Daily

A few days ago I was out running some errands, and Toney called and asked me to pick up some salad makin’s.  So I stopped at a nearby grocery store on my way home, and could barely get into the place because of all the grills and patio furniture out front.

Do people really buy stuff like that at a grocery store?  I’m not talking about a Super Wal-Mart, or a Mega Target, or whatever.  This is just a regular grocery store, that sells regular grocery store stuff — for the most part.

But right now they have three or four different propane grills to choose from, and several large pieces of furniture, etc.  And I just can’t imagine myself ever making the following statement:  “Let’s see, I need to pick up a dozen eggs, some milk, …and heck, since I’m here I might as well buy a dining room table and hutch!”

Ya know?

Our baffroom contractor (the newest member of our family) told me he recently bought a GPS unit from Price Cutter, a grocery store in a neighboring town.  A GPS unit!  He also has an “expensive Garmin,” and guess which one he likes better?  That’s right, the no-name (Sany?) model he purchased alongside carrots, and whatnot.

It’s not something I’ve ever done, or probably will ever do.  The prices can’t be very good, can they?  I mean, seriously.

But what about you?  What’s the most unusual thing you’ve ever purchased from a regular grocery store?  Tell us about it in the comments.

And this one’s incredibly short, for a host of reasons.  Including this.  But I’ll get back to it tomorrow, full-tilt.

See ya then!

Now playing in the bunker.

Thanks to everyone who downloaded and read A Convenience Story over the weekend.  I hope you enjoyed it.  And thanks, especially, to the folks who helped me promote the eBook, via Twitter and Facebook.  I hoist a frosty glass of what’ll eventually kill me in your honor!

If you don’t have your copy yet, what in the finger-snapping heck are you waiting for?  Grab it now, right this very minute.  Here’s your link.

I know you’re going to find this hard to believe, but our upstairs crapatorium still isn’t finished.  Today, supposedly.  On Sunday the contractor said he was going to pull a late-nighter, and get it finished “no matter what.”  And around 5 o’clock he packed up his stuff, and went home.

Hey, your guess is as good as mine…

Yes, I sure am glad the guy’s not working by the hour, because he doesn’t exactly move like Mrs. Howell on radioactive beets.  But he’s doing a good job, as far as I can tell.

It’s looking really good up there.  In fact, we’ll probably be loading up on the Starbucks coffee and Sunkist orange drink, so we’ll be forced to use the room more often.  I can hear the Secrets now, “Ahhhh, he got to have an upstairs assplosion last time!  It’s my turn now!!”

Hopefully I’ll be telling you it’s completed in tomorrow’s update.  But I doubt it.  I think the guy’s a member of our family now; I think he lives here, I’m just not sure.

On Thursday I took the younger Secret golfing, and it was pretty much a fiasco.

I insisted we go to a little Par 3 course, not far from our house.  It’s usually abandoned, or nearly-abandoned, and the holes are so short it’s hard to get into any real trouble – even for me.  You can basically use a 7-iron and a putter, and nothing else.  It’s as close to real golf as I’m comfortable with.

There was another fat man and son playing two or three holes ahead of us, but we were far enough apart so as to avoid awkward tension.  We pretty much had the whole place to ourselves.

And do you ever notice that when you go bowling, or play golf after not having done so in a long time, you usually do really well in the beginning?  It’s true.  I bowl maybe one time per year, usually three games, and I always start out like a pro.  Then the wheels fly off.

Same thing with golf.  I seriously thought I’d hit a hole-in-one on Thursday, with my very first swing.  The ball landed about two feet from the flag, and rolled to within inches of it.  I couldn’t believe what was happening before me.

But it went downhill from there, fast.

On the second hole, I think, I bent over to pick up a ball, and the button on my shorts came rocketing off.  (I’m not sure where it finally ended up, I’m just thankful my son wasn’t blinded.)  And my pants fell down roughly a half-dozen times before we went home.

Usually you can zip up a pair of pants without a button and ratchet the little tab over, and it’ll hold.  But these were shorts made of some kind of heavy material, and I couldn’t get the tab to do its duty.  And almost every time I teed-off I was left standing there in my underwear, my shorts bunched around my ankles.  I thought the Secret was going to die laughing.

Also there were roughly 100 million gnats on that golf course, and I had to pee like Man O’ War during the entire game.  I really shouldn’t have polished off that McDonald’s sweet tea while we were driving…

I seriously considered sneaking off into the woods, letting go of my shorts, and relieving myself into a patch of poison ivy.  But I was convinced the course was loaded with surveillance cameras, and they were already laughing and watching our every move, because of my Buster Keaton pants.

