Holy
crap in a Bundt pan...
Due to the
recent well-publicized shortage of
amateur websites produced by assholes who consider themselves to be
clever, I
have been called into action. My name is Jeff Kay, and I’m an
Ugly American living
on the cusp of a mid-life crisis, near Scranton, PA. And I’m here to
serve, baby.
The
State of My Fat Ass A journal of
sorts, updated every once in a while.
Here
are some follow-ups to stories previously covered at the West Virginia
Surf Report....
-- A few nights ago I finally watched Christmas
Evil, a movie suggested to me as a good alternative to the
original Black Christmas, which Netflix STILL hasn't sent to me.
And it wasn't very good. The thing is extremely low budget, paralyzingly
dull, and the anticipated payoff unsatisfying. However.... there was something about it that got under my skin.
I think it was the guy who played the main character, an actor named Brandon
Maggart. He portrays Harry, a psycho with a deep-dish Santa hang-up.
His apartment is filled with Santa doo-dads, he sleeps in a Santa suit,
and he watches the neighborhood kids through binoculars, then records
their activities in two giant books: The Good Boys and Girls and The
Bad Boys and Girls. He's one creepy mofo.
And that's the best part of the film, that Brandon Maggart dude. I'd
never heard of him, but he's great in this movie. Too bad the writing
and directing, and all that stuff, wasn't anywhere near as good as the
lead actor.
I wanted to learn more
about the guy, and it turns out he was an original cast member of Sesame
Street, and is Fiona Apple's father. And that somehow feels right to
me.
-- I mentioned that I bought a CD at Best Buy on Sunday.... And once
again, the cashier tried to sell me magazine subscriptions. What's the
story with that? I walked up to her with some obscure hipster disc, and
she immediately launched into a sales pitch for Sports Illustrated and
People? Where's the logic? Where's the connection? What's next?
Time-shares? Colon cleansers? Wiener enhancers? I don't understand.
I told her I didn't want any magazines, and I didn't want to enroll in
their Rewards program, and I wasn't interested in the CD replacement
insurance policy, and no, I didn't want to enter a contest for a chance
to win a set of barbecue tools. I just want this CD, that's all I want,
and please stop asking me questions; you're making me freakin' crazy
here!
"Can I have your zip code?" she said. Grrrr.....
-- I told you about having my palm read, years ago, at Venice Beach in
California. I was there that day with Mark
Maynard, and we were in the midst of harassing a Seinfeld
writer named Peter
Mehlman.
Mehlman was quoted in a magazine as saying
Hollywood needs good comedy writers. There's not enough of them, he
claimed, and it was almost an emergency state. Then he added that anyone
who is funny should come to California, right away. Come by plane, by
train, by automobile, it doesn't matter, he said. Just come!
So we started calling his office and saying, "OK, we're here. When
do we start?"
We never actually got through to Mehlman himself, but we spoke to his
assistant multiple times. We told her we'd walked to Los Angeles,
all the way from our home in Kentucky, because Peter had offered us a
job. You know, indirectly. Through a magazine article.
The assistant was not amused, and eventually warned us to stop calling.
So we began mailing them stuff. Mark's wife Linette is a graphic artist,
and she dummied up a newspaper article from our "hometown." It
was a heartwarming piece about two local boys who were about to make it
big in show business, and had been offered a writing job from industry
bigwig Peter Mehlman. It featured a photo of me walking along a highway,
headed for Hollywood and carrying a sleeping Mark on my back(!?).
That didn't elicit a response, so we decided to go out and take pictures
of street people holding up homemade signs. We planned to continue
sending them to Mehlman, claiming the streets of Southern California
were littered with people who had taken up his offer, and were now
despondent and homeless.
Here's one of the photos I snapped that day at Venice Beach.
But we never sent him any pictures. As so often happened, we lost
enthusiasm for the "project," and switched over to some other
ridiculousness. Heh. If Mark and I hadn't moved away from each other, we
would've surely been arrested, sooner or later. Every time we sat down
to have a beer together, some crazy-ass scheme was hatched. Then we'd
actually follow through with it, which was the amazing part. Good times.
-- And finally.... our new TV will be delivered on Saturday! I'm still
in a state of shock. So many times I've brought myself all the way up to
the cusp of buying one of those humongous televisions, then lost my
nerve at the last second. Yesterday I finally did it. My hand was
shaking as I signed the credit card slip, but I went through with it.
And now I feel like I'm ten years old again, and it's Christmas Eve. Man, there will
be no reason to ever leave the house....
I'll see you guys next week. I'm flying to Los Angeles tomorrow,
returning on Friday. And my sphincter is clicking like a paparazzi's
camera lens. Sweet Maria.
Here
are some follow-ups to stories previously covered at the West Virginia
Surf Report....
