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March 31, 2005
-- I am so sick of hearing about
the Mylar Balloon Lady. I have no passion for the story, one way or the
other. And I really wish it would stop. I can't turn on the radio
without hearing somebody with an agenda to sell, pontificating about it.
The same goes for newspapers and cable news. Go to the websites of CNN
or MSNBC or the LA Times or the Washington Post, and there's a good
chance you'll either see a picture of that poor woman wallowing in her
bed, or some nutcase with tape over their mouth and a clock around their
neck like Flavor Flav. It's been going on for weeks.
The politicians are in on the act, of course, as well as newspaper
columnists (including that shifty-eyed little prick over at the NY
Times), and it's all simply too much to take. In most cases I'm all
for invading somebody's privacy, if there's entertainment to be gained,
but this is not entertaining at all.
Call me heartless and unfeeling, but I just wish it would stop.
At work I've been trying to stay away from any radio station that might
present Mylar updates. Mostly I play Modern Rock Classics at Accuradio,
but even that gets old after a while. How many times per day does a man
really need to hear "Mirror In The Bathroom"? So, inevitably,
I start searching around for an alternative, and it's a highly
frustrating endeavor. Clive Bull is even on vacation this week, so that
gives me three more hours of day to fill. Damn you Clive
Bull, damn you!
Well, yesterday I came up with a plan. I can't believe it's taken me so
long to think of it. It cost me $6.95, but it's money well spent. I went
to Phil Hendrie's website, and
bought one of his backstage passes. For a month I now have access to a
thirty-day archive of his shows, and all kinds of fun little odds and
ends. Yesterday I listened to all three hours of the previous day's
show, and it was just what the doctor ordered.
For the record, he did touch on the story I'm trying to avoid, but in
his own way. He was interviewing a "woman" (he is both host
and guest), who was organizing a caravan of SUVs to travel from Orange
County, CA to the hospice in Florida. There they planned to demand that
Mylar's "machine be plugged back in."
She claimed that the
protestors down there are just pussy-footing around and it takes
Californians to get the job done right. And in exchange for saving the
woman's life, she would like for Mylar's father to donate some money to
the construction of their subdivision's planned new community center.
And maybe reimburse them for gas costs.
You can probably guess what kind of caller response that sparked. Phil
Hendrie has been on the air for years in LA, and people still think his
show is real. He gets them all whipped into a frenzy, and it's
absolutely hilarious. The man is genius.
Money well spent.
-- The number of fucks in last night's Lost: zero. Sad, just sad.
But the episode was great anyway. Is it just me, or does that show feel
like it's picking up steam? It's always been excellent, but the past few
episodes have been even excellenter. (Or is it more excellenter?)
In any case, the final scene last night freaked me the fuck out. Yowza.
Can't wait for the DVDs so we can watch all the episodes end-to-end,
instead of spread out and mixed with reruns. Yes sir, I believe I will
like that.
-- Have you seen the latest issue of Rolling Stone, with the kids
of rock stars on the cover? An interesting collection. Of course Sean
Lennon is there, above the fold and to the right, in the power position,
but there are lots of others as well. The cover folds out three times,
and there's a whole gang of rock 'n' roll spawn for us to gander at. Art
Garfunkel's kid almost made me do a spit-take. Holy mackerel! I thought
people get their hair from their mother?? Man, the only word I can think
of is: unfortunate. And Billy Joel's daughter looks mildly like a fish.
She got his big hooded googly eyes... When your mother is Christie
Brinkley, but you resemble your father, well, that too is unfortunate.
And Otis Redding III appears to be roughly seventy years old. But that's
about all I can find to ridicule. The rest of 'em look pretty good. Too
bad.
And that's about all I can do this morning. Kinda lame, I know, but I'll
try it again tomorrow.
Until then...
March 30, 2005
-- I was in the cafeteria at work the
other day just shooting the shit with my favorite sandwich-maker. She
was assembling my special Jeff Kay Hoagie, consisting of turkey, ham,
provolone, lettuce, and tomato -- just leave all them spreads in the
bottles, sister -- when I believe I may have made a small mistake. She
said something about coloring eggs for Easter, and without even
considering it, I said, "Oh, do you have grandkids?" Do I even
need to go on? I have a feeling that I'll be receiving one less slice of
cheese from here on out.
-- I got pulled over by a cop yesterday, on my way back from the post
office. He said I had an expired inspection sticker, which of course was
true. How did he see it?? Does the man ride around with a telescope in
his car? I thought about telling him that it wasn't really my fault,
that I'm the product of 250 years of hillbilly oppression, but decided
against it. I just kept quiet and provided him with the documents he
requested. As he studied my driver's license he got all excited and
said, "And this is expired too??" I said, "No fucking
way! ...er, I mean, no fucking way, sir." He told me, with
an air of exasperation, that my driver's license had expired in December
of '05 -- as if I didn't already know that. December '05? That
hasn't even happened yet. When I pointed this out, delicately, he got
all embarrassed and told me to beat it. Said he'd write me a ticket if
he caught me again. And I don't doubt it. I've got an appointment for
Saturday morning, to have someone do this so-called
"inspection." It's the biggest scam this side of corporate
consultants.
-- Toney and I installed a new toilet seat this past weekend. The one
downstairs has been broken since we moved in, in the spring of 2000. One
of the hinges was snapped off from day one, and recently the other one
came loose. So, for the past few weeks it was just balanced there, a
free agent. If a person got the urge, they could've picked it up and
carried it around the house. Every sit-down was like a trip to an
amusement park: Six Flags Over Poopballs. There was a lot of shifting
and twisting, and one wrong move could send that knob off the edge and
your naked ass into the floor. We decided we'd better fix it, and it
wasn't as easy as it sounds. I couldn't get a good grip on the nut
underneath, and turn the screwdriver at the same time. It was a pretty
awkward procedure, but we finally got it done. Now it's like crapping at
the Taj Mahal in there.
-- Toney and I were in Target recently, and it was apparently Take A
Retarded Person Shopping Day. There were a couple of big groups of them
in there, knocking shit off shelves and kicking up a helluva ruckus.
Later we were in Sam's Club walking past the television department.
Every TV was playing one of the Star Wars movies and Chewbacca
let out one of his strange hollers. And Toney said, with all sincerity,
"Oh my god, are they in here too??" I nearly lost my shit,
right there beside a skid of pastel Reebok sweatsuits.
-- I'm currently listening to that old Beck album with the picture of
Tina Turner's hairpiece jumping over a pole. It's sounding pretty damn
good too.
-- Have you seen this site?
They sell one item per day, at really low prices. Usually it's some kind
of electronics, but not always. I haven't bought anything yet, but I'm
pretty intrigued. I check it first-thing every morning to see what
they're offering today. I have a feeling I know how this is going to
play out...
