On Saturday afternoon Toney and I wanted to go out for our traditional two pints each, but neither of us had much enthusiasm for the yuppie bar.  It always smells like disinfectant in there, and there are far too many socks-less loafers shuffling around.

Bennigan’s offers a surprisingly good lineup of beers, but the place has the atmosphere of one of those display kitchens at Home Depot.  And the clientele is often a little… sad.

We don’t like to venture too far from home, so what to do?  Jim Dandy’s is gone, Toney won’t set foot in the dive bar, and those are pretty much our options.  We’ve basically been adrift, without a decent public house to call our own.

Then one of us suggested a bar/restaurant we wrote off several years ago.  I can’t remember exactly why we stopped going there, the food was pretty good, I think.  But I seem to remember it smelling like a wet dog all the time, like the carpeting had been mildly moist since Watergate.

And I also recall having a few beers in their bar, when I first moved to Pennsylvania, and it was so smoky you practically needed a miner’s helmet to navigate the joint.  I know bars are often smoke-filled (oh, I know bars), but this place was ridiculous.  I always felt like throwing my clothes away, and taking a bath in tomato juice.

But, Toney reminded me, smoking isn’t allowed in bars and restaurants anymore…  So maybe it was worth a revisit?

And it most certainly was.  The place has a real pub-feel, there were lots of neighborhood folks in there enjoying the golden elixir, and a respectable lineup of drafts was available.  We both chose a Sierra Nevada to start, and the bartender was friendly and welcoming.

Wow.  And this was available to us all along?!  For some unknown reason we’d canceled it out in our minds, to the point where we didn’t even see it when we drove past anymore.  You know how that happens?  A decision is made, and that’s that, even after the original reason is forgotten?

We went with Bass Ale for the second round, and marveled at the collection of regular folks, just out having a few beers on a late Saturday afternoon.  I didn’t see any chronic drunks, white trash itching to stab something, or anyone sobbing uncontrollably.  It was our kind of crowd.

The only small downside?  The beers were $4.50 each.  If they’d been one dollar cheaper, I’d be ready to proclaim it PERFECT.  But after our long tortured search for an appropriate drinkery… I‘ll pay the extra four bucks per week without (too much) bitchin‘.

Ladies and gentlemen, I think we might’ve found our place.  Our quest might finally be at an end!  …I’m sorry, I’m getting a little emotional here.

Next weekend, however, we’ll be doing a rare birthday edition of the Saturday two-pints, and going all the way to (gasp!) Scranton.  Toney’s birthday is on Sunday, so we’re going to start the festivities at Cooper’s (300 bottled beers, 35 taps), and see where that leads us.

And if all goes well, we might do it again in a couple of weeks, when it’s my birthday.  Dat’s right.

Unfortunately, on the same day we experienced our grand pub breakthrough, we also found out the local Don Pablo’s has gone out of business.  And that eats it from the ass-in.

Yeah, I know it’s a chain restaurant, and completely Americanized, blah, blah, blah.  But we enjoyed it.  In fact, it was one of our favorites.

When we lived in southern California we were spoiled by the kick-ass Mexican food on almost every corner, and I always wondered if I was losing my edge by liking Don Pablo’s so much when we got to PA.  Every time I scarfed down another of their delicious platters of goodness, I had a nagging concern my standards were slipping.

And that might be true, but I don‘t care.  I’m going to miss that place.  We ate there at least once a month, for eight years.  It’s in our blood.

Why are you abandoning us, Don?!  I thought we were friends?  Please come back!  We need you!!

There is another Mexican restaurant nearby, but I had one of those (ahem) Sunshine-style run-ins with the management staff the only time we were there.

I think I might have to lobby the family for a revisit, since the one on Saturday worked out so well…  I’ll let you know how that goes.

Some of you might already be aware of this, but today is Election Day.  Right after I hit PUBLISH on this update, I’m going to cast my votes, over at the school administration building.

