When were the good old days?  I always hear them talked about, but don’t know when they actually happened.  Did they ever really exist?

I suspect people have a tendency to romanticize the era in which they grew-up, believing it was a better time.  For me, that would be the 1970s and, as far as I can tell, there wasn’t much to romanticize about it.

Sure, we ran free through the streets then, and parents weren’t quite so puckered about the safety of their kids.  And that was good. 

But I don’t think it had much to do with it being a safer time, or a fundamental difference in people.  I believe it had more to do with there only being four TV channels (which showed Lost in Space, not reenactments of children being lured from their homes by twitching wart-spangled perverts), no internet, and a lot less paranoia-fueling influences.   

I don’t know if it’s true, but I read somewhere that crimes against children were just as common in the ’70s, as they are now.  And, as then, random acts against kids by strangers are EXTREMELY rare.

Yet TV news programs lead us to believe children are being snatched-up all willy-nilly, in ever-increasing numbers, and parents today (including myself) keep a much closer watch on their younglings. 

But beyond the running rampant through the streets factor, I certainly don’t think of the ’70s as “the good old days.”  I think instead of hideous hair, ludicrous fashions, a terrible economy, diarrhea-colored Chevettes, Brut, and the “misery index.” 

Sure, punk rock came out of the ’70s, as did the National Lampoon and Saturday Night Live.  But those were rebellions, not celebrations.  Right?

Whenever I’m confronted with the idea of time-travel (usually while listening to George Noory), I always daydream about going back to the 1940s, for some reason.

The 1940s, post-WWII only…  I have little interest in trying to be Sgt. Rock.  Shooting two machine guns at the same time is not a good look for a man of size; high-speed love handle/mannary gland vibration is to be avoided, when possible.

No, I think about taking in a Dodgers game at Ebbets Field, having a few beers at a “beer joint” and striking up conversations with the locals of the era, just walking around grocery stores, and spending an afternoon exploring my hometown of Dunbar.  Nothing too ambitious, except for the NON-NEGOTIABLE baseball trip to Brooklyn. 

It’s always the ’40s for me.  Go back further, and I have a feeling it would become increasingly unrecognizable.  The post-war years, I think, would be relatable to what I know, but exotic enough to be fascinating.

So, are the 1940s the good old days?  Somehow I doubt it.  It would probably be a blast for a week or so, then the boredom would start to kick-in.  And the lack of conveniences would begin to irritate.  Plus, I know for a fact I’d get tired of wearing suits and hats all the time.  It seems cool on TV, but that shit would quickly commence to suckin’.

And what about laughter?  Would there be any?  If one of us went hurtling back in time to, say, 1946, would anyone understand our 2008 sense of humor?  I bet not; they’d likely brand us cruel-ass weirdos. 

And their idea of gut-busting funny would probably leave us looking like Andrew.  Don’t believe me?  Just try to listen to an episode of Fibber McGee & Molly sometime.  Sweet sainted mother of Walter Bellhaven!

Folks often say they’d like to visit Victorian times, but I can only think of one thing when I see movies set in that era:  I bet those people smelled like an open grave.

Yeah, I know it’s not really fair to judge other eras through a modern prism.  After all, if I smelled bad too, and lived in a world of enormous pit-funk, it might not be so noticeable.  Ya know? 

But I’m going to take a controversial stand and declare Right Now as the good old days.  We’ve got the best electronics, most people bathe on a regular basis, and our standard of living is so high we practically have to submit to a series of intense therapy sessions if gmail goes down.

So I hoist a chalice of the golden elixir to the good old days!

What’s your favorite fantasy time-travel destination?  And what do you think would start getting on your nerves, once the novelty wore off?  You know, realistically speaking.

I’ll be back on Monday, if not sooner.  My job is burning me all the way down, and this update was like passing a stone.  I need to log some Netflix time, my friends.

But I’ll see ya soon.

Now playing in the bunker.

Last night at work I was eavesdropping on a conversation between two women in the break room.  Both said they’d met their husbands at previous jobs, and believe most people meet their spouses that way.

I’m not sure if that’s statistically correct, but Toney and I also met at work, in Atlanta.

I’d moved to the city with a girlfriend, we’d maintained for a year or so, then everything went circling down the ol’ turd-catcher.  And suddenly I was lonely and afloat (if you’ll excuse the phrase, coming in such close proximity to “turd”) in a place with no drinking buddies. 

And mister, that’s not a good situation…

So, for the only time in my life, I started “dating.”  Previously I’d had very little experience with such things; I’d had two longish relationships, that took up the bulk of my adult life.  So dating, and “playing the field,” was almost completely foreign to me.

