The timing couldn’t be worse, but I’ve been summoned to work early today.  I have to attend a meeting, upstairs in the Porketta Room, or whatever.  So, this is going to be an ultra-quickie.  Sorry, but the shit is out of my control…

Toney came home for lunch a few minutes ago, and I was ranting like a wino with a vienna sausage in his beard.  The site needs updates!  Real life is getting in my way!!  I’m starting to lose it, maaaaan!!!

And Toney just shook her head in exasperation, ate some kind of salad that looked alarmingly slimy, and went back to work.  I could almost see the words floating above her head:  I should’ve just eaten in the car….

Anyway, the Surf Report is available in the Kindle Store now.  Check it out.  I submitted it months ago, and heard nothing.  I figured they scanned the site with some sort of spider or robot, and didn’t care for the way we, you know, communicate.

But now I have a log-in to a control panel, where I can upload an image, write a description, etc.  This weekend I’ll spend some time on it, and make it a little better.

Not that I expect to make any money from it…  Amazon gets a 70% cut of all revenues, and a subscription is only $1.99.  So, it’s not going to lead to a vacation home, or anything.  I just think it’s kinda cool.  And sometimes that’s enough.

You must check out today’s Mockable.  Because he’s a nice guy, I guess, Metten gave me some credit for the “update,” but he did the whole thing.  And it blows my mind.  I’d have no idea how to go about such a thing, it’s all a great big blurry mystery to me.

Speaking of nice guys, check this out.  I went to high school with that dude, and he’s been playing in Tim McGraw’s band for many years.  Touring the world and making big bank…

A few years ago I bumped into him at a bar in Dunbar, and he couldn’t have been friendlier.  Some people become successful and morph into insufferable pricks, but not him.  I’ve never heard a negative word.  So, there ya go.

And I know he’s not “famous,” but he’s certainly successful.  When he was a kid he wanted to be a professional drummer, and look what he’s doing…

So, that leads to the Question of the Day:

Who is the most famous, or successful person from your high school?  We have our share of doctors and lawyers, but I’m looking for more unusual professions, like Tim McGraw’s longtime drummer.  That sort of thing.

Also, we’ll need a full report on their “insufferable prick quotient.”  Don’t forget to list their IPQ, on a scale of 1 to 10.  Very important!

Use the handy comments feature below.  And I need to snorkle-down a Salisbury steak frozen meal, and get my ass to the Porketta Room.

See ya tomorrow, boys and girls.

Now playing in the bunker.

Yeah, it’s a yurt.  This thing, I mean.  I’d never heard the word until I looked into renting one for a few days, and at first kept wanting to call it a “yurtle.”  Yurt:  one of those words that kinda bothers me, like underpants.

But I’m writing this “book,” you see, and it was starting to founder.  I was devoting every Friday to it, and making very little progress.  I’d go to the library, because working at home is difficult — with kids and a dog and telephones and TVs — and usually found it to be loud as hell too.

I used to get sssshhh’d all the time in libraries, but that apparently doesn’t happen anymore.  It’s like a community center now, where people go to catch-up.

There’s an old man with a radically curved spine who hobbles in every afternoon, and talks to the employees about politics and the time his father took him to see a St. Louis Browns baseball game, or whatever.

And the moment the schools let out, the library fills with giggling, flirting almost-teens.  They whisper louder than I talk, watch YouTube videos, punch each other in the arm, argue with their parents via electronic devices, etc.

It makes me crazy, and I spend more time watching all the grab-ass going on around me, than doing any actual writing.

Plus there’s the issue of the internet.  They have wiffy at the library, and I can’t stay off of it.  I think I have some kind of unhealthy addiction.  I start by just checking my two gmail accounts, then get caught up in a circular time-eating vortex of mindless site-to-site bounceage.

The internet cuts both ways, man.

And since six months had passed with very little forward movement, I was starting to panic.  I have an agreement with a literary agency, but how long will they keep me on the roster if I’m just hanging out in libraries, sneering at people?  I started to become paranoid about being dropped.

My original agent liked to stay in contact, and would call me every couple  weeks or so.  He’d check on my progress, and give me pep talks, etc.  But he left the company for greener pastures (unfortunately), and I was assigned to someone else.  And the new agent has a completely different style.  Just send me the book when it’s finished, she told me.