I’m not going to tell you my choice for president (longtime readers shouldn’t have a problem figuring it out), but I will tell you who I voted for in my FIRST presidential election:  Walter Mondale in 1984.

And my guy received 13 electoral votes, versus 525 for Reagan.  Heh.

Let’s not get into a big political brawl here, I think we’ve all had just about enough of that particular turd fiesta.  But I’m interested in the first presidential candidate you voted for, in a general election.  Use the comments link below to tell us about it.

Also, did anything interesting happen to you while voting today?  Or do you even plan to vote?  Bring us up to date, won’t you?

I’ll leave you now with yet another sign I’m getting really old, and tie it all together with a punk(ish) song about drinking and Election Day.  I tried to think of one about drinking, Election Day, and Mexican food, but couldn’t come up with one.  So this will have to do.

See you guys tomorrow.

Now playing in the bunker.

We went to Sam’s Club on Saturday, to buy a new set of tires for my car, and I wanted to tell them (as Phil Hendrie might put it) to jam it up sideways, then left.

I don’t know if the guy at the counter was an asshole, semi-retarded, or both.  But we weren’t communicating as humans normally do.  Here’s part of our conversation:

Me:  Do you have the Michelin LTX to fit a Camry?
Him:  No.
Me:  No?
Him:  No.
Me:  There’s a stack of them over there.
Him:  Not to fit a Camry.
Me:  Do you have any Michelins to fit a Camry?
Him:  We have Goodrich.
Me:  I said Michelin.
Him:  We don’t have any.
Me:  You don’t have any Michelins, in the whole store?
Him:  Not to fit a Camry.
Me:  But there are Michelin signs all over this place.
Him:  We have Goodrich, and Dunlop.
Me:  How about Goodyear?
Him:  Yes.
Me:  How much are those?
Him:  Different prices.

It was maddening.  His entire side of the conversation was monotone, and carried out with an I-don’t-give-a-shit-about-you attitude.  I finally told him to forget it, and walked away.

And Toney got mad at me.

The two of us started arguing, and she accused me of having a run-in everywhere we go.  She didn’t say it out loud, but there was an unspoken insinuation that I was acting like Sunshine.  And, man, that’s a low-blow.

I don’t see how any of it was my fault.  The whole conversation was a series of cul-de-sacs.  He never volunteered a suggestion, or alternative to anything I asked him; I had to do all the lifting.  And his attitude was infuriating.

I suggested we go to Wal-Mart or Sears, and as I was saying the words I could envision the monumental hassle it would be.  So, I sighed theatrically, and went crawling back to “No Outlet” Jones.

Since I have a long commute, and live in a snowy part of the country, I didn’t want to cut corners on the tires.  You know, the way I’ve done for the past thirty or so years. So, I swallowed my pride and bought the most expensive Goodyears they had.

And as I was preparing to pay, what must’ve been the regular cashier returned from his lunch break…

“Thank God, you’re back,” the first guy said, while looking straight at me.  Then he went out into the garage, to spread his special brand of joy to a different group of people.

The new cashier, very personable and full of energy, said, “Did he tell you how long it will be, sir?”

“Are you kidding?” I said.  “How well do you know that guy?”

But I got my tires, dammit, and that’s the important thing.  And, in my own defense, I didn’t go completely Sunshine on that dude.  As evidenced by my still-valid membership card… Sunny would’ve been banned for life, and possibly arrested.

And it’s interesting to note how the Jeff Kay of 2008 shops for tires vs. the Jeff Kay of, say, 1995.

Back then I would’ve asked for the absolute cheapest option, and ended up buying something manufactured by a company you don’t usually associate with tires. Like Westinghouse, or Jordache, or Arm & Hammer.

But now that I’m hurtling toward old-manhood, I instinctively gravitate toward the opposite end of the spectrum.

I swore all this stuff wouldn’t happen, yet it’s happening…

While waiting, I purchased two shirts, and this book.  I went for the book because it was only $7.52, for some reason.  I’d read a glowing review of it somewhere (Entertainment Weekly?), and decided to give it a shot.  What of it?

