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 happened to catch something amazing on television Saturday: the
triumphant return of a local celebrity.
He's the weatherman at the most popular TV station in town, and I have a
feeling that if he ever jumped ship and went to a competing station, they'd
suddenly be the most popular in town. Because this dude is the King of
Northeastern PA. I can't begin to understand any of it, but it's true.
I've lived in plenty of places in my life, but I've never seen anything
like this before.
A couple of years ago we went to a mall in Wilkes-Barre on a Sunday, and
it was like Beatlemania inside. There was a long, snaking line of people
extending from one end of the place, wrapped around the end, then back
up the other side. Folks of every age and demographic were wide-eyed and
chattering expectantly, clutching photos and Sharpie pens, and standing
on their tip-toes trying to get a glimpse of something. Way off in the
distance we could hear rolling screams of excitement, like someone had
started The Wave.
What in the brown 'n' serve hell?! Is Madonna here? Johnny Depp? The
Pope?? No! It was The Weatherman. And just how freaky is that?
I started watching him in the mornings, just to see what all the hubbub
is about, and he falls squarely in the "wacky" category.
Likable (of course), but full-blown goofy. He might show a map of the
United States and Telly Savalas's face will be rotating over the entire
state of Pennsylvania, for reasons unknown, then a gang of ketchup
bottles will come down from Canada and push Kojak out into the Atlantic
Ocean. Or something similar.
By the time it's over I generally have no idea what kind of
weather to expect, but am thoroughly entertained.
I was somewhere recently and a woman was bitching about the rain. She
said "Joe" (no last name is necessary) said it would be clear
all day, so she'd left her umbrella at home. "He never gets it
right," she screeched, "but we still looooovehim!"
In most places they'd want to burn a bastard's house down if it rained
without warning, but this guy has full weatherman immunity -- something
I'd never even thought possible.
Every year he rides his bike about 500
miles, and takes pledges to raise money for a local charity. It's a big
to-do, and is hyped for weeks in advance. This year he rode from Maine,
back to Scranton, including a much-feared trek through New York City.
And as I was flipping through the channels Saturday night, I came across
his Welcome Home party.
At first I didn't know what was going on. It was happening during prime
time, and they were preempting the network broadcast. Had something
happened? Had another sinkhole opened up and swallowed the city of
Dunmore or something?? Eventually I figured it out, and was completely
transfixed.
Hundreds of people, if not thousands, had turned out to watch The
Weatherman pedal back into town. There were food booths and bands
playing.... Folks were packed up against barriers, and lining the
street. Commentators were there with microphones, talking about the
excitement in the air. A guy who looked like a diesel mechanic was asked
how long he'd been there, and he said he'd arrived two hours earlier
"to get a good spot." It was unbelievable.
Then they started making the announcements: "Joe's only three
blocks away!" A huge roar goes up. Then it's two block, and one.
Finally, on the screen, we see policemen on motorcycles, their lights
flashing, and the crowd is in a full-on frenzy. People are shown behind
the barriers just openly sobbing.
And then we see him come around the corner, it's Joe, pedaling and
waving, smiling and pumping his fists in the air. The crowd is now in a
state of what appears to be collective sexual climax. It's just a big
distorted wall of high-pitched shrieking, unrelenting and sustained. He
dismounts, hugs his wife and kids, then his mother and sister. Nuns are
there, and priests as well. People are wailing and hollering, and I just
can't stop watching.
The whole concept of local celebrity fascinates me to no end, especially
the local mega-celebrity like "Joe." The man probably has to
travel with a bodyguard when he goes to the corner grocery store for a
sack of Funyuns. Yet, if he drives 75 miles in any direction nobody
knows who the hell he is. It's gotta be a bizarre life.
Ya know?
-- And speaking of local celebrities, I'm gonna turn it over now to
Metten, who's back today with a rare and hilarious update. Right.... now.
--
I happened to catch something amazing on television Saturday: the
triumphant return of a local celebrity.