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.
--
And we're back.... You're listening to the Skippy and Jeff morning show
on WSHT radio, your home for classic rock and demoralizing, soul-sapping
repetition. Jeff, before the break you were getting ready to tell us
about your Los Angeles and Scranton lunch memories. You wanna pick that
up now?
Yeah, thanks Skippy. It's a little ironic that our Southern California
stay was, without a doubt, the most miserable, feces-encrusted period of
our married life, yet it provided the best lunch experiences.
I worked in Burbank, and the lunch options were many. Including, if you
can dig it, the commissaries at various movie studios. In fact, the
entrance of Warner Bros. was only a few hundred yards from my desk, and
I dined there often.
Back in the pre-9/11 days, it was no problem to just walk through the
gate, and wander around at will. Sometimes the guards would make you
show your "pass," but all you had to do was wave some sort of
card, any card, at them, and they'd let you through. A driver's license,
a MasterCard, your membership in the Richard Marx Appreciation Society,
it didn't matter. I think I even flashed a Kleenex one day, and never
had a problem. Unfortunately, I hear all that's changed now.
Anyway, once through the gate, you could pretty much do whatever you
pleased. Within reason, of course. I walked all over the place, checking
out the various sets and soundstages. There was a full-on New York City
ghetto in there somewhere, that was cool as all hell. And
well-maintained suburban "homes," the elevated train that
appeared in ER, the Daily Planet building from Lois and Clark...
There were surprises around every corner.
You'd see people walking around in bizarre costumes, and big-shot
executives buzzing past in golf carts tricked-out to look like Rolls
Royces. One day another guy and I just stood and looked at Clint
Eastwood's assigned parking spot for minutes on end, just not fucking
believing it. I was a long way from the Dunbar Bowling Alley.
The commissary was open to anyone, and it was good. They had real, live
chefs on staff, serving up superior meals. It wasn't exactly cheap, but
the atmosphere was stellar. We always sat outside on the patio, and took
it all in.
Over the years I saw many celebrities at the WB, including the cast of Friends,
Drew Carey, and my hero George Clooney.
One time I was outside eating my sprout-laden sandwich (California,
remember) and saw a massively pregnant woman arguing with a man. She was
waving her hands around, raising her voice, and looking ready to pop.
Her bra strap had fallen onto her upper arm, and it was as wide as a
seatbelt. But, of course, it needed to be, to support the load...
because it was Adrienne Barbeau.
So that beat the living crap out of the Douglasville, GA Taco Bell. It
really did. I couldn't afford to go there every day, but I went as often
as I could. Many of my co-workers liked to pretend that it was no big
deal, but I was never able to pull that off. Every time I went I
nearly broke down in tears.
There was also a really kick-ass Chinese place not far from the office,
called Frontier Wok. Massive portions for less than five bucks, prepared
in an open-kitchen with frightening towers of flames shooting up in the
air all willy-nilly. I went there so often they knew me by name. Mister
Jeff, they called me.
And when I was really poor, which was often, there was always Del Taco
-- home of the 59 cent taco. I'd get a sack of those babies and eat them
at my desk, because drinks from the vending machine were cheaper than
the "expensive" ones they sold at the "restaurant."
Once I saw Red from That '70s Show in Del Taco, scarfing down a
burrito. He had the wrapper all spread out, nice and neat, and kept
smoothing it like it was very important to him. He didn't seem friendly,
so I kept my distance.
Another time, while standing in line at the counter, I heard tires
squealing, then an impossibly loud crash. We all ran out, and saw a car
inside, all the way inside, a laundromat. An old man was behind
the wheel, and his "gas pedal got stuck." Heh. He took out
several rows of washing machines and drove them through a bank of
dryers on the back wall. Amazingly enough, nobody got hurt. But I think
some poor bastard's underwear was wedged deep inside the grillwork of a
1989 Mercury Sable.
So those are the California highlights and, to tell you the truth, I'm
getting a little sick of this subject. So let's just skip Scranton. OK,
Skippy?
No problemo Jeff! Or should I call you Mr. Jeff now?
Hahahahahahaha. Oh god.... Here's Bob Seger, with "Turn the
Page." On SHT....
-- Yeah, I don't really know what I'm trying to do here today either,
but luckily I've got Buck to salvage the mess. Take
it away, my friend.
And I'll get back to the regular stuff tomorrow. Promise.
--
And we're back.... You're listening to the Skippy and Jeff morning show
on WSHT radio, your home for classic rock and demoralizing, soul-sapping
repetition. Jeff, before the break you were getting ready to tell us
about your Los Angeles and Scranton lunch memories. You wanna pick that
up now?