The older boy and I were driving back from Scranton a few days ago, on a busy four-lane stretch of road, when something fairly amazing happened. Amazing to me, anyway. A few folks I’ve told about it didn’t seem to be amazed in the least. You know, because they’re so worldly and have seen it all.

In any case, a giant bear emerged from the brush to our left, bounded across two lanes of traffic, leaped over the guardrail in the middle, and proceeded to cross the other two lanes — right in front of our car. In fact, I had to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting the thing. It was RIGHT THERE. And it was huge. This was no Boo Boo, it was full-on Yogi. There was a steep hill to our right, and the impossible beast went flying up there with the dexterity of a cat. It was crazy.

I’ve seen bears a few times, but none that large. If it stood on its hind legs it would surely be as tall, if not taller, than Bea Arthur. I mean, this was a big bear.

And when I tell people about it, many of them say things like, “Yeah, there are bears in the world, and other animals too.” What the? This was in town! I wasn’t hiking the Appalachian Trail, asshole. There was a liquor store about a block down the road. And it was like some creature you’d see on nature shows, pulling salmon from a river in Alaska. But everybody’s soooo worldly.

What improbable animals have you seen while driving? Anything? Please share in the comments.

We also talked to a travel agent this past weekend. We’re considering — and it probably won’t happen — a trip to an all-inclusive resort. Maybe in Mexico, or the Dominican Republic. Our 25th wedding anniversary is next year, and we want to do something we haven’t done before. The thought of a cruise sounds unappealing to me, although I’d be willing to do it once for the experience. But I do like the idea of staying at some ocean-front five-star resort where there’s endless food and drink. That’s right up my alley.

So, we went to an office and sat across from a travel expert. She was nice, and seemed to know her stuff. We told her our expectations, and she convinced us the Dominican Republic is the way to go. She gave us four or five different options, and broke down the pricing of each resort, including airfare. It’s not as expensive as I thought, but also not cheap. However, you can make monthly payments, etc. We’ll see how it goes. We’re still kicking around the idea, and will almost certainly not do it.

Anyway, she made a comment that I thought I’d pass along. Seeing as how it amused and confused me. And maybe you guys can enlighten us on what she was getting at? ‘Cause I still don’t really know.

She was telling us about one of the resorts — and it seemed like she’d stayed at all of them many times — and said she needed to be clear about something, so we didn’t get blindsided. She had our attention, and proceeded to inform us that the place is generally “full of Canadians.” Huh? What is the relevance? I don’t really have any negative connotations of Canadians, except maybe the ones who speak French. But even with them… it’s not a fully-formed bias. Yet.

What should we take away from that comment? I can see a travel agent in Canada maybe warning someone about all the loud and rotund Americans they’re likely to encounter. But the other way around? Help me out, won’t you? It seemed bizarre to me. Blindsided by Canadians? It’s weird. I did enjoy the slightly inappropriate nature of the comment, however. I’m a connoisseur of the inappropriate.

Finally, Toney was telling me about a friend whose teenage son is demanding that everybody now call him Alec. That’s not his name, not even close. But it’s what he wants to be called now. It reminded me of Walter White Jr. on Breaking Bad, who announced he wanted to be known as Flynn.

Would you go along with something like that? I’d have a hard time with it, because I think it’s stupid. And I’d feel like I was endorsing dumbassery. What are your thoughts?

Also, have you ever known anyone who attempted to change the name everybody called him or her? Did it take? I went to school with a girl who went through three different versions of her name: her actual first name, a different pronunciation of it, and a shortened rendering of the original. But she didn’t go completely rogue, and demand that everybody start calling her Barbara or Denise or something.

Please share any stories you might have of people attempting to artificially change their names, or coming up with their own nicknames, etc.

And I need to go now. It’s late again. Why is it always late again, except when I’m at work? It’s always early again there. Wotta rip-off.

I’ll see you guys again on Monday.

Have a great weekend!

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When I was in West Virginia last weekend, we had lunch at a place that can be best described as a hot dog joint. You drive up, some zitster comes right out to your car window and takes your order, and within a shockingly abbreviated amount of time he’s back with a bulging sack o’ dogs.

Unfortunately, they weren’t very good. Not horrible, mind you, just nothing spectacular. But… it was a treat to be able to let my guard down and order the things like I really wanted them: with chili and slaw.

I think I was in my early teens when I realized that slaw served on a hot dog is unusual outside of my home state. I remember we were in Florida on vacation, and there was a sign outside a restaurant that read WEST VIRGINIA STYLE HOT DOGS. All of us were baffled, so we did a big Streets of San Francisco u-turn and went back to investigate. Yeah, they just served ’em with slaw… I was completely confused. Isn’t that universal??

