A couple of nights ago I was driving home from work and encountered a one-two punch of smells people often complain about, but I kinda like. First, I drove through a construction zone (81 is a perpetual construction zone, on account of the Mexican-style corruption) and got a snootful of freshly-baked asphalt. Good stuff! And as soon as I regrettably exited that flavorful cloud, I drove headlong into a strong skunk bank. Nice! The good fortune just kept on coming.

I sincerely don’t understand why people complain about the smell of skunk. It’s delightful. I wish they made a Yankee Candle based on the scent. Oh, I’m sure it’s a different situation if you get blasted by an undiluted load of the stuff. But out floating in the open air? It’s quite enjoyable. And people complain and complain about it. I think they believe they’re EXPECTED to complain. Because they’re programmed robots, who repeat predictable phrases like “Well, we could use the rain,” “They grow up so fast,” and “Oh, god: skunk!” Right? Right.

Do you have anything like that? Something that society has decided stinks, but you don’t mind at all? Please tell us about it in the comments. The older boy says gasoline. But I’m not on board that particular train. It just reminds me of how little I know about cars, and how I’m not very handy and probably a disappointment to my father and both dead grandfathers… But that’s a whole different thing. We don’t need to get into that today.

I’d also like to know what pops immediately into your mind when you read the phrase “the worst thing I’ve ever smelled.”

I’m not proud of the memory that phrase conjures for me, because I know I’m going to be judged. But I’m a serious journalist (as we all know) and must proceed, consequences be damned. I was driving with an ex-girlfriend, you see, on Interstate 64 in West Virginia. And for reasons I still don’t know, she suddenly just tipped to one side and released something into the cab of my Luv truck that was so pungent and sodden with rotting cauliflower I nearly vomited. It was unbelievable. I’ve never experienced such an instantaneous and stinging assault on my system. It was like teargas or pepper spray, or something.

And here’s the controversial part: if it had just been one of my dumbass male friends who brought forth Satan himself via his fevered bunghole, I would have shouted and rolled down the windows, and a splendid time would’ve been had by all. But I wouldn’t remember it 35 years later. No way. So, the fact that it was a girl made it so much worse.

I still don’t understand what happened that night: Brown Wednesday as it’s come to be known. I guess she thought it would be funny and audacious? Well, it was certainly audacious. I’ll give her that much. Holy mackerel. I probably should’ve driven her straight to Charleston Memorial Hospital for a thorough examination. Something was severely out of balance.

Other “worst thing I’ve ever smelled” contenders:

A section of highway between Los Angeles and San Francisco where there’s an abundance of slaughterhouses. The smell would literally make me gag and wretch.

Also, the valley where I grew up was loaded with chemical plants. They were owned and operated by Union Carbide, Monsanto, Dow, Dupont, etc. and the smells those places emitted on a daily basis were often disgusting. Not always, some of it was quite nice, but often. It would also eat the paint off the interstate bridges, but it was nothing to worry about. It was all perfectly safe. They told us so.

Finally, any kind of male cologne makes me gag. It’s gross. I don’t want to smell a man, thank you very much. I’ll go with skunk any day.

What do you have on these subjects? Anything? Please share in the comments section. And I’m going to work.

I’ll see you guys again on Monday.

Have a great weekend!

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I think all my references are officially out of date. It feels like 80% of them are Seinfeld-based, which went off the air in 1998. But even the ones that aren’t from that show are pretty old. I was ranting at work a few days ago, for instance, and said, “Who do they think I am, Kreskin?!” Everybody just looked at me. And yesterday I asked the younger boy if he wanted to go to Arby’s for lunch. He declined, claiming it’s not healthy. “Oh, I’m sorry, Jack Lalanne,” I replied. He had no idea who I was talking about, but could tell by all the hand-waving and my expression of deep disgust what I was getting at. And while he was rolling his eyes and preparing to walk away, I added, “They have the meats, goddammit.”

So, there you go. At least that last one was fairly current. But I fear I’m viewed as a creature from a different era most of the time. When I was in Atlanta I worked with a lot of people who were roughly ten years older than me, and their dated references (“Land shark!” “Lighten up, Francis” “Well, excuuuuuse me!”) annoyed the shit out of me. Today my freshest references are generally 20 years old: probably older than the ones they were using in Atlanta. It’s disturbing. How did this happen??

I finally got a new passport photo yesterday, at Sam’s Club. It cost $4.97. The post office charges $15.00, and the one I got from AAA was $7.50. But that thing made me look like a bloated corpse they fished out of the Kanawha River. Before we got started yesterday I informed the young lady with the camera that I would need to approve the final photograph, and she said no problem. The hard woman at AAA would not allow any do-overs, but this girl seemed much more agreeable.

