Jeff

The Big Notebook of Fun is picked clean, my friends.  All that’s left, at this point, is a collection of questionable random items.  So, that’s what I’ll be serving today:  leftovers for dinner.  Disappointing, I know.  But sometimes it turns out to be the best of meals.  I’m making no promises, of course, but that’s the way it goes sometimes.

When I’m at work my cell phone gets no reception whatsoever.  As soon as I pass through the front doors I might as well be holding a deck of cards to my head.  So I just leave it in my jacket pocket.

And it’s a funny thing…  When I leave, at 1:30 am, that thing is often shockingly hot, with the battery run down.  A few days ago it was completely dead, and I felt naked driving home without a functioning phone.

It’s not the battery; the thing holds a charge like a champion.  And it’s not the phone; my old one behaved the exact same way.

What the hell?  Any ideas why this might be happening?  Is it searching and searching and searching for a network?  Is that the problem?  Or does it have something to do with the Russians and the Red Chinese?  Any input would be appreciated, because I’m leaning toward international espionage and various conspiracy theories, at the moment.

I was in the hipster record store a few days ago, and bought the new Ryan Adams CD.  While paying, I noticed a counter display filled with the new AC/DC.  Since it’s supposed to be a Wal-Mart exclusive, I asked the guy how they managed to get their hands on it.

And it was another of those Sunshine moments.  The guy was a complete dick, and gave me a sarcastic, dismissive answer.  You know, like it’s 1979 and their business model still makes sense…

Pissed me off.  I was just making conversation, and was completely friendly about the whole thing.  Why the attitude?  If he didn’t want to tell me, he could’ve just said something like, “That’s top secret.  They’d kill me if I told.”

Yeah, I have a suspicion I’ll feel a little less guilty next time I shop at Best Buy, to save three bucks.

When did the entire population of Earth go asshole?

Speaking of music, I’ve been plugging holes in my CD collection.  Today I ordered Sweets From A Stranger by Squeeze, for $3.50.  And a couple days ago I picked up a used copy of Thin Lizzy’s Johnny the Fox, for four bucks.

Since I’m using The Big iPod as a giant jukebox, I can’t stand having incomplete representations of important artists.  Know what I mean?

But I’m often only interested in a certain era, instead of the full-blown history of a band.  Like with Squeeze, I only care about the early albums, before they broke up and started talking shit about each other.  The albums that came later, after the money ran out, will not have a spot on the (obscure iCarly reference alert!) PearPod.

So, you see, my mental illness isn’t quite as bad as it might originally seem.

The iPod…  Is it the greatest gadget of the recent past?  It’s gotta be way up there, right?  It, and the DVR.  Those two things have genuinely improved my life.  What else, besides computers and cell phones (they don’t count, because I say so), would you add to the list?  What gadget or invention of the recent past has made your life better?

How about the Roomba?  Have any of you ever used one?  I like the concept, but I’ve never actually seen one with my own eyes.  Are they any good?  And when are they going to release one that mows the lawn?

Also, the Kindle…  Anyone have any experience with one of those deals?  I’m intrigued, I must admit.  And once that happens, there can only be but one outcome.

The older Secret keeps roping me into watching extended clips of Dane Cook performing stand-up, on YouTube.  And here’s some video footage of me watching said video footage.  Wow!

Have you ever known a person who has an interest in something, but is self-conscious about it?  So they feel the need to hit you with a lot of pre-scripted justifications, and trivia designed to impress?

In Atlanta I worked with a couple of brothers (actual brothers, not bruthas) who were NASCAR fanatics.  They’d get really passionate about it, which made people want to mess with them.  I remember one guy saying, “What’s so hard about riding in a car?  I do it every day.”  He was just trying to piss them off, and it always worked.

It led to all sorts of red-faced stats, like, “It’s not unusual for a driver to lose forty pounds during the course of a race!” and things along those lines.  It’s a little more than just riding in a car, they’d insist.  Riding, heh.