Of course, now I know better. If I were to order a hot dog with cole slaw in northeastern Pennsylvania, they’d look at me like I’d surely wandered away from my handlers. So, I generally just go with yellow mustard. Sometimes, if it’s available, I’ll opt for chili. But I don’t generally trust it outside of West Virginia. Most of the time it’s mustard, or mustard and onion.

When I was a kid there was a big-time debate in Dunbar, on the level of Beatles vs. Stones, about who had the best hot dogs in town: the bowling alley or the Dairy Queen. You were expected, for the sake of sport I suppose, to choose a side. But I loved them both. The buns were always steamed, the chili and slaw was always perfect… It was a good day indeed, whenever somebody did a bowling alley or Dairy Queen run. I always told people I was a bowling alley man, because society insisted you pick one or the other, but I was secretly happy with either.

One thing that triggers a personal squint of disapproval: grown adults who eat hot dogs with nothing but ketchup. Or even catsup, for that matter. It’s a kiddie kondiment, right? Also, I’ve never been able to fully endorse relish. It feels like something from the 1800s, and is pickle-based. I can eat it, but it’s far down the list of preferences.

I’ve had those big Chicago-style hot dogs, with freaking tomatoes, a pickle spear, etc. Again, it’s fine for the novelty of it. And I like the gigantor Sam’s Club or Costco dogs, and even the new Burger King grilled hot dogs. But the best will always be the ones served at the Dunbar Bowling Alley/Dairy Queen, during the 1970s. For the last forty years I’ve been chasing the wiener-shaped dragon, I’m not kidding.

What about you? What are your thoughts on hot dogs? Do you have opinions? It seems like everybody does. Use the comments section to bring us up to date on it.

And I had a whole list of things to write about today, but sometimes these updates get away from me. There’s always next time, right? One thing I will mention: yesterday was my one-year no-alcohol anniversary. It’s amazing, really. But the thing about it? I don’t really feel that much better or worse without beer in my life. I was hoping for a big dramatic change. But I’m still fat, my book isn’t being written any faster, and I continue to walk around with a perma-scowl. Oh well. I’m saving money, I guess. And by “saving,” I mean buying CDs from Amazon, instead of suitcases full of Yuengling Lager.

Also, a couple of amazing things from the weekend… Check it out, the public service announcement I’ve been trying to find for 20 years. I must have seen it 5000 times between the ages of 10 and 13. A major find! Also, take a look at this! The price is too high, but the fact that it’s finally being released makes me happy. A must-have. One of the best, underappreciated comedies ever.

I’ll see you guys again on Thursday.

Have a great day!

Now playing in the bunker
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We made it to West Virginia and back. There were no complications, but it was still fairly excruciating. It’s just such a loooong drive. By the time you reach hour seven or eight, it feels like you’re about to lose your goddamn mind. It’s psychological, of course. You know you’ve entered the final 10% of the trip, and just want it to be over. If the drive was 15 hours, the ‘lose your mind’ part wouldn’t happen until around hour 13 or 14, or so. It’s all fully customizable. The same thing happens when you’re working out a two-week notice at a job. The final week, especially, feels like it’s never going to end.

In any case, I’ll give you a full report on the trip next time. If I can get it together. Today I’m running late, on account of the chaos. So, I’m just going to briefly tell you about something that happened to us during the drive back, and turn it over to you guys. Good? Good.

I’m not sure what town we were in, but it was definitely during the Maryland segment of the trip back. We stopped at a Chick-fil-A restaurant for lunch. And before we get into it, I want to confess that I made a tactical error there. I ordered a “value meal” that did not include cole slaw. I love their cole slaw, and realized it way too late in the game to make an adjustment. So, I was already upset. With myself, mostly. I’m generally very reliable in a fast food setting. In fact, I like to think I have a black belt in fast food, so I was extremely unhappy with my performance. Ashamed, really.

We went to our table with our pitiful partial-meals, and I had to take a quick trip to the urination station before digging in. And as I was returning, I spotted a guy sitting near us with a black dot on the tip of his nose. It looked like a small piece of black paper, glued or taped to the very end of his nose. I mentioned it to my son, he checked it out, and we both chuckled at the inexplicable nature of it all. The boy said it looked like he took a Sharpie and painted the tip of his nose, but I’m fairly certain it was paper.

