For a few years Toney and I maintained a tradition of sorts, where we’d talk my parents into coming up here to watch the Secrets for a couple of days in early September, and the two of us would go somewhere for our anniversary.  I think we did it three years in a row, and then everything came off the tracks for some reason.
 
We were thinking about trying to resurrect it this year, by maybe attending a beer festival in the Poconos sometime in November.  We thought we could make a weekend of it, and rent a room at the resort, and the whole nine yards.
 
So Toney called the place a few days ago, to get the details.  And yeah, we won’t be going…
 
Anyone care to guess the package price for two nights in the so-called lodge, two dinners, two breakfasts, and passes to the festival?  Well, you don’t have to guess, ’cause it’s $800.
 
I’m sorry, but that ain’t gonna happen.  I had $350-$400 in my head, and I’m usually pretty good at predicting those kinds of things.  But this time the calibration was waaaay off. 
 
And what am I, Ted Turner here?  Screw it, we’ll just go to the Olive Barrel for dinner.
 
I have to work on Thursday, and Toney has to work on Friday, so our end-of-summer Knoebels extravaganza is also in jeopardy.  Our only option at this point is Saturday – at the beginning of the Labor Day weekend.
 
I love Knoebels, but you’ve got to do it smart.  And that means not going on weekends. 
 
On Saturdays and Sundays, for whatever reason, that place turns into a frothy sea of shitkickers, white trash, coal crackers, and fat little buzz-cut hicklets.  The whole place becomes overrun by the loudest, scraggliest, fattest, skinniest, back porch tattooed, cig-dangling, perpetually pissed-off gang of jescobillies this side of Boone County, WV.

And mister, nothing good can come from such a thing…
 
So, if it’s up to me, we won’t be going.  But, of course, it’s never up to me, so who the hell knows?  We’ll just have to see what happens.

I’ve been trying to convince the older Secret that the “panic” button on the back of my car remote controls an ejection seat.  I told him to be extra-careful not to accidentally push it, especially when I’m driving, because I’ll go rocketing through the roof and end up in the weeds behind Staples.

But he’s not buying it.

Our power bill for the month of July, when Sunshine & Mumbles were here, shot-up sixty dollars, then dropped back down to normal after they left.  Sixty bucks!  That’s a lotta extra juice.  Sunny’s lung-blower and that window-unit A/C they burned-up can apparently eat up some wattage.  Sweet Maria.

I have a powerful urge to buy some CDs; it’s been a long time (upwards of a month!) and I’m starting to get the shakes.  This weekend I plan to get myself right…  What do you think?  The new Hold Steady?  Fleet Foxes?  Randy Newman‘s latest?  Any guidance will be appreciated.

And speaking of music…  The Doors can flat-out ruin a good shuffle-play session.  Everything fits together nicely, even when the styles seemingly clash, but the Doors never fail to drag it all down with their mournful dirges and pseudo-poetry.  I think I might have to make a small adjustment to the Big iPod.

Surf Reporter Keith took the liberty of revising the Omen poster I included with yesterday’s post, to make it more relevant to the update.  Check it out.  He’s added Andy!

And I’ll leave you now with a Question that came to me only a few minutes ago, while having lunch and watching CNN.  Have you ever bought anything from an infomercial, or one of those ads they show on cable, for things like Aqua Globes or Mighty Putty or the Foot Egg, or whatever that hilarious thing is called? 

If so, tell us about it.  Did the item work as well as they said it would, or were you disappointed?  I have nothing to offer on this one, because I’ve never purchased any such products.  But what about you?  We’d like to know.

And I’ll see you guys tomorrow.

Yesterday, before I left for work, I sat down to enjoy a piping-hot Maxine Catheter (or is it Marie Callender?) frozen meal.  I went with the meat loaf and mashed potatoes, because it doesn’t require any of that pesky stirring in the middle of the nuking process.

So, I let it run through its entire seven minutes, and two additional minutes for coolin’ ‘n’ congealin’, and carried it to the dining room table.

And when I flopped down I miscalculated and went a tad deep, if you know what I mean.  The bulk of my ass-meat landed on the chair-back, instead of the seat.  And would you care to guess what happened?

That’s correct, there was a loud sound of splintering wood, like a tree coming down in a storm, and the entire back completely seperated from the chair itself.

It fell to the floor, making a terrific racket, and Andy’s butt-beacon quickly fled the scene.  The chair is now in two pieces, and apparently my ass is no longer merely a pants-destroyer, it looks like I’ve graduated to furniture, as well.

