July 4, 2007

-- I hope you guys are having yourselves a wonderful holiday. These days off don’t mean much to me anymore, since I’ve been off every day since early March. But I hope it’s working for you, I really do.

This morning I’ve already had coffee on the deck with Toney, taken a long walk beside a creek (or as they’re known back home in the motherland, crick), sat on a bench and pretended to think deep thoughts, and had a yummy grease-spangled breakfast from atop the high bar at Waffle House.

Here was my view during breakfast. The place was packed, and when I was returning from the pisstol I didn’t notice a fork on the floor, and kicked it at high velocity into the waiting area. It came to a sudden stop beneath the tip of a man’s shoe, who was wearing a Cape Cod t-shirt and a wotta douche expression of disgust.

In case you’re keeping score at home, I had scrambled eggs, bacon (aigs and biken), hash browns with a square of neon-orange cheese soldered to it, toast, and sweet tea with lemon. It was very good indeed. 

The elderly (and sturdy) waitress even called me “honey,” and rubbed my back at one point. I swear I think they import those women from Alabama , or somewhere. They don’t make ‘em like that up here.

-- And speaking of restaurants, we went to Don Pablo’s last night for dinner. Unfortunately, we got a local homegrown waitress and she was indifferent at best. But whatever.

Every time we go to that place I see a guy from my old job sitting in the bar on a hilarious elevated chair, a-smokin’ and a-drinkin’. Last time he was smashed, and his wandering eye was really going to town. I mean, that shit was rolling...

When we arrived last night I took a look around and didn’t see him anywhere. I mentioned my surprise to Toney. But after dinner, as we were making our way to the exit, I spotted him. He was sitting high amongst great clouds of smoke, and lifting a gargantuan margarita glass to his hyper-extended lips.

I thought about going over and saying hey, but it’s getting to the point of uneasiness now. He’s there every time, and I imagine he’s there every night. But what if he’s not? What if he just happens to go on the same days I do? Maybe he thinks I eat dinner there seven days a week, and has a whole complicated multi-faceted explanation in his mind for why.

So screw it. We just left.

-- I don’t feel like writing about Myrtle Beach today, so I’m not going to. And I was going to respond to the too-many-ads complaints I’ve been receiving, but there’s no point to it, really. People have their opinions, and that’s the way it’s gonna be. …OK, perhaps just a few words. 

According to these folks I started publishing my paper zine in 1978. Of course that’s inaccurate. I was still in Junior High in 1978, trying desperately not to die of puberty.

But I have been involved in self-publishing since 1982 or 1983, producing various brands of ridiculousness under the West Virginia Surf Report name for almost 25 years now.

For a long time I was into the politics of it all, the rumors and the feuds and the failures and successes of zine publishers everywhere. And regardless of technological advances or individuals involved, there were constants, things that never changed.

One, of course, is the characterization of all Republican presidents as fascists, Nazis, and dangerous idiots. That’s a constant. 

Another is the opening statement in 75% (or so) of every paper zine ever published: “I’m sorry this issue is so late…” 

And another chestnut from the ol’ evergreen tree is the continuous bitching about too many ads in certain publications. “Sell out!” is the biggest cliché this side of “Free Bird!”

My friend Mark publishes Crimewave USA with his wife Linette. Years ago, when their zine grew to the point they were able to start selling ads to big record companies like Virgin, some of their readers acted like they wanted to drag them both to the center of town and stone them to death.

The shit’s been going on since the beginning of time.

So I’m not going to defend the ads on my website. They’re there so I can make a little money. If that’s an issue for you, do what you must. I hope you’ll stick around, but if you can’t I’ll understand.

And I’ll also let you in on a little secret… I have a far-fetched dream of maybe someday doing this crapola for a living. So I’m messing around with the ads to find out what works best, so I can duplicate it, etc. Therefore, what’s on the site today isn’t necessarily what’s going to be on the site next week.

In any case, if/when this all comes crashing down, and I get a new job and start back on the 50 or 60 hour workweek treadmill, the ads and the website itself will probably go away. And nobody will have to worry about any of it anymore.

You guys are getting me all worked up…

-- I’ll leave you now with one of my favorite Phil Hendrie bits. This one features Steve Bozell, the man who’s always suing someone for hurting his feelings. 

In this episode he talks about being at an Olive Garden restaurant in Western wear, and is humiliated when he comes out of the bathroom with toilet paper stuck to one of his spurs. 

Great stuff! Download the file here.

And I'll see ya tomorrow.



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