I think I need to buy a new set of tires for my Camry.  They’re the same ones the car came with, when I bought it three years ago, and they’re starting to go a little Garfunkel on me.

And since I drive almost forty miles to work, and the weather reports are now featuring the word “snow,” I think I’d better bite the bullet and get it done.  I’m going to take it to Sam’s on Saturday, and tell ’em to hook me up.

I like Sam’s for tires, because they post a price, and that’s what it costs.  Other places insist on pissing me off by adding fee upon fee (stem fee, mounting and balancing fee, disposal fee, revenue-enhancement fee, fee for adding fees, etc.) and completely changing the complexion of the whole deal.

At Sam’s, at least, you know what you’re getting yourself into.  You might not like it, but you know where you stand.

Like I’ve said many times before, though, I hate spending money to get back to where I was yesterday.  You know, like when the washing machine shits the bed, and that sort of thing?  This isn’t exactly one of those situations, the tires will be newer and safer, but it’s close.

I mean, they’re tires.  Hundreds of dollars for sharper, more luxurious grooves?  It’s hard to work up a good enthusiasm for such a thing…

Pass the beer nuts.

When I was a kid there was a telephone number you could call, to find out what time it is.  Is that not hilarious?  And everybody used it.  In fact, I still remember the number:  344-5111.  Does it still work?  Any Charleston area readers want to test it for me?

Nowadays, of course, it’s not too difficult to get the correct time.  In most cases, in fact, it’s not even necessary for us to swivel our heads (thank God).  It can be found on computers, cell phones, DVD players, the coffee maker, the kitchen stove, the toilet paper dispenser, a meat loaf sandwich…

But in a bygone era (the 1970s), the current time was more elusive and mysterious, I guess.  And we had to make a series of telephone calls.

“The time is… four seventeen.”  Wonder what happened to that woman?  She always seemed a little smug to me, like she was lording it over us.  But it was hard not to appreciate the way she milked the suspense, like Regis on Who Wants to Win a Substantial Amount of Money?, or whatever that show was called.

Many years ago there was a local “comedy” show on public television in our area, called Dick’s Half-Hour.  I wrote two scripts for it, and one featured the “time lady,” being held hostage by the phone company.

She was kept in a room, you see, with nothing but a desk, a chair, and a phone.  And they forced her to tell callers the correct time, 24 hours a day.  The best part of the skit was when the door opened, someone yelled “food!” and threw in a sandwich bag.

I was supposed to be paid fifty dollars for this so-called humor, but I guess the check got lost in the mail?

And speaking of time, I’ve never worn a watch in my life.  Is that unusual?  Toney thinks it’s nuts, but I just don’t like things strapped to my body.  Perhaps if I added a counter-weight to the other side?  Yeah, I don’t think that’s really the problem…

I’ve been given several nice watches as gifts, especially during my high-flying record weasel years, but they’ve all gone into the flat drawer, above the underwear and socks.  I have no interest whatsoever.

For a few days, many years ago, I bowed to social pressure and experimented with wearing a watch.  And it’s just not for me.  I might be convinced to tie a thermometer to my leg, but a clock on my forearm is out of the question.

And you know how I said the word “snow” was starting to work its way into local weather forecasts?  Well, check this out.  It’s not even November yet!  I guess I shoulda bought those tires last weekend?

I need a little help with something…  This morning, before I hoisted my heft off the platform, Toney says the power went off.  Probably because of the heavy-ass snow weighing everything down.  And when it came back up, her computer wouldn’t connect to the internet.

I have the cable going into the wireless router, then continuing directly into my machine.  Her computer connects to the internet through an antennae-type device, and it’s been working perfectly for several years.

I fired up the laptop, and it connected to the network with no problem, so the router is working.

I think the antennae might’ve (as we say back home) blowed-up.  When we plug it into a USB port, the computer recognizes something is there, but can’t figure out what it is.  We’ve tried various ports, and it just doesn’t work.  Also, the light on the device doesn’t stay on anymore.

It’s fried, isn’t it?  Any ideas?

Finally, I’m going to leave you with a question from the Stealing Clive Bull’s Topics desk:  What do you think is the best TV theme song?  I’d have to go with Green Acres, The Addams Family, and Malcolm in the Middle. What do you think?  Use the comments link below.

And I’m going to get ready for work now, and prepare to slip and slide my way to the office.

See ya tomorrow, I hope.

Now playing in the bunker.

