Our oldest son

But on Sunday he was working on it, and Toney was at the grocery store.  So, he came to me with a couple of leaves, and wanted me to tell him what kind of trees they came from.

“You’re asking the wrong person,” I said.  “I don’t know anything about trees or plants, or any of that stuff.  I got – literally – nothing.”

“I need to finish this today,” he said.

“Well, wait till your mother gets back, or look it up on the internet.”

“Ohhhhh maaaaan,” he whined.

“Hey, it’s your project.  You’re supposed to know.”

“I just need to get this finished. I’ve been working on it all weekend.”

Frowning, I took the leaves and started looking them over.  “OK, let me see.  …I think this is a Chinese weeping maple, and this one looks like it might be a Jew spruce.”

I’m pretty sure he knew I was joking.  Reasonably sure.

On Thursday I mowed our whole yard, for only the second time this year.  I’ve been trying to pawn that job off on the boys, and they’ve been handling most of it this spring.

But they don’t do a very good job…  They’re half-assed, and are prone to cutting corners.  Or, more precisely, NOT cutting corners…  While I was mowing on Thursday I came across sections out back that had clearly not been touched since the last time I did it.  Grrr…  We’ll be having a brief meeting.

I got it whipped into shape, though, and loved having it done before everyone else.  It made me happy in my soul to see the neighbors out there on Friday evening, or over the weekend, their cracks awash in perspiration – while ours was already a thing of beauty.  You know, relatively speaking.

In fact, I’m tempted to just knock it out every Thursday, and always get a jump on the neighbors.  After school is out, I can enlist the help of the Secrets, and supervise their work. Thursdays will be “yard day,” or “stick it to Half-Shirt day,” or whatever we choose to call it.

Of course, the guy on the corner has a service that cuts his yard every week.  That trumps everything; there’ s simply no beating that bastard.  God, how I hate him.

On Saturday I woke up starving, and knew it would be one of those days where I’d be unable to achieve a state of un-hungry.  I’ve been around long enough to know how those things go.  If I get out of bed already super-hungry, I’ll be a bottomless pit the whole day.

So, I made that prediction on Twitter, and polished off two Little Debbies in the kitchen.  And when I returned to my computer, I had a response that said, “Oh noes. I have lots of days like that too.”  And it was from E.L. James, author of the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy.  You know, the most popular books in the world? The whole thing was disconcerting, and I sat there blinking real fast for a full minute.

What’s next?  A J.K. Rowling Facebook “poke?”  It made my brain melt down.  Very cool.

And for the record… my prediction was correct.  I couldn’t stop eating on Saturday, yet remained hungry throughout.  You can’t start out with a deficit like that…

In case you missed it, I posted a super-rare Saturday update this past weekend.  Here’s your link.  It’s a story from olden times, written and cut from a book project I recently started.  I believe it’s at least mildly funny.

And if you were thinking about maybe donating to the Surf Report cause, today might be a good day to do it.  Ahem.  Here’s the beer page.  As always… much appreciated.

I’ll leave you now with a Question inspired by this article about a new line of Yankee Candles for men.  The new fragrances are called Man Town (wtf?), First Down, Riding Mower, and 2×4.  I like the last one, but sure as shit don’t want to smell fresh-cut grass, or (full-body shiver) Man Town.

In any case, I know we can do better.  What fragrances should Yankee Candle introduce for men?  Please list your suggestions in the comments box below.

And I’ll see you guys again tomorrow.

Have a great day!

Now playing in the bunker
Buy Jeff a beer, he could use a beer

Hello Surf Reporters!

When I was in fifth grade my parents conspired to wreck my life. They began searching around town for a larger house, believing the family had outgrown our cramped but familiar place on 21st Street. The whole thing was ludicrous. Unthinkable, even. So, I launched a desperate campaign to set things right.

My approach was a complicated mixture of wild tantrums, dramatic displays of dark despair, level-headed adolescent logic, and threats of never going outside again. “I’ll just stay in and watch Hazel until I’m 30,” I pouted. But none of it worked. Their minds were made up, and my life was scheduled to be wrecked.

I had a good friend named Doug, who lived across the alley from us, and the thought of leaving him behind saddened me. He and I collaborated on many notable projects, such as slinging mud and eggs against a neighbor’s garage, and hosting an annual “haunted house,” which was mostly just the two of us throwing dirt clods at other kids in the dark.