Then things took a dark turn… I was attempting to get a photo of the guy. You know, ’cause I’m a Surf Reporter and need to be able to properly illustrate things for you folks. And he caught me. In fact, he turned all the way around, with the dot pointed straight at me, and said, “Stop taking pictures of me.” He was pissed.

Here he is. My son and I said nothing, and continued eating our chicken sandwiches and waffle fries. Thankfully the guy didn’t pursue it beyond that, and we exited without further incident. And the boy was a little irritated with me. “You’re going to get us killed one of these days,” he said. “You’re always doing something.” Hey man, the guy walked into a place of business with a black dot on the tip of his nose. It’s game-on at that point. Am I wrong?

Have you ever gotten into trouble with your phone? By trying to take a photo on the sly? Or texting the wrong person? Or texting while driving, or walking? Or maybe the hands-free voice blurted out something embarrassing? Anything at all, phone-related? If so, please share your stories in the comments.

And if you have an idea what the hell was going on with Dot Boy, please enlighten me on that, as well. Hopefully it doesn’t have anything to do with the treatment of some horrible disease? I’d feel… well not bad, of course. But a little less enthusiastic about the mockery.

I need to go now. This day is already off the rails.

I’ll see you guys again on Monday.

Have a great weekend!

Now playing in the bunker
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I’m typing this at our dining room table on Saturday afternoon, but… as you’re reading it, I’m very likely in West Virginia. Probably sitting in my parents’ living room, watching something hosted by Steve Harvey. And he’ll be doing this. It’s some kind of WordPress-fueled hoodoo time-shift black magic. And who could blame you for being a little scared?

In any case… I took my car in for an oil change, to a place I stopped patronizing several years ago, because they try to rip me off. Or, so I’m convinced. And (are you ready for this?) the guy called, and said I need front brakes and rotors: $320. “I wouldn’t drive it like this, it’s dangerous,” he added, for maximum effect. I just had $750 worth of work done to that car, including extensive, expensive brake repair. I told him I wanted an oil change and tire rotation only, and he made the sounds of disapproval. And we moved on.

But, do you see what I mean? Now I’m going to have that idea in the back of my mind the whole time, even though there’s been absolutely no evidence of a problem with the brakes. I think he’s just trying to bend me over the proverbial fainting couch. And $320?! Can he smell the lack of knowledge and gullibility on me? Was I unknowingly “presenting” as I walked through the door?

My dad probably has an industrial lift in his garage. He’s into things like car repair and lawn maintenance, while I’m more partial to the Buzzcocks and Taco Bell. So, I’ll ask him to take a look. I’m getting irritated just thinking about it. During the entire drive I’m going to be certain the brakes are about to shit the sideboard, and we’ll go cartwheeling into the side of a Panera Bread. Bastards.

Just so you know, I almost typed “Helen Keller jokes” above, instead of “Taco Bell.” But my inner comedy sensors told me Taco Bell was slightly funnier. But I do have a good, quick story to tell about Helen Keller jokes.

One time we were on our way to a WEA convention, possibly in California somewhere. It feels like it was California. And a bunch of us were on an airport shuttle, headed toward our hotel. As far as I knew, everybody on that thing was from WEA. I didn’t realize there was also a handful of “civilians.”

And people started telling Helen Keller jokes, for reasons unknown. It was all the usual ones, like Q: How did Helen Keller’s parents punish her? A: They rearranged the furniture! But I waited for an opening, and dropped the greatest of them all: Q: Why does Helen Keller masturbate with her left hand? A: She moans with her right!

Laughter rocked the short-bus, and I leaned back in my chair. My work here was done. But, when we stopped at a hotel other than ours, just a few minutes later, an unknown woman stood up, turned to me, and said, “You’re disgusting.” Complete silence overtook the vehicle. But after she was gone, and the doors closed behind her, we all shared a hearty secondary laugh that lasted for an extended length of time. And I still don’t know what part of it offended her. Oh well. She can ram it up her ass.

Also, for the record, I heard that joke during high school. A girl named Janet Smith told it to me, and I thought it was just about the best thing ever. That was more than 35 years ago, and it still ranks up there in my mind. If I bump into her while I’m home, I’ll have to thank her. I’m sure she has no recollection of it, and might even say she’s never heard the joke itself. That happens to me, all the time. Steve will bring up something we talked about decades ago, which stuck with him, and I’ll have absolutely no memory of it. Some of the comments I reportedly made back then are pretty funny, though. I have to hand it to me.