-- One of the immature men I email all the time (for which I'm
planning to give myself a good dressing-down in just a couple of hours)
sent me this yesterday:
Remember when Costanza invoked the "world's colliding"
scenario? I'm like that with music. I won't listen to music I REALLY
like at work, because then when I listen to it at home, it reminds me of
work. The music is my escape, so i cannot allow work-world to collide
with relaxed-world. I'll listen to music i like driving home from work,
but never on the way to work. My mood will become attached to the music,
thus preventing future escapes. Its all quite complicated.
The other day a co-worker asked if i had heard of 10cc because she was
looking for a song. I have a cd i made of junior-high era music that had
a couple of 10cc songs, so i made her a copy of the whole cd. I was
driving with her and another co-worker to DC last month, and she
remembered she had the cd i made and wanted to play it. I demanded that
she refrain from such action. Because everybody in the office knows
Seinfeld (which allows us to communicate in a bizarre Seinfeldese) I
immediately invoked the world's colliding explanation. In other words,
"i don't want this good music to be associated with you people that
I must tolerate every day".
Man, I can't believe that's never occurred to me! You've gotta keep the
work music apart from the home music. That explains so much... I've been
screwing it up for years. It's an epiphany!
-- And now I'm gonna turn it over to Metten,
and drag my riffled ass into work.
See you folks tomorrow.
March 29, 2005
-- When I lived in Atlanta I somehow
stumbled into a job with one of the major record companies (the most
major of all majors, in fact), and spent six years there with the title
of Assistant Inventory Manager. It was a great place to work, even
taking into consideration a couple of crazy (CRAZY!) people in positions
of power. The fringe benefits were un-fucking-believable, and for a
while I felt like I'd scammed the greatest job ever in the history of
the world. Not only did I receive copy of every CD we released,
delivered by hand to my desk once a week, but I was also allowed
entrance into a myriad of really cool record industry events.
Literally a month or so after I started there, frickin' Nick Lowe, one
of my all-time heroes, came to the office, drank a bunch of Coronas and
played a few songs for us on an acoustic guitar, right there in the
large conference room. Including "What's So Funny 'Bout Peace Love
and Understanding?" I talked to him, joked with him(!). It felt
like I was living in some kind of dreamworld. One day I was walking to
the fax machine and bumped into Chris Rock. There were Atlanta Braves
players milling about... Black Crowes buying Cokes out of the vending
machines... Alanis Morrissette playing ping-pong... Every day was like a
scene out of Alice in Wonderland.
And that's the way it went for several years. But eventually I got
married, moved out of my hipster apartment in Little Five Points, and
bought a house in the suburbs. Then I realized: they're not paying me
shit! When you're young and cool, the freebies and the hook-ups are more
important than money. Hell, I would've probably worked there for
nothing, if they had dormitories where I could sleep at night. But there
comes a time when actual money becomes an issue.
Just when I was starting to get really disgruntled about my paltry
little salary, the ops manager called me into his office. And he told me
to close the door behind me. Uh-oh, I thought. A closed door can't be
good. Suddenly I was ready to fight for my piss-ant pay; if I was going
to leave the company, I would do it on my own terms, goddammit. But he
had news of a different sort. A job had come open at the Home Office in
Burbank, and "they" wanted to talk to me about it.
Holy crap in a Bundt pan!
They flew me and Toney out there, put
us up in the Universal Hilton, and wined and dined us like we were
royalty. It was great, except for the fact that I had serious
reservations about moving to Southern California. We had a new baby, I
knew nothing about the place (expect what I'd seen on Entertainment
Tonight), and was scared to the cusp of shitlessness. On the other
hand, they were interviewing a couple of other guys, and I sure as hell
didn't want them to get it. So it was kind of a blur, a big
confusing blur of mixed emotions.
The day after we returned to Atlanta "they" called and said
the job was mine. They added $10,000 to my salary, bumping it from
pathetic to sad, and suddenly we were moving to California. It felt like
I hadn't really had a say in the matter. One day you're just chugging
along, and the next everything's upside-down. But I couldn't turn it
down, that would be career suicide. So we just hunkered down and
weathered the storm.
Home Office was nowhere near as fun as Atlanta. The place was crawling
with humorless executives, and I had no entrance into any hipster
events. Plus, I sat in meetings all the time. Meeting after
meeting after meeting. It was absolute bureaucratic gridlock. Nothing
was getting done because we sat around big tables all the time talking
about all the stuff that needed to get done. I felt like I'd made a deal
with the devil.
No, it wasn't a very pleasant time of our life (we had money trouble the
entire four years as well), but I learned stuff there. When I was in
Georgia those big-shot executives I mentioned seemed like mythological
characters to me. They were just important names on memos before, and
possessing the ability to strike fear in the hearts of powerful men. The
fact that I was now riding in elevators and sitting in meetings with
them freaked me out at first. Heck, I'm from Dunbar, WV.
But eventually I learned that they were just people. They didn't have
any special super hero powers or anything. Oh, most were egotistical to
the point of mental illness, and I wouldn't have minded kicking a few of
them in the crotch, but they talked about a lot of the same things
everybody else talked about. And they, you know, wore pants and stuff.
It was an eye-opening experience. For me, anyway.
And to my complete and utter surprise, a few of them I actually liked.
My boss, for instance, is one of the nicest people I've ever met. We
still email each other to this day. And his boss was great too. He
scared me to death when I was in Atlanta, but after I started working
beside him, I quickly learned that he was hilarious and didn't take
himself seriously at all. He cracked me up daily. Why had I been afraid
of him? Even the Big Cheese, my boss's boss's boss (I think that's
right), was a good guy. He was richer than the Almighty Himself, and
wielded much corporate power, but was literally just a regular guy.
These three could probably sense that I was a little freaked, and
started inviting me to lunch with them. Almost every day we went to the
same place, a little sandwich shop within walking distance of the
office. They had outdoor seating there, and we'd eat our meals in the
California sunlight together three or fours days a week. They didn't
have to include me, a mere office weasel, but they did, and I
appreciated it.
Larry, the Big Cheese, was also really funny, and had one of those
personalities that was larger than life. When he'd tell a story everyone
sat mesmerized. And he was incredibly smart, one of the most logical and
analytical minds I've ever known. Some of those VPs, who walked around
the building acting as if their solid waste carried the bouquet of
fresh-cut flowers, made you question just how they got to their lofty
positions. I'd sit at my desk and wonder if they had family connections
or something. But not so with Larry. I knew why he was where he was: he
was fucking brilliant. Of all the people I met during those ten years in
"the biz," there was nobody I respected more than him. And the
fact that he was a really nice and kind man didn't hurt anything either.
About four years back his best friend suddenly dropped dead, and I heard
that it shook him up pretty badly. He took an early retirement a couple
of months later, and vowed to spend his remaining days living his life
and spending time with his kids. Supposedly he was taking all kinds of
extreme vacations, like backpacking across in India, and that sort of
thing. Not my style, but I was happy for him.