And since we’re on the subject, I was in Target recently and noticed this thing on the shelves.  It’s a large coffee table book, with a hard cover.  Baffled, I flipped through it, and was even more confused after the fact.

On the first random page, there was a photograph of the Kool-Aid Man.  Then: a black & white picture of some unknown guy smoking a cigarette.  Then: Mary-Kate Olsen in a lace bra and panties.

What the hell?  I didn’t spend too much time with this new literary classic, for fear of a co-worker coming around the corner and catching me looking at outsize photos of freaky insect-like chicks, wearing underwear and standing in 1977 Elvis Costello poses.

Weird shit…

Toney’s birfday is coming up, and she mentioned a certain perfume she’d like to have.  And while at Sam’s I noticed a pallet-display of various “fragrances,” all being sold at the same price.  I don’t know nothing ’bout no fragrances, and wondered if I might get lucky.

So, I started flipping through that crap, and realized every single item was tied to a celebrity.  They had Britney Spears, Celine Dion, Tim McGraw(??), P. Diddy(?!), Gwen Stefani, and plenty of others.

How strange.  I had a vague knowledge of celebrities releasing their own lines of perfumes and colognes, but didn’t know it was so widespread.

What celebrity fragrance would you be least likely to buy?  Nancy Kulp?  Rhea Perlman?  Margaret Thatcher?  Jack Black?  Jack Webb?  Morley Safer?  Los Lobos?

Use the comments link below.

Also at Sam’s, they have an inordinate amount of “self-improvement” books.  Have you ever read a self-help book that actually improved your life in some discernible way?  I don’t think I’ve ever read one.  I wanted to pick up Chicken Soup for the Black, Black Soul, but couldn’t find it anywhere.

Oh, I’ve read several books about writing, but those are instructional.  I’m talking about the ones that supposedly teach you how to be more positive, and tell you to go to the Porsche dealer and sit in their cars, and that sort of thing.

Have you ever had any luck with such a book? Tell us about it, won’t you?

And I’m gonna have to stop right here. I need to iron a shirt and go to work. I know I should iron four shirts at once, so I don’t have to do it every day, but the thought of ironing four shirts is too sad to even contemplate.

See you guys tomorrow.

Now playing in the bunker.

Any thoughts?

A couple nights ago I took a Tupperware-style bowl of clam chowder to work with me, and popped it into the microwave on my lunch break.  And after the buzzer went off (two minutes, thirty seconds later) I opened the door, and the bowl was on its side in a sea of uncontained soup.

How is such a thing possible?  What are the logistics?  I’d removed the lid, and laid a paper towel across the top to cut down on splatter (ha!).  And the shit went sideways on me.  I had successfully completed the same mission many times before, but this time experienced a pronounced failure.

So, instead of enjoying a piping-hot bowl of chowder, I got to spend a big hunk of my lunch break cleaning a communal microwave.  Good fun.

But seriously, how do you think it happened?  What’s the science on something like that?  Large, violent bubbles exploding inside a cold, thick paste?  Would that upend a three-pound bunker-buster of Progresso?  Help me out, won’t you?

Because I can’t have that.

Doesn’t daylight saving time end (start?) this weekend?  What exactly is the point?  It seems like it has something to do with farmers, or livestock, or grain, or whatever.  I don’t know, and don’t care enough to find out.

Oh, it’s not as big an irritant as, you know, people saying “myun” instead of “mine,” but I’ve never much cared for daylight saving time.  It seems rather cavalier to go monkeying around with the clock, all willy nilly, don’t you think?  It’s fairly arrogant, when you stop to think about it.

Plus, it’s confusing.  Fall forward, spring back?  Spring up, fall in?  Spring first, fall later?  Spring backward, don’t get any on ya?  Yeah, that catchy little phrase doesn’t help me at all.

