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.
--
Recently I mentioned that I'd been trying to track down a copy of an old
movie I used to watch during the early days of HBO, Damnation Alley.
It's a cheesy post-apocalyptic tale of four survivors traveling across
what's left of the United States, in some kind of crazy sand-burrowing war
wagon. Along the way they encounter giant scorpions and armor-plated
cockroaches (among other delights), and a splendid time is guaranteed
for all.
It's not available on DVD yet. However, that didn't stop Surf Reporter
John from securing a copy, via highly-mysterious means, and sending it
my way. A few days ago I checked my PO Box (usually a barren wasteland
of pizza coupons and Wal-Mart fliers), and there it was, snuggled
inside. Cool!
Last night I dimmed the lights, popped open a lager, and watched this
long-lost film for the first time in probably twenty-five years. The
quality was pretty good, especially for a Chinese mafia bootleg, and the
movie was just as I remembered it: This entire city is infested with
killer cockroaches! I repeat: KILLER COCKROACHES!!
Yes, it was an enjoyable evening at the Compound. Thanks John! I
appreciate your efforts. Give my regards to Big Louie Wu.
And if you're interested, and have access, it looks like Fox
Movie Channel is actually going to show this cinematic classic three
times over the next few weeks: June 24 (tomorrow!), July 30, and August
7. Check it out if you're so inclined. It's a lot of fun, and hard to
find. Now's yer chance.
-- When we first moved here our neighborhood was crawling with children
in the first years of elementary school. They rampaged through the
yards, set up lemonade stands, and squealed and laughed at all hours...
Now, to my horror, they're all growed up.
It's a disturbing state of affairs. I feel like we just recently moved
to Scranton, but the kids in the neighborhood tell another tale. All the
little girls look like women now, and the little boys look like Matthew
Sweet. How did it happen??
Yesterday I heard a rumor that a kid who
lives nearby is a well-known pot dealer(!). He supposedly takes payment
in cash or iPods, and works regular shifts on weekends and evenings. WTF?
I swear he was a second-grader just a few weeks ago, in a Winnie the
Pooh sweatshirt. Now he's The Pusher, lurking in the shadows and saying
things like "The eagle has landed?!" Say it ain't so.
I don't know... A year used to seem like a really long time to me, and
now they click by like telephone poles beside the highway. It's
depressing. And it's the kids that make you notice. Adults don't change
much, they just expand over time, slowly like a glacier. It's other
people's younglings that rub salt in your wounds.
And now I'm so bummed-out I'm thinking about paying Pooh a visit....
Should I wear a fake beard?
-- Tonight's the very last Phil Hendrie radio show. After today, the
laughter dies. I usually listen to the previous night's show the next
morning, using the "on demand" feature at his website. But I
think I'll listen live tonight. He says it'll just be a regular show,
nothing special, except he'll be hammering back shots of tequila. I feel
like I need to be there, in real time.
When we first moved to California I worked crazy hours. I'd go to work
in the dark, and come home in the dark. We had a young baby, no money,
and were living in an apartment complex in Santa Clarita. Life was a tad
challenging.
One night I was driving home and was half paying attention to a talk
show on the radio. But something was a bit off about it. I can't
remember the topic they were discussing, but the guest was ridiculous.
And the callers were telling him about it. There was lots of shouting,
and hilarious scatological insults.
By the time I reached the parking lot of our apartment, everything had
escalated (devolved?) to complete chaos. It sounded like three people
were talking at the same time, carnival music was playing in the
background, and somebody was scratching himself into the phone receiver.
It was insane.
But I couldn't stop listening. I sat outside our apartment in the dark,
unable to turn off the radio. I wasn't able to figure out what was going
on during that first night, but I knew I liked it.
And I've been listening ever since. His show got me through those years
(along with the Pabst brewing company), and several times he had me
laughing so hard I nearly lost control of my car and crashed into a
ravine. It, and our youngest son, are about the only good things that
came from those California days.
I don't like tequila (I always wake up thinking I've got a hatchet
buried in my skull), but I'll be there tonight with another adult
beverage in-hand, saying goodbye to a mad genius. It sucks that's he's
leaving, but at least he was here for a while. Right?
-- And that'll do it for me, children. Kinda lame, I know. But, luckily, I've got
Buck to bail me out. Take 'er away,
my friend.
Have a great weekend, and I'll see you folks again on Monday.
--
Recently I mentioned that I'd been trying to track down a copy of an old
movie I used to watch during the early days of HBO, Damnation Alley.
It's a cheesy post-apocalyptic tale of four survivors traveling across
what's left of the United States, in some kind of crazy sand-burrowing 
