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.
--
I'm getting a little tired of this subject, to tell you the truth, but
we're almost to the end and I'll get back to the regular stuff tomorrow.
'kay?
Sunday It was already hot at eight in the morning, when I crawled
off my shelf-bed and joined Toney outside with a humongous cup of
coffee. So freakin' muggy. There was a haze hanging over the world, so
thick it seemed to muffle sound. And it was supposed to be the hottest
day yet.
As we bitched and sniped the Secrets tore ass to the playground, like
they'd done the previous day. I don't know how they can run and jump in
that stuff, I really don't. It's a miracle of science.
A few minutes later an old man, out walking his dog, stopped to chat.
There's a lot of that in campgrounds... neighborly chatting. Of course
it goes against my nature, but I make an effort to be civil. He asked us
where we live, then launched into twenty minutes of stories loosely
related to our town.
He used to be in the business of well-digging and once dug a well near
us, "probably in 1956, '57," which required him to go down in
excess of 300 feet. He lost money on that deal, he told us. The ground
is reportedly very hard in our area, and the coal is so pure it has to
be cut out in blocks like ice. Not conducive to well-digging. He also
spent many years working in a factory where they made radio tubes, and
once had a job where he was required to leave his house at four in the
morning. His body never adjusted and he repeatedly fell asleep behind
the wheel. "I'm lucky that nobody ever got hurt," he said.
Yeah, no shit.
He was a nice guy, and I liked listening to him. But at the end he
asked, once again, "And where do you folks live?" I thought
about telling him a different town this time, to trigger a new set of
stories, but I really needed to visit the outhouse.
And it just kept getting hotter and hotter -- even worse than the
previous days. Sun was beating down on the camper, unobstructed, and
eventually the big industrial air conditioner seemed to be struggling to
keep up. I didn't think it was possible, but we lost our sanctuary. It
was only slightly cooler inside, and that sucked.
I think it was Toney who suggested we
"go to the store." We needed, um, ice. Right, ice. And
firewood. We could probably save some money if we found a proper grocery
store, and it would be well worth the effort, we told ourselves.
So we took off with the A/C blasting, secretly hoping that it would take
a long time to find a store. We drove past a very cool-looking drive-in
restaurant beside the river, that was completely packed. I suggested we
hit it on the way back, for lunch. As usual, nobody answered.
We somehow ended up in downtown Lewisburg, and drove past the old restored
theater where Steve and I saw a silent Buster Keaton movie a couple
of years ago, complete with live orchestra. I mentioned this, but nobody
had anything to say about it.
We found a grocery store, and I stayed in the truck with Andy while
everyone else disappeared inside. While they were away I did a quick
inventory of our Yuengling supply, and was pleased to find that we had
eighteen left. Oh yeah.
When Toney and the boys returned, they were only toting ice and various
crapola the Secrets wanted. No firewood. The heck, man? She said they
didn't have any. So we tried the Wal-Mart next door, and they were
sold-out as well. Irritating. I'd been highly satisfied with the thought
of us bypassing the criminal pricing of the camp store, and bringing in
some outside wood. Now it was getting all screwed up.
I remembered a handwritten sign I'd seen along the road somewhere. It
said "Firewood $3." Wonder if I could find it again?
Damn right, I could. We turned at the scary-looking dirt road where the
sign was located, and continued past several dumpy houses. It looked
like the owners of each and every one of them had started adding on
rooms, but had run out of money or lost interest or something. There was
an abundance of shabby half-finished construction out there, and the
road stopped abruptly at a dead-end near a shithole with a two story
"addition" that looked to have been started in the mid-1970's
and never finished.
Finally I saw the wood. It was stacked in five or six piles beside the
road, and there was another "Firewood $3" sign tacked to a
tree nearby. Below the sign was a nailed-up coffee can where, I assumed,
I was supposed to deposit my money.
