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August 31, 2006
-- Last week I called my boss to cancel
a vacation day I had scheduled. He passed me to his assistant, and she
told me I'd need to call "corporate" because the paperwork had
already been faxed over to them. Grrr.... I'm not a fan of walking into
the hall of mirrors that is corporate; I might not ever find my way out.
But I called, so I wouldn't be charged for a day I didn't take. And
guess what? There were two or three more hoops I was required to
jump through. Fax this, sign that, make a follow-up call over there.
Dammit! I should've just taken the day off. It's like dealing with the
U.S. government.
After I had my bulleted list of tasks required of me, I asked the woman,
just for shits and giggles, if she could tell me how many vacation days
she shows I have left for the year. And after a lot of keyboard clicking
and dead air, she said, "OK Jeff, we have you down for 49.8."
Wha'??
It turns out that in 2001 they started rolling unused days into the next
year -- and nobody told me about it. I'm in a crazy situation, because I
work in Pennsylvania for a company based in Southern California. I'm in
a building with 1500 or so employees who work for X, and I'm right in
the middle of them working for Y. Therefore, I'm thousands of miles away
from the kind of office gossip and bitchfests that might actually help
me.
When I moved to PA, and jumped from one division of The Company to
another, vacation days were use 'em or lose 'em. Then they changed the
rules somewhere along the line, and the news never made it to me. Under
normal circumstances I would've received a memo, or heard about it from
the fat woman who likes to talk about her medical procedures. But I'm
out here all alone, and the local fat woman is of little use to me.
Now I find out that I have ten weeks of vacation stacked up(!). Ten
weeks that I won't be allowed to take anytime soon, because
fourth-quarter is almost upon us... And the pisser? The maximum is
fifty, so they've been trying to give me even more paid days off,
but the reservoir is always full.
I know I should be happy about this surprise windfall, but for some
reason it irritates me.
-- I'm reading another book by Bentley
Little. Have you ever heard of this guy? I hadn't, until Stephen
King raved about him in his Entertainment Weekly (aka The
Shitter's Companion) column a few months ago. King described him as
a twisted horror writer with a bizarre sense of humor, who writes about
ordinary people plunged into the middle of insane situations.
Man, that sounded right up my alley, so I ordered one of his books.
I chose The
Store, about a Wal-Mart-like chain store that opens in a small
town in Arizona, and may or may not be owned and managed by one of
Satan's disciples. All manner of hilarious fucked-upness transpires, and
I loved every minute of it.
Now I'm reading The
Association, about a couple who move into a gated community in
Utah, with a homeowners' association that may or may not be run by, yes,
one of Satan's disciples. Heh.
You probably get the idea. These things are completely over-the-top,
without apology, and lotsa fun. I'm now in the process of obtaining more
of Little's books, and have a brand new obsession to fill
the void.
Thank you Stephen King, and thanks, as always, to the good folks at The
Companion.
-- Here's a
classic that I never get tired of watching. That soppy sack of garbage
at the end makes me laugh every time.
-- Last night Toney and I were talking about how there are common adult
names which you can't imagine a newborn baby having. Like Roger. I just
can't envision a tiny baby sitting in a high chair with the name of
Roger. Ya know? But there are plenty of grown-ups walking around
with that name, and you don't even think about it. What are some of the
others?
Here's
an interesting site that verifies my suspicions. And it also tells me
that I was born at the absolute pinnacle of the first big Jeff spike. I
think it's high time for another.
-- And this has been one hell of a scattered morning.... I can't begin
to tell you. I'll leave you now with the question of the day, not from
Clive, but from me.
A few days ago I once again saw a guy in the break room at work eating
corn on the cob. He had two ears that he'd already stripped clean, and
was working on a third. I think I talked about this guy once
before.
Anyway, I was wondering, what are the most unusual foods you've seen
co-workers eat for lunch? Can you top the dude with the baker's dozen
cobs?
And I'll see ya tomorrow, maybe. This shit is flying off the tracks...
Have a great day, folks. permalink
August 30, 2006
-- August is almost over (somehow), and
there's already a hint of fall in the air up here. I love it. As I drove
back from West Virginia on Sunday it just kept getting cooler and cooler
the farther north I traveled -- the temperature gauge on the dash went
down down down, as I drove up up up. I started out in ice water country
(still hotter than the piss of an owl down there), and by the time I
reached our driveway I was sensing the unmistakable pull of bourbon
season.
It's a bizarre feeling to drive from one season to another, it
really is.
And the great thing? Except for the horror movie of a camping trip we
took in July, summer didn't have its way with us like it normally does.
That big honkin' Soviet humbox that we bought from Sam's, and installed
in one of the living room windows, has changed everything. I now laugh
in the face of summer: Ha Ha Ha! We have defeated you with our
superior technology! So move along, little bitch.
-- I've been neglecting my Netflix queue. It feels like my life has been
chaos recently, and I don't have the energy to try to remember why. But
I've been letting the chips fall where they may with Netflix, as a
result of the craziness, and weeds are starting to pop up through the
cracks, and shit is getting shaggy.
A few days ago I received a one-hour documentary about Stuart
Sutcliffe in the mail from them, and that simply wouldn't have
happened if I'd been on top of my game. I mean, seriously. That's one of
those things that you might want to watch someday, way off in an
abstract future. But actually getting it? It's nuts.
I really need to dedicate some time to it and restore order in the
queue, but I currently lack the enthusiasm for such a thing. I feel like
there's an old washing machine in the front yard of my Netflix house,
and a Camaro with a coat hanger antennae and one green door, but I'm
paralyzed by lack of interest and half-assery against doing anything
about it.
I have become a full-blown Flixbilly.
-- This is
the contraption my parents have hanging in one of their showers.
Apparently my mother received a $5-off coupon in the mail for it, and
decided to try it out. I don't know anything about the ridiculous
device, and thought it might be controlled by a timer. I was terrified
that it would suddenly kick-on while I was in there, and spray me full
in the crotch with a jet of harsh chemicals.
But my Dad told me you have to push the
button, it gives you ten seconds to get out of the way, then it goes to
town. That made me feel a little better, until I accidentally bumped it
while rinsing shampoo from my hair. I was convinced that I'd started the
countdown, and almost ripped the shower door off its hinges trying to
get away from it.
That thing needs to go straight to the garbage can.
-- This is a little hard to believe, I know, but it's true: I was carded
last night while buying beer. I stopped on my way home from work for a
case of the golden
elixir, and the guy wanted to see my ID. I said, "You've GOTTA
be shitting me?" while handing him my driver's license. He told me
that college is back in session, and they need to be extra-careful. Wow.
Talk about Old School! Man, I'd still be legal if I'd been born
on the day I became legal. Or whatever. Hello?
-- When I was driving back on Sunday I stopped at a convenience store
somewhere on I-79, way out where your cell phone says NO SERVICE, for a
coffee refill on my Krispy Kreme travel mug. After I stirred in the Half
& Half, and was making my way to the cash register, I noticed a
display of Hostess products out of the corner of my eye. Yum. I picked
up a package of chocolate cupcakes, paid the It's Pat cashier for
my purchases, and headed out the door.
But wait! What about the car? There was no way I was going to attempt to
eat those cakes in my pristine new vehicle, no chance in hell. So I
stood on the sidewalk and had them, a safe distance from the upholstery.
Damn good. Those babies have a shelf-life, I believe, of roughly 99
years, but the ones I bought on Sunday were no older than five or six
years, I'd guess. Fresh.
And I'd saved myself from the slipper slope of crumbs in crevices, and
all that stuff. I was snacking smart!
Then I jumped back behind the wheel, and started driving toward the
interstate entrance. And just as I was merging into traffic I was hit
with a powerful sneezing jag. There were four or five in rapid-fire
succession, just as I was attempting to slide between two 18-wheelers.
No chance to adequately cover-up and take preventative measures.
And, sure enough, during the last sneeze a chocolaty glob of spit and
snot rocketed from my mouth and stuck to the steering wheel. I
think I literally shrieked like a schoolgirl! It was shaped like Cuba
and I thought some it might be working its way down into the horn
mechanism. I was in a state of terror.
But I was lucky. It was a fairly sturdy glob, and I was able to wipe it
away with ease. There was no seepage whatsoever. I think the Hostess
preservatives saved me from disaster.
Whew!
-- Speaking of being distracted in traffic, check out this
pic that Surf Reporter Garrett snapped over the weekend, in
Dripping Springs, Texas. Is that not excellent? I submit that it is.