I’ll leave you now with a quick question. I’m heading to the greater Dunbar, WV metropolitan area. And Dunbar is known for a few things, all fairly small.

For instance, it was the original home of Gravely Tractor. They used to have a big manufacturing plant there, and here’s some info about it. “Benjamin Franklin Gravely, of Dunbar, West Virginia…” How’s that for scintillating? And, by the way, they left Dunbar in 1968.

Also, Dunbar is the home of the Commode Bowl, which has been held on Thanksgiving Day there for 68 years. Railroad tracks split the town in half, and folks say they live on the river side or the hill side (of the tracks). And so, the teams that do battle every year are the Hillside Rams and the River Rats. There’s also a parade, and a dance. And there’s a considerable amount of alcohol involved… Here’s some footage from the 1963 parade, and game:

I’m going to do another guerilla-strike visit to my parents’ house in West Virginia this weekend. I’m leaving on Sunday, returning on Tuesday. I need to visit them on a regular basis, and don’t have a great track record with it. It’s in the top five Things I Feel Guilty About. The list is long, mind you, hundreds and hundreds of entries long. But that one is in the top five.

I know it’s just an excuse, and where there’s a will there’s a way, etc. But one of the main reasons I don’t go more often is that it’s at least an eight hour drive. That’s best-case, without two or three Chick-fil-A stops, or whatever. So, it’s a considerable excursion. Hell, if you drove eight hours from London you’d probably be in Luxembourg. I don’t really know what point I’m trying to make here, but thought I’d throw that in.

I need to get an oil change before I leave, and called a couple of places to see if they could fit me in tomorrow or Saturday morning. No dice. They’re all booked up. What the? Am I on some kind of list? Are there homemade signs hanging above phones all over the valley that say, “If this number pop’s up DO NOT engage! Extract yourself from the conversation ASAP!!” That’s what it feels like, anyway. And notice how I put an errant apostrophe in there, for authenticity’s sake? Good stuff. Of course they would never use the words ‘engage’ or ‘extract,’ but whatever.

Also, there’s this… I called Monro Muffler a few minutes ago, and the guy answered, “It’s another wonderful day at Monro! How may I help you?” Seriously? I’m extremely skeptical about that statement. I’ve been in that place, and don’t believe there’s anything ‘wonderful’ going on there. I imagine there are a handful of people sitting around on metal chairs, breathing in the aroma of new tires and swamp ass, and flipping mindlessly through copies of Sports Illustrated from the fourth-quarter of 2014. Every one of them thinking: “I bet this guy is fucking me.”

I assume they’re required to answer like that? Have you ever worked a job where you were forced to answer a phone in a way that annoyed or embarrassed you? I can’t think of any particularly bad ones in my past. However, I went through a way-too-long phase when I worked at WEA where I was answering the phone, “Thank you for calling Peaches!” I was stuck on my previous job, and couldn’t transition into the new one. And it lasted for years. Not 100% of the time, but it would occasionally pop up. It was disturbing. It made me worry about early-onset dementia.

At my current place we’re supposed to recite some mantra when we answer the phone, and I’ve never done it, not once. I just say, “This is Jeff.” Nobody’s ever said anything to me about it, and we’re coming up on ten years now. In fact, there’s a guy who works for me who always answers in the proper way. And I say, “Well, aren’t you Mr. Fancy-Pants?” It’s become a tradition, of sorts.

A million years ago I dated a girl who worked at McDonald’s, and she was always complaining about the “stupid shit” they wanted her to say. Like “Welcome to McDonald’s. Would you like to try our new McDLT?” That was literally one of them, which will tell you how long ago it was.

I’ve been lucky enough to avoid most of that stuff. The only time I’ve felt totally ridiculous at work, because of some corporate requirement, was when they forced us to wear ties at Fas-Chek. Which was like putting a monocle on a dog turd. Also, when they made us wear uniforms at the Toll Bridge. Ha! I already took an inordinate amount of abuse in that place (flying quarters at my head, airborne Frostys) without making us masquerade as the world’s most out-of-shape and ineffective military unit. I don’t remember sporting a jaunty hat, but the uniform worn by my toll collector brother above is very similar to the one I had to wear. I was mortified, almost to the point of tears, on the first day they made us come to work in those stupid things.

What do you have on this one? Anything? Have any of your employers forced you to say or wear things that made you feel ridiculous? If so, please share. This website comes equipped with a comments feature, where you can leave your thoughts. How cool is that? It’s very modern.

I need to go to work now, where I’ll continue to be a phone answering anarchist.

See you guys again soon!

Now playing in the bunker
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