A week or so ago I went to work here, and a fellow traveler from the old
days stopped by my office. He asked if I'd heard what happened to Larry.
(Only a first name is required.) My heart sank, because I didn't like
the look on his face. Had he fallen into a volcano or something?? Holy
shit.
It was way more fucked-up than that. You can read about it here.
And here.
And for what it's worth, I don't believe, for a second, the woman's
account of events. There's no way in hell...
In any case, it was a sad and senseless ending, and every time I think
about it I get a little sick to my stomach.
Have a great day!
March 28, 2005
-- I know this doesn't make for very
exciting reading, but our weekend was really nice and peaceful. One of
the best I can remember, in fact. At the very beginning we cleaned the
house, dusted and vacuumed and tossed a ton of clutter (where does all
that stuff come from??), then used the rest of the three days to just
hang out and actually spend time with each other. Like most families, I
think, we're guilty of getting caught up in the day-to-day crapola of
living, allowing the proverbial quality time to suffer. This
weekend we stayed home and weren't running around like speed freaks, I
kept away from the computer (getting easier and easier), and it worked
out just as I'd hoped. It was good wholesome Waltons-style fun.
For Christmas we bought the Secrets these really cool radio-controlled
cars that can drive across any surface, including snow or water. They
cost about a hundred dollars each and we thought they'd love 'em. Yeah
well, they hardly even looked at the things. They sat in the corner of
the dining room untouched, until a few weeks ago when Toney finally took
them upstairs to the black hole known as the "play room."
Fast forward to yesterday. Toney put together a couple of Easter baskets
for the hooligans, and included was a little cheapo game called Timber
Tumble. Basically it's thirty or so identical pieces of wood and you
stack them up in a tower, then try to remove pieces without causing the
whole thing to collapse. They cost one dollar each, from Target, and you
can probably guess what happened. That's right, they're the greatest
frickin' toys ever invented! I'm not kidding, they played with these
things all day yesterday, and are back at it today. One dollar.
Of course, the Easter Bunny doesn't come to our house. I never much
cared for that particular holiday character, and will not participate in
the furthering of such a ludicrous farce. No, these baskets were brought
by the Easter Horse. He gallops in late at night, while
everyone is asleep, and deposits wicker baskets of joy in houses around
the world. At least that's what I tried to sell all day yesterday, but I
don't think anyone was buying. The Secrets just rolled their eyes and
shook their heads whenever I'd try to tell them "the
legend."
It's a common occurrence at our house,
this hurtful dismissal of my ideas. But I'd like to know: what's wrong
with the Easter Horse?? If people can accept a bunny, for god's sake,
they can sure as shit accept a horse. I will not be deterred. As long as
I'm still around, the majestic egg-bearing Stallion will continue to
gallop.
My contribution to the holiday booty was a copy of The Incredibles
on DVD. I went out and got it on Saturday, at Best Buy. And I ended up
making an impulse purchase of Season Two of Green Acres for
myself. (The Easter Horse doesn't just cater to children.) I watched
three episodes on Saturday and, I swear, I was laughing my ass off. The
writers for that show must've been eating psychedelic mushrooms or
something. So great. Toney sat down at one point to see what all the
hilarity was about, watched about five minutes, gave me a look of
concern and left the room. Hey, what can I say? She doesn't get the
comedic genius of the 3 Stooges, Soupy Sales, or Hee Haw either.
-- Last night's episode of Deadwood was fairly typical, as far as
the fucks go. Swearengen is still silenced (he has piss in his lungs),
but the other characters once again stepped to the plate and a full
eighty-eight fucks were logged in just fifty-two minutes. The details
are here.
Mr. Wu returned for a memorable scene, in which he said "cocksucker"
about a dozen times in thirty seconds or so. I think it's the only word
of English that he knows, and he uses it with gusto. God, I love that
show...
-- I also watched the first episode of the Americanized version of The
Office over the weekend. And I have to say... maybe I'm sick or
something, but I didn't think it was too bad. The script seemed pretty
damn familiar though. I believe they lifted it directly off the British
show, so it'll be interesting to see what happens in the long run. But I
laughed a couple of times, and I liked all the lingering, uncomfortable
reaction shots. I'm surprised the network allowed them to
"waste" so much time on dead air like that. In any case, I
thought it was good enough to give a second look. Make of that what you
will.
And remember last Monday when I didn't upload the terrible update I
wrote, and just turned my computer off in a huff? Remember how some of
you chastised me for not just going with it? Well, I'm taking your
advice today with this piece of shit. So, don't blame me; it's your
fault, not mine. I will not be held responsible.
Holy crap.
March 25, 2005
-- Wow, it really IS a good Friday. How
did they know so far in advance?! Pretty cool. No work today, the office
is closed for some reason. I'm currently wearing my big red hamburger
pants, disc one of the Left of the Dial box set is blasting --
specifically Dead Kennedys "Holiday In Cambodia," I'm
thoroughly rested and working on my third cup of coffee from my big
honkin' Strand Bookstore (8 Miles of Books!) mug, and all is right with
the world. ...However, it might be about time to wash these pants. Whoa.
I'm reminded of visits to the circus as a small child, when the
elephants were brought in. Anyway...
-- Buck sends news
today that they tried to burn down Morgantown again last night.
Apparently there was some sort of sporting event (who the hell knows?)
in which the Mountaineers came out on top, sending the citizens of the
town into a drunken pyromaniacal frenzy -- as is, apparently, the
tradition. I was going to say that I can't imagine ever getting so
worked up over something like that, but upon further review, I can't
really make that claim.
I lived in Atlanta when the Braves transformed themselves from the
laughingstock of the National League, to the best team in baseball. I
was a big-time Reds fan at the time, but I don't think even the Man of
Steel himself could've withstood the intensity of that city during those
years. It was all anyone talked about. Every game was an event, and the
following day was filled with amateur critiques and detailed
examinations of the previous night's action. Skyscrapers downtown were
turned into giant tomahawks, and every car was emblazoned with the blue
and the red. It was full-on Beatlemania, and I got swept up in it.
And the final game of the 1992 NLCS was the pinnacle of all that. You
can click on "Cabrera" at this
page to see how it ended, if you should give a crap. It was one
of the most exciting baseball games I've ever seen, and to this day I
get a lump in my throat when I think about.
The moment Sid Bream (who ran about as
well as I do) slid across the plate, the city exploded. People ran from
their homes and apartments and were hugging in the streets, horns were
blowing, people were doing hand-springs, firecrackers and M-80s were
going off... It was one of the damnedest things I've ever witnessed:
spontaneous and absolute pandemonium. I'm almost certain I saw the guy
who lived below us just turn to dust on the lawn.