Any opinions on this most curious of rituals?

And have you ever improvised a bit of comedy that went over like a cauliflower fart at Easter mass?  I’m not talking about a joke that nobody laughed at, but one that actually pissed people off and changed the entire atmosphere of a room.

Of course I wouldn’t have brought this up, if I wasn’t leading up to something…

When I was in Atlanta, you see, Eric Clapton released the song “Tears In Heaven,” supposedly written after his son fell out of a window (or something) and died.  It was a huge hit, and everyone knew the sad back story.

Well, I shared an office with two other guys, and one day there were several other folks in there as well.  Tom Petty’s “Learning to Fly” came on the radio.  And without hesitating, I said, “Hey, isn’t that the song about Eric Clapton’s kid?!”  Learning to fly.

Immediately I realized I’d miscalculated, and saw that I was without allies.  Most of them stared at their shoes, one guy looked at me like he simply couldn’t believe it, and another was openly hostile.  “That’s a hell of a thing to make a joke about,” he blurted, as everyone slid away shaking their heads in disgust.

Turns out the guy who was angry, a semi-bigshot, was a HUGE Clapton fan, and had named his first son Eric.

Sheesh.  People really need to get the Big Stick of Righteousness out of their asses.  If you can’t joke about tragic infant death, what can you joke about?  It’s political correctness gone mad!

And I hate to admit this, but I was just conned at Wendy’s.  I consider myself to be a professional, needless to say, but the cashier got one over on me.

After ordering my usual #1 with cheese, no pickles, and a Coke, she said, “Medium or large?”

This threw me, because they usually ask the more general question, “What size?”  And I always say small, because a small at Wendy’s is still pretty large.  But since she didn’t offer small as an option, I froze-up and went with medium.

And this caused the price to shoot up by a buck, thus breaking the five dollar rule.  And I was given an order of fries so large I needed one of those warehouse-worker lifting belts.  The Coke was also a two-hander, and cast me in deep shadow throughout the meal.  It was far too much of a good thing.

Never again!  I will not be manipulated into super-sizing, by any more black magic fast food cashier parlor tricks.  And you can make a note of it.

I hope you’re all pretending to have a Kraft caramel sealed to the roof of your mouth today.  I know I am.

And yesterday’s comments, about bad hotel rooms, were flat-out hilarious.  A fantastic collection of stories…  I read most of them last night, after I got home from work, and was wiping away tears of laughter.  Extra-good stuff.  Thanks, as always.

I’m struggling today, and feel like climbing back atop the platform.  So I’m going to stop right here.

Have a great weekend, boys and girls.  I still owe the Surf Report VIPs a super-secret update, and I’ll try to get it done in the coming days.  Maybe Sunday?  No promises, but that’ll be the goal.

See ya later.  The couch and happy hour at the Piss Biscuit Bar & Grill are calling my name…

Now playing in the bunker.

What’s the worst hotel/motel room you’ve ever encountered?  I can think of three, right off the top of my tiny Duke head, that register fairly high on the ol’ turdometer.

So, let’s run ’em down, shall we?

I’ve told this story before, but when I was a kid our family made a stop at Niagara Falls on vacation.  Since we’d never been into Canada, my brother and I lobbied my parents to stay norf of the border for a night.  They were planning on the exact opposite, but we finally broke them down.

So, we drove onto foreign soil for the first time (exotic!), and chose a motel that looked OK.  It had two floors, in an L-shape, with a pool out front.  Kids were doing cannonballs off the diving board as we entered the parking lot, and it appeared to be a prudent lodging choice.

But as we were walking to our room, it became apparent that the place was actually pretty rough around the edges.  It was painted and maintained to look nice from the street, but it was all an illusion.  None of us said anything, but we knew we were about to bed-down in a shithole.

Indeed, the room was shabby, with beat-to-hell furniture.  And roaches scampered in every direction when we turned on the bathroom light.  Above the beds was a framed print of The Blue Boy, with one eye missing.  It looked like someone had shot it with pellet gun, or was it a spyhole?  Gulp.