When we were very young, during second grade or thereabouts, we caused a minor uproar by making something we called “poop sauce.” We took a bucket of water and added various ingredients, such as yard trimmings and mysterious chemicals from the tool shed behind Doug’s house. After it reached the right consistency and color, it was then time to fold-in the most important ingredient of all.

We spread out, Doug taking 22nd Street, and me canvassing 21st. The purpose of our quest was to secure a bounty of premium turds, to complete the concoction. I mean, you can’t very well make poop sauce without the poop, right?

Almost immediately I happened upon a pile of white dog crap, which used to be common in the 1970s, but is rarely seen nowadays. Wonder why? It’s a real mystery. In any case, I decided I could do better and continued.

But the trail went cold after I left the white cliffs of Rover. I didn’t see another dog log for an entire city block. Discouraged, I turned the corner and headed toward 22nd Street, hoping to meet Doug approaching in the opposite direction.

However, as I neared the alley, I spotted the most magnificent pile my eyes had ever seen. A single ray of sunshine seemed to illuminate the turds, causing them to glisten like the rare jewels they were. It was a gigantic pyramid of feces. I’m not even sure it was the product of a dog, it might have been a black bear, or possibly the school bus driver.

I pulled a box from a nearby trash can, the remnants of a Fritos fun-pack, as I recall, and used a stick to transfer the spectacular load to the cardboard surface. And I proudly marched with my prize, back to poop sauce central.

“Wow!” Doug exclaimed. He was as impressed as I knew he would be, and offered to discard his meager harvest.

“No, throw it all in!” I said, enthusiastically.

We mixed it with a tree branch, until the main ingredient dissolved and became one with the sauce itself. It smelled horrific, and nearly caused me to vomit. It was perfect!

Then Doug’s mother came out, asked what we were doing, and everything went downhill from there. Before I knew it my mother was there, too, and everybody was yelling, “Why?? What would possess a person to do something like this?!” I don’t know what they finally did with the sauce, but I’m pretty sure there were private conversations about child psychologists, and that sort of thing.

When we were older we got into more serious trouble, including the aforementioned episode with the eggs and the mud and a neighbor’s garage. But I still maintain the old bag had it coming. She was always screaming at us, and shaking a veiny fist in our direction. Oh, this wasn’t just some random crime – it was kid-on-bag justice. But, after we were caught, my dad whipped me with a belt anyway. It was a simpler time…

One afternoon we also found barrels filled with potatoes in a neighbor’s garage. Why they were there, I do not know; I’m not aware of people buying potatoes by the barrel-load. And I don’t know why we were roaming around inside someone else’s garage, either. These are details that can’t be easily explained.

But we saw that the potatoes were nothing if not throwable, and ended up flinging a dozen or more at the side of another kid’s house – a weirdo named Fred. His crime? General strangeness, and a penchant for tweaking his wiener. Always with the tweaking, and the pinching, and the twisting…

We’re lucky we didn’t knock out a window, or it very likely would have been a simpler time, again. Nothing was broken, but each potato made a satisfying THUD! as it hit the shingles on the side of the house. We were buckled over with laughter, believing this to be the absolute pinnacle of comedy.

Then Fred’s mother appeared. She was always described as the nervous type: very timid and jittery. Another of my neighborhood friends, Billy, said she had “the rickets,” but that has never been confirmed. On this day she came crashing out the front door, wearing her mean face and glancing quickly in every direction, like an agitated ferret. Uh oh!

Doug and I took off running, but not before launching two more high-arcing potatoes. We couldn’t see what happened next, because our backs were now turned, but heard two loud spud thuds followed by a blood-curdling scream. Good god, had we killed the woman? No, we’d both heard the potatoes hit the house, so it must have only startled her.

We couldn’t stop laughing. And Fred told Doug, later in the week, that his mother had been bedridden because of the stress brought on by the unprovoked “attack.” Heh. Nobody ever knew who was responsible, and I wish we could have seen their reactions when they found fifteen baking potatoes in their side yard.