Which means I have no interaction with the agency, whatsoever.  It was probably a shrewd move on her part, because I’m now filled with a compulsion to complete the project, and return to their back-burner, at least.  Right now, I fear, I’m behind the stove.

I needed to take a few days and focus all my energies on the book.  But where?  No way it would work at home, and the library has proven to be less-than-ideal.

I considered going to my parents’ house, when they were still kickin’ it in Florida.  They don’t have the internet, and it would be quiet there.  But, they live more than 500 miles away… in Ass Cyst, West Virginia.  I’d waste two full days driving, and that didn’t make any sense.

Maybe a cheap hotel room somewhere?  All I’d need would be a bed, a table and chair, and electricity.  But shit… even a cheap room would probably cost me eighty bucks per night.  And that would add-up quickly.

I think Toney suggested a cabin at the state park, and we went to check them out.  That’s when we first saw what we referred to as “huts.”  They were weird-looking pods in the woods, and only cost $33 per day during the week.

Perfect!  Plus, the park is close enough to our house that I wouldn’t even need to sleep out there, I could just write until dark and go home.  So, I requested two days off from work, and reserved what the park referred to as a yurt for three nights.

And it couldn’t have been better.  I spent upwards of twelve hours in that ridiculous thing every day, and made incredible progress.  I mean, I was in a full-on groove.

The campground was almost empty, the weather was good (a little cool, but not a huge problem), and there’s no internet out there to tempt me.  I left my cell phone in my car, and just wrote my ass down to a smoldering nub.

Here are some additional photos I snapped.

I was brewing Dunkin Donuts coffee in that hippie pod, had Little Debbies on-hand, and ate Subway every day for lunch.  Whenever I started to get weary, I’d take a walk around the park and get my blood pumping again.  It was a complete success, and the book is a whole lot closer to being finished than it was last week at this time.

Disclaimer:  Between the two websites, and other crap I have going on, I probably write ten thousand words every week.  But, for whatever reason, I need almost complete quiet to work on the book.  I’m not being pretentious, and trying to act like Thoreau, or whatever.  My internal wiring just requires a different set of circumstances when I’m working on that thing.  I wish it weren’t so, but it is.

And just so you know, it’s a novel filled with characters some of you might recognize.  Like, for instance, a woman I’m calling “Nancy,” and her ball-baby husband “Kevin.”  Heh.

So, there ya go.  That’s where I’ve been for the past few days.  I appreciate your patience, and all that crap.  I’ll get back to the normal stuff tomorrow.  The Big Notebook is starting to bulge a bit…

Last night I posted something new to Mockable, so please read it and laugh a stripe in your shorts.  I’d be much obliged.  And be EXTRA-SURE to check out tomorrow’s update, by Metten.  It’s… remarkable.  Yeah, that’s a perfect word for it: remarkable.

I’ll leave you now with a Question I think we’ve done once before, but believe is worth revisiting.  Say this “book” of mine someday gets made into a movie… what actors and actresses do you think should play Nancy, Nostrils, Sunshine, Mumbles, and me (the beleaguered narrator)?

Use the comments link below.

And I’ll see you guys tomorrow.

Now playing in the bunker.

I’m intrigued by the Amazon Kindle; I can feel the beginnings of an obsession taking hold. But since it’s my style to be roughly five years late on such things, it’s likely that I won’t buy one until midway through 2012.

The new model (the Kindle Husky?) was just released, but I don’t really like the looks of it.  I think I prefer the book-sized version, over the big honkin’ magazine style.  So maybe the new one will take off, and they’ll drop the price on the old one?  We’ll see.  Oh, we will see.

Do any of you actually own a Kindle?  If so, we need your review.  Let us know your thoughts in the comments.

I finally sent Burn After Reading back to Netflix, unwatched after a month and a half, and plan to start watching King of the Hill from the beginning.

I saw the first season when it was on TV, and probably part of season two, but got sidetracked fairly early.  I love the show, though, and really like the idea of watching them all in order.

And hopefully this strategy will also help save Netflix for me.  I don’t want to cancel my subscription, but it’s getting to the point where I’m paying money for nuthin’.  Ya know?