If they'd been burning shit down out
there, I think I might've joined in. I'd like to think not, but I was
whipped into such a state I can honestly see myself running into our
apartment, grabbing some couch cushions or maybe a headboard or
something, and adding to the bonfire.
Crazy, I know, but why pretend it ain't so?
-- The Smoking Fish has been spotted once again, this time at a NASCAR
event in
Vegas. Hell yeah! Keep your eyes open, folks. Our logo, he gets
around.
-- I have the first episode of the Americanized version of The Office
saved to the DVR. It's apparently set in Scranton (the bleak equivalent
of England's Slough), and the British show is pure genius, so I'm
intrigued. But I'm scared... Is it really rancid? I have a feeling it
is, and I've already started cringing in anticipation. Let me know,
people. I won't watch it until you've given me the go-ahead. It's all in
your hands now.
-- A couple of weeks ago I bought a used copy of Scruffy the Cat's Tiny
Days on CD, for $1.99. I already have it in my collection, but I
knew it was out of print and quite rare. So, I figured I could sell it
on eBay and maybe make a little bank. Here
are the final results of that exercise. I guess I can't complain really,
but I was sure it would sell for around forty bucks. I don't know why I
had that amount in my mind, but I did. Oh well... Still not a bad return
on my investment.
-- And speaking of used CDs, the mail just arrived and I am now the
proud owner of Billy Joel's Greatest
Hits Volumes 1 & 2. It's in perfect condition, a two disc set,
and I paid seven bucks for it. I'm trying to get together the music for
our big Myrtle Beach extravaganza coming up, and I've found that really
familiar stuff works best. You can't be playing Dinosaur Jr. or Sonic
Youth on a road trip with the family, y'know? It's gotta be Tom Petty
and John Cougar Mellenhead and Wings and forkin' Billy Joel, and that
sort of thing. Before we leave I'm also planning to procure a cut-rate
copy of the two-disc Elton John anthology. That '70's stuff is excellent
driving music, I imagine. So... it will be mine.
And that's gonna do it for today. I was going to tell you a really sad
story about a guy I once knew, but don't really feel like it anymore.
Why bring the room down at the beginning of a long weekend? Have
yourselves a good one, folks, and I'll see ya on Monday.
March 24, 2005
-- Late in the afternoon yesterday it
started snowing. Nothing unusual for this place, it snows all the time.
An inch here, two inches there... you hardly notice it after a while.
But this was one was different. It was coming down in a hurry, and
piling up just as fast. The local "experts" said we might get
a dusting in the evening, but I may as well get my weather information
from the sticky jar of gherkins in our refrigerator. A dusting, my ass.
Around four o'clock people starting sticking their faces in my office
and telling me I might want to think about going home. The roads, they
said, were bad news. One by one they abandoned ship. The Big Cheese told
me he was sending his whole staff home, and said that if I was smart I'd
take off as well. Within minutes I was the only person left standing.
Shit, man. These people live in snow, and they're freaking out.
Wonder how bad it really is? I didn't like the sound of any of it. But I
had my 4WD, and told myself I'd be OK. I went downstairs for a comfort
shot of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups (known as Reesey Cups in WV)
from the vending machine, and swung by the break room to have a look out
the window. It was practically white-out conditions out there, and the
roads were completely covered. Simply excellent.
I called one of the guys who had left earlier, to see if he'd had any
problems, and the report was not good. The interstate was apparently a
demolition derby, and the landscape was littered with upside-down
vehicles and mashed-in grills. Hell, maybe I should go home
early, before it gets dark? The heck, man?? It's March 23!
I called my boss and he told me to do whatever I needed to do, so I
closed up shop and left.
The security guard warned me not to get on the interstate, it's
"fucked" he said. So I took an alternate route, and that was
no better. I had to turn around and backtrack, because a bus was on its
side and blocking the road. I checked the interstate but cars and
18-wheelers were stacked up as far as the eye could see. How was I going
to get home?? A tiny bit of panic was starting to introduce itself into
the proceedings. And to add to the fun, I was almost out of gas.
I came up with a complicated collection
of backroads and residential streets that theoretically would get me
home, and figured that was my only chance. My fuel wouldn't hold out
long enough to sit in any of the crazy traffic, so I started out on my
excellent snow adventure.
And to make a long story short, I pulled into our driveway almost
exactly two hours after I left. And we live sixteen miles from the
office. Somewhere along the way I came upon some shitty dump of a gas
station -- full serve only -- and I bought fifteen dollars worth of the
stuff there. So that was a weight lifted off my back. I think the guy
was expecting a tip, but I just rolled up the window and drove off.
What's the etiquette on that deal? I'm supposed to tip the zit-spangled
gas station attendant too??
The bulk of the trip was taken up with gridlock traffic jams and people
in cars driving sideways up hills with their feet mashed on their
accelerators. Thoroughbred douches, I tell ya. I talked to my friend
Bill in WV, checked in with my parents in Myrtle Beach, gave Toney a
couple of progress reports, listened to a Lloyd Cole CD, and tried to
will myself not to think about the fact that I really had to pee.
Truthfully, after I got some gas in my tank it wasn't too bad. Kind of
relaxing, in a way. My only regret is that I didn't have my portable DVD
player with me. I could've watched three or four episodes of Green
Acres along the way. Oh well. I'll try to remember to consult with
the gherkins from now on, and see if I need to take along extra
electronics...
-- Earlier in the week Toney was talking on the phone with her mother
(known as Sunshine in certain circles), and it was a marathon session.
Shiny was on her high horse about something, and Toney's side of the
conversation was" "Right... right... right..." We were
trying to watch an episode of SVU when she called, but that was
ruined, so to hell with it. I went into the bunker and started messing
around on the computer. And about fifteen minutes later Toney appeared
in the doorway with the phone still pressed to her ear, and holding up this
sign. It summed up things rather nicely, I thought.
-- I forgot to link to last Sunday's Deadwood numbers, so here
they are. A solid showing, for sure, especially considering the fact
that Swear-Engine spent most of the episode wallowing around on the
floor in pain, and saying nothing. Generally he's the main source of the
fucks, but he was silenced this week and other characters were forced to
take up the slack. And they did an excellent job! Trixie is really
starting to emerge as a fuck-force to be reckoned with. I think she's
slowly losing her shit, and her mouth is becoming fouler and fouler. The
best show on television!
-- Finally, my old Peaches Music buddy Eugene has started a blog, and
I'd like to point you in his direction. Check
it out. He's a funny guy, and I think you'll enjoy your visit.
And that'll do it for today, kiddies. I'm off from work tomorrow,
because of something religious (I think), but I'm gonna update the site
anyway, since I missed Monday. So... I'll see ya then.