And it blew mule.  I started asking women out, on a semi-regular basis, and felt NOTHING for any of them.  I was probably still in some kind of mourning from the just-collapsed relationship, I’m not sure, but my heart just wasn’t in it.

I went out with a girl a couple of times, and she sent me a long letter – to my apartment – saying she was IN LOVE with me.  Love?!  You’ve got to be kidding!  And in a letter??  Man, that chick was even more messed-up than I was… 

Next!

A few clearly hated me, or whatever, and that’s perfectly understandable.  It wouldn’t be fair to criticize a person for such a reaction…  But in several instances it was nothing more than a lack of compatibility, as it pertains to humor.  If we can’t see eye to eye on what’s funny, and what isn’t, there’s no hope whatsoever.  I mean, seriously. 

I never actually did this, but a good test for a prospective girlfriend might be to sit with her on a bench inside a mall – and just see what happens.  If she starts critiquing shoes and handbags, you might have a problem.  But if she instinctively begins mocking the passersby, she’s very likely a keeper.  Especially if her observations are creative and biting.

Anyway, I was on one of those horrible dates, and a woman told me a story that still makes me laugh.  She said she was asleep one night, and was awakened by a loud groaning noise.  Confused, she sat straight up in bed – just as a water pipe exploded in the wall beside her, sending her flying ass-over-tits across the bedroom.

I mean, how could a person not laugh at such a thing?  That shit’s hilarious, right?  Well, this one was offended by my reaction, and once again: next!

Toney worked for the same Big Ass Record Company I did, and seemed interesting.  She hung around with the hipsters, but didn’t really participate in the high-obnoxiousness.  I did some light detective work, and it appeared she wasn’t dating anyone.  So I asked her out.

And it was a bumpy start, but not because of a humor-gap, or anything like that.  No, we made a great team, almost from the beginning.  It had more to do with my ex, her ex, and all that confusing crapola.

But the point is, we kinda confirm (anectdotally), last night’s break room theory.  So, I’m going to end this brief update with a request for further information:  where did you meet your significant others?  Is work where it usually happens?

Help me out, won’t you?  I need the date-data.

And I’ll see ya tomorrow.

Now playing in the bunker.

Have you ever blown your nose, taken a quick, stealthy Kleenex inventory, and found something coal black in there?  Well, I have.  And from Thursday evening until last night my sinuses were also swollen and my head disfigured. 

A few days ago I joked about looking like the Elephant Man, after receiving a bee sting on the back of the head, and then my face started puffing-up and going in every direction.  I don’t think the gods much enjoy Elephant Man humor…  So, take it from me:  don’t do it.

Clearly, I had some sort of sinus infection and, in addition to my head of horrors, it also dragged my ass down.  I felt drained and out-of-it, and today’s the First Normal Day in quite some time.

Also, with almost no advance warning, we had “visitors” on Saturday and Sunday  It was a quick guerrilla strike of chaos, and mailing list subscribers will get more details on that deal, ASAP.

So yeah, I’ve had better weekends.  I really have.

And speaking of Kleenex…  I use the term generically, but almost never choose that specific brand of disposable snot rag.  Because, I’m convinced, they embed sneezing powder into them.  Whenever I honk into a Kleenex, I immediately launch into a prolonged sneezing jag.  …Then use more Kleenex to clean (kleen) up the mess.

Have any of you noticed this?  Can you confirm my suspicions?  We need to get to the bottom of this outrage!  We have a responsibility to expose the evils of this… this… boogergate!!

On Saturday Toney and I went to Wegman’s to buy a twelve-pack of some sort of fancy-ass microbrew, to accommodate our “visitors.”  And we opted for the Saranac Summer Sampler.  It contained several hoppy ales, as well as a few out-there selections, such as Pomegranate Wheat – which always appeals to the pit-pelt congregation.
 
And near the coolers was a large display of something called Saranac Pumpkin Ale.  I don’t like novelty shit like that, I won’t drink chocolate beer or candy cane beer or chicken ‘n’ dumplins beer, or anything of the sort.  But Toney was intrigued, so we bought a six-pack.

Blecch.  As far as I can tell, it doesn’t actually contain pumpkin, but rather the spices used to make pumpkin pie.  Like clove and cinnamon and allspice, and stuff like that.  I only took a small sip, and my lower jaw retracted like a cash register drawer being slammed shut.

Toney didn’t really like it either, but the visitors thought it was “delightful,” and all six bottles are now gone.  Heh.

