Last week I had to travel for work. They’re sending us, two at a time, to a sprawling city-sized building about five hours from here, for “management training.” I knew there would be approximately 35 people in the class, from all over the country. And, needless to say, I was mildly stressed about it for weeks in advance.

I’ve done this kind of thing many times – both traveled for work, and attended corporate training sessions. I’m not a complete bumpkin. But I don’t like going into situations unknown. Some of that “training” is seemingly designed to make a spectacle of everyone in attendance. I had visions of us playing Twister, or some shit, ending with me blowing the complete ass out of my pants or farting on the neck of an HR representative from St. Louis or whatever. I’m very good at creating scenarios in my mind in which I unwittingly do something horrible and unforgivable, that I’ll replay for the rest of my life.

But, as usual, it wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d imagined. So, I felt relieved and thankful at the end. I wonder how freaks who go into these kinds of things full of enthusiasm and optimism (freaks!) feel at the end? I bet guys like me come out ahead in that equation, right?

In any case, I’m going to bullet point this bastard, and give you my thoughts on a few key aspects of the trip. Then I’m going to return to my real job, and try to transition from a fuzzy world of theory to one of cold, hard reality. Let’s do it, shall we?

• I kinda sorta knew the guy I was traveling with, but not well. We work on the same shift, but in different departments. I liked him, but was a little concerned about us being trapped in a car together for five hours each way. What if the chemistry was off? It could be excruciating. But, as it turns out, the chemistry was right on the money. We laughed our asses off the whole time. Or talked about music. Or both. He was a great guy to travel with. I hope he felt the same about me. Hopefully he didn’t return home and launch into a ten-minute diatribe about “Jeff Kay, the biggest shitbag east of the Mississippi.” Have you ever been forced into travel with someone you didn’t like? I haven’t, not really. I’ve traveled with a few bosses, which is a little awkward. But, I don’t think I’ve ever been trapped on a work trip with a person I couldn’t stand. What about you?
• We had $75 each per day allotted for food. However, breakfast and lunch was provided at the meetings, as well as a kick-ass afternoon snack that sometimes included chocolate-covered strawberries. So, it was basically $75 for one meal. And we vowed to spend it all! I felt like it would be no problem, whatsoever. But we never made it. I never even came close, despite eating so much food I felt like I might need a wheelchair to get back to the rental car. If we’d had more knowledge of the local restaurants, we probably could’ve done more damage. I think we were in more family-friendly places. Booze would’ve helped too. Oh well. It was fun immediately going to the most expensive items on the menus, and going wild with it. I could get used to that kind of thing.
• I came downstairs at 6 am on Tuesday morning, and got a cup of coffee in the hotel lobby. The metrosexual behind the counter told me it was $7.99. I answered, “Are you serious?!” And he gave me a “do you fucking want it or not?” shrug. “Charge it to my room,” I told him, and shuffled back toward the elevator. Those places are just gouging corporations, coming and going. It’s disgraceful. I had one cup every day. And two on Thursday.
• I immediately jumped to many conclusions when I met the people in the class, and was right about most of them. However, a few folks surprised me. One guy seemed super-confident and full of swagger, and I involuntarily launched a squint of disapproval. But, he turned out to be one of the coolest guys there. In fact, most of the people were OK. All were smart and capable, that’s for sure. There was some phoniness, of course, which irritates me to no end. But it could’ve been much worse.
• I was on edge most of the time, during the classes themselves. There was always a possibility that I’d be forced into giving some snap opinion, or have to go in front of the class and engage in a corporate improvisation game. I hate that kind of shit, more than just about anything. One guy started calling on people at random (“What do you think about that, Nick?”). I immediately flipped over my name tag, so he couldn’t see it, and noticed a few other people doing it, as well. On the final day the woman said, “I’m going to put a few of you on the spot now,” and the Indian guy across from me muttered, in a thick accent, “Oh God, please no.” There’s a good chance we have wildly different backgrounds, and ended up in EXACTLY the same place. For four days, anyway.
• On the morning before we had to check out of the hotel, I clogged the toilet somehow. I don’t think I deposited anything especially remarkable that day, but the water went all the way to the rim and was swirling, threatening to go over. I looked around for a plunger, and didn’t see one. So, I just closed the lid and put that place in my rearview mirror. They probably had to take that room offline for a few days. As is my nature, I’m convinced it will lead to an uncomfortable conversation with my boss, human resources, and loss prevention today. I’m insane, right? …Right?
• During the class they tried to play Jason Headley’s work of genius, “It’s Not About the Nail,” but ran into technical difficulties. I’m not sure how they were going to tie it into the training, but it was queued up and ready to go. I wanted to shout, “I know him! He’s a friend of the Surf Report!!” But I refrained, which is undoubtedly a good thing. I’ll have to let Jason know about it, though. Crazy stuff.