And I think that'll do it for today, boys and girls. I'll leave you now
with an item from the Stealing Clive
Bull's Topics desk:
What vegetable do you think Justin Timberlake looks like?
Have at it, and I'll see ya tomorrow. permalink
August 29, 2006
-- So, the funeral was only a few hours
away, and I had no pants. I'd tried Wal-Mart, in a fit of desperation,
but all of their "dress clothes" looked like something a
door-to-door Bible salesman might wear. So what was I to do? I was
supposed to be a pall bearer, and needed to be at the church at 10:45 in
the morning. All the stores were closed and the clock was ticking.
I called Toney, and once she stopped laughing she told me she thought
she saw a JCPenney ad that said their Scranton store opened on Saturday
at 8 am. They were having some sort of sale, and it would probably be
the same for the WV stores. I checked the newspaper at my parent's
house, and it was true! A doorbuster sale, with extra savings between
eight and ten in the morning. Damn straight.
My Mom and I were there when they opened the store, and there wasn't
exactly an unruly crowd waiting outside to "bust" through the
doors like their ad had wished for. It was just the two of us, a man who
was practicing his golf swings with a phantom club in the parking lot,
and a woman who may or may not be afflicted with dwarfism.
I think my mother and I were arguing before we even made it to the men's
department.
Of the clothes I'd brought, she only approved of the tie and shoes. Oh,
and I think the belt was OK too. She said everything else was for
winter, and I was getting paranoid about it. I couldn't shell out a
bunch of money for an hour's worth of funeraling, but she clearly
thought I needed a complete overhaul. I certainly didn't want to look
ridiculous and inappropriate, but what am I, Ted Turner here? Shit.
Plus, she accused me of being difficult and picky. There was lots of
"how about this jacket?" to which I'd usually answer,
"No, I'd look like I work at H&R Block," or something
along those lines. Through gritted teeth she finally said, "I don't
know where you're getting all these cute little phrases, but they need
to stop." It was like I was fourteen again.
I ended up buying a pair of pants, a shirt, and a jacket. They rang up
for more than three hundred bucks(!), but after the cashier finished
whacking away with the discounts and coupons, I owed them $126. My
receipt said I'd saved $196, but I wasn't focusing on that number. I was
thinking about the $126. Sweet Maria, I'd gone there for pants. Toney
would surely kill me.
But I'd have to burn that bridge when I
got to it. We were playing beat the clock now, and I tore ass back to my
parent's house. There would be barely enough time to iron my new
purchases, get dressed, and drive to Dunbar before the service began.
Too crazy.
I made it, with only minutes to spare. I flopped down in the very last
row of pews, beside my friend Tim, and was sweating like a market hog. I
looked around and just knew that everybody else had simply gone
to their closets that morning, and casually chosen their clothes. I was
the only doucheketeer that had been racing up and down the interstate,
frantic and near tears.
Someday I'd like to know what it feels like to be an adult, just
so I can have the experience.
I performed my pall bearer duties without getting wedged beneath the
casket. And when we got to the cemetery I noticed that one of the
funeral home guys had apparently eaten a glazed donut along the way, and
a little of it was still stuck to the corner of his mouth. I didn't
laugh, but it took considerable effort. I spent some time with Steve,
and talked to his mother and sisters. It was sad and emotional, like
most funerals are, and by one o'clock it was all over.
Whew! I pointed my car back in the direction of my parent's house, where
some big ol' t-shirts and shorts were calling my name. I couldn't wait
to get out of that horrible love handle-strangling gear; I felt like I
was bound, head to toe, in plastic wrap. A few times I had to will away
an actual panic attack.
Once I was back in the standard Jeff Kay uniform, I ate some lunch and
went back to Dunbar. I stopped at Tim's house to drop off a loaner copy
of the first season of the British version of The Office on DVD,
something I'm certain is right up his alley. Then I went to Bill's
place, and had a few beers in his basement "saloon," while
watching Slingblade on one of his many televisions. I was back in
the real world.
Before returning to my parent's house I drove around the old hometown,
just to check things out. Apparently, somewhere along the line, about
75% of the homeowners there decided to just say fuck it, and stopped
maintaining their residences. It feels like everything is exactly the
way it was when I left almost twenty years ago, just sitting there and
slowly crumbling into the Earth.
There are plenty of exceptions, of
course, but that's the general feeling I got, and it made me sad. Dunbar
was a great place to grow up, our own personal Mayberry, and I hate
seeing it in its current state. But, of course, as I'm reminded quite
regularly, I'm part of the problem, for moving away; I've got blood on
my hands.
The next morning I got up early, jumped into my parent's nerve-wracking
shower, determined to be back home at a decent hour. The shower? Oh,
they have one of those contraptions in there that supposedly cleans
everything automatically. It hangs off the shower nozzle, and has a big
reservoir on top that contains God-knows-what. I was afraid it was set
on a timer and might kick-on while I was in there, and douse my junk
with some sort of flesh-eating chemical. But I made it home with
everything still intact.
The drive back was a pain in the balls. I sat in traffic for at least
forty-five minutes on 81, because a big moving van had crashed and some
poor bastard's belongings were strewn all over creation. They literally
had a bulldozer out there scooping up wet and muddy clothing and crap,
and dropping it into the back of a dump truck. I saw a pair of white
Fruit of the Looms hanging off the teeth of that dozer at one point, and
I felt sorry for the people who undoubtedly had no idea what was going
on with their stuff. Here's
a pic I snapped with my terrible cell phone camera, just to give you an
idea.
I also stopped at a Wendy's in Maryland where I was apparently the only
white person within twenty miles. I also got the feeling that I was
about twice as old as everyone else, and was experiencing a phenomenon
known as cultural discomfort. Then I hit about thirty miles of
fog, and the whole thing just sucked....
But now you're up to date on the whole affair. And I'll leave you today
with a
video that confirms many of the things I've long suspected. I
have nothing to do with any of it, and it still pisses me off. Grrrr...
Be sure to check it out.
See ya tomorrow. permalink
August 28, 2006
-- On Thursday Steve called me at work
and told me his father had passed away the previous night. He'd been in
failing health for some time, but it was still a shock. It seems like
people I know are beginning to lose their parents on a routine basis
now, and I hate that. I know it's the cycle of life, and all that Lion
King crapola, but I'm still not a fan of it.
I've known Steve forever, more or less, and his parents for almost as
long. When I was growing up in Dunbar they lived only a few yards from
us, and I was at their house constantly. Steve's Dad was a genuine war
hero, having flown dozens of bombing missions over Europe during WWII.
He also knew a lot about old-time baseball, and I enjoyed talking to him
about it. He always seemed to be in a good mood, and I liked him; he was
a kind man.
I had to get down there for the funeral. I sent an email to my boss in
California, asking if he had a problem with me playing hooky on Friday.
No problem, came the reply. So I'd drive the following day, attend the
funeral on Saturday, and drive again on Sunday. Not exactly a fun way to
spend a weekend, but the right way in this case.
I had no intentions of leaving at the crack of dawn on Friday, but I'd
wanted to get on the road earlier than I did. And so it goes. Once I
finally shoved off I stopped to fill up my tank, and my cell phone rang.
It was Toney, telling me I'd just missed the mailman -- and he'd brought
the CD I'd been waiting for. It was a British import two-disc Beautiful
South anthology, which would be perfect for a nine-hour car trip
alone. "I'm coming back!" I hollered like General Patton,
holding my chin high in defiance.
The trip to WV was uneventful, except for the fact that I got 35 big
honkin' miles per gallon in my new car. I filled up the eighteen gallon
tank not far from our house, and never had to fill it again until I
reached my parent's house, 530 miles away. In the old Blazer days I
would've used exactly twice that much fuel. It was almost shocking,
Oh, and I stopped at a Cracker Barrel somewhere along the way, and felt
a tad ill at ease. I don't generally have a problem eating in a
restaurant alone, but this time I felt like there was a neon light
flashing above my head that said "child molester" or "sex
pervert," or something along those lines. The place was crowded
with families, and I started messing around with my cell phone,
pretending to be in the middle of something important. I sent my friend
Tim a text message and told him my situation, and he wrote back,
"Remember, you're a mysterious loner, not lonely." Heh.
Do you have a problem eating in
restaurants by yourself? I hope I'm not back-sliding here.... In the
past I never even thought about it; it was no big deal. But on Friday I
felt like I was onstage, beneath a spotlight.
Steve called me at some point while I was driving and asked if I'd be
willing to be a pall bearer. I told him it was no problem, but
immediately began stressing about it. I'd only done that duty twice
before, and almost fell down both times. The first time the guy in front
of me tripped over something, and comedy ensued. And the second time it
was rainy, and I was wearing slick-ass dress shoes.... You can connect
the dots on that one. It's only a matter of time before I get my entire
body wedged beneath a casket, in front of a crowd of gasping mourners. I
just know it.
