We went to Cracker Barrel for dinner last night, before the big hockey game.  And they were pushing a new menu category:  skillet meals.

As stated elsewhere, I’m a big fan of having all my food combined into a big ol’ mess before me.  So, even though I generally reject hype, I was intrigued.  One of the offerings, in particular, sounded mighty good to me.  It featured chicken, broccoli, crumbled-up Ritz crackers, hashbrown casserole, and liquefied cheese.

I didn’t really want to give our waitress the satisfaction of believing she talked me into something, but all that melted-down cheddar made it difficult to resist.  So, I told her I’d take what she suggested.  “Excellent,” she answered.  Do they work on commission?

My “Fireside Country Skillet” came with a tossed salad, and a platter of biscuits and cornbread.  A nice way to kick-off a feeding…  But when she brought my main course, I thought it was WAY too small.  It seemed like their so-called skillets are actually flattened-out coffee cups.  The mess o’ food inside looked good, but my inner-sensors told me there needed to be roughly 100% more of it.

She asked if I wanted more sweet tea, and why is such a question even necessary?  I hadn’t even started my meal yet.  Just keep ’em coming, sister.

I sighed at the sight of the pitiful offering before me, and ripped into it.  And man, it was good.  There were big hunks of white meat chicken, cooked but not overcooked broccoli, and all manner of tastiness.  It was a wise entree choice, despite the social pressure.

And it also turned out to be almost enough food.  I could’ve gone for another three or four forkfuls, but it wasn’t nearly as skimpy as I’d first believed.  It was some kind of optical illusion with cheese sauce.

If you’re a food-mixer like I am, I highly recommend the Cracker Barrel skillet meals.  I think there are three of them available at the moment, but one features mushrooms and I’m not much into the fungus.  But I’m ready to start rotating between the other two, until full burnout sets in.  Oh yes I am.

As we were leaving, the boys asked if they could get a candy from the store out-front.  Toney said yes, and asked if I wanted anything.  I declined for some reason, and started looking around while she dealt with the Secrets.

And they have something really cool there…  It’s boxes, roughly the size of hardcover books, filled with a selection of candies from various decades.  They had the 1950s, 1960s, and 1980s.  Apparently the ’70s was sold-out, which is the one I’d want.  I’m curious to see what’s included.  Zotz, maybe?!

While walking to the car, I was telling Toney about the retro candy collections, and she said she had a surprise for me.  She reached into a Cracker Barrel bag, and pulled out a long string of…  cherry Zotz!

I couldn’t believe my eyes.  It had probably been 25 years since I’d had one of those babies, and used to love ’em.  She also bought a rope of strawberry and watermelon.  I don’t think they had watermelon back in the day, but that’s OK.  I popped one of the cherry flavored Zotz into my mouth, and it was exactly like 1978.  Same size, same flavor, same everything.  I nearly wept.

Already, the night was a huge success.

The Wachovia Arena was just a few hundred yards from the restaurant, and the parking lot was already starting to fill-up when we got there.  A team of morbidly obese coal-crackers in fluorescent vests dictated where we could park our car.  I did as I was told, and we went in search of the will-call window.

The tickets were waiting for us (thanks again, Brian!), and we zig-zagged our way through the crowd, eventually finding our seats.  They were located halfway up the lower section, near one of the goals.  Very nice.

Once we were settled, I asked Toney if she wanted a beer.  Absolutely was her reply, and I told the woman at the adult beverage trailer I’d take two Yuengling drafts.  “Eleven dollars,” she said.  “HOLY SHIT!” I shouted, involuntarily.

I realized, at that moment, Toney and I would only be having one beer each.  At least until we got home…

The game itself was fun.  I don’t know much about hockey, and was amazed at the number of sticks shattered during play.  I wasn’t aware that happened so often.  In fact, it never occurred to me that it ever happens.

But every ten minutes or so we’d hear a loud crack, and one of the players would drop their ruined hockey stick to the ice.  They’d just get rid of it, wherever they happened to be, and someone would have to skate out and retrieve the thing.

One of the Penguins players has a last name of Satan (pronounced suh-tan).  And clearly, he’s the most popular member of the team; every time the announcer mentioned his name, the crowd went wild.  Those people just couldn’t get enough of ol’ Satan.  Personally, I’m partial to Hitler (with a silent T).

