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.
--
On Thursday Steve called me at work and told me his father had passed
away the previous night. He'd been in failing health for some time, but
it was still a shock. It seems like people I know are beginning to lose
their parents on a routine basis now, and I hate that. I know it's the
cycle of life, and all that Lion King crapola, but I'm still not
a fan of it.
I've known Steve forever, more or less, and his parents for almost as
long. When I was growing up in Dunbar they lived only a few yards from
us, and I was at their house constantly. Steve's Dad was a genuine war
hero, having flown dozens of bombing missions over Europe during WWII.
He also knew a lot about old-time baseball, and I enjoyed talking to him
about it. He always seemed to be in a good mood, and I liked him; he was
a kind man.
I had to get down there for the funeral. I sent an email to my boss in
California, asking if he had a problem with me playing hooky on Friday.
No problem, came the reply. So I'd drive the following day, attend the
funeral on Saturday, and drive again on Sunday. Not exactly a fun way to
spend a weekend, but the right way in this case.
I had no intentions of leaving at the crack of dawn on Friday, but I'd
wanted to get on the road earlier than I did. And so it goes. Once I
finally shoved off I stopped to fill up my tank, and my cell phone rang.
It was Toney, telling me I'd just missed the mailman -- and he'd brought
the CD I'd been waiting for. It was a British import two-disc Beautiful
South anthology, which would be perfect for a nine-hour car trip
alone. "I'm coming back!" I hollered like General Patton,
holding my chin high in defiance.
The trip to WV was uneventful, except for the fact that I got 35 big
honkin' miles per gallon in my new car. I filled up the eighteen gallon
tank not far from our house, and never had to fill it again until I
reached my parent's house, 530 miles away. In the old Blazer days I
would've used exactly twice that much fuel. It was almost shocking,
Oh, and I stopped at a Cracker Barrel somewhere along the way, and felt
a tad ill at ease. I don't generally have a problem eating in a
restaurant alone, but this time I felt like there was a neon light
flashing above my head that said "child molester" or "sex
pervert," or something along those lines. The place was crowded
with families, and I started messing around with my cell phone,
pretending to be in the middle of something important. I sent my friend
Tim a text message and told him my situation, and he wrote back,
"Remember, you're a mysterious loner, not lonely." Heh.
Do you have a problem eating in
restaurants by yourself? I hope I'm not back-sliding here.... In the
past I never even thought about it; it was no big deal. But on Friday I
felt like I was onstage, beneath a spotlight.
Steve called me at some point while I was driving and asked if I'd be
willing to be a pall bearer. I told him it was no problem, but
immediately began stressing about it. I'd only done that duty twice
before, and almost fell down both times. The first time the guy in front
of me tripped over something, and comedy ensued. And the second time it
was rainy, and I was wearing slick-ass dress shoes.... You can connect
the dots on that one. It's only a matter of time before I get my entire
body wedged beneath a casket, in front of a crowd of gasping mourners. I
just know it.
My mother made hot bologna for dinner, a hillbilly delicacy and
one of my favorites, and I went to town on that. Good ol' West Virginia
round steak.... Later in the evening I began checking my dress clothes,
to see what needed ironing, and all that stuff.
And I had no pants!
I'd just grabbed the zipper bag with the jacket and tie and everything
inside, assuming the pants were there too. They were not. And here I
was, only hours away from a funeral at which Steve's family was relying
on me to be a pall bearer -- and I had no pants!
Sweet sainted mother of Adena Watson.
Once my parents stopped laughing, we started weighing our options. It
was 9:30 at night, and all the stores were closed by now. And the
funeral was at 11:00 am, not leaving me enough time to do anything in
the morning. Holy shitballs! My Dad couldn't stop wheezing with
laughter, so he wasn't much help. But my Mom suggested Wal-Mart. They're
open 24 hours a day, she reminded me.
That was it! Surely I could find something there that would serve
the purpose. I only needed them for an hour or so, no doubt they had
some passable Malaysian knock-off on their shelves that would solve the
crisis for me. My mother grabbed her purse, and shouted, "Let's go!”
And I could hear my Dad still laughing as we left the house.
Wotta shithole. We were at Wal-Mart for at least an hour, and I couldn’t
find a thing. It was all petroleum-based dress slacks, and cheap-as-fuck
1970s used car salesmen clothes. My Mom and I started arguing, because
she thought I was being difficult. But dammit, I ain’t wearing a pair
of $9 polyester pants. I mean, seriously.
I tried on a couple of things that didn’t look too bad, and
they had some sort of weird adjustable strap on the inside of the
waistband, like those old-man trousers they sell on the back of Parade
magazine. When I looked at myself in the mirror, it appeared that I had
both pockets full of apples. It was all puffed out at the top and
distorted. What the hell, man?!
Finally I told my mother that it wasn’t going to happen. No way I was
wearing any of that Ted Baxter gear; we’d just have to figure
something else out. “But what?” she shouted, “It’s after ten o’clock!”
And I’ll tell you the rest of the story next time....
In the meantime, here’s an extra-cool Smoking Fish sighting. And the
final numbers for Deadwood. Clemente made it to 3000, but those
guys didn’t. They fell just a single Trixie diatribe short of the
magic number. Too bad.
--
On Thursday Steve called me at work and told me his father had passed
away the previous night. He'd been in failing health for some time, but
it was still a shock. It seems like people I know are beginning to lose
their parents on a routine basis now, and I hate that. I know it's the
cycle of life, and all that Lion King crapola, but I'm still not
a fan of it.