My mother made hot bologna for dinner, a hillbilly delicacy and
one of my favorites, and I went to town on that. Good ol' West Virginia
round steak.... Later in the evening I began checking my dress clothes,
to see what needed ironing, and all that stuff.
And I had no pants!
I'd just grabbed the zipper bag with the jacket and tie and everything
inside, assuming the pants were there too. They were not. And here I
was, only hours away from a funeral at which Steve's family was relying
on me to be a pall bearer -- and I had no pants!
Sweet sainted mother of Adena Watson.
Once my parents stopped laughing, we started weighing our options. It
was 9:30 at night, and all the stores were closed by now. And the
funeral was at 11:00 am, not leaving me enough time to do anything in
the morning. Holy shitballs! My Dad couldn't stop wheezing with
laughter, so he wasn't much help. But my Mom suggested Wal-Mart. They're
open 24 hours a day, she reminded me.
That was it! Surely I could find something there that would serve
the purpose. I only needed them for an hour or so, no doubt they had
some passable Malaysian knock-off on their shelves that would solve the
crisis for me. My mother grabbed her purse, and shouted, "Let's go!”
And I could hear my Dad still laughing as we left the house.
Wotta shithole. We were at Wal-Mart for at least an hour, and I couldn’t
find a thing. It was all petroleum-based dress slacks, and cheap-as-fuck
1970s used car salesmen clothes. My Mom and I started arguing, because
she thought I was being difficult. But dammit, I ain’t wearing a pair
of $9 polyester pants. I mean, seriously.
I tried on a couple of things that didn’t look too bad, and
they had some sort of weird adjustable strap on the inside of the
waistband, like those old-man trousers they sell on the back of Parade
magazine. When I looked at myself in the mirror, it appeared that I had
both pockets full of apples. It was all puffed out at the top and
distorted. What the hell, man?!
Finally I told my mother that it wasn’t going to happen. No way I was
wearing any of that Ted Baxter gear; we’d just have to figure
something else out. “But what?” she shouted, “It’s after ten o’clock!”
And I’ll tell you the rest of the story next time....
In the meantime, here’s
an extra-cool Smoking Fish sighting. And the final
numbers for Deadwood. Clemente made it to 3000, but those
guys didn’t. They fell just a single Trixie diatribe short of the
magic number. Too bad.
Man, I’m gonna miss that show, I really am.
See ya tomorrow. permalink
August 25, 2006
-- I'm leaving in a few minutes for, as
Phil Hendrie's "Pastor William Rennick" would put it, a
whirlwind trip to West Virginia. I'll be driving today (just me and
my Clash CDs), attending a funeral on Saturday for the parent of a close
friend, and driving back on Sunday. Someday I might tell you about it,
and then again... I might not.
In any case, I have no time for an update this morning. But I will leave
you with a fresh new comments link to plunder into submission.
Hey, since I can't do it, why don't you guys write today's Surf Report?
It's easy. Just start a paragraph with "A couple of days ago I was
at Eckerd Drugs..." (or whatever), and take it from there. And when
I get to my parent's house this evening I'll read your update,
instead of the other way around. Pretty cool!
Take care, my friends, and I'll see ya next time.
August 24, 2006
-- Following a two-year (or so)
Toney-imposed moratorium, we returned to the Old Country Buffet this
week.
Needless to say, I have some experience with the so-called family buffet
style of dining. A person from my demographic (we like to call ourselves
the weighted) naturally gravitate to any place of business where
the words all-you-can-eat and gravy bar are used in the same
descriptive sentence. And over the years I've been to all the biggies,
as well as quite a few independents, and it's my opinion that Old
Country is just about the best of them all.
Indeed, it wasn't the quality of the food that Toney objected to, it was
the clientele. It seemed that whenever we visited the local restaurant
it would be teeming with the retarded, horribly disfigured, and the
absolute trashiest of white trash. It was an apparent magnet for people
traveling by bus, and groups of folks on an outing from "the
home."
It felt like we'd no sooner return from our first trip to the salad bar
when a whole gang of energized young men and women would come busting
into the place, and cause us all to make a mental note to rent Slingblade
again. Some would be wearing football helmets, a few would be making
sounds like a smoke detector low on batteries, and someone would almost
always lick the macaroni and cheese ladle before returning it to the
vat.
Plus, for some reason we had a streak
going where we'd find ourselves dining near, or in the middle of, what
appeared to be a botched skin graft support group. On those days the
employees of the restaurant would be running around and Windexing the
sneeze guards on the buffet lines, like there was no tomorrow. I think
some shit was flaking-off.
And the loud lip-smacking, fat-ass, 5-for-$10 Redneck Riviera souvenir
t-shirt-wearing, buzzcut children-having, homemade tattoo-sporting
hillbillies was more than Toney could take. She finally put her foot
down, and we weren't allowed to eat there anymore. She even turned the
Secrets against it, so I didn't have a prayer.
Goodbye heavy gravy. <sniff>
But earlier this week Toney called me at work and said she didn't feel
like cooking that night. She'd been painting all day and wanted to know
if I was interested in going out for dinner. Always! And so we began the
long drawn-out discussion of where to go....
We'd just had a mountain of manicotti on Sunday, so Italian mom 'n' pop
was out of the question. It was kids-eat-free at Bennigan's, but we've
pretty much written that place off. When they first opened here it was
really good, especially their burgers. But it's gone downhill fast. They
removed all the good stuff from their menu, and their burgers now taste
like Grade C beef prepared on a seldom-washed George Foreman grill.
The last time I was there I ordered some sort of dinner salad with
"country chicken" on top. And that chicken was so stale and
hard the breading threatened to rip gashes in my gums; it was like a
handful of driveway gravel. And don't even get me started on the
"magician." He's always there on kids night, milling around in
his novelty suit, and I'm constantly whispering to the Secrets: Don't
make eye contact! Don't do it!!
Anyway, we had a lengthy discussion on the subject, and couldn't agree
on anything. Toney seemed to be lobbying for pizza, but that didn't flip
my switch. I wanted mashed potatoes and meat loaf, and that sort of
thing. I floated the idea of a little diner near here, but that was shot
down. What about Cracker Barrel? I said. Drive all the way to
Wilkes-Barre?! she answered. It wasn't going very well.
"Well.... of course there's always Old Country Buffet." After
I said it I flinched like someone was about to shoot a rubber band in my
direction. But to my surprise, she didn't object too vigorously. And
before I knew it, we had a plan to meet there at 6:30. I was almost
giddy!
And at 6:35 I was whisper-hollering to Toney: Ten dollars and fifty
cents a head?! Holy shit! Was it always this expensive?? Hell, I
didn't know we were going to require a bank loan. But whatever. I fell
back to allow Toney to pick a table, but she insisted I take the lead.
"This is your idea," she said, with a hint of menace in her
voice.
But it was good. I ate myself right up to the cusp of a blackout,
ingesting great amounts of vegetables, salad, ham, and something called
lemon pepper chicken. I drank an ocean of sweet tea, and topped it all
off with cake and ice cream. Damn straight.
The rest of the family didn't do too badly either. I believe the oldest
Secret ate an entire watermelon for dessert, and Toney was even forced
to admit that it "wasn't too bad."
Plus, there was no ladle-licking or banjo-plucking, or any of that
stuff. Most of the other people there seemed pretty normal. I noticed an
abundance of what was obviously people in town on business, having a
little dinner before returning to the hotel. Sure, the chick at the ham
station seemed a little surly, probably capable of sinking that carving
knife in your gut if you crossed her. But overall, it was a pleasant
surprise.
Of course, there's always next time.... Toney still seems far from
convinced.
At this point we're pretty much soured on chain restaurants, in general.
It seems that more often than not we walk away unsatisfied. When we
lived in Atlanta we never ate at those kinds of places -- there were so
many great local joints it would've been almost criminal. But now that
we live in Scranton, and have kids.... it's a little hard to avoid.
What are the ones that are surprisingly good? Are there any left? Help
me out, people. I beg of you.
See ya tomorrow. permalink
August 23, 2006
-- On Sunday we met Steve and Myra for
dinner at a little Italian place near here, ingested large amounts of
manicotti and a couple of pitchers of Blue Moon Belgian White, then
Steve, Myra and I went to the big Steely Dan concert at Montage
Mountain. Toney stayed home with the Secrets, and she had no problem
with that whatsoever. Standing outside until midnight listening to
amplified music with a crowd of drunken strangers is not high on her
list of favorite things to do. I don't understand it either, but it
seems to be a fact.