And I’m going to call it a day, my friends. If you have any “traveling for work” stories to share, please do so. Also, if you’ve got anything to say about corporate training classes, we’d like to hear that, as well. I learned some stuff last week that will almost certainly be in the back of my mind as I interview people, and counsel employees. There was some value in it, I think. What are your opinions on that kind of thing? Use the comments section.

Have yourselves a great day! I’ll be back on Thursday. I’m vowing to get back to a predictable schedule now.

See you then!

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Remember when I was briefly writing under the name Bill Oates? It didn’t last long, like many things I’ve started, but the plan was to post stuff at the Oates blog that I didn’t want attached to my real name. Well, I need to fire that shit up again…

I won’t, but it would definitely come in handy at this point. The last few weeks have been a real ball-masher, my friends, and I can’t really talk about any of it. A lot of it’s work-related, and some of it is kid-related. I could get into trouble if I wrote about the work stuff, and my blood pressure can’t handle any armchair parenting advice. No offense, but everybody can go fuck themselves.

Anyway, I think (hope) the worst is behind us now, and I’m going to try to get back on a reasonable schedule here. Sorry I disappeared again. I’m turning into Art Bell. You know, without all the success and prestige.

Toney had her gallbladder removed last week. That was relatively stressful. I guess it’s a medical conveyor belt at this point, extremely common and no big deal. Indeed, a nurse muttered in my direction that she’s surprised there are “any gallbladders left in Scranton,” considering the number they yank on a daily basis. But I’m a world-class worrier, and can build cataclysmic scenarios out of thin air.

We made it through though, and she’s at Wegmans right now. Here’s how it went:

12:00 noon: arrive at hospital
2:30: surgery begins, a half-hour late
4:30: in recovery
7:30: home watching Property Brothers

Crazy, huh? That same procedure in 1979 would probably require the patient to be gutted like a fish, and a week of wallowing in a hospital bed. Right? It’s pretty amazing, but I still turned it into a semi-calamity.

They have a big screen in the waiting room, like at the airport, where you can monitor the progress of the procedure. I looked at that thing roughly 700,000 times, and at some point decided it was taking too long. And what the hell do I know about gallbladder removal? But my inner-sensors were telling me something was surely wrong, and I began to freak out a little.

I started pacing around, and severely burned my lips, tongue, and the roof of my mouth with a ludicrously hot cup of complimentary Folger’s coffee. That shit was like something straight out of a smelting furnace. Holy hell! Then I called Steve and we talked about Tom Petty for a long time, and I paced, and paced, and paced. And every time I looked at that arrival/departure board, it just said “in OR.” Occasionally an alarm of some sort would sound from deep within the hospital, and I was sure it was some kind of Toney-based Code White, or whatever.

But the doctor finally came out and talked to me. He had color photos to share, as well. Everything went well, and he said it took a normal amount of time. “She can go home in a couple of hours,” he assured me, and shook my dick-joke-writing hand with his bringing-people-back-from-the-dead hand.

Here’s one of my fellow waiting room patrons. He didn’t seem nearly as stressed as I was. Ten minutes earlier he was eating what appeared to be five pounds of boneless chicken wings from a Styrofoam container. And I was pacing around with swollen lips, and an anal pucker that could shell a walnut. I guess we all deal with things in our own way?

Some stuff I’m actually enjoying, if you can believe it:

Will Not Attend by Adam Resnick  One of the funniest books I’ve read in a long time. After I was finished I went back and re-listened to his WTF episode, as well. Then I listened to it a third time. He’s goddamn hilarious.

