You know how when you’re driving, and some quarterwit is coming at you in the opposite direction with their brights on? Or their high-beams, or whatever you want to call them? For some reason I can’t stop myself from staring straight into it for a couple of seconds. Eventually I break the spell, and look away. But there’s always this weird inclination to go all-in on the impossible brightness. And I’m afraid that’s what might happen today, if I waddle outside my job during the solar eclipse. I could end up like the guy above, because I seemingly have no control over my own actions.

We’re only scheduled for a 72% eclipse, here in the Upper Emphysema Belt. Nancy and her passel of see-through children are traveling to one of the “totality” locations. I guess they’re all super-excited. Sounds about right… I remember when I was a kid Skylab was supposed to fly over, and all the nerds-of-the-day were similarly rock-hard about it. I was walking down the alley behind our house back then, and saw a kid lying on the roof of his garage, looking straight up through binoculars. I asked him what he was doing, and he said, “Watching for Skylab.” And I said, “Is the extra nine feet really going to make a difference? Why not just look from the ground?” He told me to leave him alone, and I continued with my day.

Of course, as we all now know, the eclipse is racist because the totality locations are either in areas where mostly white people live, or where there was a lot of slave activity back in the day. Here’s a short excerpt from the long essay:

Moving east, the eclipse will pass part of St. Louis, whose overall population is nearly half black. But the black residents are concentrated in the northern half of the metropolitan area, and the total eclipse crosses only the southern half.

I hope you’re sitting down, but the article was written by a college professor.

Also, here’s a piece about how the eclipse is favoring areas that voted for Trump during the last election. We’re very near the end of civilization, my friends. These are not articles on fringe blogs, they’re from The Atlantic and The Boston Globe. They’re politicizing a solar eclipse! Hey, if they can do it with a sandwich, they can do it with anything. Right?

Please bring us up to date on your personal eclipse experience. Do you remember any of the previous ones? Or the Skylab hubbub? What else has caused the nerds to get whipped into a high frenzy? Also, do you feel bad that the Man in the Moon is apparently a Klansman? I had no idea until yesterday afternoon. I’m a little shaken, to tell you the truth.

Also, you might have noticed I was hedging my bets when I was writing about somebody leaving their bright lights on in the first paragraph above. I’m always concerned I’m going to use a regional phrase that most people won’t understand. Is “high beams” regional? It feels like it might be, but how would I know? When you grew up in a region, it’s just normal. Personally, I just always called ’em “brights.” Is that regional?

When I was in Georgia I used to hear people refer to the accelerator in a car as a “foot feed.” That sounds spectacularly hick to me, and I’m glad I didn’t grow up with it and use it when I lived in Los Angeles. Heh. You’d instantly become Gomer Pyle.

What phrases have you spoken that turned out to be regional, and you had no idea? It’s happened to me a lot, and I try to avoid it. But it still happens, from time to time. Do you have anything on this? How about “call off?” That’s what you do when you’re not going to make it to work, right? But I hear all manner of variations: “call in,” “call out,” etc.

And I need to CALL it a day, my friends.

I’ll see you again on Thursday!

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During high school a few people from my journalism class took a trip to Columbus, Ohio, where we participated in some sort of training at Ohio State. I seriously can’t remember much about it, but don’t believe we stayed overnight. If we had there would’ve been shenanigans. And I recall no shenanigans. It feels like we went in somebody’s van, up and back in one long day. All of it’s very foggy in my mind, except for a handful of random memories.

I remember visiting a factory where our school paper (The Kennel) was printed. They had a scary machine with powerful hydraulic blades that would cut through foot-tall stacks of paper, in an instant. To operate it, you had to push two buttons on opposite sides of the apparatus, so both your hands were in use. That thing would lop off an arm so cleanly, it probably wouldn’t start bleeding for a half-hour. It made me nervous, and I gave it a wide berth as I walked past. I thought I might get sucked into it.

Also, I remember everyone playing some kind of big-time nerd game while driving back, during which someone would hum the theme song of a TV show and everybody would try to guess the program. Needless to say, I did not participate. I mean, seriously. However, at some point I did say, “Hey, I got one!” Then I made ticking sounds for about ten seconds. Everybody stared at me in confusion, and I shouted, “60 Minutes!” They all laughed, even the hard bitches who hated me and all I stand for.