What’s next?  Masonry?  Steel?  Something needs to be done…

And speaking of Marlene Cowcatcher frozen meals, I noticed something yesterday that concerned me, for undefinable reasons.  With the meat loaf and taters was a mixture of corn and carrots.  And insinuated, right in the middle of the vegetables, was a single rogue green bean.

I don’t really understand why, but it made me feel uneasy.  And my instincts rarely fail me…  What do you think it means, a single green bean, so far away from home?  Could it have been planted there, by a spy, or possibly an assassin?  Or maybe it’s a sign of some sort, an omen of a coming calamity?

What do you think?  I need closure on the single green bean that so brazenly entered my life yesterday afternoon.  Won’t you help me?

Toney brought back, from Canada, six bottles of something called True North IPA.  Not bad, not bad at all…  We polished them off on Friday and Saturday nights.  Nice and hoppy, but not completely over-the-top, like some of the novelty-name microbrews. 

We’re also doing a decent job of prolonging the Fuller’s.  We limit ourselves to two bottles per day, so we’ve only had eight to this point.  After the limit has been reached, we (I) switch over to the tried-and-true Pottsville golden elixir.  It’s a formula that seems to work for us.

Toney also bought me a small poster in Canada, that features a retro advertising image of a man holding a glass of beer.  It looks like something from the 1940s, or so, and above the man, it reads, “Beer will change the world.  I don’t know how, but it will.” 

Heh.  It’s now hanging in the bunker…  I had to relocate the Brooklyn Dodgers 1955 World Champs pennant, but it was worth the effort.  A fine addition to the Surf Report Collection.

Also, the Secrets tell me they mixed-up the Translucents’ action figures before leaving the country.  This, of course, is like activitating a time-bomb – because the see-thrus are extreme examples of don’t color outside the lines types. 

They completely lose their shit if someone jokes around and makes one of their “dolls” say something out of character, or do something illogical.  So, when they find Harry Potter’s head stuck on Darth Vader’s body, and Spongebob’s arms attached to a Bionicle, or whatever, comedy should ensue.

And I couldn’t be prouder.  …I’m sorry, I’m getting a little emotional.

I can’t be late for work tonight, so I’d better stop right here.  I’ll leave you now with a Question that occurred to me yesterday, while driving. 

I used to go to school with a girl who had some sort of strange compulsion, which caused her to constantly (and absentmindedly) pluck her eyebrows by hand, and eat them.  Depending, I guess, on the stress level in her life, she looked more or less like Gary Numan, with long blonde hair.

I imagine her intestines were packed with a giant wad of rock-hard eyebrows, and how weird is that?  Hmm?

So, there you go.  Have you ever known someone who had an odd little quirk like that, which would kick-in whenever they were upset or agitated, or whatever?  Tell us about it, won’t you?

And I’ll see you guys tomorrow.

A few weeks ago, as some of you might remember, our dog Andy came down with some sort of freaky ailment. 

He began walking around the house all low to the ground, like a bear rug, and yelping for no apparent reason.  At one point he acted like he didn’t even recognize us, and was cowering in the downstairs bathroom – where he never goes, because of chronic bath-fear.

It was a disturbing, and concerning turn of events.

After the behavior continued for an hour or so, we decided to take him to the vet.  And the dog doc couldn’t figure it out, either.  He took some blood, but all the tests came back negative.  The hound’s temperature was elevated, for some reason, and he “gave” us some antibiotics in case there was a virus or infection, or somesuch.

And the next day it was as if nothing had happened.  Andy (Black Lips Houlihan) was his old self again, on perpetual high-alert for that most hated of creatures: uniformed delivery personnel.  We were relieved, but what the hell?  What was it all about??

A week or so later Toney mentioned it to one of her Pennsylvania buddies, and she said their dog had recently gone through the very same thing.  They also took her to the vet, with the same results, for the exact same amount of money.  And both are indoor dogs, who almost never mingle with the general doggie population.  What the crap?  It’s just bizarre.  Someone call Art Bell, straigh’ away!

Anyway, the vet took Andy’s temperature that day by jamming a thermometer up his poop chute.  …Well, since he’s a dog, it wasn’t really up, it was more of a horizontal motion.  But you know what I mean.