All things Tom Petty. Not sure what’s going on, but I’m fully invested in Petty at the moment. I purchased every studio album on CD, read this really good biography, and watched the four-hour(!) documentary on Netflix. All within the last couple of months. Also, the older boy and I are going to see the band in Philadelphia on July 1. They were FAR AND AWAY the most expensive concert tickets I’ve ever purchased. Previous record: Steely Dan. I’m not going into details right now, but it was insane: StubHub specials. Can’t wait, though! I saw them once before, in Atlanta, and was so drunk I can barely remember it. Wotta shitbag I was.

Fargo TV series. I had an attitude about this thing, and refused to watch it for a long time. But it was a mistake. I’m still in Season One (on Hulu) and loving every minute of it. Wonder how many great things I’ve missed out on, because of preconceived notions and various chips on my shoulder? I’m sure the list is long.

I’m returning to work now. Things have settled there, finally. We’ll see how it goes. In the comments, if you’re so inclined, please share some things you’re currently liking and disliking. And I know some of you are apparently powerless, but please try to stay away from politics. I’ll see you again soon.

Have a great day!

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I saw this photo on Facebook a few days ago. It was reportedly taken at the last public hanging in West Virginia, on December 16, 1897. Apparently the event turned into a drunken free-for-all, and resulted in my home state becoming one of the first to ban public executions.

Here’s a short article about it, this is a longer (far more bizarre) one, and here’s a song about the event, by Flatt and Scruggs. I guess that shit was crazy?

And I can’t even imagine going to something like that. Am I alone? Watching some guy suffer and die, as a crowd of drunken hicks holler and taunt and clap their hands like Bryan Adams just launched into “Summer of ’69?” I believe I’ll pass.

Even today, when they execute a prisoner, there’s a small “gallery” as they call it. Why?? Maybe if someone was directly involved in the case, and victimized by the person… But I don’t think I’d be interested, under any circumstance. It’s not a scene I need replaying in my head for the rest of my life, thank you very much.

When we were in England we were on a tour, and the guide told us that hundreds of people were hanged at a certain spot in London, and it was always a big social event. In fact, he said, people would get feather bed-shitting drunk at these outdoor death festivals, and feel like crap the next day. And that’s where the word “hangover” came from.

I find it bizarre. Oh, I’m not going to shed any tears for murderers or rapists, but I don’t need to watch their final sufferings, either. Sweet sainted mother of Ted Bessell. People apparently used to pack up the whole family though, and make a day of it. “He’s almost done fer, Johnny! The spasms are coming pretty far apart now.” It seems weird to me.

I know, however, that public executions would draw HUGE crowds, even in 2017. If they brought them back, thousands and thousands would attend. There’d likely be a Bud Light tent, and hot dog vendors. Maybe a VIP section, or a “snakepit,” like at Metallica concerts. The hangee would probably be required to wear a shirt with an advertising logo on it (State Farm? Carl’s Jr.?), and Ryan Seacrest would almost certainly be the host. Am I wrong?

I didn’t intend for this whole update to be about hangings, but whatever. I’d like to get your thoughts. Please don’t get into politics, ‘cause nobody gives a shit and it’s highly annoying. But what are your opinions on personally attending an execution? Is it something you’d like to do? Maybe it’s something you’ve actually done? If so, we’ll need to get your story. Also, what do you think would happen at a modern public execution? Beyond Seacrest, I mean?

Finally, how do you think they’d capitalize on our renewed enthusiasm for public death? What would the promoters come up with next? Maybe a soothing lazy-river ride through a giant slaughterhouse in the midwest? Please help me out, won’t you?

And I’m going to call it a day, my friends. This is a strange one, I know. Please make of it what you will.

I’ll see you again soon!

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Toney’s been in the hospital. On Sunday she left work because she felt horrible: nausea and a tightness in the chest. Then she started throwing up. I thought she was having a heart attack, and took her to the ER. By the time we arrived there, her stomach was hurting really bad and she was actually groaning. What in the hand-rolled shit is going on?! I was hitting at about an 8 on the Freak the Fuck Out meter.

