS?? What's the
point of keeping recipes secret, unless you own a restaurant or
something? Seriously, what's it all about?? Do you know anyone who does
this, and is it, as I suspect, a desperate plea for attention? Help me
out, people.
-- As mentioned, I've been buying-up, slowly but surely, all the
kick-ass British reissues of the Boomtown Rats catalog. The sound is
awesome, the liner notes are hilarious, there's a heaping helping of
bonus tracks, and the price is right. It's enough to make an aging
hipster weep straight into his Trouser Presses.
Anyway, my old vinyl copy of one of their more obscure albums had a
small skip in it, that was long forgotten until I started playing the
CD. I'm not exaggerating when I say that I hadn't heard the thing in
over twenty years, but when I popped the reissue into my player the
other day I actually anticipated the skip.
It wasn't an actual memory, I don't believe, it was something primal,
from way down deep. My body tensed at the spot where the skip should
occur, then I had to go back and figure out why.
Freaky, man.
-- For no relevant reason whatsoever, here's
another selection from the massive Surf Report sound library. This one
dates from the Atlanta years, aka the late 1990's. It's a heartwarming
number called "Who Cut The Cheese?" And since we're at it, this
is racing legend "Emerson Fitapaldi" calling into Christopher
Rude's old morning radio show, at 96 Rock.
Toney to me, during the Atlanta years: "You're being ruined
by Beavis and Butthead, the Jerky Boys, and Christopher Rude."
-- Now I'm going to turn this bastard over to Buck,
and go to work.... My paranoia is causing me worry that the bigshot may
have registered under a fake name, like Mel Sharples or somesuch.
Holy crap, I'd better go. See ya tomorrow. permalink
July 26, 2006
-- I feel like I've been beaten with a
sack o' taters this morning. I think it's time that I subscribe to some
sort of exercise regimen, I really do. If you remember, an hour of
bike-riding recently left me walking around like a lower-case r for a
week, and now a day at an amusement park has kicked my ass, up left then
sideways. I feel like my entire muscular system is buzzing. I'm almost
certain that coffee is the only reason there's any bunker-animation
whatsoever at this point.
But anyway, we had a really good time at Knoebels
yesterday. It wasn't overly crowded, the sun was shining, and a splendid
time is guaranteed for all....
The place has been there for seventy-five years, and I think some of the
original rides are still in use. I might be wrong about that, but it's
what it feels like. There's a real retro vibe to Knoebels -- in the best
sense of the word. A lot (but not all) of the attractions are vintage,
yet well-maintained and clean. And the food is shockingly good.
The Secrets each rode fifteen or twenty rides I'd guess, but I only
managed four: the haunted house (cheesy fun), the bumper cars (straight
out of the 1940's and kick-ass), The Twister roller coaster (pretty damn
intense), and the legendary
Phoenix
coaster
(awesome!).
The Phoenix is a godlike structure to coaster geeks worldwide. I
remember seeing a local news report a couple of years ago about a group
of British guys who traveled to America specifically to ride the thing.
At the end of the report they were shown on their knees bowing to the
Phoenix, like something off Wayne's World. Apparently they
weren't disappointed.
A big retarded woman was on the bumper cars with us, and they kept
having to shut the thing down in mid-ride to help her out of
"situations." At one point she was packed in a corner, with
the out-of-use broken cars, just flooring it straight into the wall. She
also kept going the wrong way, and I think the employees were afraid
that someone might knock her clean through the chain link fence and out
into the fairway. Near the end she was just whipping round and round in
a tight circle, at a high rate of speed, yelling "Wheeee!"
I probably shouldn't have laughed so hard, and for quite so long.
The
Twister was a little scary. I used to be all about the roller
coasters, but now I look at the things and envision catastrophe. I rode
with the oldest Secret and my sphincter was clipped-off tight for at
least an hour afterwards. I just knew that bitch was going to
jump the tracks and go hurtling into the treetops. Holy crapballs. Too
many maniac turns, at too high an elevation....
And first thing this morning I saw this
linked at Drudge, which helps nothing. But, of course, the guy
undoubtedly had an undiagnosed heart condition. Right? Right.
For lunch I had a really good Southern-style pork barbecue sandwich. Not
exactly your standard carny food, y'know? They also have excellent
homemade french fries, and cheese fries and whatnot, which generate
lines of people that rival the roller coasters. Later in the day I
bought some sort of bizarre sweet tea slushie type of drink. A new one
on me, but really good.
When we were having lunch, inside a big picnic pavilion, there were
signs everywhere advertising the return of their "famous"
all-you-can-eat spaghetti supper. Can you imagine?! Maybe I'm the
strange one, but the last thing I'd want to do before boarding a thrill
ride is to load up on pasta and marinara sauce. Shit, you'd probably
have to carry an umbrella to keep the red vomit off of you.
So it was a good time, as usual. I've been to my share of big corporate
amusement parks, and Knoebels holds its own against any of them. Plus, I
don't think we spent even seventy-five bucks, food included --
for a family of four. And how cool is that? Sure, the clientele skews
slightly in this direction,
but not to the point of distraction. The whole thing is just highly
recommended. In fact, we're going back in less than two weeks.
Here are some pics I took
yesterday, and the big honkin' photo essay
from last year.
Thanks for the (mostly) great ideas yesterday, for attractions at the
big proposed Surf Report amusement park. Keep 'em coming!
And I'll see ya tomorrow. permalink
July 25, 2006
-- This will have to be a quickie. Last
night at dinner, almost literally at the last moment, we decided to go
to Knoebels
today. It's a great old time-warp of an amusement park down in the
middle of the state, and the kids love it. In fact, I love it too; it's
more fun than Disney, in my opinion. We're going today, and probably
again in a couple of weeks. And I'll have more on that upcoming fiasco
as the time gets nearer. Sweet sainted mother of John Parr....
A couple of months ago, when we were plotting our summer over coffee,
Toney and I came up with a list of vacation days I'd need to take. I
turned them in with the best of intentions and, of course, everything
came off the rails. I've found that it's a fool's exercise to try to
make plans farther out than, say, seven days. Go beyond a week, and you
may as well be blowing diarrhea in the wind. I really should've known
better.
I didn't though, and ended up with an approved day off tomorrow with no
plans for it. I thought I'd just hang around the house and do some
extracurricular writing. But the idea of Knoebels was floated at dinner
last night, and it met with everyone's approval. It was one of those Well,
why the hell not? moments.
So we're going. And Toney and the Secrets are breathing down my neck as
I type this, for me to get off this computer and drag my big ass into
the sunlight.
Like I say, this will have to be a quickie.
-- Yesterday Surf Reporter Aaron sent me a bunch of Smoking Fish pics
that made my brain crack open a little. I'll let him introduce them to
you the way he introduced them to me:
Jeff, I saw the smoking fish tasting dog meat in Vietnam last week in
Ho Chi Minh City (aka Saigon). See the little puppy dog tails in the
window? Ain't he a nasty fucker? Sorry the pictures aren't better. The
natives got pissed off that I was taking them and shoo'd me away in a
language I didn't quite understand. Aaron (in Australia)
When Aaron first started reading TheWVSR he lived in Dog Balls,
Pennsylvania. (I think that's correct.) Now his home base is Australia,
and apparently vacations in places like Vietnam(?!). Makes me feel like
one of those people who never venture more than ten miles from where
they were born....
