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.
--
Earlier this week I hired a guy to clean our gutters, and do a few minor
repairs. A nail had come loose on the front of the house, for instance,
and the gutter was drooping like Buddy Hackett's bottom lip. And I can't
have that. I'm not a fan of heights, and since the rear of the Compound
is way the crap up there, I much prefer to just let my fingers do the
walking.
No, I'd likely get to the top, look down, and it would be like the
standard vertigo scene in any movie: much spinning and zooming in and
out. Then I'd surely free-fall into foliage, and explode all my organs.
Every single one. And I have a feeling something like that could very
well cast a gloom over an otherwise fine day.
So anyway, I thought our dog Andy was about to spontaneously combust. He
completely loses his shit if a Fed-Ex trucks even drivespast our
house. When the people across the street turn on their porch light, it
triggers a maniacal barking jag. Any deviation whatsoever from the norm
makes him crazy, and a man walking around on our roof was almost
more than he could handle. I was afraid he might take off running and
crash straight through a window. And I'm not kidding.
This morning we're preparing for our Christmas tree, so he's at it
again. We moved furniture around in the living room, and Toney's going
nuts with the vacuum cleaner. Andy's pacing the house, looking over his
shoulder (do dogs have shoulders?) and generally acting like a mental
patient.
One of these days something inside him is going to just let go, and
they'll find our bodies in the spring once the funk really gets going.
-- We're late with the Christmas tree this year. Last weekend we talked
about it, and it had felt too early. I see now that it was a
miscalculation on our part, but what are you going to do? Tonight, after
dinner, the tree itself is going up, and all the in-house doodads are
coming out of the boxes, etc. Then tomorrow it'll be time for the
official Decoration Festival. The Elvis and Sinatra Christmas CDs will
find their way into the Surf Report ghetto blaster, some whiskey will be
poured, and we'll whip that baby into submission.
Then, of course, it'll be time for the first seasonal viewing of The Homecoming .
"John-Boy, what are you doing up here with your door locked?! Is it
something you're ashamed of?" It's a cult classic without a cult!
Just an FYI.... I find it much better to
put the tree up the night before any actual decorating takes place. And
that's because I always get pissed off and in a bad mood about
something. The stupid stand won't cooperate, an item's missing or
broken, the damn thing insists on leaning to one side like my Little
League coach.... Before it's over, I'm invariably raging about something
or other, and nobody wins.
So it's best to just remove all that unpleasantness from the Decorating Festival
itself. For the good of the family, and humanity in general.
-- I saw in the newspaper this morning that a new restaurant just opened
in Scranton, serving "contemporary Southern cuisine." From
what I can piece together, that means traditional Southern dishes
done-up fancy-pants. I don't know about that.... Slow Roasted Pork
Shoulder on Roasted Corn, Jalapeno, and Cheddar Foccacia Bread?
Color me skeptical.
I'd love the opportunity to put some South in my mouth, but have a
sneaking suspicion I'd leave that joint desperately looking for a
Wendy's. What the fuck's foccacia?! Sounds like something a
dermatologist might treat with steroids. Why can't they just put it on a
hamburger bun? Is that too prole, or something? Man, I'm starting
to get irritated, just thinking about it.
What I'd rather see is a restaurant that offers fine West Virginia
cuisine. Hell, maybe I could do it? We'd serve things like hot baloney
sandwiches, pizza bread, half-runner beans, chicken-fried steak, and hot
dogs with cole slaw. It would be great!
But I need your help with this. I only have a germ of an idea here, it
needs some fleshing-out. What would be the name of this restaurant? And
what other foods would we serve? Help me out, people. And please stay
away from the standard yukkity-yuk "jokes" about 'coon
casserole, and that sort of thing. I want to tap into the real
West Virginia experience at my restaurant.
Hello?
-- I'm not sure what to make of this, but I'm going to try to take
advantage of it. I believe it's high-time to put my flaps to work for
me.
Oh, I understand what they're attempting to do (lure us back into
their stores and hope we become intoxicated by the idea of instant movie
rentals), but don't believe it'll work. I think they'll just end up
doling out a bunch of free rentals, and at the end of the promotion
we'll all return to the cool and sexy world of Netflix.
Oh well. 'Tis the season for flap-whorin'.
-- Speaking of Netflix, here's another great and obscure Christmas movie
that I didn't even realize was available on DVD. It's from 1974 (I
think), and aired constantly during the early days of HBO, under the
name Stranger In The House. It scared the ever lovin' ice water
out of me, back in the day. In fact, for a long time I considered it the
scariest movie I'd ever seen.
A few years ago I got my hands on a VHS copy of it, and watched it
again. I figured all the passing time would've surely rendered it lame, but it scared
me all over again. It's certainly not high art, but it is a nifty
little horror flick. Check it out, if you're so inclined.
And what are the other great and obscure Christmas movies? I'm sure
there's a bunch of 'em. Right?
I have more things I wanted to talk about today, but I'd better stop
right here and drag my ever-thickening torso into work. You guys have a
great weekend, y'hear?
--
Earlier this week I hired a guy to clean our gutters, and do a few minor
repairs. A nail had come loose on the front of the house, for instance,
and the gutter was drooping like Buddy Hackett's bottom lip. And I can't
have that. I'm not a fan of heights, and since the rear of the Compound
is way the crap up there, I much prefer to just let my fingers do the
walking.
.
"John-Boy, what are you doing up here with your door locked?! Is it
something you're ashamed of?" It's a cult classic without a cult!