I'm a longtime Dan fan. In fact, Steve probably got me hooked on them in
grade school or some such thing (he has older sisters). The Surf Report
sound library features every song they ever recorded, including such
rarities as "FM" and "Here At The Western World", and
every solo album -- even the really bad ones (*cough* Walter Becker).
I like them because they not only write songs that sound great blasting
out of a stereo, car or home, but because there's more going on than
meets the eye. Or ear, or whatever. Like another of my favorite bands,
the Beautiful South, their music is accessible and fun, and it's easy to
enjoy on that level. But then you start listening to the lyrics and it
doesn't take long before you're muttering to yourself, "Are they
singing about what I think they're singing about.....?"
Steely Dan (and the Beautiful South) are masters of rolling great big
Trojan Horses of fucked-upness into the homes of unsuspecting people the
world 'round. And you've simply gotta admire them for it. They're
subversive mad musical geniuses.... Oh, this ain't Supertramp, goddammit.
So I rode with Steve and Myra up to the Montage ski resort, where the
big fancy-pants ampitheater is located, free of DUI worries and ready
for an evening of music and beer beneath the stars. We had to park
roughly three miles from the stage, and began hoofing it in the
direction the signs pointed us.
And immediately I noticed that our fellow patrons were a tad long in
the tooth. I might've been fooling myself, but I think the three of
us, at ages 42 and 43, were about the youngest people there. As we
walked I looked around and started panicking. It was all gray hair,
pressed slacks, and tucked-in polo shirts. There were no rebel yells,
nobody taking slugs off pints of Early Times, and not a single person
puking into foliage. And many of the women looked like Skippy
Hicks. It was a sad state of affairs.
"I bet you're not having to card
too many people tonight, are ya?" I said to the woman at the Beers
of the World stand, still a little shaken. This triggered much laughter
inside the tent of commerce, and she handed me a twelve-ounce Blue Moon
in a plastic cup and said, "Seven fifty." Holy fucknuggets!! I
made a mental note to return to the tried and true golden elixir,
straight away.
We found our seats, and they weren't too bad. Except, of course, for the
big-ass pole. It was a pillar that supported the tent-like roof over the
expensive seats, and it was located at roughly two o'clock as I looked
straight ahead. But our seats were off to the right of the stage, so
maybe it wouldn't be such a big deal? Right? Grrrrr....
I finished my New York City-priced beer, and Steve and I decided to go
in search of the Yuengling tent. We found it, procured a couple of the
big 'uns, then stood off to the side and watched the crowd. I called
Bill in WV on my cell phone, because he's always there in spirit at
every such concert I attend. And while Steve was talking to him I
spotted, off in the distance -- Poppa Half-Shirt!
I couldn't believe it. He had his entire family with him, wife and both
teenage sons. Fueled by the adult beverages, I headed off in their
direction, and caught up to the youngest boy first. I think he's twelve
or thirteen and I asked if he was a big Steely Dan fan, kinda joking. He
said, real stiff, "I'm here with my parents." Good answer.
Then I shook Half-Shirt's hand and started chit-chatting with him. (I
swear I didn't feel drunk.) He was laughing nervously, like a
speed freak, and told me they were there to see Michael McDonald. He and
his wife, he said, are big fans. I breathed a sigh of relief. I don't
think I could live in a world where the Half-Shirts and I are on the
same page, musically.
I looked over at Momma Half-Shirt, who was keeping her distance, and she
gave me a weak little wave and had an expression on her face like she'd
just caught a whiff of fresh-cut turds. Heh. That woman hates me with
every fiber of her body, and I hoisted my mega-beer in her direction and
smiled real big like it was simply wonderful to see her again. That's
the way I deal with her, you see, because it seems to drive her crazy.
We returned to our seats just as Michael McDonald took the stage. I'm
not a fan. The man single-handedly sapped the fun out of the Doobie
Bros. with his crooning and "soul music." Then it was pure
Vegas schmaltz after that. So I was looking at this portion of the show
as something to endure.
And that's exactly what it was. His voice was just a droning sound, like
somebody was having a stump removed on the next block. If it weren't for
the gyrating "colored girls" back-up singers, I don't think
anyone would've even been able to tell what song he was singing. Plus,
near the end, there was a horrible, drawn-out keyboard solo, with
flashing lights and the whole nine yards, and I thought I was going to
lose my mind. I hollered, "Just play a song, goddammit!" and
Steve thought that was a riot.
Before he finished his set I decided to hit a porta-john before Steely
Dan took the stage. And, you know, buy another giant lager.
Unfortunately, I wasn't the only person who had that brilliant idea.
There was a sea of humanity out there, and the lines at the bathrooms
were huge. Dammit!
I knew it would be foolish to forego a toilet visit, what with all the
fluids I was taking on, and I sighed real big and got in line. It took
forever. The Wood Chipper finished his set, there was a standard-sized
intermission, then Steely Dan came out. And I was still queued-up at the
pissatorium.
Some brazen women were jumping in line with the men, because, they said,
we're so much faster. And this bogged the whole thing down. They
were being all flirty and over-friendly with my fellow urination
engineers, and the idiots were all too happy to sell us out. The
suckers. Had they never been to college?!
One such woman stood near me as she waited on her friend to finish up,
and began waxing philosophical. "Men only pee at concerts,"
she said real loud. "It's nice, because women usually poop too. In
your bathrooms there are no floaters or horrible smells or any of that
stuff. I much prefer peeing with the men."
I didn't really know how to respond to that, and muttered,
"Thanks." Wotta douche.
The main event was fun, a real crowd-pleaser. They played most of their
biggest hits, with a few obscure surprises thrown in. Becker did a lot
of the talking, and Fagen remained largely silent behind his keyboard
with his Ray-Bans on, whipping his head around like a blind man. They
played for a long time, sounded great, then did "FM' and "My
Old School" as an encore. The audience was into it, despite their
shockingly advanced age, and everyone seemed to go away happy.
Including me. I've seen Steely Dan three times now, and I'm looking
forward to the fourth. The pole didn't even cause me any problems. I
give it an A-minus.
See ya tomorrow. permalink
August 22, 2006
-- Yeah, I went with the Camry. Of the
cars I drove last week I liked it the best, by far, and it only had
twelve thousand skinny miles on the odometer. It's Toyota Certified with
a bumper-to-bumper warranty through 2010, and coming off that Blazer,
man, I especially liked the sound of that. They put four new tires on it
the day I picked it up, did a complete oil change and alignment,
detailed it and filled the tank.... and it's basically a new car. The
previous owners even bought it there, and had it serviced there as well.
It just felt like the logical course of action for a man of my
approximate age, weight, and disposition.
So I called the guy on Friday, even before I left for work, and we
started the process that sometimes gets me into trouble. I'm not one of
those people who view car-buying as sport, or war, or whatever. I don't
believe there's any such thing as getting the upper hand in a
car-buying deal, so why kill yourself over it? But, at the same time,
I'm not especially fond of prison rape, and always go into it on defense
and with my back to the wall.
But it wasn't too bad. The guy didn't play any of those retarded,
insulting games, and we made it through without any sarcastic remarks or
open-face hostility or threats of burning a motherfucker's house down. I
just made him an offer, he countered in the middle somewhere, and I
shrugged and said, "sounds good to me." I probably could've
shaved a couple hundred dollars more off the price if I'd pressed the
issue, but who gives a crap? I certainly don't.
I haven't driven a car in years, I've been in pick-up trucks and SUVs
since we left Atlanta in 1996. So, it feels a little weird to me. I
don't really view myself as a car kind of guy, as stupid as that sounds,
but I'm sure I'll get used to it. One thing's for certain: that car is
one comfortable and luxurious ride. And, most importantly, it has the
sound system factory upgrade. Oh yeah.
So that's that. I'll snap a picture of it sometime and show it to you
guys. I'd do it now, but I drove in the rain yesterday and it's no
longer perfect. It'll have to be spruced up before making its
world debut.
Pass the beer nuts.
-- I watched Sunday's episode of Deadwood
on Monday this week, since I was rocking out with five thousand Skippy
Hicks lookalikes (male and female) when the show originally
aired, and here
are the numbers.
Only one more episode left, my friends, and they're 109 fucks away from
3000. Do you think they'll do it? Four times this year they've racked-up
more than 100 fucks in an episode, so it's certainly within reach. Oh,
it's gonna be exciting! Can't wait!
