Daily

A few minutes after I hoisted myself off the platform this morning, Toney called and said I had a few “assignments.”  And these included picking up the oldest Secret and taking him to his orthodontist appointment.

Why so many office visits?  Seriously.  It feels like I’m carting him over there every Thursday afternoon.  Is it really necessary to stare down his Eggo hole two or three times per month?  What in the candy-striped hell is going on here?!

But I do as I’m told, and drove out to the middle school at the prescribed time.  The office chick reluctantly buzzed me in, and I was handed a clipboard.  I checked the early-out box, wrote my son’s name, put “teef” as the reason, and handed it back to her.  She looked at it, then at me (in my Magnolia Thunderpussy shirt), and said I could have a seat.  Just as humorless as a severed spine.

Some seventh grader, or whatever, came clomping in and sat down beside me.  Nobody asked why he was there, and he didn’t volunteer any information.  He looked uncoordinated and clunky, even sitting in a chair.  And he smelled like Frito’s.

Then a woman arrived and said, “Hi, I’m supposed to drop these off?” and produced a large trash bag apparently filled (filled!) with used shoes.  TF?

The Secret and I drove over to the dentist’s office, I put his name on the list, sighed, and flopped-down again.  Man, I hate that crooked-teeth holding pen…  Here’s a picture of their “arcade,” which captures a little of the excitement.

Every kid in the place was text-messaging, with a smirk on his/her face like Dick Cheney.  A girl wearing about 500 bracelets was two seats away from me, and had a voice so deep and gravelly I thought my Dad was talking for a few seconds.  She was twelve or thirteen years old and sounded like a male fire fighter, retired.  Maybe she had to have her voicebox rebuilt, or something?  I just don’t know.

They finally called my kid to the inner sanctum, and added him to the Big Conveyor Belt o’ Toofahs.  And it took forever.  He was gone for 45 minutes, at least.  Fully excruciating…  The whole time he was in there the sixth grade girl who sounds like Wilford Brimley bitched and complained about her “crappy” Nextel cell phone.  The poor thing.

When he was finished, I handed over a sizable monthly payment and we got the hell out of that terrible place.

I wanted to walk down the way, to the world’s last hipster record store.  If they had the new Eels CD for less than $11.99 I was going to buy it, I proclaimed.  And they barely made the cut:  $11.97.  We were the only people in the shop, but the clerk was still surly and acted like we were putting him out.

And now I’m preparing to drive the younger Secret to swim practice, the older one to a friend’s house, and that’s as far in advance as my brain will allow…  I’m sure there’s more, but I’ll have to complete another task before anything else will load.

Pass the beer nuts.

In addition to the new Eels, there are two other must-own CDs being released in June:  Rhett Miller (6/9) and Wilco (6/30).  Oh, I’ll be all over ’em, like a dingo on a Cub Scout.

I think I’ve revived my Netflix subscription.  It was in ICU, hooked up to a lung-blower, for a long time.  But I’ve switched back to TV shows, and everything’s better now.

I re-watched the first season of King of the Hill, and I’m preparing for the latest season of 24.  Then I’m thinking about starting on Prison Break.  The boys wanted me to rent that Mall Cop crapola, so they’re getting some use from it, too.

It’s the movies that don’t work for me…  It’s obvious now.  If I rent TV shows the discs keep moving.  But movies gum up the works.

I was very close to canceling my subscription.  I’m glad I gave it one last shot.

Yesterday I linked to this guest-article, through WVSR Classic.  And since it made me laugh, and I thought it was extra-good, I’m linking to it again.

You’ve GOTTA check out the latest mockable.  Metten’s doing a great job with the animated shorts, and the new one kicks ass.  Also, please leave a comment if you’re so inclined.  We’re feeling a little lonely over there…

And my friend Bill told me about a site dedicated to a legendary swimming pool we used to visit as younglings.  Right here.  Check out the big pic from 1940, it’s fairly mind-blowing.  The place was called Rock Lake, and they had a long-ass slide, a trapeze, a paddlewheel, and all manner of ridiculousness.  I remember people jumping off the cliffs that lined two sides of the pool, and thinking they were completely insane.

It was a blast, a great place  And, of course, long-gone…  <sniff>

What’s the absolute coolest swimming pool you’ve ever visited?  What is your own personal Rock Lake?  We need to know, it’s a matter of high urgency.