There were plenty of fights, small skirmishes really, which never failed to bring the crowd to its feet.  At one point there was a splattering of blood across the ice, and the Penguins’ goalie used his blades to create bloody slush, then dragged it to the edge of the ice.  And he did this like it was no big deal, just something that needs to be done from time to time.

The shit is brutal.

The action was fast and physical, and fun to watch.  When the Penguins scored a goal, however, I was almost jolted into cardiac arrest.  A full-blown locomotive horn went off, just impossibly loud, and I’m sincerely amazed my rectal seal didn’t blow.  Sweet Maria.

Following the incredible blast of noise the crowd stood, as one, and started in on some kind of freaky ritualistic response.  There was chanting, hand signals, and glazed looks in everyone’s eyes.  It was all choreographed, and automatic, and slightly disturbing.

But overall, it was a good time.  It certainly wasn’t boring, and even though there’s an insane length of time between periods, the time went by quickly.  Not once did I look at my wrist, where a watch should be.

So, that was our night on the town.  And now that we have one game under our belts, I have no doubt we’ll return.  It’s a good way to spend an evening with the family.

Here are a few pics I snapped during the game.

As for the Question of the day…  I don’t really have anything specific.

How about your favorite stadium food?  I feel silly eating anything besides a hot dog, or popcorn.  I always see people scarfing down full meals at sporting events, and that’s not something I could do.  Are you partial to any certain foods traditionally served at stadiums, and such?

And what’s the most expensive beer you’ve ever purchased?  Bill and I had a few Heinekens at a bar inside the Beverly Hills Hilton, and I think they were about eight dollars each.  As best as I can remember, those overpriced brews hold the current record in my world.  What about yours?

Also, what candies should be included in the Cracker Barrel 1970s collection?  Besides, of course, Zotz?

And that’s gonna do it for today, boys and girls.  I won’t be able to update tomorrow, but I’ll shoot for a quickie over the weekend.  I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try.

I hope you have yourselves a fine, fine day.

See ya next time.

Now playing in the bunker.

Thanks to the kindness of Surf Reporter Brian, Toney, the boys, and I will be attending tonight’s Wilkes-Barre/Scranton Penguins game.  The man has connections, many connections, and made arrangements for us to get in for the very agreeable price of nothing.  Pretty cool, huh?

I’m looking forward to it.  I’m not the world’s biggest hockey fan, but have always been interested in seeing a few games live.  I think it’ll be a blast.  …Stay tuned for a full report.

And while enjoying another delicious Marlene Colander frozen meal today, I started thinking about the professional sports teams I’ve watched play at their home stadiums.  I’ve been to quite a few baseball games, but not much beyond that.

Here’s my current list, not including minor league contests:

Baseball
Cincinnati Reds (Riverfront Stadium)
Philadelphia Phillies  (Veterans Stadium)
Pittsburgh Pirates  (Three Rivers Stadium)
Atlanta Braves  (Fulton County Stadium)
New York Yankees  (Yankee Stadium)
Boston Red Sox  (Fenway Park)
San Francisco Giants  (Candlestick Park)
Los Angeles Dodgers  (Dodger Stadium)

Basketball
Atlanta Hawks  (The Omni)
Los Angeles Lakers  (The Forum)

Football
none

Hockey
none

As you can see, most of the stadiums I’ve visited are now gone, or no longer in use.  The two I visited the most, in Cincinnati and Atlanta, have been bulldozed full-on.

I am a relic from a different era.

I’m sure plenty of you have been to more pro sports games than I have.  Give us your lists, in the comments section.  And if Steve’s reading this, you might want to submit yours in .pdf format.  I don’t know if WordPress is equipped to handle the strain of your list.  Sweet Jesus.

Toney and I were talking about something a few days ago, and somehow got onto the subject of profane doctors.

I don’t visit doctors very often, because I’m not really a fan.  I’m always convinced they’ll want to twist a flashlight into my ass.  But two times in my life I’ve encountered cussing medical professionals.  Twice, during very limited exposure.