And how would I explain to Toney, that while she was out of town our son was taken into temporary custody by the state, after I was arrested on a public urination rap?  It wasn’t really a conversation I wanted to have…

So, I didn’t have a very good time, to tell you the truth.  Those shorts were so damn heavy they just wanted to be down.  They were like theater curtains.  I started playing with my legs spread completely apart, so the pants couldn’t physically move, but I was so low to the ground I needed to choke up on my club.

It was a pitiful display.

When we finally finished I almost ripped the door off the pro shop, and hollered, “BATHROOM!  Where’s the bathroom?!”  Mr. Polo Shirt pointed in a general direction, and I was gone before he could actually say anything.

And I’m pretty sure I power-etched a deep groove in their porcelain, stripped that shit all the way down to raw steel.  But that’s their problem; I’m a very busy man.

Do you have any “needing to pee with a powerful urgency” stories to tell? I can think of two more, right off the top of my head…

A million years ago I was driving to a picnic with a girlfriend, and she needed to go. Right now. But we were on country roads, and she wasn’t too receptive to the idea of squatting behind a bush. She wanted me to try to find a gas station, or a diner, or something.

So we kept driving, and saw nothing but cows and barns. Eventually she started freaking out a little, and was almost speaking in tongues.

Then she did something I’ll never forget… She turned around and opened the cooler, which was on the backseat. And she grabbed a bottle of Heinz ketchup, wedged it tight between her legs, and held onto the neck with both hands like she was trying to land a damaged airplane.

I knew better than to make any comments about this curious turn of events, but plenty of them were flying around inside my head. We finally found an old filling station, straight out of 1952, and she tossed her ketchup bottle aside and went running.

And on the last day of school in 11th grade (I think), I needed to visit a urinal in the worst way. But I happened to be in a class led by a woman who hated me, and she told me to sit down and shut up when I asked if I could be excused.

Of course it kept getting worse and worse, and I could feel my inner organs beginning to ache. And not just my bladder, either. I’m talking lungs, etc.

Then I started seeing spots, and my dead grandfather was there…

Screw this, I thought, and walked out the door. Mrs. W. hollered, all frantic and shrill, “Jeff, what do you think you’re doing?! I didn’t say you could leave this classroom!!!” and that sort of thing.

When I returned, five minutes later, she said in front of the whole class, “Jeff Kay, what are you ON?!”

Man, I hated that woman, and the feeling was completely mutual. I should’ve just walked to the front of her class, taken it out, and relieved the pressure while doing The Twist. Heh.

And that’s gonna do it for today, children. If you have any stories along those lines, we need to hear them without hesitation. Use the comments section below.

Oh, and one more thing before I go… I’d like to start a gallery of Surf Reporters rocking the new shirt. Please send me a photo, and I’ll post it at the site. It can be a regular snapshot, or get creative with it, whatever. Send it to jeff (at) thewvsr dotcom.

And good God, I just read Metten’s latest at Mockable… Don’t miss it!  I’m still laughing.  A perfect companion piece to today’s update!

I’ll see you guys tomorrow.

Now playing in the bunker.

In olden times, before the internet, I published a questionable little magazine (I use the term loosely) called The West Virginia Surf Report.  It was filled with absurd articles and straight-up silliness, very similar to the stuff I’m now writing for Mockable.  Like this, and this, and this.

It was all “material,” completely and quite obviously fabricated.  I was influenced heavily by the National Lampoon, and was trying to duplicate the tone and brilliance of their writers.  Unsuccessfully, I might add.

When I moved to California, in 1996, I started hanging out with Mark Maynard, who, along with his girlfriend (now wife) Linette, published the legendary zine, Crimewave U.S.A. We had a lot of ridiculous fun out there, pulling stunts (like wearing sandwich boards outside NBC studios — offering to make their sitcoms funny), and engaging in all manner of stupidity.

Mark asked me to write an article for the next issue of his magazine, but I didn’t think my stuff was a good fit for Crimewave.  His zine was all about personal stories, autobiographical humor, and that sort of thing.  I just made up silly bullshit; I’d never written about myself, had never even considered such a thing.

But he kept pushing me, and I decided to give it a shot.

After some frantic contemplation, I decided I might be able to get some mileage out of my time spent working at a convenience store in Dunbar, WV, back during the mid-1980s, and went to work on it.