Have you ever tried a really bizarre variety of beer?  Tell us about it, won’t you?

Since Paul Weller’s American “tour” starts tomorrow night, it looks like he’s not going to cancel it this time ’round.  Steve and I have tickets for his show in Philadelphia on Sunday night, and I was mentally prepared for disappointment.

But it’s a little late for cancellations, isn’t it?  Isn’t it??  So, the show might actually happen?  I sure hope so.  The Jam are one of my all-time favorite bands, and Weller’s solo career ain’t too shabby either – and I’ve never seen him play live.

Because I lived in Atlanta, a big city, at exactly the right time of my life, and also worked in the music biz, I’ve had the good fortune of seeing almost all my Bigtime Musical Heroes in concert.  Including Graham Parker, Nick Lowe, Randy Newman, The Kinks, Steely Dan, Nirvana, Warren Zevon, Elvis Costello and the Attractions, The Pogues, The Replacements, and literally hundreds of others.

A few that slipped through the cracks:  The Clash (I saw Big Audio Dynamite twice, but it’s not the same), Wreckless Eric (I actually had a chance to see him, at a hole in the wall in Atlanta, and became paralyzed by laziness and didn’t go!), and all members of the Beatles (McCartney is supposedly ramping up for a two-year “farewell” tour, and I might be tempted to lay down da money).

I also had tickets to see some new band from Seattle, something called Pearl Jam(?!), at a tiny dive in Atlanta.  A guy at work gave me the tickets (I think they were $4 each), and said I HAD to see these guys.  But I opted instead for an evening of alcoholic excess and clumsy sex with a girlfriend.  And so it goes.    

So, if Weller actually plays Sunday night, it’ll be a big deal to me.  What musical artists, who were active in your lifetime, would you like to see, but haven’t? 

And finally, from the Stealing Clive Bull’s Topics desk:  is there an item (or items) in your kitchen that NEVER gets used? 

A lot of Clive’s callers said they own sandwich makers that were used exactly twice, then packed away forever.  Pretty funny, because Toney and I have recently considered buying a sandwich maker; we want to try to recreate a grilled sandwich, called a Gobbler, we used to buy at a restaurant in Atlanta, named Atkins Park.

So, what about you?  Do you own a small appliance, or whatever, that seemed great in the abstract, but you never actually use?  We need to know.

And that’s gonna do it for today, boys and girls.

More tomorrow.

One of the irrefutable Surf Report Rules of Thumb is that “nobody cares about the weird dream you had last night.”  I know it, all the way down to my skeleton (which is a long way), but still feel compelled to tell you about the one I had earlier this week…

Toney and I were in London, you see, inside a huge crowd.  It might’ve been at Trafalgar Square, I’m not sure, and people were everywhere. 

Since I don’t like being trapped in a crush of humanity, I was mildly panicked and trying to get away from the chaos.  And when we finally escaped, I realized there was something in my right jacket pocket.  The crap?

Turns out it was a cheap digital camera, that I’d never seen before, with eleven images already saved in the memory.  I showed it to Toney, and she said we should take a look at the pictures.

And every one of them featured a young girl, maybe fourteen or fifteen years old, lying on a bed in various states of undress. 

What in the finger-snappin’ hell??  Was I being set-up?  Would somebody be jumping from the crowd soon, with a tall-hat cop in tow, and pointing at me:  “There he is officer!  That fat fuck in the Brooklyn Dodgers cap!!”

Completely stressed, I asked Toney how we should get rid of the camera.  We finally decided we’d throw it down a sewer, so fingerprints couldn’t be lifted from it.

And for the remainder of the dream (until the real-life Toney woke me up), we were power-walking through the streets of London, frantically looking for a sewer opening, or a storm drain.  And there weren’t any!

When the real Toney shook me awake my heart was racing and I was overcome by paranoia.  Even after I’d hoisted myself off the platform, and was standing up in the small room, I had a strong sense someone had been chasing me – someone who didn’t have my best interests at heart.

And what in the heck does all that mean?? 

I’m having trouble reading, all of a sudden.  There’s never much free time in my life, and even under the best of circumstances it takes far too long for me to finish a book.  But now it’s become completely ridiculous. 

I always see people on TV curled up on a windowsill seat, wearing a giant sweater, with one hand wrapped around a huge coffee mug, serenely reading the pages of some great scholarly work.  But that ain’t me.

For one thing, I don’t wear sweaters; they make me itch and look like my grandmother’s couch come to life.  And I don’t perch my big ass on windowsills, either; believe me, nothing good would come from such an exercise.  No, I’m lucky if I can squeeze-out five pages in bed, before I start going all rubbery and looking like Gomer in a gas leak.