I have lots of other stuff I wanted to cover today, but everything’s jacked-up.  I’ll have to get to it next time.

I am going to restart the weekly recap emails next week, so if you’re not subscribed to the mailing list, now’s the time.  Sign up today!  There are many benefits, some we can talk about, and others we cannot.

I’ll leave you with now with a Question inspired by a recent conversation with Toney.  We’d started re-watching Homicide: Life on the Street, one of our favorite TV series, but it just wasn’t doing it for us.

“It’s a winter show,” Toney said, as if it’s well-known.  “You can’t watch Homicide in spring or summer.”

Huh.  I’d never thought about it, but she’s probably right.  It does have a bleak and dreary feel to it, that’s completely counter to hot summer nights, etc.  So, we switched to The Sopranos — and it‘s hitting the spot.

So, in the comments I’d to know what other TV shows or movies you think only work when it’s cold and gray outside.  And we can include music in this, as well…  What music do you reach for on a rainy day?

Tell us about it, won’t you?  And I’ll be back on Monday, at the latest.

See ya then!

Now playing in the bunker.

Have you ever worked with a printing Nazi?  I have.  I thought of her yesterday, when I received an email with one of those oh-so-correct reminders at the bottom:  Please don’t print this message unless you’re a selfish bastard who should develop cancer of the head and die.  Or whatever.

This woman worked at a previous job, and her desk was near the shared laser printer.  Pretty convenient, huh?  I think she lobbied to get that particular spot in the office.  So she could keep an eye on things…

It bothered her a great deal whenever someone printed a screenshot, or document of some kind.  She’d either lecture the person (if she could get away with it), or make a series of gestures and noises designed to communicate her disapproval (if she couldn’t).

She was constantly talking about (whomever), and how they’re an outrageous paper-waster.  “Every sheet used, is one less breath of air for our children,” she’d say, in a quivery, righteous tone.

And she did this with everyone, individually, to make it clear she was watching… always watching…

I bet she’s there right now, her body going completely rigid every time the printer cranks up.  Unless, of course, somebody couldn’t take it anymore and beat her to death with a Scotch tape dispenser.  Which is a real possibility.

Do you have any office cops at your job, who take it upon themselves to keep everyone else in-line?  It doesn’t have to be a printing Nazi, just any busy-body foo’.  Tell us about it, won’t you?

And check it out.  This is a series of gut-wrenching photographs sent by Knucklehead, featuring her macaw (also named Knucklehead?), going to town on the Smoking Fish.

I’m sorry, I’m feeling a little nauseous…  Nauseous and light-headed.

And, in addition to the Question above, I’d like to know if you’d prefer tiny, microscopic updates like this one when I’m running short of minutes, or should I just save it up until next time?  Let me know.

Here are the two latest posts at mockable, to take up the slack a little.

And I’ll do better tomorrow, I promise.

See ya then.

Now playing in the bunker.

Last night two people called-off at my job, and we’d been left with roughly three days worth of work to complete.  So, I had to hoist myself off my desk chair, and lend a hand.  And man, that sucked with a powerful urgency.

It was really hot in there, and I was slick like a seal.  And my pants, for some reason, kept getting bigger and bigger.  Have you ever experienced such a thing?  At the beginning of the night they were a normal pair of jeans, but had doubled in size by quitting time.

I had to keep yanking them up every few seconds, or they would’ve gone all the way to the floor.  And that’s not a joke.  I don’t think the waistband was even touching my body by 1:30 am.  And WTF?

A few nights ago I was completely asleep and Toney shoved me hard.  “I think somebody’s in the house,” she said, in a concerned and nervous tone.

Andy was in the hallway outside our bedroom, barking and turning backflips, and we could hear two voices that sounded like they were coming from our living room.  Holy crap!

Nancy and I agree that it’s unfair to assign traditional gender roles, and I considered telling Toney she’d better go check it out, while I remained behind the safety of the comforter.  But my instincts told me I’d better take the lead in this situation.

So I got up and started looking around for the pair of shorts I’d flung into the corner.

“What are you doing?” Toney asked.

“Looking for my shorts.”

“Somebody’s in the house!”

Hey, if I was going to be forced to fight a burglar, and maybe attempt some kind of fat-man tae kwon do, I didn’t want to have to worry about being in my underwear.  I have a feeling that might’ve put me off my game.  Heh.