But the most vivid memory was of some kind of training session led by a grizzled veteran newspaperman. He was like something off TV: tough, rumpled, and intimidating. It was all classroom, until the end. Then he gave us an assignment (WTF??). He allotted us two or three hours to find some stranger on campus, interview him or her about something they had to overcome in life, write it up as a brief feature article, and return. The people who submitted the best pieces would win awards, he said, and their articles would be featured in a magazine or somesuch.

I about soiled my Towncrafts.

And I’ll give you three guesses what I did… That’s right, I made it all up. I didn’t interview anyone. I invented a person whose life was changed by a recently discovered love of photography, or maybe long distance running, or something along those lines. I created quotes, and a full background story. It was 100% fabricated.

I also made sure the article wasn’t very good. I didn’t have to try very hard, mind you. But I needed to be sure this giant load of horseshit didn’t receive any additional scrutiny. Ya know?

When I turned it in to the real-life Lou Grant, I could feel a bead of sweat run down the center of my back. Incredibly, he was reading each as the authors stood in front of him. Then he dispensed instant, tough-love feedback. He finished mine, grunted, and handed it back to me. “It’s not very good,” he said. (Whew!) He gave me some advice, and also criticized my use of the phrase “Junior High School.” Just say “High School,” he told me.

I walked away relieved and confused. Junior High School and High School are two different things. Right? Hey, whatever. I’d survived this unpleasantness. Lou could go fuck himself.

It worked out well, that day. But I’ve largely given up on bullshitting my way through things at this point. I’d much rather admit that I don’t know something, than to be caught trying to fake it. I’ve seen too many people at work get burned while trying to bullshit their way out of a tough spot, and it’s not worth it. Most of the time, folks appreciate your honesty if you just say something like, “I don’t know, but I’ll certainly find out.”

And today I think I’d try to actually do the Columbus assignment, instead of make it all up. It would be uncomfortable, but I could do it. Of course, the end result would probably be the same: “It’s not very good.” Then it would sting a lot more. So, there’s always a downside to putting in an honest effort, as well.

What are your thoughts on bullshitting? Have you ever tried and failed, in a spectacular fashion? Perhaps you’re good it? Have you witnessed somebody else being burned by trying to fake it? Do you do less of it now than when you were younger? Also, what would you have done if you were in my shoes in Columbus? Am I the weird one? I mean, I never even CONSIDERED actually doing the assignment. That would’ve been outside the realm of possibility. How about you?

I need to go now. It’s late, as usual.

Have a great weekend, my friends!

I’ll see you again on Monday.

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I have some kind of allergy situation going on, and am not a fan. I don’t know what’s triggering it, here in mid-August. Somebody said ragweed, but I got the impression he was just pulling that “information” straight out of his ass. In any case, there’s a constant crystal-clear drippage and itchy eyes and a lot of sneezing. It seems like whenever everybody else is hocking and hacking and blowing their noses, I’m perfectly fine. Then I pay for my smugness during late summer.

Are you allergic to anything? I don’t have anything major in that category, except this crap that’s going on right now. Also, I’m prone to a rash on the inside of my right elbow. It’s happened all my life, at random times. It feels like an allergic reaction to something, but all the armchair doctors I’ve encountered think it has to do with heat or humidity. In fact an actual doctor told me that once, as well. “Yeah, that’s a heat rash,” she said during the third second of her extensive four-second examination. I reject her findings. It’s some kind weird reoccurring allergic thing that I’ve been getting for more than 40 years. It only happens on my right arm, and can kick-in during the dead of winter or the height of summer. But whatever.

What are you allergic to? Tell us about it, won’t you?

And have you ever gone to one of those doctors who supposedly pinpoint the exact stuff that triggers your own personal snot factory? Everybody I know who’s done that has a ridiculously long list of things they’ve clearly memorized and seem exceedingly proud of. It always starts with “dust,” for some reason.