The first shot was not good. I looked like I’d polished off a cheese-lovers pizza, and was now experiencing catastrophic brick wall constipation. But the second one was better, and I reluctantly gave her the go-ahead. The problem: you’re not allowed to smile, or even smirk. And the lighting is horrific. Everybody comes away looking like something out of Re-Animator. And I’m going to have to live with this crap for ten years? Toney was trying to convince me to just go with the river cadaver photo, but I wouldn’t do it. I mean, seriously.

Speaking of healthy eating, I was in McDonald’s a few days ago and ordered a Quarter Pounder with cheese, no pickles. The portly lass in the petroleum-based pullover entered the info into the database, and said, “So, are you allergic to pickles?”

What do you think about that? Was she making me justify my order? Or was she telling me there’s a very good chance I’m getting pickles anyway? Perhaps she was merely curious? I’m not sure, but it annoyed me a little. Ya know? Am I too tightly-wound, or would that irritate you, as well?

Also, are some people actually allergic to pickles? I’ve never heard of such a thing.

I don’t feel great, my friends. I don’t sleep very well. I go for about four good hours, then fade in and out for the remainder of the session. I’m never completely rested. Maybe I need more exercise? Yes, that would almost certainly help. Also, I could drop fifty pounds. That wouldn’t hurt, either. It sucks.

Have you ever had trouble sleeping? How did you fix it? I’m not climbing into scuba gear before bed, thank you very much. And the thought of going to one of those “sleep clinics” freaks me out, for some reason. Somebody watching (filming?) me sleep? That’s weird, man. Especially if there’s audio. It would probably turn into some kind of underground party tape or something.

Any problems with sleep? Please tell us about it. I used to walk around in my sleep when I was a kid, but that stopped back when Kreskin was still a reasonable reference. And I used to dream (I guess) that I was awake and completely paralyzed. It was terrifying. I’d lie there trying to move, my heart hammering in my chest. Thankfully that also hasn’t happened in many years. Not a fan.

I need to go now. I’m not completely satisfied with this update, but my brain isn’t functioning very well. I’m just going to have to go with it, and try again next time.

Have a great day, boys and girls.

I’ll be back on Thursday.

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It was an emotional roller coaster for your corpulent correspondent on the day Petty died. When I arrived at work folks were talking about it, and I thought it must be a Facebook hoax. Right? People get sucked into those things all the time, ’cause they’re gullible and douche-infused. So, I did not react… walked to my desk… and began doing some shaky-hand investigatin’. And it was not good news, my friends.

At first they said he’d had a heart attack and was in critical condition. Then he was brain-dead and they were pulling the plug. Then he was all-the-way dead. Then he wasn’t anymore. Then he was gone for good.

The news hit me fairly hard. It was upsetting. The death of Prince was surprising, because he was so young and supposedly clean-living. And Bowie was a shock. But the sudden death of Tom Petty was the hardest to take of all the recent rock deaths. For me, anyway. I realize he was 66, but he seemed perpetually young. And check out the right-on-the-money opening paragraph in this Variety magazine tribute. It’s true. There’s nothing not to like about the man. He was unpretentious, consistently great, and relevant for 40 years.

In any case, I think I might’ve killed him, and feel terrible about it. This is a summary of my 2017 Tom Petty activity:

I launched what I called Project Petty and purchased every one of his studio albums on CD — in order of original release date. I owned a handful of his mid-period albums, from my days at WEA, but had none of the early CDs, or anything that was released after 2002 or so. I owned the early stuff on LP years ago, but never CD. The Project caused me to listen to more Tom Petty music in a tightly-compacted amount of time than during any other period of my life. And it helped me to get reacquainted with this often-overlooked gem. I didn’t realize it a year ago, but it’s one of my favorites.

I read this excellent biography and learned a lot of stuff I didn’t know. Highly recommended.

I watched this four-hour documentary on Netflix, also excellent. So many great scenes… One of the most memorable is when he’s blasting some record company weasel for not respecting Roger McGuinn enough. Tom Petty was a badass. If you haven’t seen the movie, and have an interest, don’t hesitate. It’s really great.

And finally, I went to see Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers perform in Philadelphia, on July 1. Just three months — almost to the day — before his death. Here’s a newspaper review of the show. I’d seen them once before, at the Lakewood Amphitheater in Atlanta. But this time I was fully invested, and far more sober.

So, you see, I’m thinking it might be my fault. Maybe I concentrated too much on Tom Petty this year, and it was like the sun shining through a magnifying glass, and poor Tom was the ant? Or something? …And how’s that for making it all about me? Good stuff. I should be a Facebook star!

Yesterday afternoon I went to the car wash at Sheetz, and was briefly thrown into a crisis situation. It was a warm and sunny day, so the car wash was hopping. I got in line and decided I would go with the $7 option, as soon as I reached the front o’ the queue.

