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.
--
Since Adelphia shit the bed, and Comcast has taken over, our new
overlords apparently wanted to assure us there was nothing to fear, that
everything would remain the same. And so, our internet service was down
yesterday morning, and I wasn't able to do an update!
Pretty awesome, huh?
-- I went to the local dive bar on Saturday, for my monthly fix of malt
and filth. I took my regular seat near the middle of the bar, and
started to order a Yuengling Lager, as is the tradition. But on a whim I
decided to check the other selections they had on tap.
It looked like the standard line-up: Coors Light (for people who want to
drink beer but don't really like it), Miller Lite (same as above, but
with a large lesbian following, earning it the nickname Dyke Lite in
certain circles), Yuengling Lager (the golden elixir), Budweiser (like
having sex in a canoe), and down on the end… a tap handle shaped like
a big red V.
Huh, wonder what that is? As the bartender waited impatiently for my
decision (he had a Winston going in the ashtray down the way), I hoisted
myself off the barstool and checked out the details. It was from Victory
Brewing, hence the V, and was called Hop Devil.
Hell yeah! I'd been meaning to try that stuff, but hadn't wanted to take
a loan against my 401k to buy a case. And here it was being served in
some alcoholic's paradise corner bar. Who could've predicted such a
thing? I told the guy I'd go with the Hop Devil, he raised an eyebrow,
and struggled to cobble together a pint from the foamy-ass keg.
Damn good! It was just like the stuff I drank on that magical Oregon
trip years ago, when I decided to take hops as my personal savior. And
did I mention that it was only two bucks? I hoped nobody could tell that
I was mildly aroused.
How surreal, drinking such a quality brew in a place like that. I turned
to my right and there was a guy who looked like he'd just climbed out of
a coal mine, sitting straight up in his chair, but fast asleep. Clearly,
he was bed-shittin' drunk. Beside him was a guy younger than me, tossing
back shots of something brown, and sipping a beer. And beside him was a
crusty old grunting bastard in a Teamsters windbreaker, also indulging
in a beer and a brown.
I pretended to act interested in the
football game on TV, but I'm not that talented of an actor. I looked across
at the incredible pile of garbage on the counter behind the bar, and
wondered how many decades it had taken to amass all that stuff. Someday
I'd like to get in there with my archeology tools; I bet there's
newspapers near the bottom with articles about President Johnson.
I finished my first pint, and told the guy I'd have another. He sighed
as if to say, "I knew it." He clearly didn't want to screw
around with that rarely used keg again. Too bad for him.
As he toiled, the younger guy to my right tried to waken the straight-up
sleeper. "Carl!" he yelled, while shaking the dude's shoulder.
Nothing. "Carl!" he hollered a little louder. This time the
sleeper stirred a little, but went right back under.
Eventually he woke him up. "I'M ALRIGHT!!" the guy yelled while
blinking wildly, and everybody laughed. "I'm taking you home,"
the younger man said, and told him to put on his coat. Then they left,
and the sleeper was walking like he was aboard some sort of seagoing
vessel in rough waters. He had to slow way down to thread himself
through the doorway.
"He came in that way," the bartender announced matter of
factly, before killing off yet another Winston in front of an
industrial-strength smoker's squint.
Toney doesn't understand it, but I love that place.
-- Speaking of Toney, she's got me penciled in for the Summer of 2007 to
have The Talk (gulp) with the oldest Secret. He'll be eleven
soon, and she thinks it's time to "start the dialog." For
months she's been bringing it up, apparently trying to get me used to
the idea and driving home the point that she's not going to allow me to
weasel out of it.
Needless to say, I'm not exactly doing handsprings down the hallway, in
anticipation of all this dialog-starting. I mean, I'm Jeff Kay. The role
of wise and mature mentor doesn't exactly come easy for me. If I start
talking about wieners and whatnot, I WILL bust out in laughter. Hell,
I'm laughing right now. Because wieners are hilarious.
Plus, I think he's too young. The thought of having a conversation with
him about... that stuff... makes me queasy. He likes blowing up
towns full of hicks in his Destroy All Humans! PS2 game. Seems a
shame to muddy the waters with ball-talk, and stuff. Why can't we just
let kids be kids, without dangling balls in front of their faces and
blocking-out the flickering screen of childhood?!
Or whatever.
But I guess I'm going to have to do it. <sigh> Toney even went out
and bought a book about puberty that she thinks he should read. Then
afterwards father and son are supposed to sit down and "discuss
it." Oh, I can just imagine that conversation. We'll both
have expressions of horror, like those pics they snap at amusement parks
of you coming down the big drop on the log flume. Then we probably won't
be able to make eye-contact for a week.
I checked out the book a few days ago, and opened it to a random page.
There in front of me was a cartoon drawing of a boy, wearing nothing but
a care-free expression, and sporting all manner of physical maturity. If
you get my drift. The drawing was simple, except for The Area, which was
highly detailed. And slightly out of proportion, I thought. (At least I
hope so.) It looked like Funky Winkerbean with a big ol' porn penis.
Sweet Jesus.
I turned to another page and there was a lineup of naked girls. On the
far left was a short little kid, and they progressed to the right,
getting gradually taller and, um, more womanly. At the far end was a
chick who looked like she should be cavorting in a muddy creek at the
Burning Man festival. In the middle of her torso was a large, dark wildness that
reminded me of Art Garfunkel in 1965.
"I can't do this," I said. I tossed the book aside, and
commenced to running my hands through my hair. But, of course, I will do
it. Because it's apparently my role.
Nobody had any Talks with me,
though. Not one person. I'm still waiting for my Dad to sit me down.
Maybe when we go down there for Thanksgiving? Because there are still a
few things I'm unclear about....
No, I just had movies and film strips at school. And, of course, the big
stash of rain-wrinkled Penthouseshidden in the old tree
stump at the corner of 16th Street and Myers Avenue.
I remember one "health" movie that featured some Wally
Cleaver-looking dude calling a girl and asking her out on a date. After
he hung up, he leaned back in relief with his hands behind his head --
exposing two giant serving platter-sized sweat stains. The entire class
screamed in protest.
Another time they had all the boys together at the Jr. High, showing us
one of those films, and there was a sense of barely-contained Beavis and
Buttheadness in the air. When somebody in the movie uttered the word
"ejaculation" it acted as a trigger, and the whole place went
up in a mushroom cloud of shrieking laughter. The "coach"
angrily turned off the projector and started yelling at us, but there
was nothing that could be done. Detonation had already occurred.
What about you? Did anyone sit you down and have The Talk? Was it
valuable? Was there any permanent emotional scarring? And do you have
any special memories of sex-education at school? Tell us about it in the
comments, won't you? I need to know.
-- Before I go, I'd like to direct you to the just re-launched Jason
Headley site. Jason, of course, is a long-time Friend of TheWVSR, and
also a published, intimidatingly-talented novelist
and native of the
West Virginia motherland. He's started a weekly column called Around
Normal, which will be posted at the site every Tuesday. It's a fictional
account of the goings-on in the small town of Normal, and here's the
first dispatch. Check it out, you won't be disappointed.
And that'll do it for today, boys and girls. Have yourselves a great
little Friday the 13th Bourbon Season sumbitch of a weekend.
--
Since Adelphia shit the bed, and Comcast has taken over, our new
overlords apparently wanted to assure us there was nothing to fear, that
everything would remain the same. And so, our internet service was down
yesterday morning, and I wasn't able to do an update!
and native of the
West Virginia motherland. He's started a weekly column called Around
Normal, which will be posted at the site every Tuesday. It's a fictional
account of the goings-on in the small town of Normal, and 