My brother and I howled in protest, and said there was no way we could sleep in this terrible place.  My Dad, who is usually pretty laid-back, got really pissed at us, and insinuated we were a couple of Niles and Frasiers, years before Niles and Frasier had even been invented.

So, there was massive tension in the air.  Dad almost never flew off the handle like that.  Mom?  Well, that’s a different story…  But it’s kinda disconcerting when the good cop turns on you.  Ya know?

Yeah, we’d be spending the night with the roaches, and that one-eyed poofter in pantaloons, after all.  A very distressing turn of events.

And as we were marinating in the bad vibes, my Dad looked over at a bottle of Coke (or whatever) sitting on the night table between the beds.  The table had no legs, it was just a platform attached to the wall, and was radically slanted, as if someone had been sitting on it.  And my Dad said, “If that Coke starts moving, somebody catch it, OK?”  Pressure relieved…

We asked if we could go swimming for a while, and there was (I kid you not) a turd in the pool.  Everyone scampered out of the water, screaming bloody murder, and the brown invader floated around, as if propelled by a tiny motor.

A boy, about our age, was providing the play-by-play, and announced to the crowd, “She’s breaking up!  She’s breaking up!!”

Good times.

And shortly after we moved to California, Toney and I came back to Atlanta for a desperate homesick visit.  We stayed at the Red Roof Inn on North Druid Hills, and was assigned one of the worst excuses for a room I’ve ever seen.

It was normal-sized, I think, except for, you know, the elevator shaft running through it.  Seriously, the elevator was almost literally inside our room.  Oh, it was all walled-in, and everything, but it was inches from our bed.

So, all night that thing would run up and down, up and down.  Rattling and clanking and wheezing…  And the size of it ate up almost the entire room.  I had to turn sideways to get to the pee-catcher, it seemed like the elevator was putting off heat, and the noise was just incredible.

I bitched like I was entered in a bitching contest, but they said they were full and couldn’t move us.  I think they knocked a percentage off the price, but it wasn’t enough.  I told them I’d never stay there again, and they told me that would be OK with them.

Pitiful.

And lastly… an ex-girlfriend and I were having trouble, years ago.  The writing was on the wall, but we were trying to make it work.  We decided to visit the Smoky Mountains in Tennessee, for a “romantic” weekend getaway.

Knowing it’s basically a tourist trap, we decided to just book a room when we got there.  Hell, there must be a million hotels and motels in that area, right?  Maybe we could find a cool lodge, or mountain cabin, or something.

Yeah, that turned out to be a tactical error.  There was indeed a million hotels and motels, and every one of them had a NO VACANCY sign out front.  We ended up staying at a scary-ass place, way out in the middle of nowhere, with tractor trailers parked all around it.

Wotta dump.  The bathroom was filthy, the furniture was loaded with cigarette burns, and there was evidence the sheets hadn’t been changed since the previous guests checked-out.  Blecch.

It was, in my estimation, little more than a long-haul trucker jack shack.  The ghosts of a million Junior Samples yelling “Hee Haw!” haunted the place, and I slept fully-clothed, with a Wal-Mart bag between my head and the pillowcase.

Oh, and I almost forgot…  It was located in a dry county, so we couldn’t even buy beer to take the edge off our disgust!

And outside our door some freaky guy sat in a lawn chair all night, staring silently ahead.  His head was just a skull with skin over it, and he never said a word to us.  In fact, I don’t think he even blinked.  It might’ve been a cadaver, for all I know.

Yeah, it was a fairytale weekend, alright.  Extremely successful.  It wasn’t the reason my girlfriend and I broke-up, soon thereafter.  But it sure didn’t help.

And now it’s your turn.  Tell us about the worst, most disgusting hotel/motel rooms you’ve encountered in your travels.

And I’ll be back tomorrow.

Now playing in the bunker.