They ran a bunch of tests on her, and quickly decided (well… the hospital version of quickly, which is pretty damn slow) that her gallbladder was the source of the trouble. And that caused her pancreas to become inflamed, which is why her stomach was hurting. When the doctor eventually came strolling in, seemingly without a care in the world, he announced that Toney would be staying with them for a few days.

And she was there until yesterday afternoon. They were pumping her full of saline solution and antibiotics, and she feels a lot better. They say the gallbladder will need to come out, but there’s no super-urgency. Probably within a month, somebody told her.

I’m glad she’s home. The whole universe felt off-kilter without her around. I could be gone for six months and nobody would notice. “Hey, what happened to that fat guy with all the sarcastic remarks?” somebody might say around Week Four. But take Toney out of the picture for a few days and the whole operation collapses.

I have a few random hospital notes for you guys today, and then I’m going to return to work. I haven’t been there since Friday, so I’m going to be doing the backstroke through a frothy sea of bullshit in a few hours. Let’s get to it, shall we?

— Shortly after we arrived at the ER, they took Toney through a door marked EXAMINATION ROOM, and I heard nothing for a long time. I was pacing around, nervous. Also, I thought I might avoid contracting whatever horrible disease some slumped and hacking woman was suffering near the check-in desk. I was trying to give the spores a moving target.

Finally, the exam door swung open and a middle school girl shouted, “Jeffrey?” I went rushing over, and she took me into the room and closed the door. Oh god… is it bad news?? “OK, step up on the scales for me,” she said. Huh? I was very confused. Do they weigh patient spouses now? “Jeffrey Zelinski?” she said. “Oh, sorry,” I told her, and left. And the legitimate Jeff gave me a dirty look as he made his way toward the room. Jeffs can be so judgmental.

It was like the beginning of some bad movie where, due to a series of wacky misunderstandings, I end up on a gurney being rushed to an operating room. “No!” I’m shouting, before they silence me by strapping an oxygen mask to my face. Next thing I know I wake up with a fully-functioning vagina, or somesuch. To tell you the truth, I haven’t really thought this thing through…

— The nurses knew almost immediately what was going on with Toney, and let us know their thoughts. I appreciated it, ‘cause the doctors are stingy with the information. In fact, the guy never told us a thing until the next day. Even though they started treating her for something, he wouldn’t tell us what or why. I know there are liability concerns, etc. But it’s extremely frustrating. The nurses were great, though.

— One woman came in and started going on and on about how they’re the lowest paid people on the staff, and everybody else thinks they’re “high and mighty,” and looks down on them. “Especially the nurses,” she said. I’m not clear on who this person was, or what function she was performing. She might’ve just wandered in off the street, for all I know. But she had the bitterness of champions.

— While we were waiting around for what felt like hours – mostly because it was hours – in the ER exam room, we could plainly hear what was going on with other patients. I heard a nurse ask a woman when she last had a bowel movement. “This morning,” she answered. “Did it look normal?” the nurse wanted to know. I was sitting on the edge of my seat, hoping for an interesting answer. Like “Well, I happen to have a photo of it on my phone!” But she just said yeah. It was anticlimactic, and also not the kind of information I needed to have.

— I also heard an old lady, with a terrifying death rattle, tell four or five people that she’s getting married on May 4, and going to Florida on her honeymoon. This woman was roughly 125 years old. I was expecting the nurse to say, “Well… your charts say differently, dear. You’ll be lucky to make it to sundown.” But she just shouted, “How wonderful!” Wotta rip-off.

— There was a unisex bathroom near Toney’s room that I used a couple of times to offload Eight O’Clock Bean Coffee. And inside that phone booth-sized room was the most complicated toilet I’ve ever seen in my life. I wish I’d snapped a picture. The thing had hand rails, bicycle grips, an assortment of baffling seat attachments, a ridiculous elevation, etc. I’m unclear why somebody would need to strap themselves into an elaborate shitting-cage, but apparently they do. For a second I got confused and thought I was boarding Space Mountain. Thankfully I was just standing. I really didn’t want to get too close to that apparatus.

