Toney’s been in the hospital. On Sunday she left work because she felt horrible: nausea and a tightness in the chest. Then she started throwing up. I thought she was having a heart attack, and took her to the ER. By the time we arrived there, her stomach was hurting really bad and she was actually groaning. What in the hand-rolled shit is going on?! I was hitting at about an 8 on the Freak the Fuck Out meter.

They ran a bunch of tests on her, and quickly decided (well… the hospital version of quickly, which is pretty damn slow) that her gallbladder was the source of the trouble. And that caused her pancreas to become inflamed, which is why her stomach was hurting. When the doctor eventually came strolling in, seemingly without a care in the world, he announced that Toney would be staying with them for a few days.

And she was there until yesterday afternoon. They were pumping her full of saline solution and antibiotics, and she feels a lot better. They say the gallbladder will need to come out, but there’s no super-urgency. Probably within a month, somebody told her.

I’m glad she’s home. The whole universe felt off-kilter without her around. I could be gone for six months and nobody would notice. “Hey, what happened to that fat guy with all the sarcastic remarks?” somebody might say around Week Four. But take Toney out of the picture for a few days and the whole operation collapses.

I have a few random hospital notes for you guys today, and then I’m going to return to work. I haven’t been there since Friday, so I’m going to be doing the backstroke through a frothy sea of bullshit in a few hours. Let’s get to it, shall we?

— Shortly after we arrived at the ER, they took Toney through a door marked EXAMINATION ROOM, and I heard nothing for a long time. I was pacing around, nervous. Also, I thought I might avoid contracting whatever horrible disease some slumped and hacking woman was suffering near the check-in desk. I was trying to give the spores a moving target.

Finally, the exam door swung open and a middle school girl shouted, “Jeffrey?” I went rushing over, and she took me into the room and closed the door. Oh god… is it bad news?? “OK, step up on the scales for me,” she said. Huh? I was very confused. Do they weigh patient spouses now? “Jeffrey Zelinski?” she said. “Oh, sorry,” I told her, and left. And the legitimate Jeff gave me a dirty look as he made his way toward the room. Jeffs can be so judgmental.

It was like the beginning of some bad movie where, due to a series of wacky misunderstandings, I end up on a gurney being rushed to an operating room. “No!” I’m shouting, before they silence me by strapping an oxygen mask to my face. Next thing I know I wake up with a fully-functioning vagina, or somesuch. To tell you the truth, I haven’t really thought this thing through…

— The nurses knew almost immediately what was going on with Toney, and let us know their thoughts. I appreciated it, ‘cause the doctors are stingy with the information. In fact, the guy never told us a thing until the next day. Even though they started treating her for something, he wouldn’t tell us what or why. I know there are liability concerns, etc. But it’s extremely frustrating. The nurses were great, though.

— One woman came in and started going on and on about how they’re the lowest paid people on the staff, and everybody else thinks they’re “high and mighty,” and looks down on them. “Especially the nurses,” she said. I’m not clear on who this person was, or what function she was performing. She might’ve just wandered in off the street, for all I know. But she had the bitterness of champions.

— While we were waiting around for what felt like hours – mostly because it was hours – in the ER exam room, we could plainly hear what was going on with other patients. I heard a nurse ask a woman when she last had a bowel movement. “This morning,” she answered. “Did it look normal?” the nurse wanted to know. I was sitting on the edge of my seat, hoping for an interesting answer. Like “Well, I happen to have a photo of it on my phone!” But she just said yeah. It was anticlimactic, and also not the kind of information I needed to have.

— I also heard an old lady, with a terrifying death rattle, tell four or five people that she’s getting married on May 4, and going to Florida on her honeymoon. This woman was roughly 125 years old. I was expecting the nurse to say, “Well… your charts say differently, dear. You’ll be lucky to make it to sundown.” But she just shouted, “How wonderful!” Wotta rip-off.