I’ve never been to a so-called allergist, or a chiropractor, or a sleep clinic, or a person who speaks with the dead. Is it unfair that I put all of them in roughly the same category? Probably, right?

I did go to a palm reader once, while semi-drunk, in California. He told me, basically, that my current marriage is doomed and I will remarry and start a second family during my 40s. I thought that was pretty weird, and never mentioned it to Toney. At least not until I was out of my 40s. What in the knuckle-cracking hell??

What niche “doctor” have you visited? I’m not being very respectful, am I? Oh well. How about hypnotism? Aroma therapy? Acupuncture? Did any of it help, long-term?

I worked with a woman who went to an acupuncturist to stop smoking. She’d go to his house, late at night, and there would be people sitting there waiting to see the guy, with envelopes full of money. I think he pushed a thumbtack through one of her earlobes, and she SWORE it cured her for good. Fast forward four months… and she’s outside chugging cigs again on all her breaks. Perhaps she required a maintenance therapy that involved stapling a piece of notebook paper to her upper thigh? Admittedly, my knowledge is limited.

Also, what curious things do you notice people being smug about? Like me and my lack of springtime allergies? I can come up with one, right off the top of my head: folks with unlimited data. Smug motherfuckers… Also, people who have had a lot of surgeries, and have rods and shit. Know what I mean? You can see the twinkle in their eye when they start talking about that stuff.

I need to go now. Another work week awaits! My nipples are exploding with delight.

Have a great day, my friends!

I’ll see you again on Thursday.

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I need to ask you guys about something super-important. I think I’ve discovered a conspiracy. Two times during the past month or so I’ve been pumping gas into my ludicrous little wind-up car, and noticed (way too late) that it’s 93 octane going in. I know I punched the 87 button, but it’s somehow leaped all the way across 89, and settled on 93. Expensive-ass 93… I think these electronic pumps are programmed to switch grades for every fifth or sixth user, or whatever. Like a Philadelphia voting boof.

The frustrating thing? I’ve shared this earth-shaking discovery with a few people, and they always just say, “Huh, that’s weird.” But there’s a hint of “you punched the wrong button, dumbass” in their demeanor. Know what I mean? And that infuriates me. I know how to operate a gas pump, dicklips. I’ve been doing it since the Carter administration. Man, I’m getting fired up.

I think I’m going to call Alex Jones. He’ll believe me. He strikes me as a very level-headed gentleman.

In any case, do you folks have anything on this? Have you noticed it happening? ‘Cause it is! Oh, it’s happening. If you’re not careful, you’ll find yourself pumping Lamborghini fuel into your Ford Fiesta or whatever. It’s a scandal! This could extend all the way to self check-outs at the grocery store. Maybe they’re redirecting Ticonderoga tomatoes to Tayback Beauties, or somesuch? Admittedly, I’m not up on the latest tomato lingo.

But I’d like to get your thoughts on this. Has it happened to you? Let’s investigate this bastard.

A few nights ago the oldest boy called me at work, and asked if I would stop at McDonald’s on my way home and get him two McDoubles. I’m not sure what a McDouble is, but told him no problem. However, I reminded him that it’ll take me 40 minutes. So, don’t be asleep.

And when I got here around midnight… he was completely out. I made a half-assed attempt to wake him, but he was in pretty deep. Grrr…. I put the sack on the kitchen counter, sent him a text message that said something like “I got these burgers for you. What the hell?” and continued with my evening.

The next morning I got up, looked at my phone, and there was a text from him. It was from 4:06 am, and it said, “Thanks for getting those burgers. They were good.” What the? I went downstairs, and asked Toney where he was. Still in bed, she told me.

So, he got up in the middle of the night, came downstairs and ate two cold hours-old hamburgers, and crawled back under the covers? Nothing should surprise me at this late date, but I found that to be a bit odd.

I’m sad to report that my desktop computer is dying. It’s very old, still running Windows Vista. At this point it won’t connect to certain websites, like Facebook. It’s also crashing and freezing… I don’t think you’re supposed to keep them for twelve years, right? But, until the last couple of months, it performed like a champion. I get a little attached to things, like computers and cars and houses. My parents, on the other hand, get attached to nothing. They just rent a dumpster, fill that bad-boy with precious memories, and keep on going. I always feel like I’m going through some kind of low-grade breakup whenever I have to make those kinds of changes.