At Fred’s house they also had a box fan in one of the windows, blowing in. My parents always had them blowing out, but this one was configured the opposite way. Every few days Billy would walk past and casually throw a handful of sand into the whirling blades, sending it flying all over their living room. One day he did this while the family was having dinner, and Fred’s dad came running into the yard, ready to kill something.

But it wasn’t always a meeting of the Future Assholes of America Guild on 21st Street. We also played a lot of baseball (mostly catch – we loved to throw things), climbed trees, caught lightning bugs, ate “sour grass,” bought orange push-ups off The Humdinger ice cream truck, and rode our bikes for hours and hours and hours. Sometimes we even followed the city Jeep that sprayed for bugs – the smoke truck, we called it – pedaling inside the big cloud of DDT, or whatever. And that might explain a few things, now that I think about it…

That neighborhood was the only world I knew, the only place I’d been a kid. I’d gotten my first bee sting there, and jumped my bike across a pile of 100 rocks in the alley, like a junior Evel Knievel. My friends and I walked to Charlotte’s Grocery every summer day, for penny candy and blue Slushies that made our shit turn green. And at dinner time it smelled like pork chops, fried potatoes, and pinto beans – the whole block.

The thought of leaving seemed impossible; it was a part of me, and I was a part of it. I wondered if I’d cease to exist if I wasn’t allowed to exist there. Every morning, as I woke, I immediately remembered my days were numbered, and it felt like there was a cannonball inside my gut. It’s a wonder I didn’t worry myself bald at the age of eleven.

But the dreaded day eventually arrived, and we left our home, and my friends. Doug and I were blood brothers, literally. We’d each sliced open a finger, and mashed our open wounds together – something we’d learned from some TV show I no longer recall. The pain of breaking up our little ring of terror was considerable.

My family and I moved all the way to – get this – 17th Street. That’s right, the new house was only down four blocks and over one, but it might as well have been Chernyakhovsk, Russia. I didn’t know any of the kids there, and was now zoned for another elementary school (gulp!). Just like that, everything was upside-down.

My life was officially wrecked.

Now playing in the bunker
Buy Jeff a beer, he could use a beer

I know this might

I was eating, when some guy sat down in the booth in front of mine – facing me.  The place was almost empty, it was off-hours, and the dude went with the seat that was sure to generate the maximum amount of awkwardness.  Simply excellent.

“Hi,” he said, before his ass was fully in his chair.  Great…

I gave him the “sup?” chin-lift, and continued working on my fries.  I was hoping I’d conveyed a “not really interested in chatting” vibe, without being openly rude.  But apparently I need to perfect my technique.

“Those phones are fantastic, aren’t they?” he said.  “What is that, an iPhone?”

“It’s a Droid,” I answered.

“Oh, Droid.  Those are fantastic.”

Two fantastics already…  I gave him a weak “yep” and kept going.

“Do you know you can download an app to your iPhone there, that gives you advance warning when cops are out patrolling, watching for speeders?”

I realized the dude was eating two giant Frostys: one vanilla, one chocolate.  And nothing else.

He continued.  “It costs $99, but if it saves you once it’s paid for itself, right?  Because a ticket is usually around $180, plus your insurance goes up.”

“Uh huh.”

“It’s a fantastic service, you should check it out.  And that $99 is a one-time fee, not yearly.  And like I said… if it saves you once, it’s more than paid for itself already.”

Oh, man…  I still had half a burger to go.

“You can hook it into your GPS, too.  It’s designed to work with Garmin, and TomTom, and all the big names.  It’s fantastic!  And if it saves you once, it’s paid for itself.  It’s a great app that you can download straight to your iPhone there, and it costs $99.  That’s for life, remember, not yearly.  You’ll get all the updates for life.  I use it, and I think it’s fantastic.”

“Well, I’ll definitely check it out,” I lied.

“Tell all your friends about it!” he shouted, with Frosty all over his teeth.

“I will,” I said, while climbing to my feet – with at least seven full-sized fries remaining.  They would have to be sacrificed, there was no other way.  “See you later.”

I went outside, and got in my car.  And as I was backing out of the parking spot, I noticed the Honda beside me had the URL for the app’s website stenciled on the back window.

Good god.  I assume the guy has some sort of stake in the business, right?  That’s pretty obvious.  But a few minutes later I came up with a preferable scenario.  Maybe he just REALLY loves the app?  Heh.  That’s what I choose to believe.