I also knew a guy who was obsessed with bowling.  And whenever someone made a snarky comment about it, or insisted it wasn’t a real sport, he’d bust out with, “Bowling three games with a fifteen-pound ball is the equivalent of lifting a Winnebago off a deaf baby,” or whatever.

Man, I love that kind of thing…  I might start keeping a list.

Last night at work I consumed a sack of these things.  Yeah, they were OK, I guess.

And check this out.  Some great stuff there, including this one.

This site, dedicated to G.C. Murphy memories, linked to my recent Murphy’s Mart post.  Pretty cool, and I appreciate them calling me a humorist instead of a blogger…

But how did they know our reign of terror took place at the Dunbar store??  I never mentioned the exact location in the update, and am a bit freaked-out right now.  Do you think this might be linked to my phone being hot every night when I get off work?!  Shit!

And speaking of paranoia, my friend Tim is fixated on Richard Nixon.  I think he’s read every book ever written about the man, and there have been a lot of them.

In today’s mail there was a package from Tim that contained a CD filled (filled!) with old Spiro Agnew speeches, in which he supposedly rips “the hippies” a new one.

Do I get the coolest mail, or what?

Also included was this message from Spiro himself.  Man, he seems fired-up.  Wonder who he’s talking about?

Thanks to everyone who pre-ordered the new Surf Report t-shirts already.  I really appreciate it.  And if you haven’t, what are you waiting for?  Here’s your link.

There have been a few questions, and I’ll try to answer them now…

The design will be on the FRONT of the shirt.

It will be professionally silk screened, not ironed-on like Jimmy Carter is president.

If you’re outside the U.S. or Canada, I’m gonna have to charge more.  Sorry about that, but the post office bends me over the proverbial couch when I say “Romania,” or whatever.  I’ll add a new INTERNATIONAL price point tonight.

And I asked for a quote from the T-Shirt lady for long sleeve shirts, and they’re expensive.  I have a feeling, and I could be wrong, more folks would be unhappy with such a scenario, than  would be happy.  I might do a limited run at a later date, if there’s real demand.  Let me know what you think.

Anything else?  Ask away in the comments, and I’ll do my best to provide a speedy answer.  Ahem.

And finally, I have a fresh question from the Stealing Clive Bull‘s Topics desk.  Clive and I would like to know what’s the longest stretch you’ve ever stayed awake, and why.

I don’t have much to offer on this one, I’m afraid.

I do remember my friend Mike spending the night when we were kids, and staying up all night playing poker and watching horror movies.  The following day I felt fine, until we went bowling in the early afternoon.  Suddenly I was having some sort of freaky out-of-body experience; I think I was on the verge of full-blown hallucinations.

What about you?  Have you ever been in a situation where you were forced to stay awake for days on end?  Tell us about it in the comments.

And I’ll see you guys on Monday.

Have a great weekend!

Now playing in the bunker.

Over the weekend we had a birthday party for the younger Secret.  We’d previously made a vow to not engage in such a thing, ever again.  But you know how the memory of pain fades over time…

A local skating rink sets up a dozen or so inflatable bounce houses, or moonwalks, or whatever you choose to call them.  And the things are huge.  One is probably two stories tall, and features a so-called slide that sends kids hurtling end-over-end in a terrifying free-fall.  Yeah, it’s a slide like jumping off a bridge is a slide…

So, that’s where we (Toney) opted to hold this extravaganza, and I must admit, it wasn’t bad.  I was braced for the worst, but got something a little better than that.

The ten or twelve hooligans wore themselves down to a smoldering nub, atop and inside the inflatable compound fracture chambers.  So, by the time we had real interaction with them, they were sapped of most of their maniacal energy.  It worked out well for everyone.

For fifteen dollars a head the kids got to play for an hour, and we had a “party room” for an additional sixty minutes.  There, the younglings were served pizza, chips, and soda by the staff.  We brought a cake (the only outside food allowed), and gift bags for everyone.  It went remarkably well.

A few observations, however…

The party rooms are nondescript cinderblock affairs, and they tried to dress them up by splattering paint all over the walls, and hanging streamers from the ceilings.  And the splattered paint, which was mostly red, made it look like a family had been hatcheted-up in there; it was like the scene of a grisly murder.