Plus, how much does a new desktop cost? Like $800? Even more? What am I, Ted Turner? Hey, maybe I’ll rob a bank? That seems like a good option.

In any case… do you get attached to cars, gadgets, houses, apartments, etc.? Or are you like my folks, and just walk away? When I take a computer out of service, I feel like I’m being disloyal to an old friend, or something. Is that weird?

I have to go now. I have more, lots more. But I live in a vortex of chaos. It’s like I’m writing these updates in a Greyhound bus terminal. Sweet sainted mother of Eddy Grant!

I’ll see you guys again on Monday.

Have a great weekend!

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I was in Taco Bell a few days ago, enjoying a Burrito Supreme, two tacos, and a small Baja Blast. Which is my go-to order, by the way. The Burrito Supreme is expensive, compared to everything else there, but it’s so damn good… It’s probably one of the oldest things on the menu, and also my favorite. Here’s how it’s done: I eat one taco, the Burrito Supreme, and the final taco. In that order. And I lubricate throughout with their proprietary Mountain Dew concoction. It’s a system that’s served me well for many years.

In any case, I was sitting there by myself enjoying my meal and taking in all the ambience. And I noticed one of the behind-the-counter zitsters walk down the hall to the men’s room, and tap on the door a few times.

“Hey, Trevor,” he said.

“Yeah?” a muffled voice answered from inside.

“Hey, I’m scheduled until nine tonight. We’re not very busy. Do you think I could get off at eight?”

“Um, sure.”

Then the zitster walked back behind the counter to his questionable compatriots, and shouted, “Score! Trevor just told me I can leave an hour early.”

There are a few things that bother (and confuse) me about this…

First of all, the obvious. Why is Trevor shitting up the men’s room on company time? He’s in management and should be leading by example. The bowels can be trained quite easily. You just mentally set aside blocks of time when they CANNOT be engaged. And when it’s no longer a possibility, it’s no longer an issue. Trevor should be demonstrating to his young charges the importance of rectal discipline in the workplace. Already, I don’t have a high opinion of the man.

Also, I’ve been in that bathroom and it’s the size of a phone booth. What if I needed to off-load some Baja Blast, which I generally refill three times per visit? Now I have to hold it (which is certainly the path I’d take), or voluntarily walk into that chamber of ass and fill my lungs with the essence of Trevor? Yeah, I don’t think so. I’d rather piss myself.

Plus, he’s working with food. Right? I have no way of knowing about Trevor’s bathroom etiquette. Perhaps he scrubs in like a surgeon at the end? I seriously doubt it, based on the things we already know. But let’s give him the benefit of the doubt. I suspect he’d still be trailing microscopic poop spores when he returns to the kitchen. Is that too paranoid? I admit that maybe it is. But it’s something that crosses my mind. I think he might be moving inside a highly-active shit cloud, invisible to the naked eye.

And what about the zitster conducting business while his manager is taking a dump? I find that objectionable, as well. Unless, of course, Trevor is a modern-day Lyndon Johnson who insists on such things? Even then, I have issues with it. Different issues, sure, but still issues.

Finally, the part that might actually bother me the most… When the zitster returned to the dubious faction behind the counter, he never once mentioned that Trevor was atop the poop-hoop while they talked. That wasn’t important? How could it not be important?! The younger generation looks at things differently, and I don’t care for it. Sometimes they seem delicate and prone to emotional collapse. But they’re also far more adult about certain things, like bathroom activities. It’s disturbing to me. Within a generation there will be no more fart jokes, because everybody will be taking the “it’s just a bodily function” approach. WTF?? Thankfully, I’ll be gone by then. But I worry about my kids. What kind of world will they be living in?

I need to go to work now, my friends. This was going to be a Few Quick Things update, about many subjects. But once I get started about crapping… it’s hard to get me to stop. And this is as it should be.

I’ll be back on Thursday.

Have yourselves a great day!

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