After about fifteen minutes I was up-next, and paid with my debit card. I big redneck pickup truck went into the hurricane box in front of me, and the glass doors closed on both ends. And as I sat there waiting, I could see the guy maneuvering his vehicle even after the washing sequence had begun. Wotta shithead, I thought, but didn’t put too much emotion into it.

Eventually the door on the other end opened, and the truck exited. But the rear door, in front of my hood, stayed closed. What the? Then a receipt came out, saying my $7 had been refunded. And on the screen it now said ‘Car Wash Closed. Come Again.’ There were cars piled up behind me, the door was closed in front of me, and I couldn’t open my driver’s door because I was up against the payment station. I felt a slight twinge of panic. I was trapped, and claustrophobia was starting to kick in.

I picked up my cell phone, and called the Sheetz store. But it just rang and rang and rang. What the hell, man?? Would I have to call 911? Or maybe the Coast Guard? I hoped I wouldn’t snap and start trying to kick the windshield out.

Then, through the glass I could see a blurry lesbian messing around inside the car wash. I honked my horn, but it didn’t appear she’d noticed me. She meandered around, with no sense of urgency, and finally made her way to my window. “What did you do?” she asked, in an accusatory tone. Huh? I didn’t do anything, Chaz Bono. “Well, you’re going to have to wait until it reboots,” she sighed. Like I was being pushy about it. I’d said almost nothing. And car washes boot up? Who knew?

Finally the door opened, and she pointed what looked like a TV remote toward the interior. “I gave you the $12 wash for free,” she said, and walked away. There was no apology, or even a hint of humanity. Except for the freebie, I guess. She was not very friendly. Oh well.

The wash itself was pretty eventful. I’d never gone with such a high-dollar option. All kinds of shit was happening, for a long time. And at the end there was a sustained blast of air so powerful I thought my little car might tip over on its side. It was one hell of an automatic wash.

And today it rained. Pass the beer nuts.

Before I call it a day here, I’d like to know how you listen to music. I have a shelf stereo in the bunker here, but the CD player stopped working years ago. So, I’ve been using an iPod Classic, one of the big 80 gig models. I have a docking station, and run it through the stereo. It’s worked fine forever. But now the iPod is dying. It holds a charge for roughly 30 minutes, and the docking station no longer charges anything. So, I have a shitty situation on my hands.

I’ve been looking at stereos, but they’re few and far between. I was in Best Buy yesterday, and there was an old man employee who walks on a radical tilt harassing me the whole time. So, screw it. It appeared they only had about three or four stereos to choose from, anyway.

So, how do people listen to music in 2017?? The mp3, which destroyed the industry in which I worked for 20 years, is now as out of fashion as the wax cylinder. I can’t keep up! Seriously. Through what kind of apparatus do you listen to music? And it’s all streaming now? I’m very skeptical. We’re at the absolute mercy of a centralized database? What if they decide the Fleshtones or the Hoodoo Gurus are not worthy anymore? I’m just done at that point? Plus, every asshole who pays $9.99 per month has access to the same music library as me? I don’t like that, at all. I’ve spent my entire adult life amassing an amazing collection. Now everybody’s on an even playing field? Fuck that.

How do you listen to music in 2017? I was going on and on about it yesterday, to the point where Toney had had enough and we got into an honest-to-God argument. She says I’m obsessive, and ridiculous. But I need to know, dammit. I signed up for a trial membership with Spotify, and have to admit it’s pretty impressive so far. Almost like the old “every record ever recorded” bit by Robert Klein. We’ll see how it goes.

I need to go now. I’m getting a little off-track with these updates, but will make the necessary adjustments. Sorry about that.

I’ll be back on Thursday.

Have a great day, my friends!

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Last weekend Toney and I were walking through Sam’s Club and passed our neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Half-Shirt. And we stared straight into the eyes of pure, undiluted hatred. They can’t stand me, especially, but don’t like Toney either. Sure, it’s easy (and probably prudent) to just say ‘fuck ’em.’ But I have to admit it bothers me a little. I mean, we’re not that bad. In fact, we’re pretty good. We’re quiet and stable, and create no neighborhood drama. We could have a passel of snarling pitbulls over here, and work on our 1984 Caprice in the driveway at all hours, and get credenza-shitting drunk and fight each other on the lawn while cranking the Atlanta Rhythm Section.

But they don’t approve of the fact that I don’t put lawncare at the very top of my priority list. Our yard always looks fine, but there’s is like some kind of showplace. And so, our levels of enthusiasm don’t match-up, which causes problems. He’s one of these guys who practically zig-zags around his backyard during the fall, doing shoulder-rolls and Pete Rose dives as each individual leaf floats toward the grass. We just get to ours as soon as we can, and that makes them INSANE.