On Saturday the oldest Secret and I mowed and whacked our lawn into submission, and left it a beautiful thing, indeed.  But now dandelions are starting to pop up, and I’m not a fan of it.  They’re like zits on the face of a Burger King cashier.

So, over the coming weekend I think I’m going to saturate our grass with a potent cocktail of chemicals and poisons.  In fact, do they sell Agent Orange at Lowe’s?  As soon as I finish with this update, I’m going to call and ask.  ‘Cause something’s gotta be done.

You know, since we’re talking about Hank Hill…

A few days ago I was at the beer store (I can make this statement at any time), and there were two deeply-tanned toe-ring twentysomething hussies in there, probably shopping for some kind of boolshit Seagram’s Coolers, or whatever.

The Yuengling Lager was on the very bottom shelf, so I had to bend over to get it.  And when I did, I could feel a distinct breeze passing over the great divide.

Alarmed, I snatched the case of beer, returned to an upright position, and yanked my shorts up.  But it was too late…  The two girls were standing right there (needless to say), and had seen everything.  They’d witnessed, up-close, a foot of crack explode from the rear of my pants.

Yeah, and they were still snickering as I drove away.  Hell, for all I know they might’ve also snapped a cell phone picture, and sent it to the entire hussie network.  Simply excellent.

I need a haircut again, and was complaining about it to Toney yesterday.  “Why don’t you go over to Hags ‘n’ Fags on Saturday, and let them take care of it?”

Hags ‘n’ Fags?!  It’s great when little things happen, and you realize you’re with the exact right person.  Know what I mean?

And speaking of Toney, she went for a walk a few days ago and got herself tangled-up in a lengthy conversation with a crazy (my opinion) woman who lives in the next block.

Toney barely knows this person, but she was pontificating at length about her teenage daughter’s emotional problems.  She said she’s been seeing a psychiatrist since she was fourteen, or whatever, and “just doesn’t know where she fits in.”

Who goes around telling almost-strangers personal shit like that?  Especially about their kids?  No good.

However, I’ve seen the girl in question, and believe I can offer some assistance.  It’s very simple really.  Just keep checking the Indigo Girls website, and the next time they tour take the young lady to one of their concerts.  And the mystery will be solved; she’ll know exactly where she fits in.

Thank you.  Please pay my assistant two hundred dollars.

And I’m going to leave you now with the Question of the Day…  I’d like to know what things you can’t stand smelling, that most people believe smell good?  Did I describe that correctly?

For me, it’s freshly mowed grass.  Everybody says they like the smell, and I don’t understand it.  It conjures horrible memories of mowing my grandmother’s lawn when I was twelve, slick with sweat and breaded with sand and gnats.

Another, of course, is garlic.  Whenever we walk into a restaurant and the stench of garlic slugs me full in the gut, Toney says, “Mmmm… that smells good!”  Wha’?  How??  How could that possibly be listed under the heading of “good?”

And we can do it around the other way, as well.  What things do most people say stink to high heaven, but you don’t really mind?

I’ve mentioned skunk before.  When we’re driving somewhere, and pass through a skunk cloud, everyone starts hollering and breathing through their shirts.  But I kinda like it.  It’s not bad at all…  Sometimes I adjust the air vent, so I get a little extra.

So, there ya go.  Use the comments link below, to bring us up to date on this important issue.

And that’ll do it for today, my friends.

I apologize in advance, but I’m not sure when I’ll be able to update again.  It’s going to be a challenge for the next few days.  Sorry, but it can’t be avoided.  Only temporary, though…  By the end of the work week, everything will have returned to “normal.”

So, see ya next time.  Have a great day!

Now playing in the bunker.

I’m clearly susceptible to the later pollen.  A lot of people around here were sneezing and snotting a month or so ago, when the grass started growing and the flowers were first in bloom.  But not me, I was as immune as the Omega Man.

And now I’m paying for it…  The later pollen is flat-out kicking my ass.

Every day, when I get out of bed for some reason, I launch into an extended sneezing-jag.  It starts almost as soon as I go vertical, and continues for ten solid minutes.  Just one sneeze after another, with barely enough time in between to catch my breath.

Plus, my eyes are watering and goopy, and thin crystal-clear snot is pouring from my nose.  Oh, I’m quite the ladies-man at the moment.

