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.
--
You know how some folks work their entire lives and seem at least
semi-normal, then turn kooky the very moment they retire? Well, I see
how that could happen.
Last week I planned to work on a little side-project I've got going
here, and did. In fact, I got a lot done; I'm not slugging myself in the
genitalia this morning or hollering profanity at the mirror, or anything
like that. I set a goal and accomplished, well, at least 75% of it. And
that's pretty good for me. That's a solid C, right in the heart of my
comfort zone.
But by the middle of the week I started feeling strange, like I was
cut-off from society. I found myself puttering around the house in the
afternoons with no clear purpose, detached from current events and just
basically living in a world no larger than the square footage of our
house. I don't want to alarm anyone, but I think I was this close
to Sudoku.
....Will somebody please hold me?
It didn't help that we got the big John Holmes snowstorm on Wednesday.
Or was it Tuesday? I don't know, and frankly don't care anymore. That
stuff was (past tense) really pretty, but caused my back to hurt. Toney
and I spent more than three hours shoveling our driveway, basically
carving out a tunnel in the snowpack where we can park our cars.
Depending on what channel you watch, we got seventeen or eighteen
inches, and it'll probably be on the ground until May. All gray and
shitty like downtown Cincinnati.
So it's good to be back. If anyone's actually reading this, I appreciate
you sticking around. I plan on being here every day(ish), until our big
Atlanta adventure in June. The bunker is open for business again, boys
and girls. And as I shove, with the heel of my hand, a Little Debbie
disc o' lard between my quivering lips, I can feel a renewed energy in
the air. Pass the freakin' beer nuts.
-- On the day of the snowstorm my boss called and asked for my help. He
needed something done at the plant, and couldn't reach anyone. He knows
I have all those folks' cell phone numbers, and wanted me to do what I
could. Thankful for the brief contact with the outside world, I told him
I'd get right on it.
The first two numbers I called sent me
straight to voice mail, but the third guy answered. He was trying to
drive home, and it wasn't going very well. In fact, he said the word
fuck roughly thirty times during our two-minute conversation. At one
point he screamed, "There goes my wiper! My fucking driver's side
windshield wiper just flew off!! FUCK!"
By the time I hung up, seconds later, the hood of his Volkswagen was
imbedded in a snow bank, and he couldn't move forward or backwards. He
was in the grips of a full-on Swearengen frenzy by that point, and I
decided it probably wasn't the right time to ask for a favor, and let
him go. As I flipped my phone shut, I could hear a small tinny voice
saying, "Motherfuck, motherfuck, motherfuck!!"
Then I called my boss back and told him I couldn't reach anyone.
-- On the day of the "snow event," before things got really
bad, they were interviewing people on the local news who were out buying
snow shovels at Lowe's. Yes, it's Pulitzer-caliber journalism around
these parts.... One woman was purchasing a fancy-ass model with a
Z-shaped handle, and the reporter asked if she'd be the one doing the
actual shoveling.
"God no," she hollered, "I'm an old woman. I might take a
heart attack!"
Take a heart attack? Why does that make me laugh so much? Why is
that so funny?
-- This doesn't have anything to do with the snow, I don't think, but my
right ear has been sealed-off for almost a week now. I've had such
problems all my adult life (as has my Dad), but it usually doesn't
linger very long. It's not unusual for me to wake up with a case of
swimmer's ear, and it generally clears itself up within a few hours.
This one, however, has been hanging around since early last week, and is
making me crazy.
Doctors say it's the shape and width of the canal, or somesuch, which
doesn't allow for proper "drainage." I guess it's a birth
defect, who the hell knows? But the moment it finally pops will be
magical indeed; it'll be nothing short of an eargasm. I hope I'm not in
a business meeting when it happens, because I'll probably scream then
feel a powerful urge to sleep.
-- We did our taxes last week, and the Surf Report is now listed in the
official IRS records. For the first time this site earned enough money,
through ad revenues, that I was required to report it. Amazon,
specifically, was the culprit; they sent me a 1099 form, or some deal,
and we had to list it on our return. This caused TurboTax to kick into
overdrive, and it asked a full half-shitload of questions about it. It
might've just been my imagination, but the software program seemed skeptical
about the whole thing. In any case, TheWVSR has made it to the federal
tax records. Pretty cool, huh?
I've got loads more, but I'd better eeeease back into it. Just so
you know, I'm in the midst of yet another powerful Lloyd Cole jag. It's
something that happens from time to time.... And speaking of music, just
this morning I stumbled across the 2006 Pazz & Jop survey, right
here. I haven't had time to explore it yet, but will remedy that
situation over the next few days. Man, I love me some Pazz & Jop.
Any opinions on the critics' opinions?
Also, what did you do last week? Did anything exciting happen?
Help me get re-connected to the real world, my friends. Use the comments
link to snap me out of this weird-ass stupor. I'm very close to ordering
beltless slacks off the back cover of Parade magazine, and urgently need
your assistance here. Holy shit.
--
You know how some folks work their entire lives and seem at least
semi-normal, then turn kooky the very moment they retire? Well, I see
how that could happen.