Suddenly, however, I can’t manage even five pages.  I fall asleep after a couple of paragraphs, and nothing holds my interest.  Even though I’m completely opposed to such things, I’ve abandoned several books within fifty pages recently, and am just generally floundering around.

It’s disturbing.  I love to read, but just can’t get a rhythm going anymore. 

I’m thinking about turning it into a challenge, and possibly attacking The Stand, once and for all.  I bought a copy of it, maybe a year ago, and the thing is huge.  Here’s a photo of me with it, after I got it home. 

Perhaps if I turn it into a project, some sort of wager with myself, I can get my shit correct again?  Of course, it’ll likely take me months to read, but if I treat it like a dare of sorts, maybe it’ll make the difference?

Yeah, I’m not sure that’s the correct strategy – it could trigger a perma-lock – but I’m considering it.  Any opinions?

Our dog Andy hates Fritos.  He’ll eat almost literally anything, but lets Fritos fall out the side of his mouth.  He doesn’t like mustard either, or anything that’s come in contact with onions.  Just thought you should know.

I saw this article a few days ago, about the dwindling firefly population.  And that’s sad, I guess, but they’re called lightning bugs.  “Firefly” irritates me, almost as much as “underpants,” and “supper.”

What words bother you like that?  What’s your personal firefly?  Tell us about it, won’t you?

On a semi-related note… it really gets on my nerves when TV weather people use the phrase “cone of uncertainty,” when talking about the projected path of a hurricane.  Is that something they’re supposed to say now?  Was it featured in the weatherman newsletter last month?  FLASH:  cone of uncertainty is the hot new catchphrase this season!  Don’t be left behind, use it today!! 

They can all kiss my ass-meat.  

And what do you think about TVs in the bedroom?  Toney and I share an opinion that bedrooms should be a sanctuary, free from chaos and noise, and have never considered putting a television in ours. 

But the oldest Secret is lobbying for one, since we have an extra in the basement…  We told him it wasn’t going to happen (and it won’t), but Toney and I had a conversation about it recently, and I wonder if our strong opinions on the subject are common?

So what do you say?  Are we alone in this?

And that’s about all the relish I can muster…  I hope everyone remembered to repeatedly flinch today.  I’ll try to start reminding ya’ll on Wednesdays. 

We’re going out to dinner tonight, to either Kildare’s or Texas Roadhouse, to belatedly celebrate our anniversary.  And I predict a few adult beverages will fall; I am officially putting every one of them on notice.  Pass the beer nuts.

Tomorrow is an off-day, but I’ll probably update over the weekend sometime.  So check back, my friends.

And I’ll see ya soon.

Now playing in the bunker.

While taking a shower this morning, something popped into my tiny Duke head from way out in left field.  Something to do with the 3 Stooges.  Go figure.

In an episode I saw a year or so ago, Moe, Larry and Curly (or was it Shemp?) were running some kind of store.  I think it was a general store, where they sold a little of everything.  And apparently they owned it, which triggers a lot of unrelated questions…

Anyway, a woman came in and said she needed to purchase a light bulb.  And the thing was shockingly expensive; I can’t remember the price, but it was way more than they cost now, without even taking inflation into account. 

And before she paid, um, Moe, he screwed the thing into a light socket built into the top of the checkout counter, just to make sure it worked. 

None of this was part of the comedy, it was apparently just the reality of light bulb-buying in the ’30s and ’40s.  I guess they were so unreliable, and expensive, stores provided a place where you could test them in advance.

It’s one of those things that people probably didn’t even question or contemplate, which have become extinct over time.

So, while working the shampoo into a lather, careful not to disturb the wasp-built skin raisin on the back of my head, I tried to come up with things that were common when I was but an ugly youngster, which have now gone away. 

And here’s what I came up with:

Taking your Coke bottles back for a deposit.  That’s what we called it: Coke.  It didn’t matter if it was Dr. Pepper or 7UP, and this led people to say things like, “Mountain Dew is my favorite kind of Coke.”

But I’m already getting off the subject…

Every grocery store had a sticky playpen-type thing right inside the front door, where people would put their “empties.”  Some of the more fancy-pants places had an empties steward, who would issue you a receipt, but usually it was just done on the honor system.

When you purchased more sodas, in heavy-ass glass eight-packs, the cashier would say, “Did you bring in your bottles?”  Then they’d knock forty cents, or whatever, off the price of your new “Cokes.” 

And if you didn’t bring your empties, you’d have to pay a deposit on the reusable bottles.