Sir, I'd hoist an ice cold Foster's in
your honor, if it wasn't, you know, piss. I'm afraid a Yuengling will
have to do. Cheers!
Here are the pics he attached,
minus a couple of redundant shots. Cool.
-- Here's
the best Deadwood t-shirt ever. I'd buy one if there was anywhere
on the planet I could wear it. Ya know? I could just see me walking into
a parent/teacher conference in one of those things.... Heh.
It falls into the same category as the shirts they were selling at a Shane
MacGowan concert I attended in Atlanta years ago. They said on the
back, in large letters, "I might've fucked your wife, but I never
fucked your daughter."
Hilarious, but wonder how many they sold? Seriously. Even taking into
account the across-the-board bed-shitting drunkenness of the crowd
there?
-- And that's gonna have to do it for today, my friends. The oldest
Secret is literally tapping his foot, like something off a 1950's
sitcom. I'll leave you now with a class project.
I'd like to know what rides and attractions there would be at a Surf
Report amusement park?
Like, say, The Emasculator, where a person must back a pop-up camper
into a tiny space in front of the entire world (including their wives
and girlfriends), for a chance to win a stuffed animal.
Or The Ball Baby Bitch, where you're strapped to a rolling sofa
emblazoned with the word SUNSHINE in sparkly letters, and sent rocketing
over the 200-foot Jew Bastard Plunge.
I'm sure you guys can do better than that, but you get the idea. I'm all
out of time here....
See ya tomorrow. permalink
July 24, 2006
-- I was in a coal mine on Saturday.
Yeah, it was a touristy tour-type tour, but it was a coal mine
nonetheless. The old #190 Slope, to be exact. Toney suggested we take
the Secrets, and I groaned a little inside, fearing cheesiness. But it
turned out to be a pleasant surprise.
Here's
some info on it.
I'd been on one of those deals before, in Beckley, WV, and it was the
source of my hesitation. It was a long time ago, but I remember it as
being pretty lame. I recall lots of mannequins dressed in
novelty mining clothes, and sitting beside powdered-up old ladies in a
modified coal car on a trip underground that wasn't nearly scary enough.
And, of course, a large gift shop that sold "souvenir spoons"
and whatnot.
I'm not sure if this Lackawanna mine is simply better, or if I enjoyed
it more because I'm an old man now. But it was fun. The descent into the
black hole was a little unnerving, smelly, and rough, and that's all
good stuff.
Our guide was also excellent. With his help, I walked around down there
imagining what it must've been like for the miners working in the dark,
breathing the dust, and dealing with the danger. I thought about their
home life, and how difficult it must've been in those days.
In Beckley I was probably looking for an RC machine, preoccupied with
getting my hands on a Nehi Red Apple.
Of course there were a couple of douchebags in our group yesterday,
trying to impress us all with their vast knowledge and probing
questions. But that goes with the territory, doesn't it? You just
fantasize about "accidentally" bumping them over a railing and
sending them down a darkened shaft, and that seems to help.
A painfully skinny teenage girl was shivering and showboating for
everyone (it's a constant fifty degrees down there), and she was a
little harder to take. I wanted to tell her to have a freakin' burger
once in a while, and get some platelets in her blood, and she might not
shatter like a delicate flower at the slightest change in temperature.
Jesus J. McChrist.
But I liked the way the ceiling kept
getting lower and lower the longer we walked; it created a mild feeling
of claustrophobia. And the dampness, and the constant drip drip drip....
I liked the stories the guide told us about the kids who worked down
there (as young as seven years old), tending to the work-mules (some of
which lived their entire lives underground), and how they went about
stopping the big (and brakeless) five-ton coal cars. Let's just say that
it was a process that could easily earn a person the nickname "Ol'
Seven Fingers." Holy crap.
So, it was an enjoyable way to spend an afternoon. And the place is only
a few miles from our house. Who knew? Maybe I'll try to set aside my
deep, deep prejudices more often, and just go with the flow? Sometimes
it works out.
I took a bunch of pictures, but most of the shots inside the mine itself
didn't work out very well. Unless, of course, you like black rectangles
with a blurry light up in one corner.... Here's
the best I could do. Hopefully it'll give you a general feel for the
place.
Pretty cool.
-- On Sunday Toney and I worked in the yard for two or three hours. The
grass was kinda high (I don't care if the neighbors put together a
petition, I'm not mowing in 98% humidity), but we got everything
whipped into shape, and it looks really good now.
And how's that for a pisser? Last weekend, when we were camping, it was
like hell on earth. This weekend, when we're just hanging around at
home, temperatures are in the 70s and the soul-sapping humidity is at a
tolerable level. Ya just gotta love it.
In the afternoon I went out and bought a six-pack of some sort of
highly-hopped American microbrew, and we sat on the deck and partook. A
beautiful day. It seemed like the bugs were even on vacation.
God is Allen Funt, isn't he?
-- And just so you're completely up to date on our exciting weekend, I
watched Kiss Kiss Bang Bang on Saturday: an entertaining flick
with hilarious dialog. I also ripped through the first disc of the first
season of Perry Mason, which was also great. One of my all-time
favorite shows.... Every episode is like a really good movie.
I did some reading on Raymond Burr after I finished watching the shows,
and I'm still a little surprised at his gayness. I had no idea, until he
died and news reports said he was survived by a "life
partner." Apparently they lived in northern California for decades
as a married couple, raising flowers and running a vineyard(!).
Whatever. It's not like I care one way or the other, but you usually
hear rumors about such things. Ya know? I knew nothing of Perry
Mason's sweet tooth for the man ass. Gomer? Check. Paul Lynde?
Obviously. Rock Hudson? Not exactly shocking. But Raymond Burr?? No.
On top of that, my research revealed that not only was Perry Mason a
homosexual, but Paul Drake was not. It's like we're living in the
bizarro world.... It's almost as hard to fathom as Bob Mould being gay,
while the members of Depeche Mode are all married and have a bunch of
kids. Sometimes it's almost too much for the brain to process.
Hello?
-- Here are last night's (lackluster) Deadwood
numbers, and you're all caught up.
See ya tomorrow. permalink
July 21, 2006
-- Over the past couple of years I've
developed a low-wattage concern, beneath the scar tissue of my mind,
about job security. I work in an industry that's vulnerable to
technological advances, I think, and worry that I'll be forty-eight or
fifty years old and doing salad bar maintenance at Shoney's or
something.
Depending on which co-worker I'm talking to, we either have nothing to
worry about, or are as doomed as the freakin' dinosaurs were. I have a
feeling that the truth lies somewhere in the middle, and that's not
exactly where I'd like it to be.
Because of this, I've started paying attention to what other people do.
I like to compare my situation with theirs, to see who's more at risk.
And it seems that I come out on the losing end of the equation every
time.
Last week I was talking to a guy at the Secret's swimming practice, and
it sounds like he's a big shot at Proctor & Gamble. I'm pretty sure
their plant here manufactures toilet paper. Toilet paper! Talk about job
security -- I can't think of a bigger demographic than the ass-wipers.
Hell, the moment the bombs start falling is when we'll need them the
most. No way to compete with that.
Another person I spoke with owns two or three pizza shops locally. So
there you go. Pizza will never go out of style either, and apparently
the dude has a loyal following. PLUS, he's helping the first guy, in a you
grease 'em up and I'll wipe 'em down situation. We've got nothing
like that happening at my job.
