July 19, 2007

-- Last night I was in bed snoozing, when the phone started ringing. For a few seconds I didn’t understand what was going on. The shit’s that bell?? Am I on a game show? Asleep in a bed?? What the?!

When I figured it all out I flung the covers off me, and went tearing down the hallway. There’s a phone right beside the bed, on Toney’s nightstand, but I wasn’t thinking clearly. And there are few things less unsettling than a late night phone call. Ya know?   

I ran into the kitchen just as the answering machine took over.

I stood and watched while the message was being recorded, and it was some unknown hick going on and on and on about “the circus.” He was talking so loud there was distortion, and he said “y’all” a lot. What in the hot buttered crap??

A wrong number? I assumed so, but I still didn’t care for it. I looked at the clock on the stove and it said 12:56, almost one o’clock in the morning. What kind of circus is still going on at that time of night? And why was this Gomer Pyle screaming about it into our answering machine?

I drank a glass of water and went back to bed, while crazy thoughts began dancing in my brain. I concocted many scenarios in which this mysterious phone call was a direct threat to me. I probably shouldn’t read Dean Koontz while I’m home alone for a week...

Then Andy started barking!

I just about shit the quilt. Our dog’s ears perked up, he leaped to his feet, and began going ass-over-tits. He’d surely heard somebody outside our house, lurking in the darkness! It was probably an escaped lunatic from the wacky shack, stripped to the waist, clutching a circus program, and smeared in the blood of his previous victims!!

I pulled the comforter all the way up to my chin, for added protection, and that’s the last thing I remember. 

When I woke up this morning I was convinced none of it had actually happened; the entire episode seemed kinda foggy, as if it had taken place in a bizarre dreamscape. But then I hit the button on the answering machine and it was Hee Haw, overmodulation, and elephant parades all over again…

And I experienced a full-body shiver.

-- Speaking of weird phone calls, these people called again yesterday. It showed up as “International” on caller I.D., and when I answered it the line went dead again. If they think I’m going to be stupid enough to call them back, they’re going to be mighty disappointed. Those Mexican bandits (or whatever) are barking up the wrong douche. 

-- And speaking of Dean Koontz… I took a fiction writing class in California years ago, and the instructor told us Koontz should be an inspiration to us all. 

He claimed the horror superstar doesn’t posses an abundance of natural ability, but through hard work and dedication taught himself to write. He’s living proof, our teacher told us, that you don’t have to be Hemingway to become an accomplished writer.

I’d never read a Dean Koontz novel in my life up to that point (I’m sometimes guilty of low-grade snobbery), but he got me interested and I went out and bought one . And the shit was good.

Pass the beer nuts.

-- On Monday I took the trunkload of Surf Report shirts to the post office, and they told me they couldn’t process them until the next day. Being Hooterville, they only had one window open, and they couldn’t tie it up with a hundred or so packages. 

We agreed that I’d go back over there at 2 o’clock on Tuesday, and they’d do it then. And that’s what happened. I’ve now mailed every shirt I can possibly mail, and I’ll have more next week to take care of the five or six orders I can’t fill. 

Since the bulk went out on Tuesday many of you will undoubtedly receive your packages today. Sorry it took a little longer than anticipated, but I blame Nancy . …It’s certainly not my fault. Ahem.

-- Last week a reporter at the Los Angeles Times sent me an email asking if she could talk to me about something I wrote on my “blog.” A little voice inside my head said uh oh, but I went ahead and sent her my cell phone number anyway.

Then I heard nothing from her. 

Huh. Maybe I didn’t reply fast enough, and the story has already been written? Perhaps she was on a strict deadline, one of those insider terms I hear on TV shows about reporters? Who the hell knows?

I pretty much forgot about it, until Tuesday afternoon. I’d just left the post office and was walking into Five Guys for yet another kick-ass burger. My phone started ringing and I recognized the area code as Southern California .

So I returned to my car and talked to the woman, who wanted to get my opinion on musicians who promote their CDs on home shopping channels. Apparently I wrote some snotty comments about the Goo Goo Dolls appearing on QVC a while back (I barely remember), and she began peppering me with questions about it.

I thought I provided her with a few good quotes (“CBGB to QVC is one sad journey,” etc.) but she didn’t laugh much. In fact, I got the feeling she was hostile to my point of view. At one point she said, “Well, what’s it to you if somebody wants to sell a few more CDs?” 

It’ll be interesting to see the final article.

-- Before I turn it over to our good friend Buck, I’d like to alert you to these two extra-cool Smoking Fish sightings. 

And also ask you a half-assed Question of the Day...

Last night I went to dinner at Texas Roadhouse. I’d planned to just make myself a sandwich, since I wasn’t feeling so great and had already eaten out once that day. But then I changed my mind. What of it?

It was the first time I’d ever been to one of those restaurants, and it was good. I had a 12 oz New York Strip, dinner salad, and baked potato with butter, cheese, and bacon bits. Yum. They even had honest-to-goodness sweet tea.

My question: what are you feelings on going to restaurants alone? 

Last night the joint was packed with families and couples, and I was sitting right in the middle of them. It was one of those “You don’t understand. I’m a mysterious loner, not lonely” situations.

But, truthfully, I don’t really care. It’s no skin off my scrotum if some stranger thinks I’m a shifty-eyed weirdo. I was telling Toney about it later in the evening and she said she’d never go to a real restaurant during dinnertime alone. And she meant that shit.

What are you feelings on this one? And what do you think of Texas Roadhouse, for that matter? Use the comments link below.

-- And finally, I’m proud to announce: the return of Buck! Right here.

UPDATE: While I was pasting this update into the site, my phone rang and it was Buck himself. We've been talking for the past hour or so, mostly cruel mockery and insensitivity, and that's why this one's extra-late. And in case you were wondering, he called me a pussy at least five times during the call...

See you guys tomorrow.



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