It reminds me of a man who used to drive around town in a car emblazoned with a gigantic GEICO logo – it covered the entire vehicle.  One day I saw him in a parking lot, and said, “So, do you work for GEICO, or just really like their service?”  Luckily, he busted out laughing.

Anyway… I don’t mind chitchatting with people, as long as they’re not an annoying brand of crazy – or working some angle.  You know, like a religious nut, or someone with a political axe to grind.  This dude clearly had an agenda.  And is that really his business model?  Bugging strangers in fast food restaurants, who happen to have an “iPhone?”  I’m not sure that’s the way to go.

What are your thoughts on chitchatting with strangers?  I like talking with people in dive bars, but you’ve got to be careful.  A lot of people are mean drunks (I’m the opposite), and have a hair-trigger temper.  I like to prod folks to talk, but one time a guy turned to me and said, “Are you writing a fucking book?”  That was awkward.

So, what’s your stance on chitchat?  Can you remember any especially interesting episodes?  Please use the comments link below.

And I’ll be back tomorrow, my friends.

See ya then.

Now playing in the bunker
Treat yourself at Amazon: US and Canada

Since I’m regularly

You’ll never hear me say things like, “So, tell me a little about this… Big Mac sandwich?  Is that what it’s called?  It sounds interesting.  What comes on that?”  Or, “Yes, can I get the Whopper, but with the meat higher up in the stack?  I prefer it to be above the lettuce and tomato.  Also, can you cut all my fries in half?  I have trouble with some of the really long ones.”

No, I’m always ready to go, the moment I’m called upon.  I clearly enunciate with just enough (but not too much!) information, give the cashier ample breathing room to key everything, and already have my money or bank card in hand at the end of the process. So, there’s no fumbling around in my pockets, or any of that nonsense.

And I work within the accepted framework of whatever restaurant I happen to be visiting.  I hate fast food pickles, for instance, but when I’m at McDonald’s I just let it go.  It’s a conveyor belt of burgers back there, and it’s not advisable to disturb the rhythm.  I just remove the pickles myself, on the back-end.  But at Wendy’s they make each burger individually, so I feel comfortable telling them to hold the pickle.  It’s a case by case thing, always within the accepted framework.

Then, as soon as the transaction is complete, I step to my left and allow access for the next person in line.  I’ve said it a million times before, and I’ll say it again:  I’m the guy you want to be in line behind at a fast food restaurant.  I am the ideal fast food customer, and fully expect that to be my legacy.

But let me tell you about something that happened at Burger King a few days ago…

I went in there around 10:00 a.m.  I’d already been up for hours and wanted lunch.  But it was still breakfast in the BK world, so I rolled with it.  Respect the framework, remember.

And when it was my time to order, I told the woman I wanted a sausage, egg, and cheese Croissan’wich, and a small soda.  The soda is self-serve, so there’s no need to be specific.  To say “Dr. Pepper” or “Coke” or whatever, is to open yourself up to complications.  Like, “Oh, we’re out of Dr. Pepper today, but we have root beer.”  That kind of thing.  When it’s self-serve the generic “soda” is preferred.

So, my ordering technique was perfection, as always.  But the cashier wouldn’t accept my gift of being a total pro, and insisted on making everything complicated.  Usually they recognize the accomplished and polished customer, and appreciate it.  But not this chick.

“Do you really want the small soda, or did you mean the value soda?” she asked.  What?  I don’t like this kind of crap.  It adds an unnecessary extra layer to the process.  But I said, “Value, I guess.”

And that was a tactical error.  It was a gateway to: “The value soda is no-refills.  Is that what you want?”  What the hell, man??  My order, which was a thing of beauty, was collapsing all around me.  Two extra layers now?  This was a mess.  “Yes, that’s fine,” I said through gritted teeth.

Then, incredibly:  “Do you want ketchup?”  I’d ordered a sausage, egg, and cheese breakfast sandwich.  Ketchup??  Seriously?  This was a bridge too far…

“Why would I want ketchup?” I asked.  “I don’t understand.”

“Lots of people like ketchup on their eggs,” she shrugged.

“Like special needs kids, and that kind of thing?”

“So, no ketchup?”