When I started out on my life's journey (heh) I was hell-bent on doing
something "cool" and "interesting." No way I
would've considered a gig inside the shitpaper industry.... Now here I
am, forty-three and imagining a future where I'm saying things like,
"A memo just came down from home office! We're to start leaving the
skin ON the cucumber slices! Did you hear me people?! Leave it
on!!"
Of course, there's always Amway. Right? Maybe when the shit hits the fan
I can turn this website into a household cleaner portal? Humor and
off-brand detergent.... It's something to consider.
-- I'm struggling this morning. My contact lens solution is playing
havoc with my left eye. They make two different formulas of the stuff:
original and advance. Somehow I ended up with advance cleaner and
original conditioning solution. And that doesn't compute.
My eyes burned all day yesterday, and I
took my contacts out as soon as I got home from work. The moment I
popped them back in this morning I knew something was wrong, very wrong.
Far worse than yesterday. I removed them immediately, but my left eye is
still red, burning, and watering to beat the band. I can't get it to
stop. I've splashed water in there and everything, but it's just drip,
drip, drip.
My eyes: I hope they don't have to come out.
I feel like I'm writing this update while looking through a shower door
today. If it's not one thing it's a freakin' nother. And dat's da troof.
-- Will, the keeper of the blanket, has added a few new quotes to his
list. You can read them at the bottom of the page, here.
Thanks Will! I appreciate the ongoing effort.
-- Surf Reporter Don sends along this
extra-nice Smoking Fish sighting, captured in the heart of the
motherland. Thanks, man!
-- And a very shady and mysterious person, who insists on remaining
anonymous, forwarded me these
sightings as well. Yikes. I just want to be clear here.... I'll keep the
identity secret as long as the pressure is off. But if Alberto Gonzales
dispatches some suits to my house, I'm gonna start singing like a bird.
This ain't Robert Novak, goddammit.
Great pics, though! Extremely cool.
-- The very first word of dialog in Sunday's episode of Deadwood
was "fucking." I wish I'd paid attention to the last word
spoken, because there's a very good chance they came in with a fuck and
went out with a fuck. Check the numbers
if you don't believe me.
-- Surf Reporter Jeff has a daughter going into first grade. Last year's
class was asked to write letters to the incoming students, to welcome
them aboard and tell them what to expect. Here's
the letter that Jeff's daughter received a few days ago. As you can see,
it features the rather confusing term "lunch cunt." And so it
goes at Redd Foxx Elementary.
-- Before I get to the question of the day (apparently Clive
doesn't do topics anymore), I'm going to turn it over to our good
friend Buck, who wants to question my manhood some more. Here
ya go.
Be sure to check out the Monuments to Buck
pictures, linked at the bottom of his update, because it took me a
substantial amount of time getting those things ready last night. Shit.
-- And finally, what's the most unusual thing you've ever bought via the
internet?
When we first moved from Atlanta to Southern California, Toney and I
bought a box of Vidalia onions from some outfit in Georgia. (We were
homesick, what of it?) They were very expensive, and the produce Nazis
at the California border confiscated two of them, leaving us with only
four. Four onions for, like, twenty bucks. Then later that week we were
in Costco, and saw that they were selling big twenty pound sacks of the
things for about seven dollars. Yes, it was a Great Moment in Douche.
What about you? Have you ever ordered anything strange over the
internet? Tell us about it in the comments.
And have yourselves a great little weekend, y'hear? See ya on
Monday. permalink
July 20, 2006
-- I'm getting a little tired of this
subject, to tell you the truth, but we're almost to the end and I'll get
back to the regular stuff tomorrow. 'kay?
Sunday It was already hot at eight in the morning, when I crawled
off my shelf-bed and joined Toney outside with a humongous cup of
coffee. So freakin' muggy. There was a haze hanging over the world, so
thick it seemed to muffle sound. And it was supposed to be the hottest
day yet.
As we bitched and sniped the Secrets tore ass to the playground, like
they'd done the previous day. I don't know how they can run and jump in
that stuff, I really don't. It's a miracle of science.
A few minutes later an old man, out walking his dog, stopped to chat.
There's a lot of that in campgrounds... neighborly chatting. Of course
it goes against my nature, but I make an effort to be civil. He asked us
where we live, then launched into twenty minutes of stories loosely
related to our town.
He used to be in the business of well-digging and once dug a well near
us, "probably in 1956, '57," which required him to go down in
excess of 300 feet. He lost money on that deal, he told us. The ground
is reportedly very hard in our area, and the coal is so pure it has to
be cut out in blocks like ice. Not conducive to well-digging. He also
spent many years working in a factory where they made radio tubes, and
once had a job where he was required to leave his house at four in the
morning. His body never adjusted and he repeatedly fell asleep behind
the wheel. "I'm lucky that nobody ever got hurt," he said.
Yeah, no shit.
He was a nice guy, and I liked listening to him. But at the end he
asked, once again, "And where do you folks live?" I thought
about telling him a different town this time, to trigger a new set of
stories, but I really needed to visit the outhouse.
And it just kept getting hotter and hotter -- even worse than the
previous days. Sun was beating down on the camper, unobstructed, and
eventually the big industrial air conditioner seemed to be struggling to
keep up. I didn't think it was possible, but we lost our sanctuary. It
was only slightly cooler inside, and that sucked.
I think it was Toney who suggested we
"go to the store." We needed, um, ice. Right, ice. And
firewood. We could probably save some money if we found a proper grocery
store, and it would be well worth the effort, we told ourselves.
So we took off with the A/C blasting, secretly hoping that it would take
a long time to find a store. We drove past a very cool-looking drive-in
restaurant beside the river, that was completely packed. I suggested we
hit it on the way back, for lunch. As usual, nobody answered.
We somehow ended up in downtown Lewisburg, and drove past the old restored
theater where Steve and I saw a silent Buster Keaton movie a couple
of years ago, complete with live orchestra. I mentioned this, but nobody
had anything to say about it.
We found a grocery store, and I stayed in the truck with Andy while
everyone else disappeared inside. While they were away I did a quick
inventory of our Yuengling supply, and was pleased to find that we had
eighteen left. Oh yeah.
When Toney and the boys returned, they were only toting ice and various
crapola the Secrets wanted. No firewood. The heck, man? She said they
didn't have any. So we tried the Wal-Mart next door, and they were
sold-out as well. Irritating. I'd been highly satisfied with the thought
of us bypassing the criminal pricing of the camp store, and bringing in
some outside wood. Now it was getting all screwed up.
I remembered a handwritten sign I'd seen along the road somewhere. It
said "Firewood $3." Wonder if I could find it again?
Damn right, I could. We turned at the scary-looking dirt road where the
sign was located, and continued past several dumpy houses. It looked
like the owners of each and every one of them had started adding on
rooms, but had run out of money or lost interest or something. There was
an abundance of shabby half-finished construction out there, and the
road stopped abruptly at a dead-end near a shithole with a two story
"addition" that looked to have been started in the mid-1970's
and never finished.
Finally I saw the wood. It was stacked in five or six piles beside the
road, and there was another "Firewood $3" sign tacked to a
tree nearby. Below the sign was a nailed-up coffee can where, I assumed,
I was supposed to deposit my money.