Festive!

And the cheese on that “pizza” adhered to my teeth like Super Glue.  I’d never encountered such a thing.  I asked Toney if she was having the same problem, and she couldn’t answer because she was struggling like a cocker spaniel with a Kraft caramel.  I don’t know what kind of cheese that was, but have a feeling it was created in a laboratory somewhere.  Probably New Jersey.

One kid gave the Secret a card with a gift certificate inside, and had drawn a bunch of stuff on the envelope.  I pointed at a confusing rendering of an animal, and asked if it was a turkey or a chicken.  And he said, “It’s a turkey, dummy.  Can’t you see the gobble?”

Dummy?!  I didn’t much care for that.  And what the hell’s a gobble?

The whole place felt like one gigantic petri dish to me.  I worry that I’m slowly turning into one of those freaky germophobes, who open doors with handkerchiefs, and perform complicated jujitsu moves in order to flush urinals with their feet.  But I can’t help it.  It’s a new paranoia coming into bloom.

Plus, the older Secret jumped the gun and handed out gift bags before we’d intended.  Among other things there was a rubber ball inside each of them, and we didn’t want the kids playing with them until they were outside our jurisdiction.  But, because somebody couldn’t follow the rules, projectiles were sailing through the air for the last ten minutes, and one ended up inside a pitcher of Sprite.  Good times.

But overall, it turned out to be one of the better such parties we’ve experienced.  Oh, we’ve hosted a few full-on fiascos in the past…  I highly recommend the concept of wearing everyone out, before sitting down for cake.  I really do.

Afterwards, the four of us went to Ret Lopster for dinner.  The birthday boy was allowed to choose the restaurant, and he likes to deconstruct crab legs with tools.

As usual, I had the New York strip, since I don’t really care for crustaceans and creatures from the ocean floor…  But this time it had a ribbon of fat running through it.  It’s the first time I’ve had anything other than an excellent steak there; they’re usually shockingly good.

Also, I had a Sam Adams Winter Lager, and it wasn’t as kick-ass as I remember it from last year.  It was only OK, instead of outstanding.

I didn’t say it out loud, but it seemed like everything was mildly disappointing during that meal.  And I’m glad I kept it to myself, because everyone else seemed perfectly happy.

A few observations, however…

There was a party seated near us that featured a pair of breathtakingly ugly women.  One had a white streak running through the middle of her hair, like a skunk, and was apparently wearing some sort of radical lift-bra.  Her cleavage was riding high and exploding out the top of her shirt.  Toney said it looked like she had them sitting on a shelf, and that pretty much sums it up.

I guess she was trying to compensate for the fact she had a face like former Speaker of the House Tip O’Neill?  I just don’t know.

Behind them was another large party, with an older gentleman at the head of the table.  And at one point the old guy slammed down his knife and fork, and yelled, “So what did I do now?!  What did I do wrong this time?!?”  He was screaming it, and caused the whole place to go silent.

Everybody else at the table shushed him, and he reared his head way back and shouted, “Jeeeesus Christ!”  But I think they got him under control after that; there were no more outbursts.

And while we were leaving we walked past the hostess stand in the front of the restaurant.  Several employees, all apparently teenagers, were standing there talking.  When we passed by, one of them said, “…and he was totally wearing tighty-whities.  I was so embarrassed!”

Yeah, I have no idea…  We just went home, opened up a cuppa two tree Magic Hat Hocus Pocus ales, and gave thanks for it being over.  The Secret had a good day, I think, and we walked away unscathed.  Somewhat poorer, but unharmed.

And that’s a triumph, my friends.

Pre-order your shirts here!

Why are there no newborn babies named Cotton anymore? My mother had (has?) a friend with that name, but there can’t be too many of them left, can there?  I hear about people naming their daughters Emily, and Ashley, and Abigail, and that sort of thing.  But never Cotton.

What’s wrong with Cotton?!  I think we have an obligation to save that name, before it becomes completely extinct.  Every generation is presented with a challenge, and I believe this might be ours.  Together we can make it happen!!  So who’s with me?!!