When we lived in California someone suggested an optometrist in Burbank, so I made an appointment.  He seemed fairly standard, until he had me in the chair with that big see-thru apparatus pressed against my face.

He started flipping lenses around, and asking if each combination improved my vision or made it worse.  Only, that’s not exactly the way he put it.

He’d flick the things for a couple of seconds, then say, “How’s that?  Shitty?  Is this any better?  Did that make it shitty or better?  Any better?  Shitty?  Shitty?  Better?….”

It was bizarre.  Who talks that way, especially to a person right off the street?  I’d never met the man before.  I wasn’t offended, of course, it just made me question the professionalism of this so-called doctor.  I felt an urge to see his diploma, just to be sure.  I had a feeling he might’ve ordered it out of the back of Rolling Stone.

But he turned out to be really good, and took great care of my problematic eyes.  That first visit, however, left me scratching my tiny Duke head.  Shitty?

Also in California (is a pattern developing?), our second son was born, via C-Section.  I was in the room while the procedure took place, standing far enough behind the partition so I wouldn’t have to see anything ripping apart.

There were two docs there and, I kid you not, they made a golf date while extracting our baby.  I fought an urge to holler:  “Would you guys please focus?!  This is kind of a big deal!”

But everything went well, and after Secret 2 joined us, one of the doctors asked if I wanted to cut the umbilical cord.  I told him I’d pass, and he said, “Oh, don’t be such a pussy!”

I couldn’t believe it.  A pussy?!  Does Buck have a brother who’s a doctor in California??  It was all said in a joking way, but I wasn’t exactly buckled-over in laughter.

A nurse pressed some scissors into my hand, and I did cut the cord — against my  will.  And it felt like I was trying to saw through raw steak.  Blecch.

But, pussy?  It’s still amazing to me.

Have you had any unusual experiences with doctors?  Has anything baffling happened, like with my foul-mouthed eye doctor, or our trash-talking baby-remover?  Use the comments section to tell us all about it.

And I’m gonna cut this one a little short (like an umbilical).  Both boys are home from school now, and are playing “music” in their rooms.  It feels like I’m typing in the middle of a Best Buy store.

But tomorrow I’ll tell you all about our big-time hockey adventure.  Should be fun!

See ya then.

Now playing in the bunker.

Scranton’s world famous St. Patrick’s Day Parade happened over the weekend and, once again, I wasn’t there.  It’s a big deal in these parts, and draws incredible crowds.  But I don’t have much of an interest.

I did check it out a few years ago, just so I could say I’d been to one, and it seemed like roughly fifty percent of the attendees were drunk.  And that’s even higher than at Harbor Freight Tools.  The bars open at 7 am on “parade day,” and it’s reportedly a tradition for some to be there cheering while the doors are being unlocked.

It’s crazy.  I can’t imagine starting to drink beer at 7 in the morning.  I can understand still being up from the night before, swinging for the fences and blooping lagers, but not kicking things off during the bacon and eggs portion of the day.  I think that borders on taking it too far.

When we attended our one parade here we were surrounded by jackasses wearing novelty headgear, hollering and blasting their beer breath against the sides of our faces.  Some people were shirtless with their torsos painted green, and it was impossible to tell if they were men or women, young or old.  And huge roars would go up as unknown members of the city council rolled past in pantsuits at 3 mph.

I just stood there blinking real fast, muttering, “Why am I here?  Why am I here…?”

This is how old I am:  The only way I could truly enjoy such an event is if it started around 4 in the afternoon, the weather was perfect, we had a reliable babysitter in place, and access to a dedicated car service.  Even then, I’d probably be ready to go home after an hour, and slip into my cheeseburger sleeping pants.

It’s a sad state of affairs.

Speaking of beer, Toney and I went to Cooper’s on Friday evening, while the boys were off playing golf with ghost children at R.L. Stine High School.  The place was slam-packed, and we had to sit at the bar with our shoulders in front of us, if you know what I mean.

I perused their snooty list of drafts, and decided I’d better go with something Irish, since it’s the season for such things.  And after some hemming (I rarely haw) I decided on O’Hara’s Red.  Yeah, it was OK, I guess.  And my second pint was the new Yuengling Bock, which was also OK, I guess.