I thought for sure I'd be shot clean through the face as I began loading
one of the stacks into the back of my truck, so I made a big show of
putting the money in the can. I was making big exaggerated movements and
waving my arms around. The kids were laughing at me, but I knew, just
knew, that we were being watched. From somewhere.
It turned out to be great stuff. It burned forever, and seemed to be
almost smokeless. We even had six or eight pieces left over, something
unheard of with camp store wood. If we ever return to that campground,
I'm making a repeat visit to Unfinished Additions Road, and that's a
fact.
We went back to the rolling box o' beds, and topped off our coolers with
ice. I stacked the wood near our fire ring, then suggested we go back to
the drive-in we'd spotted earlier. This time, under the scorching sun,
everybody agreed.
It's called The Fence, and here's
their website. The first time we drove past it was completely packed
with people, very similar to this
picture. It's gotta be good, I theorized. And I was right.
They offer old-fashioned car hop service, but it was too hot for such
nonsense, and we made our way to their air conditioned dining room
instead. We ordered regular drive-in fare: hamburgers, hot dogs, fries,
and root beers. But for some reason it was all magically delicious. I
don't know what they do differently, but I applaud their efforts. I was
about ready to tell our waitress to bring us another round of
everything, but Toney reigned me in.
And it was all downhill from there.
I've never been so uncomfortable in my life, for so long. My core
temperature was so elevated I was afraid I might finally explode, right
there in my folding chair. Toney was past her tipping point, and was
openly hostile about the whole exercise. She proclaimed, repeatedly,
that we will NEVER camp again, and nobody felt the need to argue with
her. Not even the Secrets, who were now completely spent and lying in
heaps.
I went to the bathroom late in the afternoon and was shocked at what was
looking back at me in the mirror. My face was all ruddy and elongated,
shiny and dark brown. I looked like John Kerry, if one of his parents
had been from India, and, you know, he'd died recently and come back as
a zombie. It was literally frightening.
We didn't really need to light the charcoal to cook dinner, but I went
through the motions anyway. Steve, who lives about ten miles away, came
by for a quick visit, but I barely even remember it. My brains were so
scrambled, not much was sticking.
I do know that there was a private party across the street at the
pavilion, thrown by "the union," and they made it clear to us
campers that we weren't welcome. However, we got to listen to their DJ
play a bizarre mix of songs all night, as "union" members got
shit-faced and cranked off rebel yells. I wanted to go over there and
tell the guy that Metallica, Enya, and "The Cover of the Rolling
Stone" by Dr. Hook don't really go together. But fuck it, it was
too hot.
And that was that. We went to bed completely pissed-off and
disillusioned. Toney was livid and acting like a maniac, and still
hasn't fully calmed down. It was that final day that put us over the
top. Before that it had just been your standard-issue horrible. But
Sunday was like something out of the Old Testament.
Now here's the kicker.... We took off early on Monday morning, wanting
to be back in our comfortable air-conditioned house before noon. When we
got here, around one o'clock, I told the Secrets to go inside, as I
mentally prepared myself for another infuriating session of
trailer-backing and high-end obscenity-shouting.
Toney jumped out to serve as my guide again, and I got myself into
position. Then I threw it into reverse and put that bastard right in the
middle of our driveway, like a grizzled long-haul trucker. First try,
straight as an arrow.
And there was nobody there to witness it -- not the snickering
bucktoothed hick at the campground, and not even Mr. Helpful who
"straightened it up" for me. I was certain Allen Funt would
emerge from behind a partition and give me a big hug while convulsing in
laughter.
And so it goes.
-- Next time I promise we'll get back to the regular stuff, which is
starting to pile up. I feel kinda guilty about droning on like this, so
I'll leave you today with another Phil Hendrie clip. Hopefully it'll be
enough to salvage the day? In this one he's "interviewing"
high school football coach Vernon Dozier, who doesn't want any PUSSIES!
on his team with asthma. A classic. Please accept
it as a token of my appreciation.
See ya tomorrow. permalink
July 19, 2006
-- The rest of our big weekend camping
trip was dominated by heat: brain-melting temperatures, and maxed-out
humidity. It was all-encompassing, and almost inescapable. Here's how it
played out:
Saturday We woke up to the sound of rain pounding the top of the
camper, and the canvas above our heads. "Oh shit!" Toney
hollered, sprang from the bed and ripped out the door. The shit?? I
haven't moved that fast since Reagan was in office. Turns out she didn't
want the folding chairs to get wet, since it takes them roughly a week
to dry. Good thinking, pass the beer nuts.
Eventually I started to move around, and could tell that my back ache
had returned. Oh great. Was I now going to spend the rest of the weekend
all gnarled-up and grimacing, with my hands drawn up to my chest like a
T. Rex? I'm just one portable party atmosphere, I told myself, fun for
all.
Luckily enough, it went away shortly after I hoisted my ass upright. And
Toney and I began our morning ritual of drinking coffee and plotting the
day. But we had to do it inside this time, because of the rain. The
Secrets had already turned on Nickelodeon, and Timmy Turner's voice was
boring a hole straight through my brain stem.
This is when we had our first (of several) soul-searching conversations
about whether or not "camping is for us." It was already
grotesquely hot outside, I needed to pee like Man O' War but didn't
cherish the thought of trudging through the rain to the bath house, and
we both felt like we'd been dipped in chicken grease then smoked in a
smoke shack.
Visions of Double Tree Inns danced in our heads.
As we waited on the rain to stop I signed up for 48 hours worth of
wireless internet, for eleven bucks. A little steep, I thought, but who
gives a hot-buttered damn? I was developing a slow-burn bad attitude,
and I'm pretty sure Toney was right there with me.
The weather sites we visited said the rain would end around noon, and
they were right. It stopped right on time, and was replaced by the bad
crazy sun. I'm not kidding, it was like a blast furnace outside. Like
sub-Saharan Africa or some deal. Horrible.
I dragged my wilting ass to the bath
house to take a shower, and enjoyed the air conditioning inside. It
didn't smell too good (there was tag-team crapping going on, along with
much uneasy shit-chat), but it was cold in there. And cold is good.
I didn't like the looks of the shower nozzle, and my fears were
confirmed when I turned on the water. The thing was nothing but a
misting device, the kind they have at outdoor cafes in hellish cities
like Dallas. It took forever to get the job done, because I was standing
inside a lukewarm cloud. Grrr.... Stupid water-saving bean-counting
basta'ds.
The Secrets played with other kids at the campground, wide-open and for
hours on end. I don't know how they did it, but they did. It looked like
they were having a great time, and Toney and I reminded each other that
it was the reason we endured this type of thing. And as we said those
words another marble-sized bead of sweat worked its way down the full
length of my butt-crack.
In the late afternoon we took the kids to the pool. There were four
tables there with shade umbrellas, three of which were occupied. At the
fourth people had draped towels over the bench seats to "save"
them. I shoved the towels to one end, and sat down. Toney said,
"Um, I think somebody else is sitting here." I didn't even
answer.
She dragged a chair over beside me, not wanting to involve herself in
the coming confrontation, and we watched the Secrets rough-house and do
stuff that's not really advised. There were lots of fat people in
attendance, including a woman who looked like Ginny Sack. Her gargantuan
thighs appeared to be constructed of still-wet cement. And lots of it.
As she waddled past I said, in my most thenthitive and understanding
Oprah voice, "Well good for her!"