And before the jamming commenced, the doctor also shaved the fur from around Black Lips’, um, pucker.  Oh, the indignity!  And even now, weeks later, Andy’s butthole can be spotted from a full city block away.

I’m not kidding, it’s like a spotlight is trained on it, or the hole itself is housing a light-emitting diode.  I asked Toney if she’d noticed the veterinarian installing a single Christmas light in Andy’s ass, but she wouldn’t even discuss it with me.  Apparently she thought I was just being ridiculous.

But I wasn’t, I’m serious.  I believe it’s putting off light.  Sometimes, when it’s dark in our house, I believe I can see a floating dog anus moving through the rooms.  And mister, that’ll get your attention.

I don’t think Andy knows what’s happening, and I’m glad.  I mean, how humiliating…  But at the same time, if there’s a house fire, or some similar emergency in the middle of the night, we’ll probably be able to follow the light through the smoke.  So, there’s that, at least.

But how long does it usually take for canine hole-fur to grow back?  I’m embarrassed for our beloved family pet, unknowingly prancing around the front yard with a pulsing under-tail beacon…  The other dogs in the neighborhood are probably bark-laughing at him, and creating hurtful nicknames.  Like “Brake Lights,” and whatnot.

I’m seriously thinking about coming to his rescue, and coloring it in with a Magic Marker.

But I haven’t yet made a final decision.

A few days ago I was collecting a couple more CD catalogs to load onto the Big iPod, and started thinking about something…
 
I was trying to locate all the Bruce Springsteen discs (through Tunnel of Love only), and realized Bruce was hugely popular, yet still OK for hipsters to like.  There aren’t many who fall into that category… because obscurity is one of the main things hipsters crave. 
 
Sell a few million albums, you see, and you’re no longer a best-kept secret, and not attractive to the cool people anymore.  The actual quality of the music doesn’t even matter at that point; it’s all about being plugged-in, and having more sophisticated tastes than the average shitkicker.
 
How do I know this, you ask?  Because I’ve been to the dark side. 
 
When I was in my twenties, especially, I was highly skeptical of popular music, TV, movies, books, etc.  If the masses liked it, it pretty much had to suck, I thought.  And how snobby is that?
 
Indeed, I dated a woman for a while who was even worse than I was.  And we mostly just walked around with our noses in the air, dismissing everything. 
 
Oh, she wouldn’t be caught dead reading a mass-market paperback, like they sell at Target or Wal-Mart.  No, it had to be a hardcover (preferably battered) or, at the very least, a trade paperback.  And the author had to be someone nobody’s ever heard of, or one of the approved writers, like Bukowski or Vonnegut.
 
A similar situation with movies…  We hung out in pretentious-ass art houses, watching baffling foreign films, and unfathomable American independents.  During that period of my life I witnessed more utter bullshit, passing itself off as high-cinema, than you can shake a clove cigarette at.
 
I remember one in particular, which featured a fat woman dressed up like a baby, sitting in the top of a tree and dropping feathers on passersby.  …For upwards of thirty minutes! 

After if it was over, I said something along the lines of, “what in the finger-snappin’ hell?,” and learned it symbolized man’s eternal struggle with love, war, peace, and God.
 
Oh.
 
And we never ate at chain restaurants (good goddess, no!), it had to be some out of the way hole-in-the-wall with a romantic story attached to it.  All the better if it was located in a damp cinderblock room in the middle of the warehouse district, or if customers were required to ride a rickety and terrifying cage-elevator to the top of an otherwise abandoned office building.
 
But, like I say, I was a willing participant; I can’t blame it on my ex.  In fact, she was (and undoubtedly is) a nice person.  We were just very young and very douchey.
 
I fully embraced that attitude for a year, maybe more, but eventually started missing the normal stuff.  Like Stephen King, and Steely Dan, and movies with gunfire.  And what the hell’s wrong with Applebee’s every couple months?  Is that such an unforgivable crime?!
 
After a while I began mocking the movies openly (they were always the hardest part of it for me), and rebelling against the entire hipster code.  I remember we got into an actual argument one night, because I came home with a Don Henley album under my arm.  Heh. 
 
But I just couldn’t do it anymore; we’d taken it too far.  I felt like I was cut-off from the world, and wanted to go home.
 
At some point I just started liking what I like, without first running it through the prism of hipness.  I became an unreliable rogue.  And if someone had an issue with my non-ironic fondness for Beverly Hills 90210, or whatever, they could just go pound sand.
 