-- Speaking of Deadwood, this
is kinda funny.
-- We have sad confirmation on the big trash and shit-eating dog that
lived (notice the past tense?) down the street from us. His owners had
to have him put to sleep, because of the tumor on his spine or brain or
whatever. The poor thing was walking all crooked and had supposedly
"turned aggressive."
Too bad. He was one of the good guys, your quintessential big, dumb dog.
A person would have to have a coal black heart not to like him, and he
consequently got away with all manner of shenanigans.
We still haven't broken the news to Andy. We keep telling him that his
friend is on a cruise.
-- In this Phil Hendrieless world we find ourselves in, and with Clive
Bull on vacation all week, a man goes in search of alternative avenues
of workday
escape. And I think I've stumbled across a good one.
Check it out. Yesterday
afternoon I listened to part of a 1949 World Series game between the
Brooklyn Dodgers and New York Yankees at
this site, and my nipples were erect with delight. The announcers
didn't even call him Yogi yet, he was known as Larry Berra! And I'm
getting goose bumps just thinking about it.
What did we do before the internet?
-- And finally, I need your help with something. This
is a guy buying beer in China. As you can see, he ran down to the corner
store and picked himself up a cold three-sack. I imagine that he's about
to jump on his bicycle and pedal back to his 200 square foot apartment,
hang his beer bags on doorknobs around the flat, and it's party
time!
But I could be wrong about the whole thing. What do you think will
happen with this man, following his purchase? What kind of evening will
he have? I need closure, people. Help me out.
See ya tomorrow. permalink
August 21, 2006
-- I'm dragging massive ass this
morning. It was one heck of an eventful weekend; more has happened since
Friday's update than sometimes happens in an entire month around here.
And I'll have to give it to you in bits and pieces over the next few
days, 'cause there's no way I'm going to be able to cover it all now.
Not even the standard gallon of Eight O'Clock bean coffee is doing the
trick this time.
Man, I'm getting old....
On Friday I bought a new car. I have no picture to share with you, I am
fully unprepared to discuss the subject. But I'm happy about it. It's
the nicest vehicle I've ever owned. And almost as exciting as the new
ride sitting in our driveway: the Blazer is now somebody else's problem!
Oh yeah. I'll give you the details as soon as I can get my heart started
again.
On Saturday we (Toney) finished a long drawn-out bedroom reclamation
project, then split up the Secrets. Each now has their own
freshly-painted and disturbingly-neat bedroom, but it's not exactly
going as planned. By Sunday night they were together again, playing the
fart game and engaging in all their usual shenanigans, and we're having
second-thoughts about the whole exercise. Good times.
And last night all four of us joined Steve and his wife Myra for dinner
at a little Italian place near here, where I surrendered to a full-on
manicotti and beer frenzy. Then afterwards Steve, Myra, and I attended a
Steely Dan concert, on their Pressed Slacks Tour '06 -- where we felt
like America's youth. Wow. Me to the woman at the Yuengling stand:
"I bet you're not having to card too many people tonight,
are ya?" Holy shitballs, Batman.
I didn't get to bed last night until about 1:30 am, a considerable
amount of adult beverages were consumed, and this update is like trying
to squeeze the last bit of toothpaste out of a depleted tube. (I've got
a lot of nerve mocking the elderly....) I'll elaborate on the above
subjects at a later date. I need to log some serious time inside the
Castanza nap-desk first, I really do.
But I will tell you about our weekend encounter with the local
fire department. Heh.
On Sunday Toney asked me to move
something to the basement, and when I opened the door and started down
the steps I was punched in the face by a powerful funk. It smelled
exactly like lighter fluid, the kind you spray on charcoal while
bitching about camping. And it was strong. WTS?!
I hollered for Toney, her head also whipped back like the Zapruder film
as she came down the stairs, and we started looking around. Maybe we'd
accidentally spilled something? We'd been moving toys and crap down
there during the reclamation project, perhaps a can of paint thinner or
something got knocked over?
But we found nothing; everything was as it should be. What the hell,
man?? The entire space below our house was filled with lighter fluid
fumes, and there's a hot water tank down there as well -- complete with
open flame. I had visions of a catastrophic explosion, and our body
parts and scraps of lumber raining down on the city of Tunkhannock.
I called my Dad, and he had no ready explanations. But he told me I'd
better be careful, which made me even more paranoid.
After searching the basement a second time, I decided to call the fire
department. I only wanted to talk to them, and maybe get some advice,
but it didn't work out that way. I called the "non-emergency"
number, and they answered, "EMERGENCY 911!"
I stuttered for a few seconds, and finally got my story out. The guy was
hell-bent on sending someone out, even though I tried to discourage it.
He insisted that it could be dangerous, and I begged him to not send a
fire truck or anything like that. I was sweating like a sow on election
day just thinking about the spectacle I was about to create.
And as soon as we hung up I heard the city-wide siren go off, calling
all available volunteer firemen to their battle stations. Holy shit!!
Then we heard the fire trucks, sirens blasting and horns honking. I felt
like I was about to start crying. An SUV with flashing lights came
tearing around the corner, went past our house and on down the street.
Then the trucks came rumbling past as well. By this time the neighbors
were on their porches, hyper-extending their necks.
I was about to crap my pants.
They'd overshot their destination and went all the way around the block,
making even more racket and causing more neighborly interest. They
stopped in front of our house the second time around, and four or five
men came sprinting across our lawn in complete fire-fighting
gear, one carrying an axe!
They had all manner of apparatus with them, each apparently designed to
detect some strain of dangerous vapor and whatnot. One was holding what
looked like a divining rod, another was clutching something that
resembled those big plastic horns they sell at baseball games, and they
converged on our basement, serious as all hell. I was walking from room
to room by now, trying to hold back the tears.
Finally they came up and told me there was nothing poisonous or
explosive in our basement. Their guess was that one of our neighbors had
poured "something they're not supposed to" down the storm
drains, and we were getting the fumes in our house. They offered to
leave us a big fan for a day or two, to blow the funk out of there, but
I was too mortified to think straight and declined their offer.
Today it's back to normal, and after I finish with this update I'm going
to try to pretend like none of it ever happened. Sweet Jesus.
See ya tomorrow. permalink
August 18, 2006
-- Toney and I visited four or five car
dealerships yesterday afternoon, and I drove three cars. Then we hemmed
and hawed, kicked at the ground, and talked ourselves into a stupor.
....And I wasn't able to make a final decision.
I drove a really sharp Mazda 6, the best-looking vehicle of the bunch.
When I saw it sitting there all glittering and sporty, my inner-midlife
crisis man started hollering: "YES! YES! THAT'S THE ONE!!" But
when I climbed inside I had to fold myself up like a lawn chair, and it
felt like I was preparing for a gynecological exam or something.
Fuck dat. I'm not driving around all contorted and mashed-in for the
next six or seven years. The Mazda 6 is nice to look at, but not built
for the Hungry Man. Perhaps they're still using Japanese-sized test
dummies at Mazda? I don't know. But it's off the list.
Next was a Nissan Altima. And I can't put my finger on anything
specific, but I just didn't like it. You know that magical feeling you
get when you're about to buy a new car? I didn't feel it. The dealership
is in downtown Scranton, and we drove it around the city for a few
minutes, but there was no magic for me. It felt like any nondescript
rental car. I liked it much better from the outside looking in, than
from the inside looking out.
Toney dug it though, and that complicated matters. She's usually a
pretty good judge of these kinds of things, and it made me wonder if I
was being too hasty. There was tons of room inside, and it certainly
would be comfortable on a long road trip. And they're distinctive
looking and all that good stuff....
But what about the magic? Can I really buy a car with no magic in it? It
would be almost like marrying a woman with no sense of humor, and who
drones on and on about global warming and Halliburton and stuff -- just
because she's well-connected and has a good set.
The third car I drove was a Camry. It's an '04 with just 12,000 miles on
it, a Certified Pre-Owned with tons of warranties and the whole nine
yards. However.... Camrys are a dime-a-dozen, and I'd just be blending
in with the crush of suburbanites. And I don't like that.
I went into the whole thing with a slight attitude. I know they're great
cars, and that's what should matter at the end of the day, but there are
other factors to consider as well.
But I'm telling ya.... I felt it. That
thing was smooth as silk, the interior looked like a Mercedes with wood
inlays in the dash and everything, and it seemed peppy and powerful.
Toney turned on the radio and a Talking Heads song was playing, and we
could hear nothing but the tune: almost no road noise. It was as if we
were gliding along on a flying carpet. It felt luxurious.