— There was a unisex bathroom near Toney’s room that I used a couple of times to offload Eight O’Clock Bean Coffee. And inside that phone booth-sized room was the most complicated toilet I’ve ever seen in my life. I wish I’d snapped a picture. The thing had hand rails, bicycle grips, an assortment of baffling seat attachments, a ridiculous elevation, etc. I’m unclear why somebody would need to strap themselves into an elaborate shitting-cage, but apparently they do. For a second I got confused and thought I was boarding Space Mountain. Thankfully I was just standing. I really didn’t want to get too close to that apparatus.

— While I was visiting Toney Monday afternoon I heard a mournful male voice coming from down the hall: “Nuuuuuurse… nuuuuuuuuurse…” “Is that a ghost?” I asked with alarm. “Is it somebody who died here in 1979?!” This kept going on and on, and nobody was reacting. Eventually he started shouting, “I need a toilet!” Just hollering down the hall. Then I heard a woman scolding him, telling him to use the call button. She wasn’t very happy with his makeshift paging system. If it had gone on a few more minutes we probably would’ve heard, “Wipe! I need wiped!!”

— Since Toney’s pancreas was inflamed, everybody on the staff asked her about drinking. Toney drinks very little, believe me. She’s one of those freaks of nature who can have one beer, and that’s good enough for her. What the hell, man? Once that switch is flipped with me, I have to keep on going until I reach oblivion. In any case, she was getting repeatedly grilled about her relationship with alcohol. And one Asian nurse, who didn’t speak perfect English, asked, “So, do you drink beer all the time?” That’s how she put it. “I think you’re looking at one of my old charts,” I wish I’d said. Unfortunately for Toney, she can no longer have her three drinks per week for a while. It’s sad.

But she’s home now, and they’re going to schedule the gallbladder surgery soon. I’ll be freaking out about that, as well. I hate all things medical, and imagine the worst at all times. But my mother had the same thing done a few months ago, and it was close to being an outpatient procedure. Three small incisions, I think. I’m sure it’ll be fine. I hope.

And I need to go now. I don’t really have a Question for you guys, so please make of it what you will. I have a car dealer story to tell, as well. I’ll bring you up to date on that situation next time.

Have a great day, my friends!

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Back before every one of my hopes and dreams burned to the fucking ground like a 1980 Richard Pryor, I used to daydream about things. Like… maybe owning a little neighborhood bar somewhere. Even though I have no experience, and even less knowledge, I believed I could do well with something like that. I felt like I had my fingers on the pulse of the sizable functioning alcoholic community, and would be able to give the people what they want.

That is:

Good, simple pub food in largeish quantity, at a reasonable price. No nonsense like wild game sausage, or stuffed pork chops with mint jelly. I mean, seriously. Somebody else can educate and expand the horizons of the drinking public. And wave goodbye to their life savings in the process.

No bullshit props like pool tables, poker machines, or dartboards. And if any staff member even MENTIONS karaoke or trivia night, they’re out. Drinking, eating, and telling inappropriate stories should be the focus. A jukebox might be OK, but every song would have to pass through the Jeff Kay filter. This ain’t no cologne and tight-shirt dance club, goddammit.

No glass & chrome furniture and fixtures, or flashing lights in the floor. Just normal chairs, tables, and couches. Maybe some table lamps. Also, no punch-in-the-face disinfectant smell. Too many bars smell like hospital wards. And that’s freaky, man.

What would be the guidelines of your imaginary bar? Please bring us up to date on it in the comments. Do they coincide with mine, at all? I’m interested to know.

Also, have you considered possible names for your never-gonna-happen establishment? I’ve always thought Smoking Fish Tavern had a nice ring to it, and would probably go with that. But I could come up with a million others, like, say The Scowling Lesbian. That’s a good one, right off the top of my head. See how easy it is?

You know what irritates me? When a bar has a really boring name, like P.J.’s Pub, or whatever. It almost makes me angry. I also don’t like when they have alternative spellings, like Trax or Morganz Saloon. It’s stupid. There’s a place a few blocks from here called Nyx. WTF?? It might be a great bar, but the name makes my jaws flex.