March 23, 2005
-- For most of the day on Sunday (after
my home fix-it triumph) Toney complained that she needed to go to Sam's
to buy coffee, and a couple of other small things. Stores around here on
weekends are just insane, and the thought of wading into that swirling
pool of humanity wasn't an appealing one. But by mid-afternoon I was
starting to go stir-crazy, and volunteered.
"You're going to Sam's? To shop?" she said, as if I'd
just informed her I was quitting my job and joining the touring company
of Riverdance. Is it such an incredible thing that I might carry a
three-item list to a store, and buy said items? Is that such a stretch?
Sure, it's something that rarely happens, but I'm capable. Jeez.
After an hour spent looking at DVD box sets, CDs, computer gadgetry, and
big-ass televisions, I figured it was time to get down to business. I
couldn't decide whether to buy the outsize sack of Eight O'clock bean
coffee, or the end table-esque bucket of Folger's, and called Toney for
her vote on the matter. She sounded annoyed and told me, essentially, to
grow a pair and make up my own mind.
I went with the Folger's because it gave us more bang for the buck, then
moved on to the next item on the list: tortilla chips. Why so many
choices?! Do you know that there are roughly one hundred different
variations of tortilla chips? I had no idea, and consider myself to be
quite knowledgeable on the subject of snacks. I couldn't call home
again, so I just picked something called "restaurant style."
We like restaurants, so I figured it was a safe bet.
Then a man who was stocking the shelf down the way gave me some very bad
news: yo man, all those Frito-Lay products are buy-one get-one-free.
What? Nooo!! Why do they do this to me?? I then had to decide if we
really needed two massive bags of the same kind of chips, or if my
"free" item should be something different. And suddenly I
wasn't just confined to the one hundred variations, and was now thrust
into a world of chips. Too much pressure. I mean, these are not
small little bags, they're each, like, a three-month supply. Screw it. I
just grabbed some Cool Ranch Doritos and moved on. I felt decisive and
strong, like a modern-day Truman.
Toney pretty much refuses to buy
cookies and candy and such, so I figured it was my chance to correct the
problem. I walked over to the cookie aisle and had a look around. Hmm...
those are kinda big, aren't they? I knew I might get into trouble if I
brought some shit like that home, but was drawn to the pretty blue boxes
of Chips Ahoy. You know the regular rectangular bag they have at normal
grocery stores? Well, this was a cardboard box with four of those
stacked up inside, and it cost about ten dollars. I hesitated for a
minute, then snatched one off the shelf.
I didn't have a shopping cart, because they're, you know, gay. So my
arms were starting to get full by this point. I wanted to check out the
book department, but was having trouble walking and decided to just
throw in the towel.
Then I remembered: jelly beans! We need jelly beans for our Myrtle Beach
trip at the end of April. It's a tradition that we consume a large
quantity of Jelly Bellys and listen to Tom Petty's Greatest Hits while
on camping trips. We'd mentioned several times that we needed to load in
our supply, but hadn't gotten around to it yet. I decided there was no
time like the present.
I struggled to find them, with all the crap rolling around in my arms,
but finally tracked 'em down. A four-pound sack? That might not sound
like a lot of jelly beans but, believe me, it is. It seemed a tad
excessive, in fact, but I knew they wouldn't go to waste. We'd taken the
same quantity with us last year, and it was just right. So I
contorted my body in such a way that I could grab the corner of one of
the bags, and removed it from the shelf.
And then I walked like a palsy victim to the check-out.
The man there didn't seem to approve of my selections. He didn't say
anything, but was shaking his head in a manner that I did not
appreciate. Maybe I'm the strange one here, but I don't go to Sam's Club
for a fucking critique of my purchases. But I paid this Gene
Siskel-of-groceries without incident, took my items and ridiculously
elongated receipt, and went home.
And following my final trip from the car to the kitchen, Toney looked
around and said, "Where are the chicken strips for tonight's
primavera?"
Dammit!
-- Now here's
Metten to close out the category.
And I'll see you good folks again tomorrow.
March 22, 2005
-- Sorry about yesterday. I woke up in
a foul, foul mood, for reasons unclear, and it just wasn't working. I
flopped down in my massive hamburger-themed sleeping pants and tried to
squeeze out an update, but it was nothing that anyone would ever
actually want to read; the Unabomber's Manifesto was a model of clarity
and coherence by comparison. So I just turned off my computer and went
to work. The hell with it.
I'm allowed five or six of those per year, right? Oh, I try not to use
them, but the Blogmakers Union fought hard for those comp days,
goddammit.
-- Sunday morning Toney came into the bedroom and used one of her
pointer fingers to poke me awake. "We have a problem," she
said, as I rolled over and looked around the room like the Mylar Balloon
Lady. "We have a big water leak, and I think it's coming from the
back of the refrigerator, running through the floor and dripping into
the basement..." On and on it went, but I was only getting bits and
pieces of it. One minute you're at the ham-carving station at the
Lingerie Buffet, and the next there's somebody hollering about
refrigerators in your ear...
I finally got it together enough to realize that my name is Jeff, and I
live in the northeastern section of the United States. I hoisted my
largeness out of bed and followed the nice lady downstairs to see what
all the hubbub was about.
Immediately I could hear a hissing sound that didn't give me a good
feeling. Then Toney showed me all the water on the floor between the
fridge and the cabinet. The hell, man?? I pulled the refrigerator away
from the wall, and there was a fine mist shooting out of the back, and
dribbling down the wall. It was the water line to the ice maker again!
This is the third or fourth time we've had a problem with it. The damn
thing just springs leaks all willy nilly, and for no apparent reason.
I went down to the basement and turned the little lever that
theoretically controls the flow of water to the line, and nothing
happened. The mist continued with enthusiasm. By this time I was
muttering fucks and bullshits under my breath, but they had not yet come
fully into the open. I returned to the basement and turned the lever in
the opposite direction, wondering if it worked backwards. Hell, who
knows? Maybe it's European, or something? But that didn't do it either.
Jesus J. McChrist! I called my Dad
(yes, I'm 42, what of it?) and as I told the story I got the feeling
that he was trying not to laugh. He finally told me to go downstairs and
turn off the water to the line, as if addressing a large retarded man.
Ha! I already tried that, I hollered triumphantly. (One of my proudest
moments.) Then I told him how the little lever in the basement is
apparently nothing but a prop, and I may as well be twisting a friggin'
bread tie.
He reminded me that the water was going to quickly ruin our kitchen
floor, and I needed to figure out a way to somehow stop it from going
into the line. Then he told me, rather cryptically, that it would be
better to have a leak in the concrete basement (grasshopper), than on
the wooden kitchen floor. The heck? What is this, The Karate Kid?
I'm now supposed to take that tiny scrap of information, and prove that
I am a man? Shit. I just wanted to return to the peaceful land of ham
and teddies, to hell with this crap.