And that's what I did the rest of the time we were at the pool; whenever
another swaddler shuffled by, I said, "Well, good for her!" I
tried to do it with the men too, but it didn't feel quite right. I've
never heard anyone say that for a 500 lb. man, so I confined it to the
women for authenticity's sake.
I was now getting on Toney's nerves.
After swimming (where the towel people never returned to the scene of
their crime) we went back to the camper, and got ready to cook dinner.
Which, of course, is code-speak for "opened the goddamn bar."
Toney brought along twelve Cokes in the old-fashioned glass bottles, as
a treat for the Secrets, and she handed them each one. Immediately they
started chugging them down, like they were in a race of some sort. I'd
noticed them doing this earlier, and asked what was going on. They
looked at me like they didn't know what I was talking about. Do they
have a summer soda-drinking camp somewhere? I think our kids could
benefit from such a thing. Perhaps we've sheltered them a bit too much?
As we enjoyed our three or four before-dinner Pottsville beverages, we
heard someone hollering over in the commons area near the playground. It
sounded like an adult, not a kid, and he was yelling, "Trow it!
Trow the ball!!" Occasionally he'd crank off a theatrical,
exaggerated laugh, like an actor in a silent movie. Or, you know, some
doucheketeer like Nostrils. He was the loudest person in the place, and
every head was turning in his direction.
Yes, that's correct, it was Mr. Highly Involved Dad, putting on his
evening performance. God, how I wanted to hurt him. I sat there
grumbling and spinning great fantasies that featured the trowing
of hot oil, as well as a little spear-chucking. I looked around at
neighboring sites, and saw other people shaking their heads as well. I
thought I could probably take advantage of some good old-fashioned mob
mentality, but it was far too hot for such a project. Screw it.
Around the time we returned from the pool, a country band began setting
up in the pavilion across the street. It was comprised of three or four
very old men, and one very old woman. By the time we placed our burgers
on the grill, they were well into their third or fourth Hank Williams
song. And they played until ten o'clock. Their voices were pretty good,
and the harmonies were top-notch, but they desperately needed to up the
beats-per-minute; plodding is a good word to describe their performance.
I kept waiting for them to cut loose like Jason and the Scorchers, but
it never happened. Around hour two, or so, all the songs started
sounding exactly alike.
After dinner we all walked down to the camp store, and had Choco-Tacos
for desert. Yum. We bought a bundle of over-priced firewood and a couple
sacks of over-priced ice, and trudged back to our sweat-soaked Coleman
chairs. I built a fire for the Secrets to prod (before they crashed like
a ton of lead around nine o'clock), and grabbed me and Toney another
beer each. And that was that. We barely moved until bedtime, except, of
course, for the wild slapping of mosquitoes off our thighs, necks, and
forearms.
It was a miserable day, and the next would be even worse.
And I apologize for dragging this thing out, but I'll have to finish up
tomorrow. Stay tuned for a surprise ending....
See ya Thursday. permalink
July 18, 2006
-- C minus. That's what I'd rate the
weekend camping trip, a big fat C minus. Toney wasn't so forgiving and
said F minus, which I don't believe is even a legitimate grade. Then she
added, paraphrasing a character on Boston Public, "and if
they'd let me, I'd give it a G." She also suggested we shove the
rolling box of beds off a bridge, into the Susquehanna River. Scary,
because Toney is usually the family's camping cheerleader....
Here's what happened:
Friday I wasn't able to leave work as early as I'd hoped, and we
didn't get on the road until about 3:45. But it was only a ninety mile
trek, so no big deal. We had our traditional travel CD, Tom Petty's Greatest
Hits, and an outsize sack of Sam's Club Jelly Belly knock-offs, and
were in a great mood, anticipating a little time away from reality.
Soon after leaving interstate 81, and entering interstate 80, we hit
traffic. For a long time we crept forward at a speed so low it didn't
register on the dashboard gauges. Several times we were completely
stopped, and people were out of their cars talking to each other. It was
hotter than the proverbial owl piss and I had the A/C in my Blazer
cranked, just knowing that the engine would soon explode.
We made it through that particular mess, caused by a crew of
"workers" leaning on shovels behind road cones, rocketed down
the road for a few miles at normal speed (free at last!), before it all
happened again. Same reason, same results.
It took us three hours and ten minutes to travel less than a hundred
miles. Grrrr.... But there was plenty of daylight left, and we gritted
our teeth and attempted to will away the white-hot all-consuming
irritation that had overtaken us.
The woman at the front counter in the campground wasn't very friendly,
and immediately she and I were having "words." She was acting
like each person there was just another drudgery she was forced to
endure, literally rolling her eyes in exasperation at every question
posed to her. I've worked retail and am familiar with that feeling, but
I also know that you're not supposed to be so obvious about it.
With all the traffic issues, I was in
no mood. So the two of us sparred, trading smart-ass jabs. And after the
transaction was complete, I'm almost certain she gave me a little
conspiratorial nod of the head, which seemed to say: it's been nice
doing battle with you, you're a formidable opponent. I returned the
unspoken compliment, and we were off.
I'd been assured that we were assigned a prized pull-through site, which
save me the humiliation of displaying my lack of backing skills. There's
nothing worse than rolling into a campground late in the evening, when
all the other campers are already set-up and guzzling Busch Light, and
having a snickering audience as I struggle to get our camper in place.
But we wouldn't have that problem here, we'd made arrangements on the
front end.
The place looked great. We had to drive a long way to reach our site,
and I was almost shocked at how pretty and well-maintained it was. Up in
this part of the country, I've found, campgrounds are an iffy
proposition. I guess it's because the season is so short, and it's hard
to make any money at it. I don't know. But camping in the northeast can
be pretty scary, if you don't play your cards right.
No issues here, though. It
seemed to be packed-out with All-American families. Kids were
everywhere, folks were playing horseshoes in the big grassy commons, and
everyone seemed happy. It looked like some sort of Norman Rockwell
paradise to me. I couldn't believe it. And so close to our house, too.
As we made our way to the site I passed a guy standing in front of his
camper, drinking a beer. He had buck teeth protruding through a Fu
Manchu moustache, and a filthy baseball cap advertising some sort of
heavy machinery brand. I waved at him as we passed, as required by the
Kamping Kulture handbook, but he didn't return the gesture. He just
looked at me with the smile of the semi-retarded. The hell, man? Is the
dude drunk already??
We found our spot, but there was a problem. While that entire row of
sites was designed to be pull-throughs, some were built-up in the
back with railroad ties, to make them level. So there was no
pulling-through happening here, none whatsoever.
Was it really our site? Perhaps there'd been some sort of mix-up? We
were in deep denial, and decided to go around the big one-way loop
again.
As we passed BuckyChu this time, I was almost certain he was chuckling. Heeeere
we go.
A man and woman had been preparing to set up a large tent near a tree
the first time around, and they had a full-on infrastructure built the
second time we passed. Humiliating.
And, of course, it was true. I'd have to back the camper into our space,
in front of a large captive audience. I began running my hands through
my hair, and spewing obscenities, just a-stressin'. The office lady had
landed a knockout punch. Oh, she was good....
Toney told me to calm down, and jumped out of the truck to act as my
guide. I started to back up and the camper went off on its own, not
obeying my demands. I felt like every male eye was upon me, and fluids
were exiting my body at an alarming rate. Then a car came, and stopped a
few feet away, intending to wait until I was finished. I flew into a
rage, threw the Blazer into drive, and took off. The box o' beds bounced
wildly on the uneven road, and I saw Toney throw up her hands in
frustration in the rearview mirror.