What the owners decide to call a bar is important, in my opinion. College Hill Sundries was a place I loved in Greensboro, not only because of the great name, but that didn’t hurt. Some other memorable bar names I’ve personally experienced during my tipsy travels: Fuzzy Ducks, The Euclid Avenue Yacht Club, The Blind Tiger, Hooray Harry’s, Now Voyager, The Vortex (tagline: “It’s never too late to start wasting your life”), The Empty Glass, Highland Tap, Billy Goat Tavern, The White Dot, The Lamb and the Flag. There are others, many others. All great names… Not as good as T.J.’s Place, granted. But not bad.

So, tell me about your daydream bar. Use the comments section, and break it down for us. Also, what are your favorite real-world bar names? You know, places that actually exist outside of our imagination?

And I need to go now. Another week of stimulating work awaits!

Have a great day, my friends.

I’ll see you again soon.

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It’s a beautiful day here in the Upper Exasperation Belt. Possibly the most perfect day of 2017, so far. And I’m sitting in the public library typing out this update. There’s an old man running the microfilm machine behind me, as usual, cranking the wheel on that bastard like he’s trying to generate enough electricity to power his dying wife’s lung blower. What’s the story with old men and ancient newspapers? It’s never the same old man, but there’s almost always one in here, cranking away. Do they even stop to look at a page? All of it’s excruciatingly unclear to me.

Anyway, if this were last spring and it were the First Perfect Day, you can be assured that I’d be on the deck right now drinking an unreasonable number of craft beers, and ingesting charred meat, tortilla chips, and various dip-ables. But today I’m sitting in the library breathing in the aroma of paper decay, and getting irritated by all the noise. I’m not going to get into it again, though. Just put it in the ever-lengthening column titled People Certainly Do Suck, Oh Yes They Do. Sweet sainted mother of Bruce Froemming.

Speaking of drinking, I had a dream a few nights ago that I said fukkit and had a few beers on a Saturday night. And I experienced crushing guilt, deep into the night. It felt like I beat myself up, emotionally, for about eight hours. When I woke up I realized it was only a dream, and about a million pounds of anxiety was released.

I’m not sure why I dreamed about it, because I don’t really think about drinking much anymore. It’s not like I’m white-knuckling it, crawling out of my skin. So, it was weird. I guess it’s still in there somewhere, lurking underneath the surface. Right?

The good points of nine months of raw sobriety: My mind is sharper, I sleep better, I read an enormous number of books, and I feel healthier.

The bad points: I’m mildly depressed and lethargic most of the time.

So, there you go. It’s like a joke of some sort. I somehow had more energy when I was guzzling booze every weekend, but my brain was sluggish. Now my brain is clicking along, but I don’t have the energy or gumption to make anything of it. When is Allen Funt going to come out from behind a pillar, buckled over in laughter?

Let’s move on.

Some things I’ve enjoyed recently: an oddball podcast called S-Town, a crazy-ass novel called Dark Matter, season four of Maron, and the return of The Americans. I also re-read Steve Martin’s memoir, Born Standing Up. I don’t usually re-read books, because there are so many I haven’t gotten to the first time. But I make an occasional exception to the rule.

What have you been enjoying? Anything? Please share in the comments.

I was talking to a friend a few days ago, and mentioned that my dad has certain opinions about manliness that I find myself considering, even at my advanced age.

For instance, he believes men should never drink with a straw. He used to call them “sissy sticks” when I was a kid. I sometimes use a straw in restaurants, because I’m neurotic about the millions of lips that have been on the rims of those glasses before my arrival. But I always feel weird about it, like I’m betraying my father.

He also believes men should not use umbrellas, which makes me laugh. Not that I disagree with him, necessarily. I just find it amusing. He probably had a jaunty nickname for them, as well. But I’m not remembering it. And I don’t currently own an umbrella.

I can also remember him telling me not to stand with my hands on my hips, because he said it “looks fruity.”

The guy I was talking with couldn’t believe it, because his dad had some of the exact same opinions. He wasn’t familiar with the phrase “sissy stick,” but his dad did have corresponding views about straws and umbrellas. Do you have anything on this? Any quirky little manliness rules passed down from a previous generation that’s stuck with you? I know it’s a long-shot, but what the hell?