— While I was visiting Toney Monday afternoon I heard a mournful male voice coming from down the hall: “Nuuuuuurse… nuuuuuuuuurse…” “Is that a ghost?” I asked with alarm. “Is it somebody who died here in 1979?!” This kept going on and on, and nobody was reacting. Eventually he started shouting, “I need a toilet!” Just hollering down the hall. Then I heard a woman scolding him, telling him to use the call button. She wasn’t very happy with his makeshift paging system. If it had gone on a few more minutes we probably would’ve heard, “Wipe! I need wiped!!”

— Since Toney’s pancreas was inflamed, everybody on the staff asked her about drinking. Toney drinks very little, believe me. She’s one of those freaks of nature who can have one beer, and that’s good enough for her. What the hell, man? Once that switch is flipped with me, I have to keep on going until I reach oblivion. In any case, she was getting repeatedly grilled about her relationship with alcohol. And one Asian nurse, who didn’t speak perfect English, asked, “So, do you drink beer all the time?” That’s how she put it. “I think you’re looking at one of my old charts,” I wish I’d said. Unfortunately for Toney, she can no longer have her three drinks per week for a while. It’s sad.

But she’s home now, and they’re going to schedule the gallbladder surgery soon. I’ll be freaking out about that, as well. I hate all things medical, and imagine the worst at all times. But my mother had the same thing done a few months ago, and it was close to being an outpatient procedure. Three small incisions, I think. I’m sure it’ll be fine. I hope.

And I need to go now. I don’t really have a Question for you guys, so please make of it what you will. I have a car dealer story to tell, as well. I’ll bring you up to date on that situation next time.

Have a great day, my friends!

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Back before every one of my hopes and dreams burned to the fucking ground like a 1980 Richard Pryor, I used to daydream about things. Like… maybe owning a little neighborhood bar somewhere. Even though I have no experience, and even less knowledge, I believed I could do well with something like that. I felt like I had my fingers on the pulse of the sizable functioning alcoholic community, and would be able to give the people what they want.

That is:

Good, simple pub food in largeish quantity, at a reasonable price. No nonsense like wild game sausage, or stuffed pork chops with mint jelly. I mean, seriously. Somebody else can educate and expand the horizons of the drinking public. And wave goodbye to their life savings in the process.

No bullshit props like pool tables, poker machines, or dartboards. And if any staff member even MENTIONS karaoke or trivia night, they’re out. Drinking, eating, and telling inappropriate stories should be the focus. A jukebox might be OK, but every song would have to pass through the Jeff Kay filter. This ain’t no cologne and tight-shirt dance club, goddammit.

No glass & chrome furniture and fixtures, or flashing lights in the floor. Just normal chairs, tables, and couches. Maybe some table lamps. Also, no punch-in-the-face disinfectant smell. Too many bars smell like hospital wards. And that’s freaky, man.

What would be the guidelines of your imaginary bar? Please bring us up to date on it in the comments. Do they coincide with mine, at all? I’m interested to know.

Also, have you considered possible names for your never-gonna-happen establishment? I’ve always thought Smoking Fish Tavern had a nice ring to it, and would probably go with that. But I could come up with a million others, like, say The Scowling Lesbian. That’s a good one, right off the top of my head. See how easy it is?

You know what irritates me? When a bar has a really boring name, like P.J.’s Pub, or whatever. It almost makes me angry. I also don’t like when they have alternative spellings, like Trax or Morganz Saloon. It’s stupid. There’s a place a few blocks from here called Nyx. WTF?? It might be a great bar, but the name makes my jaws flex.

What the owners decide to call a bar is important, in my opinion. College Hill Sundries was a place I loved in Greensboro, not only because of the great name, but that didn’t hurt. Some other memorable bar names I’ve personally experienced during my tipsy travels: Fuzzy Ducks, The Euclid Avenue Yacht Club, The Blind Tiger, Hooray Harry’s, Now Voyager, The Vortex (tagline: “It’s never too late to start wasting your life”), The Empty Glass, Highland Tap, Billy Goat Tavern, The White Dot, The Lamb and the Flag. There are others, many others. All great names… Not as good as T.J.’s Place, granted. But not bad.

So, tell me about your daydream bar. Use the comments section, and break it down for us. Also, what are your favorite real-world bar names? You know, places that actually exist outside of our imagination?

And I need to go now. Another week of stimulating work awaits!

Have a great day, my friends.

I’ll see you again soon.

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