Holy
crap in a Bundt pan... Due
to the recent well-publicized shortage of amateur websites produced by assholes who
think they're 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. And I’m here to serve, baby.
--Last night at work I sat with some kid during our “lunch”
break (9
pm),
and found out some interesting things about him.He’s twenty, and will be working in my department until his
college classes crank back up in late August.And apparently he was once a notorious computer hacker.
He told me he got into it in eighth grade, and eventually earned a name
for himself in the shady hacker underground.He says there’s a tight-knit group of these people, who
communicate via chat rooms not visible to anyone but the participants
themselves.
And, he added, some of them are “scary and crazy,” with giant chips
on their shoulders and various axes to grind.Accidentally offend one of them, he said, and your life can
become a hell on earth.No matter
how smart you happen to be, there are people there who are smarter, he
told me.And they can inflict
significant pain.
--I work with a woman who apparently believes everybody knows who
she knows.Are you familiar with
this office type?She tells a lot
of stories featuring "Keith" and "Nicole" and
"Jimmy," and I have no idea who these people are.Her kids?Her
husband?You got me.
A few days ago she mentioned Keith, and I said, "Now who is he
again?"And she said, "My
Keith."
What does this mean??
--On Friday evening I was
enlisted to make a salad to go with dinner, and I used it as an
opportunity to drink beer.Yes,
you read that correctly…I
hollered upstairs to Toney, "Hey, if I'm gonna be chopping, I'm
having a Sam Adams.Want
one?"
See
how I do that?Any deviation from
the norm is an excuse for beer.And,
now that I think about it, so is the norm itself.So I went down to the basement fridge, and brought us up two
bottles of Summer Ale.And I
commenced to making one of my world famous garden salads.
Continue
reading here
--I was sitting in Wendy's a few days ago, enjoying a #1 with
cheese, no pickles, and a Coke, when a gang of rambunctious Brazilians
came in.
I assume it was a large family traveling together, but what do I know
about it, really?There were five
or six adults, a couple in their forties, the rest younger.With them was a half-dozen or so kids, all under the age of six.And the kids were running wild without even a
hint of parental supervision.
But whatever.Children rampaging
through a place of business isn't exactly a novelty anymore...I continued working on my lunch and flipping through the copy of Rolling
Stone I'd brought along, so as
not to look like a serial killer (ironically enough).
And the next thing I know there's a little girl sitting across from me
in the boof – eating my fries.
--Last week I received an email from Netflix saying they'd sent me
a copy of I Am Legend,
and the next day something called P.S.
I Love You arrived.What the hell's P.S.
I Love You?I didn't know, and still don't.I'm
a very busy man; I don't have time for jibber-jabber.
I went to the website and I
Am Legend was still at the top
of my queue.But they were asking
me to review it, since
they'd just received the movie back from me(?!).What in the pop 'n' lock crap?
I was totally confused.They
mailed it to me, but I received something else, and it's set to ship
next, even though they already sent one, and I returned it, which I
didn't.The whole thing made my
brain hurt.
I
clicked over to the customer service section of the site, expecting to
be asked to compose an email explaining my problem, which would be
promptly answered in 3 to 4 weeks.But
I was given an actual telephone number, under which was written,
"Current wait time: less than 1 minute."
--I was flipping through my Englandnotes earlier today (I'm dying to
go back already…), and noticed a few stray stories I didn't tell in
the big honkin' Londonextravaganza.So, I'm going to tell them to you now.
Hopefully enough time has passed that you're not all groaning in unison
right now…I worry about Englandfatigue, and turning into a
travel-bore.Nobody likes a
travel-bore.
Anyway,
when we were touring the Churchill Cabinet Rooms, the youngest Secret
had to find a pee-catcher.I
asked a guy at the ticket counter where the "washroom" was
located, and he halfheartedly pointed in a general direction.
We
found it, and there were international symbols on the door apparently
indicating it could be used only by water-headed men, titless women in
hoop skirts, and/or sexless beings strapped to wheelchairs and staring
straight ahead.
--On Saturday we came home and there was a sheet of paper taped to
our front door.It was from one
of those outfits that douse your lawn in a cocktail of chemicals, to
keep it forest-green and free of weeds, for an irresponsible amount of
money every month.
Supposedly they’d taken the liberty of performing a “jr. analysis”
of our lawn, and told us we have a problem with dandelions.Jr. analysis?That seemed
like odd phrasing. But then I realized they must do the same thing for a
fee, and have to differentiate between the two somehow.You know, so the suckers won’t feel bad.
Anyway, I looked at our lawn and didn’t see a single dandelion.What were they talking about?Is
this thing pre-printed for every house in the neighborhood?I didn’t know, and didn’t really care.I wadded up the sheet and threw it in the trash.
--Last week I was perusing the massive Surf Report music library,
in search of something I hadn’t played in a while.I finally settled on Wilco’s second album, Being
There.And it sounded amazing.
The thing was in heavy rotation when it was originally released, and is
one of my favorite Wilco albums, but I probably hadn’t heard it in a
year.I’ve been preoccupied
with their latest release, which is also great.
I was caught off-guard by the impact of hearing Being
There last week.I mean, it’s not as if it’s unfamiliar to me.But I couldn’t stop listening to it, and talking about it to
the family.Who, you know,
couldn’t give even half
a shit.
This
event touched off a full-on frenzy.On
Saturday I removed all music from my iPod, and replaced it with the
entire Wilco catalog, including the live album and a bunch of bootlegged
demos.Heck, I even included the
freaky radio broadcast that inspired the title of Yankee
Hotel Foxtrot.
--Today I had lunch at Wendy’s where I polished off a #1 with
cheese, no pickles, and a Coke.And
while I was standing at the condiment bar, collecting all necessary
lunching equipment, this conversation took place between me and a woman
cleaning tables in the dining room:
Wendy’s employee:Well, hello Joe! Me:Hey there, how ya doing? Wendy’s employee:Oh, can’t complain, can’t complain.How are those girls? Me:Doing well.They’re
growing up fast. Wendy’s employee:Ha!You don’t need to
tell me about it.My two are
already up and out of the house. Me:Amazing, isn’t it? Wendy’s employee:It sure is.…Well, I
don’t want to hold up your lunch.Tell
Linda I said hi. Me:I’ll certainly do it.Take
care.