I had to go all the way around the loop again, and the bucktoothed
hillbilly was still standing guard, with his Natural Light or whatever,
and was now openly laughing at me. I thought about throwing open my door
as I passed, and knocking him on his ass, but he looked like he'd been
in a few bar fights in his time. And a few post office fights. And a few
church fights. And a few JC Penney bedding department fights. I opted to
stare straight ahead instead, acting as if I didn't see him.
The tent folks were now sitting in lawn chairs in front of their
fully-constructed canvas mansion, sipping mixed drinks and talking.
They'd arrived at the same time we did, and were already vacationing!
They didn't seem to notice me driving past again, but my face became hot
with embarrassment anyway.
I backed the stupid thing in as best as I could, and decided we'd just
shove it the rest of the way. The trailer is so light, you can just roll
it into place, a fact that's saved me several times. But the guy camping
next to us came running over and offered to "straighten it up"
for me. Instinctively I told him no, but Toney was urging me to let him
do it. So I did.
And at that moment my testicles were officially snipped off, and placed
inside a figurative lockbox. Another man had backed my camper, and
there's simply no returning from such shame. May as well start the
hormone injections today.
But we were finally landed, fully-ballless but landed, and it didn't
take long to have our little nest built. Across the street was a
pavilion or clubhouse, or some such thing. They were playing bingo
inside, and it was packed with people. As we set up the camper, put out
our awning, and all that jazz, it sounded like Ben Stein was over there
talking his monotone into an amplification device: B-11, that's
B-11.... Continuously, until about ten o'clock.
Despite the high heat, we built a fire (the kids always insist), and
cooked some kick-ass chicken on the charcoal grill. And, of course,
plenty of Yuengling was consumed. Plenty of Yuengling.
And as I walked to the (incredibly clean and air-conditioned) bathhouse
to get rid of said liquids, guess who I saw? That's right, Fu Man
Wood-Hick, out walking with his chinless wife. He still had his
surgically-attached beer and the same amused expression on his face. He
looked right at me and his big teeth appeared to jump up and down inside
their frame of redneck facial hair, as he apparently mocked me without
hesitation.
Would the humiliation never stop??
But there was more beer, lots more beer, back at the camp. And we
thought the worst was behind us, that it would be smooth sailing from
there. Oh, how inexperienced and naive we were back then....
Tomorrow I'll tell you the rest of the story. permalink
July 14, 2006
-- A few days ago Toney went to Subway
(eat fraish!) and picked us up some comically elongated
sandwiches for lunch. I scribbled down what I wanted on the back of the
envelope our electric bill came in, and made a big to-do about VERY
LIGHT mustard. I wrote it in all caps, and underlined it, because I know
how those people operate.
And, of course, when I unwrapped my tube-lunch there was mustard slung
everywhere; it looked like O.J. had caught Nicole chatting with a
condiment. Grrrr....
I tried not to act too irritated, I didn't want Toney to think I was
blaming her. My old boss in Atlanta used to ask me to pick him up
something from Arby's, back in the day, then proceed to bitch, bitch,
bitch about it when I returned. "I don't know what you bought
me," he'd say, "but it certainly wasn't what I ordered."
I always wanted to wait until he had it raised to his mouth, then throw
a haymaker and drive that bitch deep. So, I'm very careful not to act
like him.
But it pisses me off. The term "very light mustard" means
something completely different to me and, apparently, the rest of the
world. I like just a single pencil-thin stripe of the stuff across the
toppings. It's supposed to be a compliment to the sandwich, not the main
ingredient. Ya know? This was a single stripe alright, but it was as
wide as my thumb.
And when I bit into it, there was oozing, substantial oozing. I hate to
be a sandwich crybaby, but that's goddamn disgusting and almost too much
to handle. I smiled though and continued, not wanting to make a scene.
And by the time I was finished I had mustard all over my hands, halfway
up my left forearm, and a little in my eyebrows. It was all I could do
to finish two-thirds of it, the point where it's no longer a
statement. But I finally choked it down. And it smelled like we were
living literally inside a bottle of French's.
All I could taste was mustard, nothing else. Call me a radical, but I
believe a well-prepared sandwich should be a collection of different
tastes and textures all working together to achieve a common goal:
deliciousness. One should not dominate the others, like a fixin' Nazi.
But I'm convinced that America is in love with spreads and dressings,
and that's why I can't get a fair shake at Subway. They're simply giving
the people what they want.
There's a little Italian place near our
house that we frequent, and I always take notice of the way our fellow
diners use salad dressing. And I'm generally disgusted. They
automatically dump the entire contents of the little plastic container
on top of their salad, then pick up a knife and begin scraping
the cup, attempting to get every last drop.
I use about one-third of mine.
Once we were there with Sunshine, and she bitched and complained about
the "tiny amount" of dressing they gave her. (It wasn't served
in a tumbler.) She scraped and scraped, but still wasn't satisfied.
Finally she began snatching up our leftover dressings, and adding them
to the mix. In the end, she had a salad saturated in Italian, Creamy
Garlic, and Thousand Island. I had to avert my eyes.
Just a few days ago we were there and I saw a guy dump his cup, then
twirl the container round and round on the tip of his tongue, like he
was chalking up a goddamn pool cue.
Yeah, it might seem that it's none of my business, but it is. These
people are influencing America's sandwich-makers, and screwing up my
life. They're indirectly responsible for the ooze. Businesses, of
course, want to please their customers. And more often than not, they
know, people view food as little more than a vehicle with which to
transport sauce.
So there you go. Now I guess you're all going to tell me that I'm
the weird one, simply because I don't want to end a meal with tarter
sauce bleeding through the waistband of my underwear? Well, have at it.
-- Here's even more Monuments to
Buck, and this is Syd Barrett circa 1968
& 2001. I was going to write a little something about the
recently-departed Syd, but there's no time.
I'm outta here, I need to get to work. We're camping this weekend, and
won't be returning until Monday afternoon. So the next update will be
Tuesday.
Have a great weekend, and I'll see ya then. permalink
July 13, 2006
-- Tomorrow's one of my "summer
flex hours" half-day Fridays, and we're supposed to leave on our
first camping trip of the season in the afternoon. We had another of our
optimistic Myrtle Beach trips booked (and paid-for), but we
canceled because of crapola too convoluted and boring to go into here.
Instead, we've decided to keep it low-key this year, and not venture too
far from the Compound.
The place we're heading to tomorrow is less than a hundred miles away,
and is supposed to be really nice. A few Surf Reporters suggested it to
us, as well as a couple of Toney's Pennsylvania buddies, so we're going
to check it out. We also have a Hershey Park extravaganza set for
August, along with a three-day weekend at a state park roughly seven
miles from our house.
And that'll probably be it for the rolling box o' beds this year, unless
we get a wild hair and go to Cape May before school starts -- something
I'm lobbying for.
I feel a little guilty that the summer is half over and we're just
taking off on our first trip. But things have a tendency to get
complicated. For instance, Toney had outpatient surgery yesterday, which
stressed me out far more than the situation warranted. (Go figure.)
Everything worked out, of course, and she's fine. But it's just one
thing after another.