…Hello?

Well.  What other “friends of our parents” names are rarely assigned to the freshly-minted nowadays?  How about Donna?  You don’t see too many babies in a crib named Donna…  Help me identify the at-risk names, so we can proceed with our important work.

And since we’re on this questionable subject, here are the most popular names of the 1960s (talking ’bout my generation).  How far down the list do you have to go, before you can’t think of a classmate who had one of the names?

On the boy side of things, I might have to drop all the way down to #43:  Jose.  There were no Joses in our class (I mean, seriously), but I think I can come up with someone for every name above it.

As far as girls go, however, I can’t remember a Patricia (#6).  Bill might be able to help with that one.  He remembers everything, despite drinking roughly the same amount of beer as I have.  It’s an amazing thing to behold, it really is.

And speaking of that…  On Saturday Toney and I went to Cooper’s in Scranton, to explore their sizable beer selection.  Here’s the list of drafts they gave us.  Check out the snarky disclaimer at the end.  Heh.

We only had two each, because it’s an eight-mile trek home (dammit).  Both of us opted for the Victory Harvest Ale (fan-freaking-tastic!), and Hoppin Frog IPA (also very good, but with an odd aftertaste that reminded me of a whisk broom).

I can’t believe we’ve lived in this town for more than eight years, and hadn’t previously taken advantage of such an excellent beer-lover’s paradise.  The bar itself is very pub-like, the staff seemed knowledgeable and friendly, and the lineup of beers was so interesting and good it almost made me cry.

Oh, we’ll be back.  Over and over again.  In fact, I want to go there every Saturday afternoon, for the rest of my life.  I haven’t yet spoken with Toney about this plan, but it’s the way I’m currently leaning.

Surf Reporter Hope sent along a new batch of Smoking Fish sightings — on foreign soil again.  Check ’em out.  Our logo, man, he gets around.

And Matt from Florence sent me a great little CARE package, pictured here.  It came in a vintage (and very cool) cigar box, with four real cigars (Saint Luis Rey Reserva Especial), a cigar cutter, several bubblegum and chocolate cigars, a DVD of the E documentary, and a collection of “hipster 2 hipster” music mp3s.

Thanks, man!  I appreciate it, sincerely.

And finally, I have something extra-exciting to show you folks today:  the kick-ass version 4.0 Surf Report shirts!  Right here.

The Evil Twin created the design, and I think it’s nothing short of incredible.  What do you say?  The shirts will be short-sleeve, military green, and available in the normal lineup of sizes.

This time we’ll be branching out to a two-color design.  Green is the color of the shirt itself, plus white and orange ink.  I think it looks amazing, and I’m not just blowing smoke here.

Please help me out by pre-ordering.  I’m not very good at guessing quantities and sizes, and your input will be mighty important.

And that, my friends, is that.  I need to go to work now, weep softly into my keyboard for ten hours, and return home.

I’ll see ya tomorrow.

Now playing in the bunker.

In the town where I grew up there used to be a large K-Mart-style store, called Murphy’s Mart.  It was quite a place in its era, at the forefront of the super-center concept where a person could theoretically purchase underwear, a club sandwich, an oil change, and bullets.  Along with millions of other improbable combinations…

And when I was a youngling my friends and I used that place like our own personal giant and incredibly cool playground.

I don’t know how we got away with all the stuff we did, but can’t recall being hassled too much by the employees.  We ran free inside Murphy’s for years and, with only a few exceptions, were left to our own devices.

And what were they thinking?!

I do remember getting an earful when we were playing hide & seek one day.  Some kid went rampaging around a corner and knocked an “expensive” vase off a shelf.  It shattered loudly, and shards of glass went flying in every direction.  It looked cool as hell, like a fireworks display.  But the assistant manager (or whatever) didn’t share our enthusiasm, and we were told to “git.”

Also, my friend Mike and I set off a firecracker in the men’s room one afternoon, and they weren’t overly amused by that episode either.