So I was going back and forth between the Nissan and the Toyota all
afternoon, not wanting to act on emotion alone, trying to weigh every
factor. All that interior room in the Nissan was screwing with my
head.... Toney finally got irritated with me, and said I should just go
with the Camry if I liked it so much; I'd be the one driving it, after
all. She was washing her hands of the situation.
And I think I'm going to take her advice. When I get to work today I'm
going to call the guy at Toyota and pull the trigger on this thing.
Which, of course, is where the fun begins. I have a very low pain
threshold when it comes to salesmen and their bullshit. If he starts in
with that stuff, I'll walk. I've done it dozens of times before, and it
ultimately comes down to attitude. If he doesn't act like a goddamn
carny with a shell game, I'll probably be driving a new car by tomorrow
morning. But if he goes in the other direction, I'll tell him to park it
deep inside his colon, and we'll start the process all over again
elsewhere.
Stay tuned.
And I know I promised to do better today, but I've got but one thing on
my mind right now. Sorry about that. I'll try it again on Monday.
Have a great weekend, folks. permalink
August 17, 2006
-- I'm not going to go into all the
details here, because I know better, but my Blazer has struck once
again. Another $533 straight down the ol' open-mouth waste
receptacle.... Whoever said in yesterday's comments that my Sprint-based
bad karma has manifested itself in the vehicle I drive was right on the
mark, I think. It had never occurred to me, but I believe it might be
true. Sweet sainted mother of Youree Harris!
I'm very seriously thinking about sneaking out of work today after the
one o'clock ball-buster, and going car shopping. And I do mean car.
Toney and I talked about it all evening yesterday, over the traditional
decision-making malt beverages, and I think we're ready to not only
throw in the towel on the Chevy Tearmaker, but camping as well. All in
one fell swoop. Or fell soup, or whatever that phrase is.
As I type this, and it'll probably change by the hour, I'm thinking
about a Toyota Camry or a Nissan Altima. Not very good in the snow, I
know, but comfortable, reliable, and easy on the gasoline. So that's the
current plan, with the situation fluid. One thing's for certain, though:
we've finally reached the tipping point on that rolling shitbox. Grrrr....
And don't even bother emailing me to ask what repairs I had done
yesterday. I ain't telling you, because even if it were a new
transmission a few of you'd say I got bent frontways over a couch. And
my shredded nerves can't take it anymore. Serenity now!
-- I can tell that this is going to be one half-assed update.... I have
several decent subjects scribbled in the notebook, but no passion to go
into any of them right now. I just can't get my mind off cars.
For instance, does the Camry or Altima mean anything? When we
lived in Atlanta I think I was pretty plugged-in to what certain cars
meant, but now I'm not so sure. I worry that I'm losing my edge, and
might unknowingly hang a sign around my neck proclaiming myself
something I'm not. Oh, there goes Jeff Kay in his Nissan Altima....
You know what that means: Jew-hater. I can't have that.
Back in the day it was common knowledge that lesbians and outdoorsy
wire-rim types drove Subarus, and gay men opted for certain kinds of
Jeeps. BMW stood for Black Man's Wheels, liberals drove Volvos, and
minivans and huge SUVs said all sorts of mockable things.
But I'm working off ten year old information here. Help me out, people.
I need to be brought up to date on this shit, by day's end.
-- Screw it. I'm just gonna pass this half-assery off to Buck
now, and get the day started.
I'll do better tomorrow, I promise. permalink
August 16, 2006
-- Yesterday I wrote about my pre-Toney
financial shenanigans: floating checks, using maxed-out credit cards
during the cha-chunk! "do you want your carbons?" days,
and eating spaghetti with whatever canned soup was in the cabinet as a
"sauce." I'd meant to mention an episode in Greensboro,
involving Sprint long distance, but completely forgot.
So I'll do that now.
Shortly after I moved from West Virginia to North Carolina my roommate
got homesick (horny), and abruptly married his girlfriend back home. So
I was left afloat, in a town where I didn't know anyone. I rented a
one-bedroom apartment in the same well-worn complex where Mr. Romantic
and I had lived, and hoped for the best while fearing the worst.
Then my brother suggested he come down there too, and we share an
apartment. That sounded good to me, and I made the arrangements to move
once again, back to a two-bedroom. And thus began an era of
ridiculousness.
Our place was literally furnished with couches and chairs that we'd
found beside the road or whatever, and some of them didn't smell too
good. A big yellow sofa in our living room was perpetually damp, for
reasons unknown, and had a big-ass rip in one of the cushions. The
kitchen would sometimes get so nasty we needed hazmat suits to clean it
up. Indeed, we once had to throw away several nice Tupperware items that
our mother had donated to the cause, because they became saturated with
a funk that wouldn't leave.
It was like The Young Ones, with hillbilly accents.
Once my brother was having trouble getting ketchup out of a bottle, and
decided to use centrifugal force to remedy the situation. He put the cap
on, stepped out into the middle of the living room, and began
windmilling his arm and the bottle round and round. He had that shit going,
when the top suddenly popped off. And before he was able to react to my
wild hollerings, he'd made two or three more full rotations at top
speed. When he was finally able to get his ketchup-machine powered-down,
there was a thick red stripe across the carpet, over the couch, up one
wall and down another, and across the full length of the living room
ceiling. Good times.
Since almost everyone we knew lived in
West Virginia, we made lots of long distance phone calls. We were with
Sprint, back in the days when it was a novelty to have a long distance
carrier other than Ma Bell, and we paid them every once in a while.
Everyone seemed happy with the arrangement.
Then the bills stopped arriving on a consistent basis, and the whole
thing came off the tracks. I don't know why, but they began billing us
every three months or so. And they'd be BIG bills, the kind that make
you blink real fast and whisper holy fuck.
We didn't make a conscious decision to stop paying them, it just sorta
happened. We'd put their packets of bad-feelings in the "to be
dealt with at a later date" stack, and then try to pretend the
stack didn't exist. Eventually the total owed was so large we just
dropped the charade, and decided to ride it out until they cut us off.
There was no point in throwing good money at that beast, it would never
be paid.
But, surprisingly enough, they didn't turn off the service. It just kept
going and going, and the bills continued compounding to the point where
I was afraid we might eventually be thrown into jail. I don't think we
paid them one red cent for over a year, and they never complained or
said a word about it.
Finally, it all came crashing down. They pulled the plug and unleashed
the no-neck debt collectors. They'd call and threaten us with all sorts
of horrible things, and we'd hem and haw and do nothing.
Once, as a stalling technique, my brother asked for a detailed printout
of all the calls in question. He acted like he was shocked, simply
shocked, that the total owed was so high, and pretended to not believe
it.
A few days later it arrived -- in a box. The thing was so large, an
envelope couldn't contain it. It was one of those old dot matrix
printouts on one big continuous sheet of paper, folded down to 8.5x11. I
just about hyper-crapped when I saw it.
There was, of course, but one thing to do. We began unfolding the big
stack, to see how many times it would stretch from one end of the
apartment to the other. We started at the front living room wall (still
faintly stained from the ketchup), ran it past the kitchen and dining
room, down the hall, and into my brother's bedroom, all the way to the
rear wall. Then we started back in the other direction.
I can't remember how many trips we made, but several. And once we were
finished we popped open a couple of beers, and surveyed our work while
laughing nervously.
Then something strange happened. The no-necks stopped calling, and we
heard nothing for a couple of months. Our long distance was no more, but
the harassing calls came to an abrupt end. Cool!
Finally, a man began contacting my brother every few days, always
seemingly on the verge of tears. He begged him to pay the bill, and
insinuated that his job depended on it. Supposedly he'd fucked-up big
time, and the company was giving him one last chance to make it right. I
wrote it off as nothing more than a creative approach to debt
collection, and we took no action.
And that was that. The guy only called a few times, then we heard
nothing more. It never appeared on our credit report, and it was as if
none of it had ever happened. Bizarre.
What do you make of the crying bill collector? Do you think he was
legit? Do I have some bad karma waiting in the wings because of this?
And how could Sprint let things get so far out of hand in the first
place? What's the deal with this deal? Hello?
See ya tomorrow. permalink
August 15, 2006
-- Today's payday. At my job we get
paid twenty-four times per year: on the fifteenth and last day of every
month. I'd never experienced such a schedule before accepting my current
position, and it made me nervous at first.
For years it was a real sphincter-clencher to get from one paycheck to
the next, and that's a mindset not easily shaken. I didn't much care for
the idea of being paid two less times per year, even though my
new employers were agreeing to pay me enough to make it less of an
issue. A person can't just walk away from twenty years of
hole-flexing.... I think John Adams originally said that.