My selections were mildly disappointing this time (I plan to give the Bock a second chance), but I love the back bar at Cooper’s.  It’s a beer lover’s paradise, hidden away in a darkened alcove.

I wish I was there, right now.

Yesterday members of the mailing list were notified of a very important research project we’ve taken-on, here at Surf Report Labs.  And now I believe it’s safe to let the rest of the world in on it.  Click here to view the Woodstock Death Count!  And please use this knowledge for good, not evil.

Also, in a couple of weeks (or so), I’m going to have a special announcement to make, concerning a new joint venture between Metten and myself.  We’ve still got a few bugs to work out of it (many bugs), but I think we’ll be ready to go by the first part of April.  So, stay tuned.  It’s gonna be fun.

And finally, I’ll leave you with a couple of questionable Questions, to close out the category.

First, I’d like to know about your eBay experiences.  I have thousands and thousands of CDs boxed-up in our basement, amassed during the record weasel years, and I’m toying with the idea of trying to get rid of them through eBay.  Therefore, I’ve been mildly fixated on the site, over the past couple of days.

And I was wondering, have you ever bought something extra-cool there?  Have you sold an item, and made an inordinate amount of money from it?  Have you ever been burned?  What are your biggest eBay successes, and failures?

I can offer two stories, myself…

When we lived in California I often visited a used record store called Second Spin.  They always had a massive bin, filled with 99 cent CDs.  Predictably, almost all of it was discouraging crapola.  But I’d found just enough good stuff there to make it mandatory that I check the section during every visit.

One afternoon I discovered a copy of a CD by a Texas band called The Reivers.  It was their third album, the excellent End of the Day.  I already owned it (I love the Reivers), but knew their stuff was rare and out of print.  So, I snagged it.

When I got home I put the disc in a clean jewel box, and tossed the cracked and sticker-laden case that had come with it.  Then I listed the CD at eBay, stating accurately that it was in “like new condition.”

Yeah, and the winning bid was $72, plus three bucks for shipping.  I’d paid 99 cents!  It’s my biggest eBay success, to date.  I’ve tried to top it, but have never even come close.

And just so you know, the Reivers albums have since been reissued on CD, and are no longer rare.  But back in the day, they were almost impossible to find — and I had all four.  It had taken me many years to complete the set, and almost immediately they were re-released for $9.99 each.  And so it goes…

Also, at eBay I bought an incredibly cool panoramic photograph of my hometown of Dunbar, WV, taken on September 23, 1924.  It’s huge, more than three feet wide, and is crystal clear.  I can even see my aunt’s house, and found out it used to have a wraparound porch.  Who knew?

I think I paid less than fifty dollars for the thing, and it’s now framed and hanging in our family room.  It’s definitely one of my greatest eBay successes.

Do you have any interesting stories to tell on the subject?  Use the comments section below.

And what do you think about my plan to liquidate the mountain of old CDs in the basement?  A bigger hassle than it’s worth?  Most of it’s straight-up garbage, and probably wouldn’t even sell.  But who knows?  There might be some hidden jewels in there somewhere.  One man’s Deee-Lite, is another man’s treasure.

Also, if you have any St. Patrick’s Day debauchery tales to tell, we’d like to hear those as well.  I got nothin’, I’m afraid.  But what about you?  Have you ever gotten bed-shittin’ drunk in honor of an ancient religious leader?  Tell us about it, won’t you?

And I’ll see you guys tomorrow.

Have a great day!

Now playing in the bunker.

I told you recently that my eMusic account refreshed, and I had another fifty (fifty!) songs to play around with.  Welp, this isn’t something you can just go jumping into all willy-nilly.  Oh no, much contemplation must take place.

For instance, I like to download full albums only; I’m not really a cherry-pickin’ kind of guy.  And since the credits don’t carry over from month to month, I attempt to use EXACTLY fifty songs — no more, no less.

So, you see, it’s a little like working a puzzle.  If I get this one, it’ll only leave eight songs, but if I go with that one, I’ll have eleven and can probably find something good with eleven songs it…  On and on it goes, for days, sometimes weeks.  It’s part of the fun, really.  And next month I might start using Microsoft Excel to help organize the process.