Since empty bottles were worth a nickel each, which was a lot of money to a kid in 1972, we all scavenged for them.  Put in a little effort, and you could keep yourself in bubble gum through bottle deposits alone.  Oh, it was a genuine cottage industry…

Neighbors sharing a party line.  My grandmother, who lived across the street from us, shared a line with two or three other houses when I was young.  Can you imagine? 

I remember picking up the receiver once, to call my mother at her job, and a fat teenager from two doors down was on there yammering to one of her friends.  My grandmother said, “Oh, she usually doesn’t stay on very long.  Just try it again in a few minutes.” 

The whole thing seems bizarre to me now.

Letting the TV warm-up.  Back when televisions had big ol’ tubes in them, we’d have to allow time for them to “warm up.”  This was part of the TV-watching experience:  “Jeff, if you want to watch Rat Patrol tonight, you’d better turn the TV on, so it can start warming up…”  Heh.

Also, when you turned it off, there was a tiny white dot in the middle of the screen for a minute or so.  My brother and I would put our thumb over it, then take it away to see if the dot had disappeared yet.  And my mother or grandmother would yell at us, “Quit getting fingerprints all over the TV screen!  Who cares about the dot?!  Just don’t worry about that dot!”

Adjusting the aerial.  Every house in the ’60s and ’70s had an eyesore conglomeration of aluminum attached to its roof, which was designed to improve TV reception during that pre-cable era.

My grandfather, never satisfied with the picture, was all the time leaning a ladder against the house and climbing onto the roof to adjust the antennae.  Or, as he called it, the “aerial.”

This always made me nervous, because my grandfather wasn’t a young man, and I didn’t see why a person would risk their life just so they could get Flipper crystal-clear.  But whatever.

Price stickers in stores.  As weird as it now seems, stores used to put prices right on their merchandise.  Indeed, when I worked at a grocery store after high school, we’d have to hit everything with a price gun before putting it on the shelf. 

There were no scanners, just small pieces of paper stuck to the side of everything, with the cost printed on them. Crazy.

I hate to admit it, but we used to switch stickers at a local discount store, on LPs.  I remember buying a copy of Exile On Main Street, a double album, with a sticker off a bottle of Body on Tap or something.  The key, you see, was to identify a cashier who either a) didn’t have a clue, or b) didn’t give a single dingle.

One time Rocky and I were trying that particular scam, at the same store, and some Baby Huey dancing bear poofter brought the hammer down on us.  We had to make a run for it.  Not my proudest moment…

Would you like your carbons?  Back in the day, before fancy-pants approval systems were perfected, credit cards were a huge pain in the ass.  You’d have to take the customer’s card, attach it to an apparatus, lay a form across it and slide a big handle back and forth to make a rubbing of the numbers.

Ka-chunk!

Then you’d have to pull out a booklet, which was updated every couple of weeks, and check to make sure the card hadn’t been stolen or the person’s account wasn’t closed.  Or, as we did at Peaches Records, we’d have to call the credit card company and get an approval code over the phone.

The whole process could take five minutes or more.  It was a real ball-masher.

Plus, the form had carbon paper in the middle of it, and paranoid customers always wanted to take it with them.  You know, so someone couldn’t dig the carbons out of a dumpster, and create a duplicate card with it.

I instantly disliked people who requested their carbons, because they were all doucheketeers.  They usually acted like they were a little smarter than everybody else; there was a certain smugness to the carbon-folk.

Making soda tab chains.  When I was a youngling the tabs off a can of soda, or beer I suppose, would actually pull all the way off.  Consequently, the entire Earth was littered with pull-tabs.

So, kids used to collect them, and link them together to make a chain.  I remember camping somewhere, probably Myrtle Beach, and some people we didn’t know made the world’s longest soda tab chain.  I mean, that shit stretched an entire city block!

But, of course, that was all ruined when do-gooders forced soda and beer manufacturers to start using the current style of tabs, which stay attached to the can.  Wotta rip-off.

And speaking of littering…  Is my mind playing tricks on me, or did everyone just throw their trash out car windows during the ’60 and ’70s?  I can remember people driving down Dunbar Avenue and, without thinking twice about it, slinging a whole sack of saucy Dairy Queen garbage through the passenger-side window.

What the hell?  How was that ever acceptable?  It makes me laugh, just thinking about it.

And now it’s your turn…  I need to go to work, so you guys can take it from here.  What things were once common parts of our everyday lives, and are now completely gone?  Use the comments link.

And I’ll see ya tomorrow.

Now playing in the bunker.