One final thing, before I call it a day here… I had the following conversation with our younger son earlier this week:

Me: How was school today?
Him: Good.
Me: Did you learn anything?
Him: No.
Me: Why not?
Him: I’m in 12th Grade.

That made me chuckle, even though it’s somewhat baffling. But I wondered: Did I learn anything during my senior year of high school? And I think I did. Because I’m a sack, I always loaded up my schedule with fluff “classes.” Things like Office Aide, Rock/Pop Music Survey, Singles Survival, and (a class I had in 12th Grade) Consumer Math.

I’d already gone through Algebra II, Geometry, and maybe beyond. Who the hell knows? But I actually learned stuff in that Consumer Math class that I still use today. Everybody in there was tragically stupid, a hardened stoner, or both. So, this shit was dumbed way down. I mean, seriously. However, I learned easy methods on how to calculate percentages that I hadn’t previously grasped. I mean, I could do it, but it took a little while. After I finished that Consumer Math class though, I could do it instantly in my head. It’s a small thing, but it’s something I literally came to terms with in that room, surrounded by criminals, drug addicts, and people who just sat there sniffing their fingers.

What about you? Did you actually learn anything during 12th Grade? Please tell us about it.

And I’m going to leave this annoying place now. Maybe get a McDonald’s milkshake. Ahhh… the good life.

I’ll see you guys again soon.

Have a great day!

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I thought we were going to lose our beloved Black Lips Houlihan a few days ago, but he bounced back and is better than ever. He had another “episode” last week, and I was convinced he’d suffered a stroke. He collapsed, fired off about three shit missiles in quick succession, vomited, and briefly lost consciousness. When he woke up again, he just stayed in one spot for a long time and panted. The whole family was surrounding him, and tears were shed.

But… within an hour or so, he got up and started walking around. He drank water, and seemed to be coming out of it a bit. About two hours later he went up the stairs (which seemed impossible earlier in the evening), and fell asleep on his blanket.

The next day he remained on the blanket for a long time. We couldn’t coax him out of the bedroom, so he wasn’t totally OK. Something was still askew. But, he eventually got up and rejoined us downstairs. And he’s been fine ever since. I think it was that doggie vertigo the vet talked to us about last time. It’s weird, and terrifying. I’m definitely not a fan.

He’s doing great now, though. He barked at the mailman a little while ago, and eats like normal. He’s begging for food, and going up and down stairs like a champion. He could still use a Tic Tac, but that’s beside the point.

For the record, Andy will be 16 on June 1. I don’t want to get cocky, but I think he’ll make it.

I finished watching Breaking Bad a couple of weeks ago. I ripped through the entire five seasons in maybe a month and a half? I’m not sure, but it was quick. Some nights I’d watch three episodes, while sitting on my big riffled ass, with my right arm buried to the hilt in a ludicrously large chips sack. Yes, I’m nothing short of an accomplishment factory at this point.

In any case, it was great. One of the best shows ever, right? I’d put it in the same category as The Sopranos and The Wire. No way to rank those programs, because they’re all close to perfect. The Wire didn’t have as much humor as the other two, but it certainly wasn’t humor-free.

What are your thoughts on the Greatest Non-Sitcom Shows of All-Time? If you bring sitcoms into it, it becomes another conversation altogether. So, let’s leave ‘em out, for the time being. Please use the comments section to share your opinions.

I’ve also been reading funny memoirs. I’m almost finished with this one, which I recommend. I’m not going to link to the previous one, because it wasn’t very good. In fact, I don’t know how it was ever published. WTF? There was no point, and few laughs. But it was released by a large (maybe the largest) publishing house. Hey, whatever. This is another good one, and this one is great too. Do you have any recommendations for me on this subject? I’m talking about memoirs that are funny. Not novels, or collections of letters, or biographies. Just memoirs. Please help me out, won’t you?

I was talking to somebody at work the other day about a newish alternative to the colonoscopy, which requires (according to him) “shitting in a box.” Here’s an article that confirms what he told me, kinda-sorta. I’m not clear on whether or not you literally have to offload straight into a cardboard box, and mail it in. But it’s something along those lines.

And you’re convinced your job is bad? Just think about the poor bastards on the receiving end of those poop cartons. Do they arrive via Fed-Ex Freight, or what?