But it was just the paperboy, and some girl, delivering the daily news.  Their voices were carrying like a son of a bitch.  I don’t know why, but I could still hear every word they were saying, when they were all the way at the end of the block.

So I went back upstairs, kicked my shorts off again, and slept for another three hours.

The younger Secret was at a friend’s house a few days ago and jumped (or fell, depending on what you want to believe) into their pool —  with his cell phone in his pocket.

The thing was completely fried.  It wouldn’t turn on, and when you pushed a button the keyboard got wet.  It was loaded up with pool water.  Grrr…

I remembered hearing somewhere that if you get a phone wet, you can bring it back to life using rice.  Supposedly the stuff will draw the moisture out of anything, if you give it enough time to work its magic.

So I went to the grocery store and bought a bag of white rice, poured it into a bowl, and buried the cell phone in it.  I told everyone to leave it alone, and we’d check it on Sunday morning — three full days later.

Yeah, and it didn’t work.  When we tried to turn it on, the phone just vibrated and wouldn’t stop.  Fan-freaking-tastic.  It’s the kind of thing that just makes me so goddamn happy…

But we got his number moved over to my previous phone, and he’s now back up and running, with no extra cost to us.  It’s a rare happy ending!

Have you ever ruined a cell phone?  If so, tell us about it in the comments.  So far I have nothing to report, but I’ve started shoving mine in my back pocket.  I know this is a dangerous thing, yet I keep doing it.  It’s only a matter of time before I mash my phone to death with my right ham.

Please stay tuned.

And I don’t know if you’ve noticed or not, but there are some new features at the site.  We now have recent Twitter tweets in the sidebar, and Top Commentators in the footer.  I also paid someone to install and configure an ad management system, that’ll work behind the scenes.  And a few other boring but essential things, as well…

In the near future there will be another new feature that I’m extra-excited about.  I think you guys will like it, too.  At least I hope you will.  Ahem.

The commentators thing goes back 30 days, and ranks folks by the number of comments they’ve left at the site during that time.  But please don’t game the system, OK?  I love comments, but they need to be legit.  If it gets out of hand, I’ll have to pull the plug on it.

And since I mentioned Twitter, how about a multi-step Surf Report call-to-action?  Please follow me at Twitter.  Then follow mockable at Twitter.  Then follow me at facebook.  Then join the mailing list.  Four steps to eternal happiness!  Or something.

I just downloaded the new Eels album, from eMusic.  I plan to also buy a physical copy of it, from Best Buy (for $9.99).  The Eels are one of my favorite “bands,” and I need to have an archival copy on the wall, as well as the convenient download version I’m listening to, right now.

And I wanted to cover a few other things today, but am all out of time here.  Good thing they keep making tomorrows…

Please tell us your cell phone horror stories, and I’d also like to know about the last time you called the cops.  What happened?  Hopefully it wasn’t because a paperboy walked past your house?  Use the comment links below.

And I’ll see you guys on Wednesday.

Now playing in the bunker.

I promised to take the Secrets fishing on Saturday, way back when Saturday was still a long way off.  And when it actually arrived, I wished I’d kept my forkin’ mouth shut.

We dragged all the poles and equipment out of the garage, and got everything organized.  I made sure there were hooks on every line, and nothing was tangled in a big spaghetti mess.

I got rid of a bunch of stupidity from the bottom of the tackle box, and kept only the stuff we’d really use.  I have no idea why there was a rusted spoon in there.  And as far as I know, there is never a need for a lure that looks like Phyllis Diller.

Then I had to go somewhere and buy a fishing license…

Years ago I pushed my luck, and banked on the laziness of park rangers for a while.  I’d noticed that most people pinned their licenses to their filthy baseball caps, and the rangers just drove past in SUVs, checking things out from the comfort of elevated, air conditioned chairs.

So, for half a summer I took my sons fishing with a Dairy Queen napkin pinned to my hat.  And not once was there even a close-call.

But I didn’t fully trust the other fishermen…  They seemed to be under the influence of some sort of high-horse outdoorsman code, and eyed my napkin with disdain.  I knew it was only a matter of time before one of them turned me in (the pricks), so I ended up going legit.