I thought about it for a few minutes, and came up with a plan. I had
little confidence that it would actually work, but it would certainly
transfer the leak from the kitchen to the basement. I decided I'd find a
screw that was bigger around than the water line itself. I would go down
there with some pruning sheers, snip off the line near the lever-prop,
and attempt to twist the screw into the line and maybe cap it off. I ran
this by Toney and she was highly skeptical. But I began gathering
together the tools of half-assery anyway. I was being tested, after all.
I then went to the basement, as Toney and the Secrets looked on with
alarm, and laid all my instruments out like a surgeon. I climbed onto an
old TV stand, paused for a second, then cut off the line. And that's
when all hell broke loose!
Water was blowing all over the place, at a surprisingly high pressure. I
grabbed the little nozzle of line that I'd left, and every time I moved
it a fraction of an inch, water was sent spraying into a new section of
the basement. The hot water tank took a shot, as did my album
collection. Toney came running over and I promptly drenched her with a
high-powered jet of water. The kids screamed and fled the scene. And
Andy tore ass out of there as well, with his tail and ears down.
By this point the fucks and bullshits
were completely out of the closet.
I snatched up my screw and screwdriver and frantically tried to get it
into the hole. And as I pushed it into place water sprayed directly into
my face. It was running down my arms, pooling in my pits, then moving
southward. My shirt was suctioned to my skin and my underwear weighed
about ten pounds. It felt like I had whitewater rapids in the crack of
my ass!
But check
it out, boys and girls. I am now a Jedi Knight!
-- And I'm going to turn it over to Buck
now, and wish you folks a fine, fine Tuesday.
See ya tomorrow.
March 18, 2005
-- Toney informed me yesterday that I'd
be on my own for dinner, and that she wouldn't be home until around
eight o'clock. I groaned and pictured myself sitting in the corner booth
at Wendy's chewing and staring straight ahead, looking like a mental
patient or a pervert, or both. I have no problem eating lunch alone in a
restaurant, but dinner is a whole different ballgame. That's mental
patient pervert territory. But what's a guy to do? I sure as shit wasn't
going to go home and cook. I mean, seriously.
But then I got a better idea. Much better. I'd go to Jim Dandy's, a
"saloon" not too far from our house, sidle up to the bar, and
have one of their heart-halting fish slamwiches and a few pints of the
golden elixir. Those sandwiches are impossibly good; I think it has
something to do with the large amount of cheese they melt across the
deep-fried hunk of whitefish. Mmmm... In fact, everything I've ever had
at this place has been nothing short of excellent. They take the concept
of bar food to a whole new level.
So I had my plan, and it was a good one. Then somebody reminded me that
it was St. Patrick's Day. Shit! I wasn't wading into a sea of
vomit-spraying drunks in novelty headgear to get my samlich. They're
good, but not that good. Dammit. The whole thing was threatening
to fly off the tracks. Stupid St. Patrick... I'd probably end up at home
watching Geraldo talk about Barretta, and eating five or six granola
bars for dinner.
But, to my surprise, the joint didn't look any more crowded than normal.
Huh. Apparently the "celebrants" preferred other places in
which to vomit and shit their pants, and that worked for me. I went
inside, promptly turned a barstool over in some kind of clumsy spazz-boy
dramatic entrance, and ordered a Yuengling and a menu. Then I told the
bartender to drop my fish and fries into the deep-fryer goddammit, and
start piling up that cheese.
The guys beside me at the bar were drinking Bud Light in bottles, and
that irritates me for some reason. It's none of my business, and I have
no say in the matter whatsoever, but Jim Dandy's has both Yuengling
Lager and Harp on tap. Why waste your time on alcohol-laced ice
water when the good shit is readily available? Such a squandered
opportunity... But whatever. I nursed my lager and waited for my fried
dinner to arrive.
The guys with tragically bad taste
placed an order for food, and continued on with their waters and
cigarettes. I wasn't really paying attention, I was transfixed by the
image of Bud Selig's turkey neck swaying back and forth on the
television above the bar. Man, I hope that doesn't happen to me... I
think I'd have to start wearing scarves like Mary Tyler Moore, or
something. I'm not a big fan of the swing-neck. I tried to think of some
of my older relatives, and whether or not they've been afflicted, and
didn't get a warm and fuzzy feeling from that exercise. It's only a
matter of time and I'll be walking around like Charles Nelson Reilly or
Eddie Money, with lengths of strategically-situated fabric around my
throat.
My food finally came, and it was as good as I remembered, but really
hot. The first bite unleashed some kind of insidious molten liquid that
dripped down my chin, and nearly caused me to jump to my feet and scream
like a woman. But somehow I kept my shit in check. I'd already knocked
over that barstool and caused the whole place to come to a sudden stop,
and every head to swivel. I didn't want to make yet another scene. I
just gritted my teeth and waited for the pain to fade. And decided I'd
better let it cool for a few minutes.
Then the bartender brought the bad beer guys a couple of salads. The
hell? Who eats salad at a bar? Budweiser and dainty little cherry
tomatoes don't really go together in my mind. But, hey. I nibbled at my
chunk of the sun on a bun, and eventually took it all in. And I finished
up my fries and, damn, was that one fine meal. I decided to celebrate
with one more for the road. This time make it a Harp, Jimmy (all
bartenders are named Jimmy). I mean, it was St. Patrick's Day,
after all.
And right before I paid my tab a man emerged from the backroom carrying
two big plates of spaghetti, and placed them in front of my buddies to
the right. Good god, man. Spaghetti?! This was getting out of hand. I
hit the john before leaving, and when I emerged I saw both of those guys
sitting at the bar hunched over their outsized plates of pasta,
breadsticks in-hand. And I left the place shaking my head in amazement.
As I drove I realized that I smelled like a goddamn bingo parlor. Stupid
smokers with their stank exhale... How is that still allowed in public
places?? What is this, 1958? I'd probably have to bury my clothes.
When I got home I poured myself another lager and let Andy run around in
the backyard for fifteen minutes or so. I stood out there while he ran,
beneath the stars. And all was right with the world. ...Except, of
course, for a few minor things.
And now you're up to date on my kick-ass life. Have a great weekend,
folks.
March 17, 2005
-- I was helping the oldest Secret with
his homework last night, and this was one of the questions in his math
book: Jon draws 2 triangles. Could you tell if the triangles are similar
to each other without looking at them? Explain why or why not.
What the hell does that mean?? Am I
just a dotard here, or does that problem seem a tad abstract? I
fully expected the next one to be: If Billy has three apples, and Suzy
has a club foot, then who is the governor of New Hampshire?
He's in third grade and already it's getting a bit too advanced for me,
especially on the math side of things. And it makes my sphincter flex.
Just the smell of the textbooks takes me back to a time when I was
expected to answer those ridiculous questions about Jon and his goddamn
triangles, or whatever. It's easy now, sitting back on my big fat adult
ass, to laugh it off and express exasperation. But when your day is
filled with that kind of crap...