Not wanting to embarrass myself in front of the entire zine community (Crimewave was very popular), I spent an inordinate amount of time on it.  I sweated bullets over that article, and tried to make it as good as my talents would allow.

And it actually worked.  I was pleased with the results, as were Mark and Linette, and there was a lot of positive feedback from the readers, as well.  In fact, that article was better received than anything I’d written before.  It was an amazing turn of events.

During that same approximate period I discovered Krista Garcia’s online journal (the word “blog” hadn’t been invented yet), and the idea for TheWVSR.com began to take shape.  I’d write about my everyday life, like Krista does, and maybe duplicate the convenience store triumph.  And occasionally sprinkle in some silly bullshit, for old time’s sake…

Fast forward to 2009.  TheWVSR is still going strong, and I’m wanting to offer a free gift (bribe) to people joining the mailing list.  Maybe an eBook of some kind?  But what would be the subject of said “book”?  I thought about it for a few days, and then it hit me:  just go back to the beginning.  Why not simply republish the convenience store article that started it all?

It was a good choice, because the piece hasn’t been on the site in a long time.  I removed it, because I wanted to include the article in a book project that hasn’t gotten off the ground (yet).  Plus, people still occasionally ask me about it, so there’s at least a small amount of interest out there.

So that’s what I’ve done.  I renamed the article “A Convenience Story,” and enlisted the help of a graphic designer.  And my very first eBook is born.  …I’m sorry, I’m getting a little emotional here.

I announced it to the mailing list last night, and it’s available to everyone today.  All you have to do is join the list, and you’ll receive download instructions via email.  Here’s the form, which is quick and painless.

I hope you enjoy the story.  Please let me know.

If you’re so inclined, I’d appreciate a mention of the book on your blog, at Twitter, on Facebook, or wherever.  Please send readers to this page, and NOT directly to the download link.  Thanks in advance for helping spread the word.

And if you don’t blog, or waste loads and loads of time at social networking sites, feel free to attach the file to an email and fire it off to your friends.  I’d be much obliged.

Finally, I’d like to know if you’ve ever worked at a job where the inmates basically ran the asylum? A place where there was rampant theft, violence, and general grabassery — and management had no control over any of it?  If so, tell us all about it in the comments.

And that’s all I’ve got for you guys today.  I’ll get back to the normal stuff on Monday.

Thanks for the continued support!

Now playing in the bunker.

Why can’t people sit still in a movie theater?  I mentioned that we went to see the new Harry Potter last weekend, and the place was predictably crowded.  And during the entire film there was just constant motion in the place:  people getting up to go to the bathroom, trading seats, and apparently just walking around.

And what kind of weirdo just walks around inside a movie theater?

I admit that I don’t like long movies.  But that’s because they’re almost always in bad need of editing, and therefore suck.  They’re usually made by some director who had massive commercial success early in his career, and now longs for “respect.”  So he starts bloating his shit up with unnecessary scenes, and crap that doesn’t move the story forward.

But even during the most self-indulgent turd of a film (think Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me) I don’t feel the need to power walk around the screening room.  Ya know?

Call me a radical, but I just sit there and watch the movie.  I don’t talk, I don’t shake a Skittles bag as if it’s my turn at Yahtzee, I don’t chew popcorn like it’s been very naughty and requires discipline, and I don’t call my boss to check on the “Tayback project.”

I think it’s an inability to focus, some kind of attention-deficit situation.  That, and just general douchebaggery.  You can never completely discount douchebaggery as an explanation for such things…

What do you think?  Am I just a pain in the ass, or has theater decorum gone downhill over the past decade or so?  Sweet sainted mother of Jonas Grumby!

Last weekend I added Carbonite to my laptop, and it’s been doing its initial back-up for almost a week now.  There’s 51 gigs of stuff on that computer, almost all of it music.  And I think it only backs-up three or four gigs per day.

So there’s a major backlog.  Like in my liver.

But I’ll certainly feel better once all that stuff is protected.  If I lost those mp3 files (about 15,000 of them), I’d probably just roll into a ball and start sucking my thumb.

Do you back-up your computer?  I was using an external hard drive for my PC, but wasn’t very conscientious about copying things over.  Eventually it just turned into a gigantic Phil Hendrie Show archive.

So now I have Carbonite on both computers, and they’ve got me ensnared in a two-headed auto-renew cycle that will never end.  Good job, guys!