There was a man in the corner boof, taking a crap.  He had the place all funked-up, and was humming and rattling a newspaper, like he was in the comfort of his own home.  Mike and I had our pockets full of fireworks, and one of us came up with a fine idea…

A firecracker was placed on the sink, with the fuse hanging over the edge, then lit with a butane lighter.  We took off, walking briskly toward the exit on the other side of the garden center, but didn’t make it very far.

The explosion was impossibly loud.  It sounded like a stick of dynamite had gone off, like the entire front of the store must now be missing.  Holy shit!

The guy inside the crapatorium started howling like he’d been stabbed, and there was pandemonium everywhere.  Customers were taking cover behind displays, and I think one old dude had his WWII training kick-in, and completely hit the deck.

As soon as we passed through the doors, security grabbed us.  They shoved us around, and man-handled us into the bowels of the operation.  One of them had me by the top of my right arm, and kept “accidentally” ramming me into walls and doors.

They wanted our names, and telephone numbers.  I went first, and told them the truth.  But Mike believed he could outsmart the men, and gave them fake information.  And I can’t remember the exact name he used, but it was something ridiculous, like “Snappy McGee.”

Yeah, that didn’t work in our favor.  Those dudes weren’t in the mood for fun ‘n’ games, and I think they made a bigger deal about it because of Mike’s pen name.  Both of us experienced substantial parental heat later in the day.

Besides detonating explosives in Murphy’s, we also liked to occasionally wind-up all the alarm clocks, and set them to go off at roughly the same time.  Good fun.  The workers would always come running, and we thought that was an absolute riot.

And in the electronics department was a demonstration tape, on a chain, which could be shoved into any of the tape players on display.  We’d crank the volume on one of the stereos as high as it would go, ram in the tape, and start that brisk walking again.

Then this would be heard within a full half-mile radius:  KRACO!  EIGHT-TRACK STEREO!!  BWOW WOWOWOWOWOWOWOW!!!  That would be followed by sirens, helicopter sounds, machine guns, a guitar solo, etc. etc.

And we’d be over in the book department, buckled-over at the waist, laughing a wide streak in our shorts.

A kid named Danny removed a fire extinguisher from a pole one day, and sprayed some woman in the side of the face with it.  But we didn’t usually hang out with him, and most of us agreed he’d taken things too far.  I mean, seriously.  That kind of stuff could get us banned for life.  Then where would we be?

He also shoved over a rack of winter coats once.  Again:  too much.  It felt like we had an unwritten agreement with the staff, and Danny wasn’t interested in holding up our end of the bargain.

Of course, all of us flirted with the limits, on occasion.  I remember being with Steve one night, bursting large rubber balls in the toy department with hammers.  We’d scrape the claw side of it across the surface, which would cause a loud squalling sound, then:  WHOOSH!  For some reason we thought that was the absolute pinnacle of comedy.

And we’d occasionally change the prices on albums, something that was possible during that pre-computer era.  Once I bought a copy of Exile on Main St. (a double album) for $2.99, using the price tag off a bottle of shampoo, or something.

There was a large effeminate man who managed the record department at Murphy’s, and he actually caught Rocky and me changing prices one day.  We tore out of there, and didn’t stop running until we were practically in the next town.  We were running like the hounds of hell were on our heels.

Yeah, like that poofter would’ve chased us…  I can see him now, sprinting across the parking lot with his wrists pressed high against his chest.

In any case, we had to lay-low for a while, after our encounter with “the dancing bear.”  Heh.  That dude liked to pretend he was a music expert, but stocked Elvis Costello in the humor section, and the Lords of the New Church in gospel.

But of all the shenanigans we pulled in that place, my favorite was the tennis balls.  We’d go into the sporting goods department, and hurl tennis balls, or handballs (who in 1970s West Virginia played handball??), in random directions.

In the rear of the store was a snack bar, or diner, or whatever you want to call it.  And we’d often fling balls into it, from a great distance.

After a while we began sending a scout, to see what actually happened when the projectile returned to Earth.  One time I was the watcher, and Mike was the thrower.  And an old man was sitting there with a BLT and fries in front of him, and the ball landed right in the middle of his lunch.