I thought about trying Dick’s Sporting Goods on Saturday, but the lines are always long and slow-moving in that place.  Plus, the parking lot is a multi-pronged clusterfuck.  So, as much as it pained me, I decided to just bite the bullet and go to Wal-Mart.  It might not be completely horrible, I lied to myself, since I’d be conducting all my business in the sporting goods department.

But the place was absolute pandemonium, a white trash jamboree.  Little buzzcut hicklets were wandering the aisles with yesterday’s fudgesicle smeared four inches in every direction around their mouths, their big halter-top mamas screaming at them from great distances, and their grandmothers shuffling around in a stained housecoat, leaning on a four-legged cane, and clutching a pack of Kents inside a leather carrying case, with built-in lighter pocket.

I told the boys to pick out some grubworms, or whatever, so we could lure some unsuspecting fishes to their death.  And they disappeared behind a rack of nets and reels.

The guy at the counter asked if he could help me, and I told him I needed a license.  “The line starts over there,” he said, and pointed at three or four bored-looking people standing single-file, and occasionally glancing at their watches.

When it was almost my turn, a man walked by cradling a large lizard in the crook of his right arm.  The thing was more than a foot and a half long, and was wearing a red dog collar.  You think I’m joking?  Well, on that count you would be mistaken.

“Can I help you?” the cashier asked.

“Did you see that guy carrying a big lizard?”

“Where?”

“Over there,” I said, and pointed.

“Holy crap, I think it’s an alligator!” he shouted.

I looked a little closer, and he was right.  The dude was walking around Wal-Mart with a baby alligator in his arms.  I about shit the bicycle helmets.

“You see…” the cashier started, with a twinkle in his eye, “people believe this is an easy place to work.  They think it’s all glamour and big bucks.  But every night when I go home, I think:  what am I gonna drink first?!”

He was a funny guy, who recognized and appreciated the ridiculousness of the situation.  I wondered if he might be available for guest columns at the Surf Report.

Then alligator boy walked right up to us.  “You got any airsoft guns?” he asked.

“Is that an alligator?” both of us said, ignoring his question.

“Yeah, it is,” he answered, offering no further explanation.

“Well, we don’t sell airsoft guns,” the clerk said, and the man walked away.

“I’ve never seen anything like that before…” I muttered.

“The thing was wearing a goddamn dog collar,” the cashier said.

By the time we got to the lake, one of the fishing poles had gone full spaghetti mess on us.  It was the oldest Secret’s, and he wasn’t happy.  Somehow five miles of line had come loose, and it was not pretty.

I told him to just use mine, and I’d supervise.  He objected for a few minutes, but finally agreed.

It was a perfect day: sunny, not too hot, not too cool, and completely bugless.  I sat on a bench and offered “advice,” exchanged text messages with Metten, and performed a little of my amateur “comedy.” Within five minutes both Secrets had left the pier, and taken up residence fifty yards away.  Everyone’s a critic…

We stayed there for roughly two hours, and it was nice.  And when I say nice, I mean nobody caught anything.  Just the way I like it.

As we were packing-up, I mentioned that I was hungry, and both boys agreed with my assessment of the situation.  I asked what they wanted, and the younger Secret said, “Donuts!”  Oh yeah, I’d willed him to say that.

And this is approximately the conversation I had with the order-board at the Dunkin Donuts drive-thru.

Board:  Welcome to Dunkin Donuts, may I take your order?
Me:  Yeah, I’ll have a dozen glazed donuts.
Board:  Go ahead when you’re ready.
Me:  I want a dozen glazed donuts!
Board:  I’m sorry?
Me:  A dozen glazed donuts!
Board:  I’m sorry sir, we’re all out of iced rings.
Me:  (WTF?)  No, GLAZED!  One dozen GLAZED!!
Board:  Oh, I apologize, sir.  That’ll be 85 cents.
Me:  For a dozen??
Board:  Oh, you want a dozen?
Me:  A DOZEN GLAZED DONUTS!
Board:  Pull forward, I’m having trouble hearing you.

Yeah, no shit?  What the crap’s an iced ring?

Then I went to a nearby grocery store, bought a 4-pack of Boddingtons, went home, and commenced to taking on massive calories.

It was a good day.  What did you do on Saturday?  Tell us about it in the comments, won’t you?

And I’ll see ya next time.

Now playing in the bunker.

Have you seen ads for this clip-on bug repellent?  The thing is huge and blue, you’re supposed to hang it off your belt, and I believe there’s a fan inside.  It makes me laugh, but I’m intrigued.