In any case, here’s what I finally settled on:

Justin Townes Earle (12 songs)  Son of Steve Earle, my favorite communist country & western singer.  This thing has the critics a-slobbering, AND he covers the Replacements.  How could I not get it?  I mean, seriously.

M. Ward (14 songs)  I literally knew (know) nothing about this guy (or is it a band?), but several of you suggested I check out the latest album.  So I did, and love it.  I’ve been burned by a few critics’ darling dirge records recently (Bon Iver), but this one has plenty of life in it, and wit as well.

Robyn Hitchcock (10 songs)  The brand new album by one of my favorite artists.  I had a conversation with him and Peter Buck once, in Raleigh.  Robyn was exceedingly friendly, and even drew a cartoon for me on the back of an envelope (it’s a long story), but Peter looked at me like I was wearing a full sash of turds.

Young Fresh Fellows (14 songs)  A great album I own on vinyl LP, but never got around to buying on CD.  A classic from my hipster days.

So, there ya go.  On March 23 I’ll have fifty more songs, and it’ll start all over again.  Can’t hardly wait!

And just so you know…  Those four albums cost me $14.99, and it would be exactly $36.97 at iTunes.  Oh yeah.

When I slapped my contact lenses on my eyeballs yesterday morning, I could tell something wasn’t exactly right with the left one.  It was a tad uncomfortable.  So I took it out, squirted it with saline, rubbed it around in the palm of my hand, and put it back in my eye.

And it felt OK for the first five hours or so.  Then it started stinging, and I eventually had tears rolling down my cheek like that garbage Indian.

By the time I got home this morning, around 2:30, it felt like someone had jumped out of the bushes and stabbed me in the left eye with a pocket knife.  Possibly the scissors (or fish scaler) blade on a Swiss Army knife.

I really need to keep some solution in my desk at work.  It’s one of those things I intend to take care of, way off in the abstract future sometime.

Because I don’t think I’d really enjoying wearing an eye patch for the rest of my life…  Sure, it seems kind of cool, but I have a feeling reality might be a little different than fantasy.

From Netflix I recently received The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford.  I remember thinking I’d like to see it, but when I opened the envelope I noticed it has a running time of 2 hours 39 minutes.

So, it went right back into the mail.  Funk dat.  Two hours is too long, in my opinion, and two and a half is out of the question.  If a director can’t tell a story in 120 minutes or less, it’s not a story worth telling.  You know, generally speaking.

Next up:  Burn After Reading.  Running time:  96 minutes.

I’m completely addicted to lists.  I scribble them in my notebook all the time, attempting to bring order to my chaotic life, I guess.  I build a to-do list for every day of the week, one day in advance, and another that covers the whole weekend.

For today I have three items written down, and haven’t completed any yet.  This update is one of them, though.  So, by the time you read this, at least one task will be completed.

The weekend list only has six things on it, which includes the three from today.  I used to make the mistake of hopeful estimating, and would create unreasonable expectations.  Then I’d get all worked up about it, and want to slug myself in the genitalia.

So, you see, I’m becoming very skilled at this list-making.  I’m pretty good at being realistic, while still pushing myself.  I can make you a list of the best list-making practices, if you’d like.  Just let me know, and I’ll add your list list to my list.

A few nights ago Clive Bull asked his listeners what they’d miss most if they left England, and the responses were pretty interesting.  So, let’s try it here…  What would you miss most if you left the U.S. or Canada (over 85% of you are in the U.S. or Canada), especially if you moved to a country that hasn’t been Americanized (yet).

Also, I know there are a few American readers now living abroad.  Like Taiwan On and Aaron in Australia…  If you guys could tell us what you miss the most about the good ol’ U.S. of A., if anything, we’d be much obliged.

And I’m not really talking about high-horse stuff like freedom and liberty either, I’m talking about Cheetos and that sort of thing.

Also, I’d like to know what’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever seen lying in the middle of a road.  I once happened upon a full-blown upright piano, on I-64 in West Virginia.  The thing had apparently fallen off the back of a truck, and was fucked nine ways to Sunday.

Plus, there were sofas and ladders on 285 in Atlanta, almost daily.  Seriously, almost every day.