“Three more pallets of fresh-cut turds just arrived at Door Seven, Charlie!”

“Roger that. But where are we going to put it all??”

Can you imagine cracking the seal on one of those things? Oh god. Some of them are probably flapped over the lid, or hanging down the side, or something. You can’t count on precision when it comes to amateur box-shitting. Hell, some people would probably just blast a hot payload of diarrhea in there, and take it straight to the UPS Store.

Indeed, I don’t know about the logistics of “collecting” either. How does that happen? Do you hover over a box, literally? I might have to hang off a towel bar, to help with the balance issue. Or maybe you’re supposed to use a spaghetti strainer, or something? So many questions… I’m willing to try it, though. Count me in! It’s got to be better than having a Maglite twisted straight into your butthole, right?

Do you have any questions or concerns about this test? Please tell us about it, in the comments. If you’ve actually done it, well… we DEFINITELY need your feedback.

I’ll see you guys again soon.

Have yourselves a great day!

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The Zombies show on Saturday night was interesting. The touring band played with the two main guys for about an hour, doing hits and rarities from their early British Invasion days, as well as a few new songs. Then there was a 20 minute intermission, and the original band came out. The four surviving members, anyway. For some reason they didn’t bring the dead one. And they played Odessey and Oracle in its entirety.

It was weird, to tell you the truth. I mean, it was great and I’m glad I saw it. But that album is such an obscure oddity, it was disconcerting to learn that actual human beings created it. The thing feels like it was captured by one of those giant radio telescopes that constantly listens for transmissions from outer space: otherworldly and mysterious. I’m not sure I was prepared to find out it was made by mere mortals.

Both incarnations of the band sounded fantastic, though. I saw a review a few days ago that said, “The Zombies, still led by original keyboard wizard Rod Argent and featuring the smoked-silk vocals of Colin Blunstone, is the best 60s band still touring which doesn’t have Mick Jagger as a front man.”

Blunstone was especially impressive. He’s thin as a knife blade, and seems almost timid onstage. Then he starts singing and it seems impossible. I wish I could do anything as well as that dude can sing. However, I didn’t much care for the extended-jam version of Argent’s “Hold Your Head Up,” and I’m not sure why they played “She’s Not There” twice. But those are only small complaints. It was a great show, and I’m glad I was on-hand to see it. The dude who brought them out referred to The Zombies as ‘rock ‘n’ roll royalty,’ and I certainly wouldn’t argue with that.

By the way… the man in the picture was sitting across the aisle from me. I snapped it moments before the show started. Yes, it was a youthful, raucous crowd. Very reminiscent of the time I saw Fugazi in Atlanta. My son and I were lucky to make it out of there alive on Saturday night.

I was looking at the acts who will be performing at the same venue soon. Plenty of “tribute” bands… Including Get the Led Out, Live Wire: The Ultimate AC/DC Concert Experience, and Islands In The Stream: An Afternoon with Dolly and Kenny. Have you ever seen a tribute show? I haven’t, and hopefully never will. I think I’d be so depressed I might cry. I mean, the true “ultimate” AC/DC experience would be AC/DC, right? Short of that, I’ll pass.

I saw they had Kick, an INXS tribute band there a few weeks ago. I’m not sure I’d go see the actual INXS, much less Kick (heh). And Hey Nineteen: The Steely Dan Tribute was there recently, as well. I’m starting to segue from sadness to laughter here… Is there a documentary about those kinds of bands? If not, there should be.

In the comments section, please tell us about the tribute acts you’ve seen. And feel free to justify that decision, if you must. Also, which tributes (real or imagined) would you LIKE to see? I’ll come up with a few that I wish were real, and turn it over to you guys. Let’s do it, shall we?

The Binghamton Who
Behemoth Rhapsody: The Morbidly Obese Queen Tribute
Thin Minnie: A Tribute to Thin Lizzy and Minnie Riperton
Harlem Hatchet: The Ultimate Molly Hatchet Doo-Wop Experience
Sir Mario: The Mexican Mix-A-Lot

I’ll see you guys again soon.

Have a great day!

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