Five Guys The older Secret doesn’t like it, for some unfathomable reason, so we only go when he’s off doing something else.  On Saturday he went to a football game with one of his Hair Bear Bunch peeps, and we seized the opportunity.

For the first time I altered my cheeseburger choice, and requested (in addition to lettuce, tomato, onion, mustard, and ketchup) green peppers.  I noticed it on the list recently, and my WTF? meter went wild.  But the more I thought about it…

Yeah, and it was really good.  I recommend it, if you’re so inclined.

I wish they offered cucumber, ’cause I wouldn’t mind giving that a shot as well.  It was a sangwich topping choice at a restaurant (bar) in Greensboro, and I thought it was surprisingly good.  Perhaps I’ll smuggle in three or four slices of cuke next time, in a baggy?

Do you put anything unusual on burgers/sandwiches?  How ’bout hot dogs?  I saw a large-nostriled fellow load his hot dog up with a quarter pound of mayonnaise a few days ago, and I threw up a little inside my mouth.

Use the comments link to tell us about it, if you’re prone to the novelty toppings, etc.

And while we were enjoying our burgers (fukkin great, as usual) something strange happened.  An older couple, probably in their seventies, went to the counter and placed their orders.  Then they had a seat, and the woman immediately removed a brown paper bag from her purse.

And she proceeded to fill it with the free peanuts Five Guys has sitting around in crates.  She acted like it was the most natural thing in the world; she didn’t try to hide it, or anything.  She just stood there and shoveled handful after handful into her sack, then rolled down the top and sat it on the floor beside her purse.

Toney and the younger Secret had their backs to the action, so I was the color commentator for all this.  And as I went on and on with “Can you believe that?!” the woman rose from her seat again.

And this time she grabbed one of the paper bowl-type things you’re supposed to use for the peanuts, and emptied all the iced tea lemon slices into it.  Then she put another paper bowl over the top of it, and buried it deep inside her purse.

What kind of crap is that?!  It’s almost shocking.  Almost.

It’s the same kind of thing that ruined the one decent Chinese buffet in town.  Shitkickers would go in there and fill a laptop bag with sesame chicken, load a Dairy Queen cup with shrimp, and waddle out with their Hammer pants sagging from the weight a dozen egg rolls.

Incredible.

The yuppie bar Toney and I like to get away for an hour a week, just the two of us.  It’s often full-on chaos at our house, with everyone going in different directions, and all manner of craziness happening.  So, we try to sit down with a pint or two on Saturday afternoons (or lately, Fridays during happy hour), and catch up.

This week we visited the yuppie bar on Saturday, before dinner.  I don’t really like the yuppie bar that much, it always smells like a urinal cake, but we don’t have many options.  Ever since our beloved Jim Dandy’s closed, we’re kinda stuck.  Toney refuses to visit the dive bar, so we’re left with chain restaurants, or the Piss Biscuit Bar & Grill.

But, to be fair, they usually have a decent lineup of beers, at reasonable prices.  So we tolerate the funk.

This time I started with a Victory Hop Devil, then switched to Newcastle Brown Ale.  Both were tasty.  I like Hop Devil, but it’s one of those situations where two’s too many, and one ain’t enough.  I always limit myself to just one; it’s a good beer to start with.

We’re not usually at the yuppie bar so late in the day, and the dinner crowd was starting to arrive as we were preparing to leave.  And you shoulda heard all the weird-ass “specials” the waitresses were flogging…

It makes me uneasy, if you want to know the truth.  A bar should serve nachos, hot dogs, greasy burgers, steak fries, and not much else.  When I hear the words “with a mint jelly glaze” I have a strong suspicion I might be in the wrong drinking establishment…

The liquor store A couple of weekends ago we experienced a false start to Bourbon Season.  We had a bottle of Early Times in the cabinet, left from last Christmas, and got caught-up in the fallness of it all.

But it didn’t take hold, and felt less than genuine.  The season is supposed to be kicked-off with a bottle of Maker’s Mark, not some leftover crapola from way back on a shelf somewhere.

So, we corrected the problem, and officially got the season underway this past weekend.  And it seemed real this time.

Generally speaking, I’m not a liquor kinda guy.  But during this time of year, a little whisky (or whiskey) hits the spot.  Why is that?  Why is there a Bourbon Season?  The thought of Maker’s Mark in summer seems almost impossible to me.

It’s all tied to autumn, absolutely.

Target Toney had to pick up a few things, and we tagged along.  And I decided to buy a copy of Dark Side of the Moon from their $9.99 rack.