Use the comments link to tell us your stories on that subject.

And I’m gonna turn it over to Buck now, and call it a week.  Here’s his latest, which I know you’ll enjoy.

You guys have yourselves a fantastic (that’s kind of a gay word, isn’t it?) weekend.

And I’ll see you on Monday.

Now playing in the bunker.

Have you ever noticed how people promote bits of trivia about themselves, little factoids they clearly feel is important for others to know?

I try not to be overly obnoxious about things, but I think I do it too.  For instance, I like to tell people that all four members of our family were born in different states – none of which happen to be the one where we currently reside.

So, even though I recognize the phenomenon, I’m not completely immune to it.

I was considering this while driving home last night, and thought back to my job in Atlanta, circa 1995 or so.  And I can do an almost full factoid tour of my corner of that building.  Don’t believe me?  Well, check this out…

My boss:  born in Germany, worships Neil Young, believes the Beatles are overrated, is an avid bowler, lives with constant pain because of “nerve trouble”

My co-worker/office-mate:  raised in New Orleans, loves death metal (“That’s right, even though I’m black!”), has had an inordinate amount of sex with many, many women

Guy across the hall:  takes his job very seriously, reads lots of business books, graduated the Dale Carnegie course, is constantly upgrading his condo

The guy next to him:  Christian conservative, believes Rush is right, hates his job, can drink coffee at any time of the day or night and it won’t keep him awake

The guy across from him:  won $5000 in a radio contest, wouldn’t be caught dead in a Ford, never had a cavity, thinks Carrot Top is a riot

The woman next to him:  had open-heart surgery as a child, could live on barbecue chicken wings, husband almost signed by the Cincinnati Reds

Her office-mate:  loves NASCAR, his father was one of the air traffic controllers fired by Reagan

The guy next to them:  has diabetes, plays guitar, believes Sammy Hagar was the best Van Halen lead singer

And I could go on and on, through the whole building, if I felt like it.  Please note that these aren’t observations I’m listing, but bits of personal information I heard all of them recite multiple times.  It’s stuff they wanted people to know.

Can you list your co-workers’ factoids?  How about your own?  Use the comments section below…

And did you notice how I performed this exercise using a group of people I haven’t seen in more than ten years?  Yeah, I could do it with my current co-workers, as well.  But I can’t be pissing someone off and losing my job.  Especially with the Globetrotters selling out stadiums, and whatnot…

The whole thing’s making me paranoid, man.

I’ve had a certain picture in my photo file for a year or more, but had no reason or desire to ever post it.  Then I came across another one, along the same offensive lines, and a light bulb went off…

Maybe we can build a page full of sports teams with genuinely offensive names?  Sound like a good time?  I’m getting the ball rolling here.  Can you help me out with more?  Send it to jeff at thewvsr dotcom, if you have anything.

Thanks!

And speaking of the Beatles, the Secrets and I found ourselves in an odd conversation over the weekend.  For reasons unknown, we were trying to guess their names, if the Fab Four had been from Scranton instead of Liverpool.

While polishing off a set of strawberry Toaster Strudels at the dining room table this morning, I tried to come up with my final list.  And here it is:

Paul Makowski
John Lezko
Gene Hardenberg
Bimbo Stanky

Yes, I think that’s fairly accurate.  And here’s how I imagine they’d look — if the Beatles had been from Scranton.

What about your neck of the woods?  What would’ve been their names?  We need to know; it’s very important.

There’s a new poll out today that says West Virginians are the unhappiest people in the country.  Is that really true?  I know I’m not a representation of the entire population of the state, but I can’t remember being unhappy there.  In fact, I loved it.

Of course I was young at the time, without even a hint of responsibility…  I was never really an adult in West Virginia, so that might skew my perception a bit.

What do you folks living in the motherland think about this poll?  Is it true?  Are most people unhappy there?  I have a hard time believing it.  I view West Virginians as friendly and content.  Unhappy isn’t a word that jumps immediately to mind.

And that’s gonna do it for today, boys and girls.  I think there are a couple of Questions mixed into this update, so you guys can take it from here.

I’ll be back tomorrow with another Topic Dump, and something new and good from our old friend Buck.

See ya then!

Now playing in the bunker.