-- Needless to say, Heat Wave '06 is predicted to descend upon us
tomorrow, and last until the day we return from our trip. Expect soaring
temps and high humidity, the weatherdouches are saying from "the
backyard." It seems to happen every time.
But, luckily for us, we've got a big honkin' industrial-strength air
conditioner clamped to the top of our camper. I'm not kidding, I think
that thing was designed to cool a small warehouse; it has the power to
turn our sleeping quarters into a deep-freeze within seconds. It's
enough to bring a tear to a fat man's eye.
When we were shopping for a trailer, we told the salesmen that A/C was a
non-negotiable item. And one guy immediately launched into the standard
Northeastern PA bullshit speech about not needing it "up here in
the mountains," and I wanted to punch him full in the mouth. It
didn't take long for him to realize that I was serious about the
requirement. And who was right and who was wrong? Hmm?
-- One good sign concerning the
weather, though: yesterday we received the L.L. Bean Fall Catalog in the
mail. So it can't be too far away, right? Back-to-school sales and ducks
(or whatever) flying in a V must surely be right around the
corner.
Ahhh... beautiful autumn. Fireplace smells, the baseball playoffs and
World Series, Halloween, copious amounts of bourbon.... It's the most
wonderful time of the year.
-- On the back front (get it?), things are much better today. I didn't
exactly spring from the bed this morning, but I got up without
engaging in a ten-minute production of speaking in tongues and making
faces like Renee Zellweger. A huge improvement. By tomorrow I'm
confident I'll be in good enough shape to re-injure myself hooking up
the camper. Pretty cool, huh?
-- I found out some distressing news this week: the cafeteria at work is
closing. For years they had some shady outfit running the operation and,
despite the fact that everybody mocked the quality of their
"food," we all co-existed quite nicely. But then a
bean-counter somewhere monkeyed with the program, and sacked the first
group of people, and brought in a whole new crew of criminals and
derelicts. And it's never been the same since.
In the old days I'd walk over there between the two ball-busting
conference calls, and order up a nice turkey club wrap. The snaggle-toothed
woman who worked that counter liked to talk, and would entertain me with
tales of debauchery and screen door-exploding fist fights from the
trailer park where she lived. I was always happily humming this
song as I made my way back to my office.
Then I'd enjoy the mean-ass impeccably-built wrap she'd prepared for me.
It was a good set-up, so naturally it had to be ruined. I never warmed
to the new people, they folded their wraps like a burrito for one
thing(?!), and I usually just bought pre-packaged garden salads from
them. The woman who ran the cash register couldn't be trusted either.
She was always getting "confused" and giving you change for a smaller
bill than you'd handed her. I was always amazed at the way her confusion
only ran one way.
And now they're crying the blues, claiming they're losing money, and
shutting the whole deal down. Which sucks. We work out in the middle of
nowhere, and it's a trek to the nearest fast food ass-plumping
establishment. I'll probably end up eating out of the vending machines
more often than not: a bag of Jolly Ranchers today, a double-decker
Little Debbie oatmeal cookie tomorrow....
I wish they could bring back the original crew, but I know, deep down,
that the spell has been broken, and we'll never go home again. The
meddling smartest-guys-in-the-room bean-counting basta'ds....
-- What do you do for lunch at work? I'm entering uncharted territory
here, and need some guidance. The thought of carrying in a sack of
sandwiches every morning, and putting them inside the upright-butthole
that is the department refrigerator, doesn't really appeal to me. But
eating Tart n Tinys for lunch every day doesn't sound very good either.
Help me out, people. I turn to you, once again, in my hour of need.
And I've got more, lots more (including this
NSFW video that Wordnerd
sent in, which I can't decide whether or not to link to...), but it'll
have to wait until tomorrow.
Have a great day, and I'll see you on Flex Friday. permalink
July 12, 2006
-- The situation with my aching back
got better yesterday as the day wore on. By the time I came home from
work I was walking with only a slight stoop, instead of all the
twitching and dragging I'd been doing earlier. I started the day as
"the gimp" from Deadwood, and returned as Mr. Burns
from The Simpsons. A vast improvement.
However, I'm back to square-one this morning. It took me ten minutes to
get out of bed, and that's no joke. When I was finally upright, I felt
like I'd accomplished one of the world's greatest feats. Like I was
freakin' Neil Armstrong or something. And as I sit here in the bunker on
the official TheWVSR dining room chair with the back broken off, I'm not
feeling so good. Could it possibly be worse than yesterday? I
don't really want to say those words out loud, but I'm worried that it
might be true.
We're supposed to leave on our first camping trip of the season on
Friday, and here I am all gnarled-up and pathetic. If it's not one
thing, it's another steamer trunk full of bullshit.
-- Do you ever yell out a burst of nonsense when you're hit with a jolt
of pain? I always have, and this morning, when I was attempting to hoist
my ass off the mattress, I'm almost certain I hollered out the phrase,
"Sony Walkman sack o' shellac!" That shit's scarier than the
owls yesterday.
-- I just received an auto-renewal notice for my "backstage
pass" at Phil Hendrie's website.
When he announced his retirement several weeks ago, I assumed I'd stop
forking over my $6.95 per month once he left the air.
But, a funny thing's happened. He's gone and made the site goddamn
unleavable. (Phil, I wish I knew how to quit you.) During the final
weeks a huge amount of vintage material was added, including complete
streaming shows dating all the way back to 2002, and dozens (hundreds?)
of lengthy character segments from even earlier.
A lot of this classic stuff was previously banned by his syndicator,
because of post-Jackson nipple hysteria. But now it's back.
And even more
exciting.... in October the site will no longer be owned by Premier
Radio, it'll be Phil's with no corporate strings attached. He promises
big, exciting things -- like every show in its entirety from the Los
Angeles era. And that means ten years of Phil Hendrie at the peak of his
powers.
So, forget about quitting. I'm just getting started.
Yesterday I listened to a sick and twisted "interview" (from
early 2003) with a father who's under fire because he insists on
spanking his fourteen year old daughter, skirt-up underwear-down --
sometimes in front of his poker buddies, and once in front of her date.
The callers wanted to lynch that bastard. Heh.
-- I'm blasting the Hoodoo
Gurus this morning. Just thought you'd want to know. Are
those guys underrated, or what? I submit that they are.
-- Since I can't seem to stop obsessing about the subject, check this
shit out. It's a veritable clearinghouse of paranoia-generators.
We're scheduled to visit HersheyPark
next month, and Knoebels
in a few weeks, and I probably won't let the Secrets get on anything
more extreme than the antique cars.
Thanks internet! Thanks a lot. Now I look at the Scrambler and see
nothing but a giant hand-mixer, fixin' to whip up another batch of L'il
Fudge Stripe Amputees.
-- A few days ago I opened an account at Sharebuilder,
an online brokerage service for people who don't know shit about what
they're doing, and have no money, but want to play around in the stock
market.
Yes, in a couple of weeks I will have something new to obsess about, and
will be monitoring the performance of my "portfolio" roughly a
hundred times per day. I might even check into the feasibility of having
one of those Gomez Addams ticker-tape machines installed at the
Compound.
I'm purchasing Sirius Satellite Radio the first time out, and next month
I'll probably do the same. I have it set up so that I make a buy on the
first Tuesday of every month. And I have dreams of someday parlaying it
all into a balance in the high three-figures, at least. God bless
the United States of America.