Also, years ago they got it into their heads that we were responsible for their basement flooding. They said our downspouts were pointed in their direction, causing rain water to enter their house. I reminded them that the downspouts have been pointed the same direction since 1966. But they would not be convinced. One early morning they called over here and began shouting all sorts of craziness down the line, and I got pissed and ran over there. It was raining, my feet flew out from under me, and I went sliding down the hill on my back. I was wearing Dockers and a dress shirt, and was now smeared in mud from bottom to top. And Mrs. Half-Shirt and I got into a heated argument on their patio. Nothing has ever been the same, even after I paid someone to reconfigure the downspouts, to satisfy their delusions.

It’s been years now, and they won’t even acknowledge us. In fact, they’re fairly hostile. They want it to be known that they hate our guts, and are quite successful in the endeavor. I sometimes find myself altering my driving route, to avoid getting an icy stare from one of them. Other times, depending on my mood, I just smile and wave, and shout, “Top o’ the morning, Halfy!”

Whatever. It’s not a huge thing, and I rarely even think about it. But when you come face-to-face with both of them by an Oreo floor display… it’s uncomfortable. And it bothers me a little. Ya know? I don’t think I deserve to be HATED. Sheesh. I’m about as laid-back and easy as they come. Oh well.

In the comments please tell us about the worst neighbors you’ve encountered. I can’t really remember any other spectacularly bad ones, other than some upstairs apartment neighbors in Greensboro who never stopped copulating. Good god! The frequency… the tempo… the howling…. It was extremely distracting. And that was a million years ago. Do you have anything on this one? If so, please share.

And I need to get moving, my friends.

I’ll be back on Thursday.

Have a great one!

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A couple of things I loved that recently went away forever:

Half dotcom was a site owned by eBay, where you could buy used CDs, DVDs, and books. I bought roughly a million CDs from them through the years. They were the best, and I just recently purchased a handful of Green Day discs there. I was in one of those frenzies where I NEEDED (a powerful need) to own every album by a specific artist. So, I went to my old standby and completed the task. That was literally a few weeks ago. And now the site is gone! What in the harelipped hell?? It sincerely makes me sad. Sure, I can go to Amazon, but their prices aren’t as good, and their shipping costs are higher. Half has been a part of my life since 1999, I think. And that’s a long time.

Burger King hot dogs were the shit. They were always good — grilled and topped with chili and cheese — but the prices were way too high in the beginning. About six months ago, though, they cut ’em down to about $1.29 each, and that was the sweet spot. I was locked in, goddammit. But the other day I went through the drive-through, placed my standard order, and the woman broke the news to me: they’re gone, and they’re not coming back. She was speaking like we were at a wake. She was aware of my deep, deep fondness, and was very gentle. I didn’t break down, but it was close. There’s a hot dog-shaped hole in the middle of heart.

Another thing I love that’s gone, hopefully not forever:

Toney’s in Myrtle Beach, by herself. I remember a co-worker telling me his wife went to the beach alone, years ago, and I thought, “Well, there goes that marriage.” And I was right. Within six months they were separated, and divorced shortly thereafter. But that’s not what’s going on with me and Toney. We just can’t leave our kids alone for extended periods, on account of the hooliganism. So, we’re going by ourselves. It’s weird, I know. But there’s nothing more to it than that.

I took her to the Allentown airport yesterday morning, drove back to our little town here, had eggs and cheese at Waffle House… and she texted and said she was in Myrtle Beach. It was bizarre. It felt like I’d just dropped her off a few minutes earlier.

Her sister “Nancy” will be joining her on Saturday. We’ll see how it goes. Toney was drinking some ludicrous cocktail at noon today, so I guess she’s having a good time. She also sent me an incredible sunrise shot from the beach this morning. Me? I’m getting ready to leave for work, and will come home to some version of dumbass chaos which will make me insane and I might kick everybody out. Yes, it’s quite a life I’ve carved out for myself.

I knew a hipster girl years ago who insisted that Myrtle Beach is “the worst place on Earth.” She was one of these types. You know? Anything that everyday folks enjoy is automatically stupid? In any case, I’m going to call it a day here with a Question based on her ridiculous statement. In the comments section, please tell us what immediately jumps to your mind when you read the words “the worst place you’ve ever been.” I somehow got lost one time, and ended up in Camden, NJ. And I’m going with that. Holy shitballs! Can you do better than that? Please tell us about it. Keep it to places you’ve actually experienced firsthand, please. And if you have any recent losses to share, we’d like to hear about those, as well.

And I have to go now. Have a great day, my friends.

I’ll see you again on Monday!

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