I probably haven’t listened to that album in close to twenty years, and it’s not an exaggeration.  I never owned it on CD, and almost never listen to classic rock radio stations.  But I thought the price was good, and feel like every serious collection should contain it.

And yeah, it still sucks.  I never liked Pink Floyd much.  Oh, they had their moments, but overall… no.  They’re artsy-fartsy and pretentious in my opinion, the musical equivalent of mint jelly glaze.

As far as I can tell, there are only four or five real songs on Dark Side of the Moon.  The rest is just sound effects, and reminds me of those CDs stereo stores use to demonstrate speakers.

Incredibly lame.  The most overrated album of all time?  It’s gotta be way up there.  Am I wrong?

What are the most overrated “classic” albums in history?  This should be fun…  Argue about it in the comments, my friends, and I’ll be back tomorrow.

See ya then.

Now playing in the bunker.

I had to work last night, on one of my “days off,” and believed we’d only be there a few hours.  We had to get caught up on something, and when I left on Wednesday it seemed like a slam-dunk.  But, of course, it all turned into a cluster-copulation, and we ended up working well into the next day.

The bigger problem?  I miscalculated, and didn’t take a lunch.  And since there are no fast food joints anywhere near, I was screwed.  I ended up having a Dr. Pepper and a sack of barbecue Fritos from the vending machine.

And when I left there, in the middle of the night, I was freakin’ starving.  I considered driving through McDonald’s again, and risking a stay at Leavenworth Prison, but that didn’t sound very appealing to me.  What else is open at 2:30 in the morning, though?

Waffle House!  Yeah, man.  Waffle House would be just what the cardiologist ordered.

So, I walked in there, and took a seat at the high bar.  There was a guy who looked like the Unabomber sitting at the low bar, drinking coffee and moving his beady eyes all around.  And in one of the corner boofs was a dude with an Apple laptop, scrambled eggs, and lots of file folders full o’ paper.

The lone waitress took my order:  cheese omelet, hashbrowns, bacon, and sweet tea.  And I watched as the dude prepared my meal, right in front of me.

While I waited, a hipster couple came in, and took a seat behind me.  They were talking a little too loudly, and were probably drunk.  I mean, it was Waffle House in the middle of the night…  Inebriation is almost a requirement.

And I don’t know if it was just because I was especially hungry, or what, but that shit was nothing short of excellent.  Everything was fried-up to perfection, and it usually isn’t.  I left there, one happy sumbitch.

Then had two Yuenglings, before crawling into bed…  Yes, it’s how I’ve been able to achieve and maintain my powerful upper-body.

And speaking of food for the masses, are any of you familiar with a restaurant called Moe’s Southwest Grill?  They’re supposedly planning to open one near us, and I’m not familiar.  Any good?  Anything I should know, before venturing forth?

Yesterday I proclaimed this mildly disturbing video Further Evidence.  And I need your help with something…  Can you hear someone puking at the very beginning of it?  Or is that just my imagination?  What in the tri-state hell??

The older Secret told me a kid lost his trunks during swimming practice earlier in the week.  They were being timed while swimming freestyle, and the kid logged a disappointing 59 seconds.  You know, because his pants were around his ankles…

So, what are they calling him now?  That’s correct, Buttcrack 59.  And, of course, everyone’s saying, “I’m just glad we weren’t swimming a backstroke!”  Good times.

For the record, the kid blames it all on a missing string.  His mother washed his trunks the night before, he said, and they came out of the dryer with no string.

Heh.  Buttcrack 59.

I forgot to mention this yesterday… When we were at the mall last weekend, to buy my bargain fleece jacket, we passed two women praying furiously.  They were on a bench outside Old Navy, holding hands, huddled together, and frantically asking the Lord’s assistance with something.

What do you think that was all about?  Do you think they were praying for their Visa card to not be denied?  Any ideas?  I need closure.

And will you be buying Chinese Democracy, when (if) it’s finally released on November 23?  I’m kinda curious, and will probably pick up a copy, if the price is right.  What about you?  Any interest?

And since I have, let’s see, seven more items on my weekend to-do list, I’m gonna stop right here.  I warned you not to expect much…

You folks have yourselves a fine one, and I’ll see you on the other side.

Now playing in the bunker.

Over the weekend I decided I needed a fleece jacket.  I have a couple nice winter coats, but all my lighter ones have seen better days.  My favorite, a green pull-over rain jacket (or somesuch), is starting to fray around the edges.  And I can’t have that.