-- The Monuments to Buck project is getting off to a fast start. Check
it out, yo.
-- And I'm gonna leave you now with yesterday's Clive
Bull topic, which is.... a bit strange. His question: how often do
you wash your bedspread or comforter?
A lot of his callers said they never wash theirs, and that led to an
offshoot discussion about other washable things that never get
washed. Like winter coats.
Got anything to say about that? I suspect that Clive is still under the
influence of World Cup fever and isn't thinking straight, but I can't
prove it....
More of this stuff tomorrow.
And by the way, my back situation has improved remarkably during the
writing of this update. I think I'm operating at 80% capacity at this
point, and that's not bad.
Perhaps it's only a first-thing-in-the-morning deal now, and I'm on the
verge of, um, putting this behind me? I sure hope so, because Toney
wants her long-handled spoons back.
See ya next time. permalink
July 11, 2006
-- This is going to be brief; I'm all
gnarled-up here. Last night I hit the sack around ten o'clock, and read
for about 45 minutes. Then I started to get up and visit the smallest
room one more time before turning off the light. And a lightning bolt of
excruciating pain shot through my body.
The storm is centered in my lower back, and feels like muscle
inflammation of some sort. I'd been fine when I laid down, and, before
the wise-ass comments begin.... let me make it clear that I only read
in bed, nothing else. I didn't hurt myself on a love trapeze, or
anything like that. I mean, seriously.
I never made it to the bathroom. But, luckily, it wasn't anything
urgent, it was purely a preventive maintenance measure. I even had
trouble turning over on my side while lying down. Whenever I moved in a
certain way I'd get the juice, and nearly shit my net. It was a long
night.
I'd blame it all on the bicycle ride I took on Sunday, but if that were
the cause I would've gone through this on Sunday night/Monday morning,
not 24 hours later. Right? There's not an incubation period for such
things, is there? The whole thing is baffling. I did nothing yesterday
besides sit on my ass.
And now I'm lurching and grimacing and scaring the children. It hurts
like hell to walk through a room, or get out of a chair. When I'm
sitting I can usually find a comfort zone, and all's well as long as I
don't move or take a deep breath. I won't even go into the logistical
problems I encountered during my "morning constitutional."
Let's just say that I was about to ask Toney to bring me a long-handled
wooden spoon.
I'm going to attempt to go to work in a little while, and hopefully I
won't have a spazz-out and plunge down an elevator shaft or anything.
Wish me luck.
-- This morning there was a whole gang of owls in our backyard. Very
strange. One comically oversized specimen was sitting on the deck
railing, just chilling and moving it's head almost completely around on
its, um, shoulders. Others were flying from tree to tree, and weighing
down the limbs with their great heft. We saw at least four of them, and
how bizarre is that?
Laugh if you'd like, but that sort of
thing makes me a bit nervous. Just like the hundreds of moths we
encountered on Sunday, I wonder if it means something? Is it an animal
omen of some sort? Is it Something Horrible?
I've told the "bird in the house" story before, but it's the
source of my anxiety, so I'm gonna tell it again....
When we lived in Atlanta I worked part-time at a bookstore in Buckhead.
One night I was working with some cutesy teenage girl, and she was
making fun of her Dad for not hiring a crew to paint their house. Oh no,
she said, he views it as shameful to call a plumber, or an electrician,
or anything like that. He believes he should do everything around
the house. She said he'd even built homemade scaffolding, and it was
reportedly one of the most ridiculous-looking things she'd ever seen.
As she was telling me all this a customer came through the front door,
and during the two seconds it was open, a bird flew in. Holy shit! It's
well-known in The South that a bird in the house means there will be a
death in the family. And while this wasn't technically a house, it was
called Book Warehouse, and that was close enough for me. I wanted the
bastard out of there, and spent the next fifteen minutes chasing it
around with a broom and acting like a mental patient.
And the very next day.... I found out that the "ridiculous"
scaffolding had collapsed, and the girl's father suffered a broken neck
and died on his way to the hospital. Talk about your full-body shivers!
Now I keep a book here in the bunker called 2001 Southern
Superstitions. Yesterday I checked it for information on moth
swarms, and found nothing. This morning I checked it for owl
infestation, and got the same result. The only owl info contained in
this invaluable resource is: if an owl hoots at midnight, someone will
be injured. And that doesn't pertain to our situation.
So maybe we're in the clear?
-- I'm sorry to have to report that lakrfool will no longer be writing a
column here at TheWVSR. Yesterday he showed me
up with his mad comedy skillz, so that's that. He's out the virtual
door. I simply can't have that.
-- A Surf Reporter with a very cool last name, John Toney, sent me this
link yesterday, about yet another disastrous amusement park
accident. This one took place in my boyhood stomping grounds, King's
Island, near Cincinnati. The best part is the reader comments at the
bottom.
One of my favorites:
"I rode the [Son of Beast] two weeks ago. At the end of
the ride I had sharp pains in my chest. I knew it wasn't a heart attack,
it felt like my sternum was being seperated."
Good stuff.
-- Now I'm gonna turn it over to Buck,
who's also pushing his luck, and twitch and jerk my way to work.
See ya tomorrow. And, of course, I'm only joking about lakrfool.... He's
welcome to show me up anytime. permalink
July 10, 2006
-- I'm sick of my Chevy Blazer. It's
now making a new noise, one I'd never heard before, and I just know that
it's the initial warning sign of Something Terrible. My original plan
was to drive the shitbox until it was completely paid-off, so we could finally
wash away an ancient Hyundai-based catastrophe we endured in California
("Mr. Kay, are you aware that that car doesn't have a working
engine in it?"), and are still paying for.
But I'm about ready to jump ship.
Yesterday Toney and I went browsing at several local car lots. They're
closed on Sundays, so it's a good time to check things out without some
smirking hands-rubbing salesman walking up and saying, "Looks like
we might get some rain?" On Sundays you can just look around in
peace, and it's a beautiful thing.
The only problem is, the vehicles I want are, you know, really
expensive. We looked at a whole row of Toyota 4Runners, all fresh from a
2-year lease I'm sure, and the prices made my anus drop. What am I, Bill
Oates?? The Highlander is more reasonably-priced, but kinda small and
only offers a towing-capacity of 3000 lbs. Ha! I require far more balls
than that. Once the rolling box of beds is loaded with the standard
supply of beer and Andy Capp Salsa Fries, a Highlander simply won't do
it.
So, I'm a bit discouraged this morning; I feel like yesterday's exercise
was nothing more than blowing diarrhea in the wind. I know that I should
ride out the final fourteen or fifteen payments on that Chevy
Melancholy, and not go into another massive purchase already at a
deficit. But I don't want to; I really don't.
We'll see which side of my brain finally wins the battle.
-- At one of the car lots we visited yesterday, moths were everywhere.
It was crazy, the place was completely moth-spangled. They kept flying
in my face and touching off a series of wild Skippy Hicks dances near a
high-traffic thoroughfare. Wonder what it's all about? Does it have
anything to do with all the caterpillars in the trees around these
parts? Good God.
It's kinda creepy, like an omen or some
such thing. Maybe it's my grandfathers communicating from beyond the
grave? Don't buy a rice cooker, Jeff! Don't do it!! We're a Chevrolet
family, and if you go against us, we're gonna tell everyone ab |
The State of My
Fat Ass
July 2006