My favorite way of being paid, back in the day, was weekly. I worked
several piss-ant retail jobs where payday was every Monday. That's a
perfect set-up for the undisciplined drunkard's apprentice. Even if you
blew it all by day three, you were within check-floating distance of the
next payday, or you could just hunker down and eat pasta with Campbell's
Bean with Bacon soup as a topping for seventy-two hours or whatever. But
when paydays are fourteen days apart, it requires a little more
self-control. And that's why I preferred the weekly pay.
I've heard about people who get paid monthly, and that triggers a
full-body shiver, even today. I can't imagine such a thing. A thirty-day
chasm to gap? Holy fuck.
But, like I say, I'm so old it doesn't really matter anymore. Much of
the magic has been sapped from my paydays at this point, and I kinda
miss it. Oh, I sure as hell don't want to return to the days of constant
struggle and worry, but I liked having a mini-holiday every couple of
weeks. Because that's what it was: a holiday. And by the time I finished
observing it.... Well, break out the bean spaghetti.
In the Greensboro and pre-Toney Atlanta years, I had check-floating down
to a science. I knew how long it took for a check to clear at each local
business; I had the information hardcoded in my brain. There were a
couple of grocery stores where you could shoot all the way from the
three-point line, and never get burned.
I was also aware of the places where they didn't have those fancy-pants
machines for credit cards, and only used a catalog of some sort to check
your number. By the time that thing was updated, and the world was
alerted to the fact that your shit was maxed-out, a person could do some
real damage.
And there was an ATM on Fulton
Industrial Boulevard in Atlanta that would give you whatever amount you
requested, regardless of your balance. I don't know what that was all
about, perhaps a frayed wire, but I clung to it like a life preserver.
Sure, I'd get slammed with a twelve-dollar fee the next month for being
overdrawn, but it was a small price to pay in certain circumstances.
I remember having a weekend trip planned with a girlfriend once, but
there was only, like, $2.17 in the bank. So I visited the magic ATM,
took out $150, and we had ourselves a great time. Sometimes I felt like
kissing that shorted-out machine.
But Toney put an end to all my shenanigans. As soon as we moved into our
pre-marital "den of sin" (copyright 1990, my grandmother), she
took control of the finances and got me straightened out. I still wasn't
making any money, of course, but she introduced me to the concept of
budgeting (whoa!), and tossing aside all the exhausting scamulations.
I remember riding through Atlanta one day and realizing that I didn't
need to hide from the cops anymore, because all my car registrations and
inspection stickers were up to date. And payday was right around the
corner, and there weren't a half-dozen checks outstanding or any of that
nonsense. I felt like I was in a parallel universe; the colors seemed
brighter somehow, and the air sweeter.
If Toney hadn't come along, I'd probably be living in a cabbage box
beneath an interstate exit ramp by now.
But I sometimes miss the old magic of payday: beautiful, beautiful
payday. Perhaps I should launch into an extended rock 'n' booze frenzy,
and spend the mortgage money on compact discs, draft beer, and
y'allternative club shows? It might be fun to walk around the
neighborhood of irresponsibility again, and see some of my old friends?
Yeah, I'd better run that past my wife first....
Do you get paid in some unorthodox manner? And were you ever a slacker
like me? If so, how'd you bridge the wide chasm between paydays? Did you
have your own personal shorted-out magic ATM, or anything like that? Use
the comments link below to tell us about it.
And I'll see ya tomorrow. permalink
August 14, 2006
-- On Saturday I was ready to shut this
site down, and call it a day. I'd just about fucking had it. But
eventually, after rolling into a ball and sucking my thumb for a while,
I calmed down. TheWVSR remains a source of high-irritation for
me, though.
I'll have to tell you about some of it at a later date, but the
situation with my RSS feed has helped nothing.
I tried offering a feed last year sometime, and nobody cared. There was
very little activity, and I abandoned it after a couple of months. Then
I started receiving emails from people asking if I had any plans to
start it up again. What the hell, I thought, it takes very little effort
on my part, so why not?
And, surprisingly enough, it went over well. I don't know why it stiffed
the first time around, and took off the second, but that's the way it
worked out. In just a few weeks RSS was providing substantial extra
traffic to the site, and I tended to it faithfully.
All was right with the world, until the entire thing shit the bed.
I was using a free service to publish every day, and I believe they
cater to people who don't know what they're doing. A perfect fit for me.
I don't even fully understand the attraction of RSS. So you can check
several websites at once for updates? What the hell, man? Are you folks that
busy? Does the act of clicking on a freaking bookmark really put a crimp
in your schedule? Heck, I remember when we had to go to actual libraries
and stuff.
Whatever. It was being used, and the reasons are secondary. Then it
suddenly stopped working. Remember a couple of weeks ago when the
homepage was loading real slow, and I blamed National Lampoon? Turns out
it wasn't their fault, it was my RSS service preparing to bite the big
one.
And man, they did. They lost everything. Their homepage was down for
days, then there was a note, written in broken English, explaining that
they'd suffered a catastrophic computer crash, and all records were
completely gone. Once they were up and running again, we'd all have to
start over and register as if we were fresh off the street.
I didn't realize the implications of
this right away, but figured it out over the weekend. My feed now has a
new address, and the old one, which was semi-popular, is listed in
dozens of directories around the internet and is deader than Kelsey's
nuts. Simply excellent.
And there's other stuff going on as well, but I'll have to tell you
about that on another day. ...Do you ever just feel like throwing wild
haymakers at complete strangers?
-- The Steely Dan
concert is next weekend, and that's something to look forward to. A
person needs things to look forward to....
I have a feeling, and I could be wrong, that Steve and I will be the
youngest people in attendance -- at forty-three. What do you think?
Hopefully they won't give us a bunch of attitude for being Johnny-come-latelies,
since we've only been listening to Steely Dan for thirty years. You know
how those "real" before-they-were-famous fans can be.
-- Remember the big white dog I told you about in our neighborhood? The
one that goes around digging through people's trash and stringing
garbage everywhere, yet nobody can be mad at him because of his goofy
and lovable personality? Yeah, we think he's dead. His owners let him
run free (obviously), and nobody's seen him in weeks. The poor guy a had
tumor on his spine, and was starting to walk crooked. We suspect that he
was put-down, as they say.
I'm trying to convince Toney to get out there and dig up some dirt, but
she won't do it. She thinks it might be a touchy subject, and not fit
for gossip. But, dammit, I need information.
I hope that I'll look down there one day and see him lying on their lawn
with his head buried in a saturated sack of garbage again, but I don't
think it's going to happen. Sadly, I believe he's gone to the place that
dogs go when they die -- where it's always the first trash day after
Thanksgiving.
Shit. I sure hope Andy's not reading this....
-- Yesterday Toney asked me, "Remember that woman you used to call
High Neck?"
Pardon? I had no idea what she was talking about.
"You know, the woman who walks by our house all the time, and had a
steel neck brace for several months, which you called scaffolding?"
I busted out laughing. Sometimes I can't even keep track of it all; I
require a schematic of insensitivity.
-- Finally, here
are last night's Deadwood numbers. A great episode, by the way,
and I'm not even talking about the substantial volume of fucks.
And since we're on the subject, here's
a Deadwood highlight reel that Australian Surf Reporter Ashley
put together. Check it out. She says it's almost poetry, and I think I'd
remove the "almost."
I'll try to be funny tomorrow. See ya then. permalink
August 11, 2006
-- I'm already soured on Dr. Z. I know
he's supposed to be a quirky and lovable real-guy commercial spokesman,
like Dave at Wendy's, but he just doesn't do it for me. Despite his
novelty moustache, he has no pizzazz; there's simply no oomph to his
personality.
Obviously Chrysler is casting its lot with this soulless German (or
whatever), based on the number of commercials we see every day, and I
wonder how it all came about? Is he warm and funny in conference rooms,
then goes all stiff and creepy and SS officer in front of the camera? Is
that what happens? I just don't know, but I'm now soured on Dr. Z.
-- A few nights ago Toney told me I was on my own for dinner, so I
stopped at a bar/restaurant after work. The place has kick-ass fried
fish sandwiches, and I figured I could wash one down with two or three
pints of the golden elixir. But as I hoisted my heft onto the barstool,
I noticed that they also had Blue
Moon on tap. I remembered that you guys had suggested it to me,
because of its reported hoppy finish, and decided to give it a try.