So, we started at Dick’s Sporting Goods, and I was shocked (shocked, I tell ya) by the prices.  A plain North Face fleece, nothing special beyond the logo, was eighty bucks.  Eighty!  And Columbia wasn’t too far behind.

I’m sorry, but that shit is out of the question.  What am I, the mayor of Douchetown?

I considered going to Target and just getting a no-name version.  Heck, it’s just a torso cozy, who cares about the brand?  But Toney convinced me otherwise, and said we should try the mall.

I hate the mall, but begrudgingly agreed.  And within minutes I’d found exactly what I was looking for.  It was Columbia, fifty-five percent off the original price, and an additional discount if we used our JCPenney credit card.

So I ended up getting a really nice jacket for less than thirty bucks.  Original price:  seventy(!).  And they had all the enormo-sizes, and everything.  Pretty cool.

I never consider the mall.  I have it in my head there are no deals to be found there, that the prices are jacked-up so retailers can pay enormous rent on their fancy-pants spaces.  Plus, as mentioned, I pretty much hate sprawling shopping complexes, and avoid them whenever possible.

I didn’t always feel this way.  When I was in my twenties, and earlier, I kinda liked spending time at the mall; an ex-girlfriend and I would often make it our evening destination.  And I remember enjoying it.

But something’s happened, either to me or the malls themselves, and I now have no interest whatsoever.  On rare occasions when I’m required to visit one, I become almost instantly fatigued by boredom, and shuffle around like a victim of elephantiasis.

There’s just nothing there for me now.

I remember hanging out in bookstores, but they’re all out in the parking lots at this point.  And I used to find great cut-out LPs at National Record Mart (including the first three Jam albums, and the original Nuggets).  But I don’t even bother visiting mall CD stores these days; the prices make me grimace like Gilbert Gottfried.

And in the early days of the Town Center Mall in Charleston, there was a store called Heaven.  They sold retro hipster t-shirts and knickknacks, and had extra-tall candy counters – so you’d feel like a kid standing in front of them.  And they stocked Zotz and Razzles, and all manner of stuff I’d almost forgotten about.

So, that was fun.  As was the food court.  My parents aren’t exactly the adventurous types, and I hadn’t been exposed to many unusual foods.  You know, like calzones, and tacos.  When the Town Center first opened, their fast food lineup seemed impossibly exotic.

Yes, and I tried them all, with the exception of the Greek place.  They had a big slab of shiny gray meat rotating on a giant skewer.  The guy (who always had his short sleeves rolled up) would slice off a few slivers, and wrap it up in what looked like a wash cloth.  No thank you.

I have no idea what kind of “meat” it was (lamb?), and suspected they just turned off the heat/rotation mechanism at closing time, then back on in the morning.  I had no proof of it, but was convinced their enormous quivering meat slab sat there for months on end.  Hell, for all I know, they’re still working on the same one, from opening day in 1983.

And there was a pet store, which we used as the world’s worst zoo (Look, a terrier!!), and a Dairy Queen, and a video game arcade, and several other interesting destinations.

But it’s all over now; I have almost literally no interest in what’s being served-up by those places.  I like books (no decent bookstores inside malls anymore), music (ha!), electronics (nothing, unless you count Radio Shack — and I don’t), and that’s about it.

I’d rather slam my face into an industrial fan than just wander around aimlessly looking at clothes.  I only care about cell phones one weekend every two years, don’t use cologne (call me a radical, but my goal is to smell like nothing), and have little interest in an all-natural apricot/milk buttock-mask.

The food courts don’t even do it for me anymore.  I guess I’m one jaded mofo, I don’t know.  But they’re all the same, it doesn’t matter what city (or country) you happen to be in.  Gristly and suspicious Chinese food (Look, a terrier!), a Subway with even higher prices, a place that offers-up expensive “stuffed pizza,” and all the regular fast food joints, only worse.

The one exception?  Chick-fil-A.  I still get excited by Chick-fil-A…

But who’s at fault here?  Me, or the malls?  And what’s your feeling on the subject?  Do you still make “the mall” an entertainment destination, like people seemed to do in olden times?  What do you get from them?  What’s the attraction?

At this point, the only mall I have a burning interest in visiting, is this one.  But it has more to do with mass zombie death, than the Pepperidge Farm kiosk.