The whole thing was spiraling out of control.  My masterpiece was ruined.  It was like she drew a set of giant buck teeth on the Mona Lisa.  Plus, and this really chaps my ass…, they have ketchup dispensers at Burger King!  I hadn’t gotten my order to go, I ate it there.  Why was she trying to give me ketchup packets??

It was a disaster of the highest order; my own personal 9/11.  I’d offered the gift of perfection, and she slapped it away with all her extra layers and bizarro toppings inquiries.  It was awful, I tell you, and after today I will never speak of it again.

Now playing in the bunker
Treat yourself at Amazon: US and Canada

Hello, friends

I want to thank Virtual Jeff for posting a new Question from his database every day last week at 9:00 a.m.  I was otherwise engaged, but it seems like it went reasonably well. What did you guys think? Go ahead and be honest… [VJ] is unplugged and back inside his packing crate in the basement.

My extracurricular project went well, I think.  But, of course, it’s not for me to decide. I turned everything in on Friday, and now all I can do is wait.  I’m not the most patient person on the continent, but grit my teeth and pretend to be patient I must.  I’ll let you know if I get good news.  If it’s never mentioned again… you’ll know I was sent back to the drawing board one more time.

Oh well.  Whatever it takes.  I don’t give up so easily nowadays.  I often wish I could have my twenties back, which was a decade of my life wasted on dumbassery and high-impact douche-a-robics.  But I was so quick to give up on things back then. First sign of trouble: fukkit. I don’t need that tendency back, thank you very much.

I returned to work last night, and my desk was an absolute wreck.  My computer was locked-out with a generic password, which makes me think it was used last week as a time clock — where employees clocked in and out during every shift.  All my pens were gone, my two monitors were radically cockeyed, and my desk was covered in something that required a thorough scrub-down with Mr. Clean, or whatever.

I’m very territorial, and don’t like people messing with my shit. So… within seconds of arrival, I was already growling like a dog, and producing a daisy-chain of illogical profanity.  Order was restored within a half-hour, though.  It looked worse than it was, I guess.

I had 445 emails, which was a pleasant surprise. I was braced for 650. That’s what my inner-sensors told me: 650.  I went through them in an hour or so, and sent 99% to the garbage or one of a dozen folders I’ll probably never open.  At the end I was left with about 10 messages that required my direct involvement.

And just like that… I was officially back into the swing of things.  As if last week had never happened.  It made me feel mildly sad.

But while I was away I discovered two things I’m really enjoying, and would like to share them with you guys.  I noticed that [VJ] was pretty negative with his questions, so I thought I’d start the new week with something a little less… dark.

I’d like to know what new stuff you’ve discovered in your travels over the past few months, which you’re enjoying. I’ll start with my two, and you guys can take it from there.  OK?  OK.

The first is a free phone app called Evernote. There are plenty of applications which you can download to your phone, and use to jot down ideas and thoughts that occur to you throughout the day. I had one on my previous phone, but Evernote is roughly a million times cooler than that earlier one.

It looks great, for one thing, and is super-easy to use. And it also uploads your notes to a cloud drive, so you can retrieve them from any computer in the world.  It does a lot of other things, too.  But the notebook function is fantastic, and I’ve been using it daily.

And it’s completely free.  It’s one of the few apps I’ve discovered that is truly useful, and makes my life a little bit better.  I enthusiastically recommend Evernote.  Check it out, if you’re so inclined.

Also, I’ve been fairly obsessed with an unlikely album.  A few weeks ago I downloaded Bible Belt by Diane Birch, after I heard it mentioned by two different music nerds on unrelated podcasts.  It sounded interesting and I had a small balance in my eMusic account, so I took a chance on it.

I’m glad I did.  It sounds like a singer/songwriter album from the 1970s — like maybe something from Carole King or Carly Simon.  Or maybe a female Elton John.  The songs are really good, and it’s just a hell of a lot of fun.  I’m sure I’m drawn to the nostalgic feel of it; this stuff would’ve been all over AM radio if it had been released in 1973.  But it’s not ONLY about nostalgia… the songs and the performances are strong.

So, there you go.  Have you discovered anything new that you’d like to share with us?  If so, please use the comments link below.

And I’ll be back tomorrow, boys and girls.

Have a great day!

Now playing in the bunker
Treat yourself at Amazon: US and Canada