The guy brought it to me in a pint glass with a big ol' slice of orange
hanging off the lip, and I'm not really a fan of the trendy
produce-based beverage accessory. But I tried to have an open mind about
it, and slurped a little up. And it was good. It did indeed have the
bitter aftertaste of hops that I so enjoy. Not as strong as a good
Pacific Northwest microbrew, mind you, but enough to be mighty tasty
with a fish samlich on a school night. In fact, I ordered a second pint
after the first one disappeared.
And this stuff is made by Coors? Incredible. Thanks for helping me
expand my horizons, and to put aside my deep, deep prejudices.
-- Speaking of the golden elixir.... Surf Reporter Greg sends along this
photo. I'm not sure what's supposed to be in those bottles, but
it sure ain't Yuengling Lager. It looks more like what happens
afterwards, than before. Ya know?
-- We're canceling camping trips left and right up here. We were
supposed to go to Hershey for several days in early August, and pulled
the plug on it. We were also scheduled to do a weekender at a state
park, but backed out (so to speak) on that as well. The horrible blast
furnace trip we took last month is haunting us still, and may very well
turn out to be a stake through the heart of all our camping dreams.
None of us have any passion whatsoever
to get back into that rolling box o' beds. In fact, we're all pretty
much hostile to the idea. We should probably force ourselves to do one
more trip before summer ends, because if we don't.... there very likely
won't be anymore camping for us, ever.
We're standing at the crossroads, my friends, holding a Coleman lantern
and a damp beer coozie. And our fate is uncertain.
-- Brad sent me this
last night, and it gave me chuckle.
-- Jason
alerted me to this
one, and I just can't stop watching it. Good, good stuff.
-- A few days ago I received the freakin' holy grail, via UPS. It's a
DVD box set of the entire original TV broadcast of the 1975
World Series -- every pitch of all seven games. Needless
to say, it features the Cincinnati Reds, my beloved Big Red Machine
during the magical Bench, Rose, Morgan, and Perez days. Oh, and the
Boston Red Sox too....
Game Six is often referred to as the Greatest Game Ever Played, when
Carlton Fisk hit that iconic "please don't go foul"
body-English homer
in extra-innings. I can't wait!
But I'm not even breaking the shrinkwrap on it until bourbon season gets
here. It simply won't do to watch this thing in the summer, it's gotta
be crisp outside, with the leaves falling. Hopefully, if I play my cards
right, I'll be starting an annual and cherished fall tradition this
year, here at the Compound.
It's gonna be great!
-- Finally, here's something pointless and fun to do.... Plug the day
and month you were born into Wikipedia,
and check out all the famous folks you share a birthday with. I was born
on November 30,
and so were Mark Twain, Winston Churchill, Dick Clark, Billy Idol, and a
whole bunch of other hot-shots.
What about you? Can you trump friggin' Mark Twain? I seriously doubt it,
but give it a shot.
And I'll see ya on Monday. Have yourselves a great little weekend,
y'hear? permalink
August 7, 2006
-- The weekend was about as uneventful
as they come. The weather was a little more tolerable than usual, but we
didn't take advantage of it. Feel free to sue me in a court of law if
you'd like.
I took the youngest Secret out to lunch on Saturday. Toney and I have
this on-again off-again plan to take one kid each to lunch on weekends,
on an alternating basis, so they can have a little alone-time with us
without distractions. We think it's a valuable exercise, but aren't real
consistent with it.
He said he wanted to go to Damon's
so that's where we went. I ordered some sort of bizarre sandwich called
a Steamboat. The menu picture made it look appealing, but in reality it
was like a house shoe full of pork and cheese. People are always raving
about that place, but I find myself walking away feeling a tad let-down
more often than not.
After lunch I took him to buy a lava lamp for his new bedroom. He and
his brother share a room now, but we're splitting 'em up before the new
school year begins -- because the time has come.
There are only two things he's requesting for his new space: a red lava
lamp, and a poster of A Nightmare Before Christmas. We already
took care of the latter, and now the former is handled as well. Once
Toney gets finished priming, spackling, and painting the rooms, and
moving all the furniture, we'll be good to go.
When we returned home the oldest Secret met us at the door waving a
Blockbuster DVD box in our faces. Wanna watch The
Benchwarmers?! he shouted. Um OK. It turned out to be ninety
minutes of farting, vomiting, bag-tagging, and cartoonish faggotry. In
short: great fun for the entire family!
On Sunday I mowed the lawn again. When exactly are they going to come
out with that special grass that only grows to a certain length, then
stops, like pubes? I saw a news piece on it at least a year ago.... Yet
I'm out there at least once every five weeks, mowing again. It's
ridiculous.
Then it was cocktail hour again, and before I knew it Deadwood
was on, and you're completely up to date on the weekend. Scintillating,
ain't it?
-- Our old
house in California reportedly sold last week for $495,000. We sold
it to the sellers in early 2000 for something like $185,000. Yet another
of those things I try not to think about....
Toney's network of spies tells us that the neighbors on the cul-de-sac
were monitoring closely the people who were looking at our old place,
and taking appropriate action. If they didn't like the looks of someone
they'd raise a ruckus, and try to discourage them from pursuing it.
One is apparently in a rock band, and if he'd see someone roll in with,
say, a bunch of potentially-screeching kids, he'd lift his garage door,
crank up his amplifiers, and start blasting Van Halen riffs off the
front of his house. Another of our ex-neighbors is into vintage cars,
and would go out and rev an ancient lead-fueled engine at calculated
times, for the same reasons.
Supposedly their strategy paid dividends, and they're completely happy
with the new buyers. Heh.
Toney also found out that one of the super-moms that lived near us has
gone the route of the full-blown drunkaholic. She supposedly starts
hitting the hard stuff around noon, and is down like a sack of taters by
the time her sexually ambiguous son arrives home from middle school at
3:30. I guess the pressures of keeping up with the Joneses has finally
taken its toll?
No word on the two kids that lived next door to us, who were banned for
life from Los Angeles County schools for plotting their own private
Columbine. Maybe the shock treatments worked?
Yeah, and it all looks so Norman Rockwell when you drive through
there.... David Lynch! Paging Mr. David Lynch!!
-- And speaking of Van Halen, how come there are no bands like that
anymore? Sure, I was there cheering, like everybody else, when Kurt
Cobain dropped a big fat atom bomb on the arena rockers. But now I kinda
miss it. I know it might be melodramatic to say, but it sometimes feels
like there is no rock music anymore.
I've tried to warm to the so-called garage rockers, like the Hives and
the Strokes, but they just don't do it for me. Maybe I'm old-fashioned,
but I seem to prefer a few actual good songs to go along with the
pose.... And anyway, I'm not talking about that sort of thing. I'm
talking about big, ridiculous party bands whose lyrics don't venture far
from boy meets girl, boy inserts penis.
Yes, I'm forty-three. What of it?
-- But, at least there's one
thing to look forward to. Or back at. Or something. Hello?
-- Last week I noticed a referral to TheWVSR from this
page. I have no idea who set up the project, but it's pretty
cool. I spent some time exploring the
site a few nights ago, picked up a little juicy zine-geek gossip,
and learned a few real things as well. I hope folks contribute to it,
and it thrives. Me? I'm a very busy man....
-- Here's
a longish argument about the perceived assholistic attitudes of the
people in our current home of northeastern Pennsylvania, by transplants
like me. Personally, I haven't had too many problems with the people
here, since I'm every bit as standoffish as they are. But over the years
Toney has voiced many of the very same things the folks in this thread
are saying. In fact, parts of it read like a transcript of our actual
kitchen conversations.
-- And finally, I'll leave you with a classic blast from the past: the
German forklift training
film! If you haven't seen it, take the time. It's worth the
investment, I promise.
See ya tomorrow. permalink
August 2, 2006
-- Last night Toney called as I was driving home from work and asked me
to stop by the beer store for "something fancy." Not a
problem, I said, I can occasionally help out the cause and buy some
adult beverages.
So I walked around the no-frills Soviet-style "store" trying
to seize the opportunity and latch onto something that I might enjoy. I
used to be all about the microbrews, but have drifted a bit since moving
to Pennsylvania. It's not because of lack of interest, mind you, it's
because of the crack-ass liquor laws they have here. There's little to
no competition, since everything's controlled by the state, so it's very
expensive. Plus, you've gotta buy it by the case, which makes the
concept of trying something new a mighty risky affair.
But Toney gave me a blank check last night, and this was my chance to
get myself nipples-deep in good ol' Pacific Northwest hops. I walked up
and down the aisles, past the massive mountains of Keystone Light and
various other "bedshit" beers, until I found the section where
they keep the microbrews.
And I ha |
The State of My
Fat Ass
August 2006