So, there ya go.  Do with this topic what you will…

I’d also like to know how much you guys are paying for gas where you are.  I filled up a couple days ago, and paid $2.89 a gallon.  Five years ago I would’ve recoiled in horror at that price, but thought it was a freakin’ bargain on Tuesday.  What’s it like in yer neck of the woods?  Use the comments link below

And I usually don’t update on Fridays, but since I let every one of us down yesterday, I’ll be here.  I can’t promise quality, but I will promise words.  Tomorrow, I will post more words…

See ya then.

Now playing in the bunker.

Snow showers tomorrow, here in the Upper Perogie Belt?  On October 22??  That’s what they’re saying, but I’m highly skeptical.  I suspect it’s a conspiracy, perpetrated by the bread and milk lobby.

Big Bread, especially, cannot be trusted, and have their evil tentacles wriggling in places they do not belong.  They’re dangerously powerful, and capable of creating a BME (bread & milk emergency), at will.

But I think they’re overplaying their hand this time, by starting their manipulations so early in the season.  I believe they’ve made a tactical error, and are at risk of exposing their true intents.  I’ve got my fingers crossed that the American people will finally open their eyes to the truth!

If the media weren’t so in-the-tank, they might question the presidential candidates about this disturbing situation, and provide the general public with the information we need.  But, of course, not a word is ever said about it.  And it’s all so very predictable…

We need to break our dependence on out-of-state bread, crush the Udder Cartel, and apply diplomatic pressure to the hard-charging cookie/cracker union, before this situation compounds itself.

Alas, I see no reason for optimism.

On Saturday morning I had 975 spam messages in my Surf Report email box.  A new world record!

I’m very anal about clearing out spam, and delete it roughly twenty times per day.  So, all that crapola piled-up Friday night/Saturday morning.  And I didn’t do a detailed analysis, but I believe the word “girth” appeared in most of them.

Just so you know…

And speaking of anal (heh), I’m in the midst of a powerful 1970s Elton John jag.  I’ve been playing Tumbleweed Connection, Madman Across the Water, and Honky Chateau, as if they’re a source of food and oxygen.

Also, I ordered remastered versions of Captain Fantastic and Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, from my friends at yourmusic.  And when the mailman didn’t deliver them this morning, my heart sank.  I was one dejected husky-man, in cheeseburger sleeping pants.

I’m starting to get worried.  Will somebody please hold me?

And since we’re talking about music, the Suggestaholic made another shrewd suggestion yesterday.  If you get the chance, you should check out that movie, ’cause it’s really good.  And the autobiography?  Even better.  Dat’s right.

And you know what‘s really starting to piss me off?  Kid Rock, and his retard-o-rama song that’s played every twenty minutes on the radio.  You know, the one where he digs up the graves of rock ‘n’ roll royalty, and has his way with the remains?

I can’t take it anymore.  I didn’t believe it possible, but that turd is approaching “We Built This City”-level suction.

And I used to like Kid Rock, I really did.  Devil Without a Cause is hilarious, rockin’, and fun.  What happened?  Where did it all go wrong?!  That guy is in danger of disappearing up his own exit ramp.

After I bought the Replacements reissues from Amazon recently, they sent me a note telling me they were going to add a year to my Rolling Stone subscription (to show their appreciation).  Everybody keeps wanting to add years to my subscription!  I think I’m now locked-into that magazine through 2047, and it cost me, like, seven bucks.

I read an article recently that said Rolling Stone has never had as many subscribers as they do right now.  In an industry that’s in trouble, they’re somehow thriving.

Yeah, wonder why?  When you give the shit away…

And I’m going to close out this rather abbreviated update with a couple items from the Stealing Clive Bull’s Topics desk:

If you could wave a magic wand and change ONE thing about yourself, a physical attribute, what would it be?  The obvious answer for men was banned by Clive, so let’s use his rules here, OK?

I can’t really come up with anything, except stuff that could be corrected with exercise and a cutting-back of Funyuns.  I don’t have a big ol’ Streisand nose, or anything like that…  What about you?

Also, what is your earliest memory?  I remember being outside an apartment building on 15th Street in Dunbar, where our fambly lived when I was three years old.  A neighbor girl, wearing a dress, was pouring Coke on the sidewalk, and a woman told us to cut it out already.

So, I was three, I guess.  Can you trump three?  Tell us about it in the comments.

And I need to go to work.  Sweet sainted mother of Bobby Buntrock!

I’ll see you guys tomorrow.

Now playing in the bunker.