I thought for sure I'd be shot clean through the face as I began loading
one of the stacks into the back of my truck, so I made a big show of
putting the money in the can. I was making big exaggerated movements and
waving my arms around. The kids were laughing at me, but I knew, just
knew, that we were being watched. From somewhere.
It turned out to be great stuff. It burned forever, and seemed to be
almost smokeless. We even had six or eight pieces left over, something
unheard of with camp store wood. If we ever return to that campground,
I'm making a repeat visit to Unfinished Additions Road, and that's a
fact.
We went back to the rolling box o' beds, and topped off our coolers with
ice. I stacked the wood near our fire ring, then suggested we go back to
the drive-in we'd spotted earlier. This time, under the scorching sun,
everybody agreed.
It's called The Fence, and here's
their website. The first time we drove past it was completely packed
with people, very similar to this
picture. It's gotta be good, I theorized. And I was right.
They offer old-fashioned car hop service, but it was too hot for such
nonsense, and we made our way to their air conditioned dining room
instead. We ordered regular drive-in fare: hamburgers, hot dogs, fries,
and root beers. But for some reason it was all magically delicious. I
don't know what they do differently, but I applaud their efforts. I was
about ready to tell our waitress to bring us another round of
everything, but Toney reigned me in.
And it was all downhill from there.
I've never been so uncomfortable in my life, for so long. My core
temperature was so elevated I was afraid I might finally explode, right
there in my folding chair. Toney was past her tipping point, and was
openly hostile about the whole exercise. She proclaimed, repeatedly,
that we will NEVER camp again, and nobody felt the need to argue with
her. Not even the Secrets, who were now completely spent and lying in
heaps.
I went to the bathroom late in the afternoon and was shocked at what was
looking back at me in the mirror. My face was all ruddy and elongated,
shiny and dark brown. I looked like John Kerry, if one of his parents
had been from India, and, you know, he'd died recently and come back as
a zombie. It was literally frightening.
We didn't really need to light the charcoal to cook dinner, but I went
through the motions anyway. Steve, who lives about ten miles away, came
by for a quick visit, but I barely even remember it. My brains were so
scrambled, not much was sticking.
I do know that there was a private party across the street at the
pavilion, thrown by "the union," and they made it clear to us
campers that we weren't welcome. However, we got to listen to their DJ
play a bizarre mix of songs all night, as "union" members got
shit-faced and cranked off rebel yells. I wanted to go over there and
tell the guy that Metallica, Enya, and "The Cover of the Rolling
Stone" by Dr. Hook don't really go together. But fuck it, it was
too hot.
And that was that. We went to bed completely pissed-off and
disillusioned. Toney was livid and acting like a maniac, and still
hasn't fully calmed down. It was that final day that put us over the
top. Before that it had just been your standard-issue horrible. But
Sunday was like something out of the Old Testament.
Now here's the kicker.... We took off early on Monday morning, wanting
to be back in our comfortable air-conditioned house before noon. When we
got here, around one o'clock, I told the Secrets to go inside, as I
mentally prepared myself for another infuriating session of
trailer-backing and high-end obscenity-shouting.
Toney jumped out to serve as my guide again, and I got myself into
position. Then I threw it into reverse and put that bastard right in the
middle of our driveway, like a grizzled long-haul trucker. First try,
straight as an arrow.
And there was nobody there to witness it -- not the snickering
bucktoothed hick at the campground, and not even Mr. Helpful who
"straightened it up" for me. I was certain Allen Funt would
emerge from behind a partition and give me a big hug while convulsing in
laughter.
And so it goes.
-- Next time I promise we'll get back to the regular stuff, which is
starting to pile up. I feel kinda guilty about droning on like this, so
I'll leave you today with another Phil Hendrie clip. Hopefully it'll be
enough to salvage the day? In this one he's "interviewing"
high school football coach Vernon Dozier, who doesn't want any PUSSIES!
on his team with asthma. A classic. Please accept
it as a token of my appreciation.
--
I'm getting a little tired of this subject, to tell you the truth, but
we're almost to the end and I'll get back to the regular stuff tomorrow.
'kay?