People watch me convulse and holler, and say (with their expressions), “Shit man, why don’t you take a Claritin, or something?  Have a little dignity, for crying out loud.”  But I’m not a pill kind of guy.  Aspirin is about as far as I’ll go, and that’s only in extreme circumstances.

As my grandmother used to say, “I don’t have to pop a pill every time I get a turd caught sideways!”  Good ol’ grandma…

We’re trying to sell the rolling box o’ beds, and had two calls on Friday.  One was an older man, and the other was a woman with a cigarette and bourbon-ravaged voice box.  Both wanted to come look at it, and we told ’em we’d have it set-up all day on Saturday.

The man showed up around noon, in a sparkling Corvette convertible.  He was wearing golf clothes, including pressed slacks with a razor-sharp crease.  Not really the kind of person you’d expect to be in the market for a pop-up camper, but whatever.

“Are you going to pull your new camper with that ‘vette?” I joked.

“No,” he said, just as humorless as eye cancer.

He walked around, not asking a single question and making occasional grunting noises, then said, “I don’t like the color.  Everything else about it is fine, but the color is not conducive to my liking.”

Not conducive to his liking?  Well, well.  Isn’t that fancy?  The color of our ancient camper is not conducive to his liking.  Everything still works, it’s in great shape, and the price is low.  But, you know, if the side stripes were more of an earth tone…  Wotta douche.

And the woman with the catastrophic windpipe didn’t even show up.  We waited around for her until around one o’clock, and I finally got irritated and called her.  Caller ID cuts both ways…

She answered (there was no mistaking that terrifying rattle) and I said, “Hi, this is Jeff, the guy with the pop-up camper for sale?  Are you still interested?”  Those were my approximate words, but my tone said, “So what’s the story, sister?  We’re sitting over here with our thumbs up our asses.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said.  “I meant to call you.  We won’t be looking at your camper, after all.  We bought one yesterday evening.”

Grrr…

On Sunday we weren’t going to set it up, because I needed to go to work in the afternoon.  But a woman called early in the morning, and said she’d really like to see it.  So, I dragged my ass out there once again, and popped-up our pop-up.  If she doesn’t show, I mumbled to myself, I’m going to go all Kiefer Sutherland on someone.

But she was right on time, and seemed to like what she saw.

She told us she’d recently looked at another pop-up, of similar vintage, and it was “a piece of crap.”  The canvas reportedly had big holes in it, and some of the aluminum bars were missing.  The roof over one of the beds was propped-up with a 2×4, and the owner blamed the holes on “groundhogs,” which he insisted was standard.

Comparatively speaking, ours is the Ritz Carlton on wheels, I guess.  She wants her husband to look at it, and we might or might not hear from her again.  Who the hell knows?  One thing’s for sure, though… this whole process blows a flat of eggs.

On Saturday evening we took Andy (Black Lips Houlihan) for a long walk, and somebody’s living in our future house!  I don’t care for it.  I’d never seen evidence that people were actually living in that place, I thought it was still in the final phase of construction.

But there they were:  interlopers.  I saw a man in the backyard rolling up a hose, two cars in the garage amongst a mountain of fambly-clutter, and a woman on the front porch reading a magazine and drinking iced tea.

I wanted to yell at the man, “Hey Hose Boy, you’d better take good care of it!  ‘Cause we’ll be living there soon!”  But I’ve learned that my filter works best when there’s a possibility of getting my ass kicked.

When we were almost home one of Toney’s kooky friends drove up beside us in her hybrid, and stopped.  She started rambling on with incoherence, as is the tradition, bouncing wildly from subject to subject.

At the end of her performance she said she had “a screaming headache,” because of all the weather fronts moving through the area(??).  “I guess it’s the millibars,” she explained.  And I had to go home and look it up.  Millibars?  WTF?  This woman IS the Nancy of Pennsylvania.

And that brings us to the Question of the Day.  I have a feeling this is going to be a fun one…  In the comments section below, please tell us your favorite Nancy & Nostrils story.  I know we usually keep this stuff on the highly classified “shadow website,” but rules are made to be broken.  Right?  Right.

So, have at it.  And I’ll see you guys tomorrow.

Have a great day, boys and girls.

Now playing in the bunker.