For the record, the smell of plastic sandwich bags and celery also
returns me to grade school, because that's what most of us brought as
our "snack" every day. Catch a whiff of one of those things,
and I'm back at Dunbar Elementary in one of my ludicrous 1970's knit
vests, my Harlem Globetrotters lunchbox open before me.
But when I think back on those years it's usually funny stuff that
happened, like when a girl named Tammy peed her pants and we all saw her
novelty panties drying on the heater inside the boiler room on the way
to the cafeteria. Or when my friend Bill threw a fruit cup into the face
of a kid we called Shave, and heavy syrup and peach chunks just kind of
slid off his melon-like head.
But, boy, those textbooks bring back a few less-pleasurable memories...
I've never been any good at math, and it was a struggle for me all
through school. By the time I reached Junior High, and was taking
algebra and that sort of thing, I felt like I was running underwater.
Plenty of effort was being put forth, but I wasn't getting anywhere. And
other kids, some of whom I considered to be full-on doucheketeers, took
to it with no problems. Highly frustrating. Why can't I understand this
stuff?? I knew I was no Stephen Hawking, but I should've been able to
keep up with those shitsacks.
By the time I was a senior in high
school I'd somehow struggled through enough torturous math classes to
meet the minimum requirements of most colleges, so I took a little
break. In fact, during the twelfth grade I think I only needed Senior
English to graduate. Could that be right? It seems that I had enough
credits to get my diploma, and only had to take a year of English. In
any case, I padded my schedule with softball courses, like Rock/Pop
Music Survey, Singles Survival (home ec for boys), and, of course, the
ultra-challenging "Office Helper."
But a funny thing happened during sixth period. I was taking a class
called Consumer Math, that I figured would be where they teach the
truly-dumb how to balance a checkbook and keep score at bowling, and so
forth. And that's what it was, sorta. It was filled with a bunch of
tenth graders who I think were required to be there because they
couldn't pass an aptitude test. They went over the basics of math, the
stuff that people actually use in real life, and it was pretty darn
kick-ass. There were no polynomials or quadratics, or any of that sort
of thing. It was just a simple, straight-forward refresher course on the
basics. And as amazing as it seems, I learned things in there. Lots of
things. I'd gone through a number of advanced mathematics classes, and
had received passing grades, but never had a full grasp of the basics.
The next year I went to college, believing I'd finally unlocked my
long-suppressed math talents, and jumped right back into it. And I
lasted one day. I walked into class and there was an Arab man standing
there in checked polyester pants and a turban, and he couldn't speak a
lick of English. He was mumbling about those frigging quadratics again,
and I felt the beginnings of a panic attack coming on. I wouldn't be
able to grasp this bullshit even if the man could enunciate like James
Earl Jones; under these circumstances I didn't stand a chance
I walked straight across campus and dropped the class, and that was the
end of the line for me. Since then I've gotten by on the stuff I learned
in good ol' Consumer Math, thank you very much. And I think I've done
just fine. I was an inventory manager in Atlanta for several years,
predicting sales trends and maintaining leads and whatnot, and actually
won an award for my accomplishments there. Sixth Period made it all
possible, not that goddamn geometry. And if the automatic scorekeeper
goes down at your local bowling alley? Yeah, just give me a call. I can
help. The knowledge lives inside me.
So, my fatherly advice to the Secrets? Don't let Jon's triangles get you
down, and never, ever lose sight of the underwear on the boiler.
If we could all do that, I think, the world would be a happier place.
-- Now I'm gonna turn it over to our good friend Buck,
and I'm going to go to work. <sigh>
See y'all tomorrow.
March 16, 2005
-- Do you ever wish for bad things to
happen to a complete stranger? Truthfully, I don't. At least not very
often. But the other night Toney was watching a show on one of the cable
channels way up the dial, about weight loss. They were profiling several
former-fatties, and looking at the manner in which they've been able to
keep their riffle at bay.
In the end they believed they could
pinpoint five or six common practices, so all us current-fatties will
have a roadmap to skinniness. That's what I gathered, anyway. I was in
and out of the room and only caught bits and pieces of it.
But one of the women they were following around was so incredibly
obnoxious I found myself drawn-in, and quickly rooting for her to
balloon back up. I desperately wanted her to fail, and for her ass to
expand to its natural Saab-sized state.
She lived in South Carolina, or somewhere down south, and was fat all
her life. Then she got a divorce, I think (I could have some of facts
wrong because, you know, I couldn't give a crap), and got heavily into
working out. And like some born-again, she now can't shut up about it.
It's seemingly all she talks about. She goes around town wearing her
workout clothes, and lecturing people and judging them in this fake-ass
"compassionate" tone.
One scene in particular got under my skin. They showed her walking
through a grocery store and wearing, of course, a sports bra with
hard-belly exposed. And she was power-walking all around, and putting on
a big show for everyone. She would occasionally stop and pick up
something from the shelf, and explain why it's, like, really bad for
you?
God, I hated her. And right now, wherever she is, I hope something
inside her has snapped, and she's sitting with a box of Dunkin' Donuts
on her lap, her idiotic lips glistening with glaze.
Is that too mean?
-- We dug deep into the bowels of the
DVR last night and watched an episode of Law & Order SVU,
with special guest Martin Short. He played a "psychic" who
insisted upon helping the NYPD find a missing woman. Nobody wanted him
there, and at one point Detective Stabler threatened to stuff him in a
urinal. But he kept hanging around, and eventually began serving up some
useful clues. But in the end, of course, it was the Short character
himself who had kidnapped the woman, and he was crazier than the
proverbial shithouse rat.
I have a low tolerance for Martin Short. He's one of those guys who
always show up on talk shows and can't sit still. He's always marching
around waving his arms in the air, and maniacally switching from wacky
voice to wacky voice... I hate that kind of shit. Robin Williams falls
into the same category, as do Jim Carrey and people like Sid Caesar.
They all drive me up the frigging wall. But Short was really good at
playing that freaky character, and it got me and Toney to talking.
How come comedians play such great creepy-crawly weirdos? Like the
aforementioned Robin Williams. One Hour Photo was good fucked-up
fun, and that movie set in Alaska where Pacino was chasing him? I can't
remember the name, but he was great in that as well. And John Ritter on Buffy
the Vampire Slayer. And Michael Keaton in Pacific Heights.
There's a bunch of 'em.
Kinda interesting. To me, anyway. And I hope there's more of it in the
future. Maybe Tony Danza will show up later in the season playing a
whore-killer, or Chevy Chase or somebody? I, for one, am all for it.
I wouldn't have minded seeing Martin Short stuffed into a urinal,
though.
-- This has been a week of musical highs, and musical lows, my friends.