For whatever reason I’m one gnat-attractin’ sumbitch.  There can be five people sitting on our deck, and the gnats will use me (and me alone) as their personal amusement park.  And I’m sorry, but my neck fat is not the Scrambler.

So, if that repellent really creates a dome of protection, like the TV ads say, sign me up.  I’d be willing to forfeit what little sense of dignity I have left, for a bugless life.  I really would.

Heck, I might even be able to dress it up, and make it a little less stupid-looking.  Maybe I could wear it around my neck on a chain?  Or have it gold-plated, or something?  Any ideas?

And I know this is a long-shot, but have any of you actually tested that hilarious item?  Does it really work?  Does it build a dome?  How loud is the fan?  Do people ask about the grinding noise coming off your midsection?  Help me out, if you can.

We were in a Chinese restaurant recently, and my dessert informed me that I’ll someday (there was no specific timeframe) own new clothing.

Doesn’t that seem like sort of a cop-out?  I mean, they’re not exactly going out on a limb with that one, are they?  Wotta rip-off.  They served me a disappointment cookie.

But, at least it wasn’t the one I always fear:  You will be dead by sundown.  I’m convinced I’ll get that one someday, and there’s always a mild sense of anxiety whenever I crack-open one of those paranormal treats.

Pass the beer nuts.

I just met Toney for breakfast at Waffle House, and we had to sit in the skinny booth.

For whatever reason, one of the boofs in that place is a lot narrower than the others.  And I try to avoid it, for obvious reasons.  But the joint was slammed today, and I had to wedge my heft in there, then eat an entire meal with a table-edge creasing my gut.

Also, our waitress had droopy Billy Joel eyes, and looked to be on the verge of tears at all times.  Her head was in front of her shoulders, instead of above them, and she moved her entire body when she needed to look to the side.

The food was good, though.

Yesterday I logged into Facebook for the first time since I signed up, and approved about forty friend requests.  Then I spent an hour or so monkeying around with it, and checking out the pages of my friends.

It seems a lot less chaotic than MySpace.  I didn’t see any rotating pot leaves, or retina-searing strobe lights, or “How about a nice cup of shut the fuck up?”  And no horrible music started playing, which is always a plus.

But I’m probably setting myself up for a fall.  I have a feeling I’ll devote a little time to it at first, then completely abandon the whole thing.  And that will lead to more regret and self-loathing…

Facebook:  One more thing to feel guilty about.(tm)

Two things I assume about people, until proven otherwise:  they’re not bed-shitting drunk, and their pits have been washed within the past 72 hours.  Well, a guy in line with me at Sheetz yesterday… proved otherwise.

Just thought you should know.

I’m waiting on several semi-important emails from people, and it’s making me crazy.  Yet I’m roughly two months behind with email myself…  Hypocrisy is fun!

Have you ever been inside a store called Harbor Freight Tools?  I felt a little overdressed, because I didn’t have any partially-healed stab wounds, a horribly-stained wife-beater, or one four-inch tall tooth on the bottom.

Holy shit!  And I make fun of Wal-Mart?  Man, that place is like Sak’s Fifth Avenue in comparison…

Question:  Have you ever had any experience with hypnosis?  If so, we need to hear about it.  I don’t believe I could ever truly be hypnotized, I’m a full-on skeptic.  What do you know about it, from real life?  Anything?

And from the Stealing Clive Bull‘s Topics desk:  what foods do you still eat from a can?  I don’t think we have many vegetables from a can anymore (that’s kinda WWII, isn’t it?), but I do have soup every once in a while, and think Toney uses canned tomatoes in recipes.

What about you?  Is there anything that’s actually better in a can?  I’m drawing a blank on that one…  But canned peas are NASTY, even though I like peas in general.  Of that, I’m certain.

Do you have anything on this questionable Question?  Use the comments link below.

And what do you think of the idea of starting a Surf Report forum?  Is there a need for such a thing?  It would be a place for discussion, but wouldn’t be tied to a single day’s update.  Let me know your thoughts.  It’s not going to happen right away, or maybe at all.  But I’d like to get your opinions on it.

And that pretty much zeroes out the notebook.  Not completely, but close.

You guys have yourselves a great weekend!

I’ll see you on Monday.

Now playing in the bunker.