Food jumped three feet in the air, and the old guy almost went over backwards in his chair.  And I’m not joking, I thought someone might have to call 911 for me.  My lungs nearly collapsed from laughter.  It doesn’t seem quite so funny now (wotta grand gang of assholes we were!), but it sure did then…

So, there you go.  Those are my main memories of the late, great Murphy’s Mart.  Did you guys ever pull similar stunts inside a local store growing up?  If so, we need to hear about ’em.  Use the comments link below.

And I’ll be back on Monday, if not sooner.

See ya then.

Now playing in the bunker.

Right, and now it’s time to take a break from politics.  I don’t write about it here, because there are already too many know-nothings reciting at length the talking-points of their favorite team, I mean political party.  But I follow all that stuff, and absorb way too much of it.

And I plan to take a prolonged vacation at this point.  I’m going to listen to music, read books, watch movies, have more fun with the Surf Report, and act like an idiot around my family.  My soul needs to be purged of the poisons…

And just the thought of not thinking about it anymore makes me happy.  Politics can kiss my ass.

We’re going to West Virginia for Thanksgiving, and I’m really looking forward to that, as well.  I don’t think we’ve been to my parents’ house in more than a year, the chaos that is our everyday life won’t allow it.

But the Secrets get out of school half-day on Wednesday, and we’re gonna hit the road.  We already know it will be a traffic extravaganza, especially on the Boulevard of Shouted Profanity (Interstate 81), but who cares?  We’ll have a load of good CDs, premium snacks, and no deadlines.

And when we finally arrive, it’ll be nothing but comfort food and nodding off in recliners.  Can’t wait!

What are your plans for Thanksgiving?  Are you going to be out on the road, getting in my way and testing my resolve to remain calm?  Or will family be descending on your life?  Not that anyone asked, but I much prefer being the descender, than the descendee.  Ya know?

Speaking of comfort food… I’m somehow associated with lemon meringue pie in my family.  And I’m not really sure how it happened.

I mean, I certainly like it, but don’t most people?  I don’t believe my enthusiasm for it is excessive (I’m not out robbing liquor stores to support a lemon pie habit, or anything), but I’ll be forever linked to it in our fambly.

Are you strongly associated with some kind of food?  Do people make cute little jokes along the lines of, “Oh, everybody knows better than to get between Jeff and his lemon pies!”  (Sheesh.)  Is it legitimately earned, or the product of questionable mythology created over decades?

Tell us about it in the comments.  And how long do you think it would take for me to become associated with this pie?  Or is transition even possible, once a myth has taken hold?

And I have one more question for you folks, before I pull the plug on this brief and inexplicably blissed-out update.  It’s a follow-up to a conversation I had with the Secrets last weekend…

Are you able to close one eye, while keeping the other one open?  I can only do it one-way; I can close my left eye, and keep the right one open.  But it won’t work the other way ’round.

The older boy has complete control of his lids, and can make them do whatever he wants.  It’s amazing to me.  But is it unusual?  Are most people endowed with such a talent?  Am I, once again, the weird one?

Help me out with it, won’t you?

And while we’re at it, tell me about your eyebrow abilities.  Can you lift one, and keep the other at rest?  Like Belushi?  I’m unable to do that one, at all.  They’re either both up, or both down.  I almost pulled a forehead muscle trying to accomplish a one-up.

Just so you know… I’ll be unveiling the new Surf Report t-shirt design in the next few days, and think you guys are going to be amazed.  The Evil Twin has been working on it, and it’s very cool indeed.

This time ’round we’ll be going with an army green shirt, with white ink, and possibly a second ink color, as well.  Hopefully we’ll be able to have them printed, and in everyone’s hands before Christmas.  That’s going to be the goal.

Once the design is completed I’ll create a pre-order page, and we’ll get the ball rolling.  I’ve already spoken with The T-Shirt Lady, and she’s ready to go.  Like Jeff Kay in front of one of “his” pies.

I’m excited about this one, folks, and looking forward to your reactions.

See ya tomorrow.

Now playing in the bunker.