Sure, I’m still a bit of a music snob, but I genuinely enjoy seeking out new bands and underappreciated albums.  I do it because it makes me happy, not for someone else’s benefit.  And that’s the difference.

So, there you go.  That’s what I was thinking about, while trying to find all the Springsteen discs.  And, in case you were wondering, I located them all, except for Greetings From Asbury Park, NJ.  I’m not even sure I own it on CD…
 
And how uncool is that?

Beyond Bruce, what else is/was hugely popular, but still hipster-approved?  Let’s start a list.

Have you ever watched a large man eat roughly seven pounds of tightly-compacted spaghetti and meat sauce from a standard Cool Whip bowl?  Since yesterday, I’m proud to announce, I have.

And last night I also discovered barbecued Fritos will completely dominate your burps and belches, for an impossibly extended period of time.  I’m not sure I’ve ever encountered a “food” with such staying power.  What do you think?  Is there something that can beat it?

Yesterday I was cleaning out my gmail spam folder, and noticed a message with the following subject line:  Britney tried to drain my scrotum.  Just thought you should know.

And as I type this, Toney and the Secrets are within thirty miles of the Surf Report compound.  Soon it will all be behind us, and the house will once again sound like a mental institution, in the late evening, during the patients’ “bad time.”  And all will be right with the world again…

I’ll leave you now with a formal Question of the Day, in case that popular-but-hip thing doesn’t do it for ya.  If you were on death row, for, say, killing a whore with a heart of gold, what would you request as your final meal?

I would probably go with a big honkin’ plate of spaghetti (not pressure-packed into a butter bowl), a tossed salad with thousand island and cheddar cheese, and several tumblers of sweet tea.

What about you?  What would you choose as your final meal, before paying the ultimate penalty for your horrible crimes?  We need to know.

And I probably won’t be able to update on Friday, but will try to write a short one over the weekend.

You guys have yourselves a wonderful day.

And I’ll see ya soon.

Toney and the boys have been away for three days now, and it’s starting to take its toll.  All the easy-cook food is gone by this point, and I’m living exclusively on take-out. 

Plus, it’s just kinda lonely around here.  I’m all the time bitching about the noise and chaos, but now I’m missing it.  Oh how I wish the older Secret was in his bedroom, right above my head, playing the bassline from “Taxman” over and over and over, at window-rattling volume.  

Toney informs me, via international telephonic hook-up, there’s plenty of stuff around here I could “make” for breakfast and lunch.  But let’s get serious.  Make?  Man, I get irritated when the Marie Callender frozen meal has two-step directions.  I actually seek out the ones that only require one big nuking session, without all the complicated stirring in the middle.

So, all my meals will be passed to me through windows, until this nightmare is over.

At work last night I had some kid with a mohawk pick me up a so-called hoagie (I still have a problem with that word), from a local pizza joint.  He orders from there nightly, and claims to have never eaten a fruit or a vegetable in his life.  I laughed at that, but then reviewed the past few days of my life…  And I got sad all over again.

Andy’s hating this crap as well.  He ends up being home alone for a full twelve hours, daily.  When I get home, in the middle of the night, he’s all tensed-up like a garage door spring.  He starts running up and down the street, yelping like he’s trying to shit a baloney wrapper, and slinging urine in every direction. 

I hope tonight’s not the night it becomes too much for him.  I really do.

Yesterday, while driving to Burger King, an old man pulled out in front of me, and I had to STOMP on the brake.  Andy, who was in the passenger seat (dog is my co-pilot), went airborne and did a full header into the dashboard.

And I don’t think the other driver ever saw me.  Even after I went sideways in the street, laid on my horn, and hollered shocking profanity, the old guy (who looked like a giant prawn in Harry Caray glasses) just continued like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Unbelievable.  And Snoop Manny Mann took the brunt of it, the poor guy.  Like I said before, Andy’s definitely getting the short end of the stick here…

But everyone will be back tomorrow, and life will return to “normal.” 

We’re planning to visit Knoebels one more time before school starts – next Thursday to be exact.  And afterwards we’ll be going here for, um, dinner.  Steve recommends it, and will probably be joining us.  So, there’s fun and brewpubs on the horizon, to keep me going.

And I know this one is kinda short, but I also uploaded a review of the Verizon VZ Navigator service today, at Suggestaholic.  So, check it out.

And I gotta go.  I need to buy gas on my way to work, and that’s almost as aggravating as stirring…

See ya tomorrow.