Believe it or not, I’m going to play golf this afternoon.  The younger Secret wants me to take him while his mother and brother are out of town, and I’m gonna do it.

Should be interesting.  Because I am to golf what Stephen Hawking is to… golf.

Are any of you familiar with a so-called band called Tinted Windows?  I didn’t know anything about them, until about fifteen minutes ago.

Apparently they’re a “super-group” featuring Taylor Hanson(!) from Hanson, James Iha from Smashing Pumpkins, Adam Schlesinger(!!) from Fountains of Wayne, and freakin’ Bun E. Carlos(!!!) from Cheap Trick.

James Iha doesn’t get any exclamation marks; I can’t just be handing them out all willy-nilly.

But have you heard the album?  On paper it seems like a can’t-miss.  How does it actually sound?

And what’s the greatest super-group of all-time?  Has there ever been one that could be called great?  I’m drawing a blank here.  The Traveling Wilburys?  Nah.

I’ll leave you now with a question from the Stealing Clive Bull‘s Topics desk.  It’s a fairly wide-open subject, but it translated into interesting radio and I’m hopeful it’ll do the same here.

Please use the comments link to tell us your stories about being lost.  Have you ever taken a wrong turn somewhere and ended up in a… situation?  Or have you somehow found yourself in Deliverance territory, not having any idea how to get out?

Tell us about it, won’t you?  Use the handy-dandy commenting tool below.

And I’ll see you guys next time.  Possibly tomorrow, with something quick and fun.

See ya then, I hope.

Now playing in the bunker.

There’s an inordinate amount of chaos at Chez Kay this week.  Chaos and aggravation.  I wouldn’t expect much from this update if I were you, I really wouldn’t. But I’ll do what I can here…

The bathroom is sitting unfinished, and we haven’t seen the contractor since Sunday.  Kinda concerning.  Toney spoke with a person in their business office yesterday, and she promised the guy would be here by 10 am today.  As I type this it’s 11:31, and we got nothing but crickets.

On Sunday he put some stuff (a technical term) on the floor, that he said must be allowed to “set” for 24 to 48 hours.  So he wouldn’t be here on Monday, he told us.  But he’d back at it on Tuesday, and planned to work 10 to 12 hours that day.

So I don’t know what the hell’s going on.  It’s Wednesday, and we haven’t heard from him.  I’m fixin’ to make a phone call, and can feel my inner-bastard asshole (basthole) coming into bloom.

Grrr…

Also, Toney and the older Secret are going out of town for a few days.  He’ll be competing at a multi-day swim meet in another part of the state, so I’ll be holding down the fort here until Friday evening.

And that means I’ll be in charge of feeding the younger youngling, and getting him to his various camps and activities on time.  I don’t know how Toney keeps track of it all; I’m going to need a freaking schematic over here.

But I’ve got the feeding part covered:  Five Guys tonight, TGI Friday’s tomorrow.  Done!  Yes, I’m an old-hand at the feeding part.

Oh, wait. Andy’s going ass-over-tits upstairs.  I’ll be right back…  Yep, it’s the plumber.  He gave me some convoluted story that might’ve included the words “Tobyhanna” and “miter saw,” but I wasn’t really listening.  The important thing: he’s back on the job.  All is forgiven; pass the beer nuts.

Surf Reporter Brian sent me this picture yesterday, presumably of a fellow-shopper at a store somewhere.  Sexy!

And you’ve GOTTA check out this great post by Greg Miller, about West Virginia strip clubs.  In fact, you should bookmark his site, and subscribe to the feed.  ‘Cause the dude is right up our alley, as they say.

Finally, I was listening to George Noory last night, while driving home from the Demoralization Institute, and one of the callers said he believes Earth and the human race exists for the entertainment of aliens.  They’re watching us, he believes, like a big reality program.

And that got me to thinking…  If we are, in essence, players in a massive, never-ending sporting event, wonder if alien kids collect human trading cards?  “I’ll trade you two Harry Ocheltrees for one Danny Rose…”

And if they do, what kinds of stats about us would they have on the backs of the cards?  Number of beers consumed during entire “career?”  Number of times he’s “romanced” himself?  What do you think?

In fact, what kind of lifetime statistics would you like to see about yourself?  If there’s some official scorekeeper in another galaxy, constantly crunching the numbers on us, what categories would you most be interested in seeing?

Use the comments link below, for your thoughts and ideas.

And I’ll see you guys tomorrow.

Now playing in the bunker.