On the positive side, my ever-expanding network of liars and
backstabbers came through for me once again, and I am now in possession
of an advance copy of the new
Eels album. It's a two-disc bunker buster of a CD, and it's not
scheduled for release until April 26. And I don't want to get too
carried away too soon, but it sounds like a goddamn masterpiece to me.
I'm no Professional Rock Critic, but this thing is clearly something
special. For what it's worth...
Also, a couple of days ago I learned the distressing news that Paul
Westerberg will be playing in Philadelphia during the week we'll be in
Myrtle Beach. He hasn't toured
with a band in eight years, and it looks like I'm gonna miss it. I
don't even want to think about, because it makes me too sad.
-- On a more positive note, here's
another typically excellent update from Metten. Can this guy write, or
what? Shit. Maybe I should re-think running his stuff right alongside
mine?
Oh, and before I go, I've gotta say... Yesterday's comments, about
puking and whatnot, were absolutely hilarious. I can't read them at
work, they're blocked for national security reasons or something, but a
friend copied and pasted them into an email and sent them to me. I
started looking at them while on a conference call, and I had to shut it
down. The one about the guy sitting at a stoplight and upchucking on his
dashboard almost made me lose my composure. So anyway...
See ya tomorrow.
March 15, 2005
-- After telling you yesterday about
the teenage girl I saw puking into the gutter in front of McDonald's,
her boyfriend thoughtfully holding her St. Patrick's Day beads out of
the line of fire, I was reminded of another fast food puking story. And,
as so often happens, that story branched off into others, and before I
knew it my brain was filled with memorable tales of upchuck.
Under the circumstances, I believe I would be negligent in my duties if
I didn't share a few with you. So, for your Tuesday entertainment (it is
Tuesday, isn't it?), here are the first three Vomit Stories that popped
into my head yesterday as I drove to work and reflected.
-- Back during a previous lifetime I was in a Taco Bell in Charleston,
WV (Kanawha City to be exact, for those of you keeping score at home),
with my girlfriend Kelly. We were sitting there systematically loading
burritos into our faces, just minding our own business, when a group of
loud high school assholes came in. I know they were high school
assholes, because I had been one just a year or two earlier, and we
recognize our own. They were talking loud, stumbling around, and just
generally being obnoxious.
Of course they chose a table right next to ours, and plopped down there
with their pile of "Mexican" fast food. One of the guys in
particular irritated me. He was obviously putting on an act, pretending
to be really drunk. He was slurring his words like Foster Brooks, and
seemingly couldn't keep his head from swiveling around on his neck. His
mouth was all slack and he had a glassy look in his eye. I was convinced
he was showboating, and rolled my eyes at his pitiful performance. Not
even a hint of subtlety.
A few minutes later I was proven wrong.
At some point this Appalachian James Dean grew quiet and still. He was
just sitting there with a taco clutched in his right hand, and his head
slung down on his chest. Oh, I can't believe this, I was
shout-whispering to Kelly, wotta douche! I still thought he was acting;
it just didn't have the feel of authenticity to me.
Then, without warning, a massive amount
of material came rolling out of him. The guy didn't even move, it
just flowed from him like lava from a volcano. And I mean lots and lots
of it. Sheeeeiit! Everybody in the place was screaming in protest,
gathering up their food, and heading for the hills. Kelly and I got the
hell out of there, and so did the friends of Vesuvius. They just left
their buddy sitting at the table, all covered in his own goodness, and
were out on the parking lot doubled-over in laughter when we left.
It was quite a pleasant dinner.
-- And I've told the story before about Rocky and the globe of puke. But
here's a quick recap:
We were at a party at somebody's grandparent's house, or some such
thing. I think granny had recently been put into a home, and her
grandkids had thoughtfully turned her house into a 'round-the-clock
party spot. (...I'm sorry, I'm getting a little emotional here.)
Rocky got himself involved in a game of quarters, and I was across the
room hanging out. I'm not a big fan of drinking games. I like drinking
just fine, but I prefer to do it on my own terms. I don't particularly
find much pleasure in guzzling beer from a funnel and a length of rubber
tubing, or every time Dr. Dre says "Know what I'm sayin'?" on
VH1, or anything like that. Just let me handle the pacing,
goddammit.
Anyway, Rocky was playing quarters, and for some reason they were using
this ridiculously oversized coffee mug, clear glass and shaped like a
globe. And at some point he was required to drink the large quantity of
beer contained in this ludicrous vessel, which he did. Then he sat there
for an extended period with no expression on his face. It was a case of
suspended animation; the place went completely quiet and Rocky just sat
there still as a statue. Suspense hung in the air.
Then it all came back up. He filled the globe with almost the exact same
amount of fluid that had gone in. Like some ancient puke master, he had
stopped the flow once the rim of the glass was reached. It was nothing
short of artistic. But it didn't look like beer anymore -- it was brown!
Holy shit! Lots of hollering, running in circles, and screaming of
"Oooohhhh!!" transpired.
And, to my utter amazement, the mug was washed and put back into
service. When we left, the game of quarters had resumed, and the globe
was being used again.
Like I said, I don't much care for drinking games.
-- And finally, when we were in Junior High a kid named Kevin got up in
the middle of class one day, and puked into the trashcan. Right there,
in front of everyone. Needless to say, the room erupted in howls and oh
shits and various protestations.
But the teacher, Mr. Yerrid, came down hard on us. He flew into a rage
and told us all to shut our mouths. "What's wrong with you
people?!," he screamed, "Can't you see that this boy is sick?
You should all be ashamed!!" Then he told Kevin to go on to the
clinic, and said he'd be down in a few minutes to check on him.
After a minute or two of tense silence, Mr. Yerrid went out into the
hall to make sure Kevin was gone. Then he returned, and in a
conspiratorial voice said, "Oh God, did you see that? Baloney
sandwich and bean with bacon soup!" And we all laughed and laughed,
including Mr. Yerrid, who, by the way, was one of the coolest teachers
ever.
-- And I think that'll do it for today, children. If you have any
memorable puke stories, by all means share them with us in the comments
section. And I'll see ya tomorrow.
March 14, 2005
-- I didn't leave the house yesterday,
not even to take out the trash. We have a bad habit of just wandering
around aimlessly on weekends, to avoid cabin fever and feeling like big
lazy house-wallowing slobs. There's not much to do here during the
winter, so we usually end up going to lunch somewhere and bouncing from
store to store until we just can't bounce no more. But it's gotten to
the point where our outings are so irritating we'd rather just stay home
and let the chips fall where they may.
I'm not sure what it is about this place, but these people shop.
Maybe everyone thinks like us, and are just trying to get out of their
houses during the long-ass winter? I'm not sure, but places of business
on the weekend are to be avoided. It's wall-to-wall crazy, everywhere
you go.
I admit that I have no idea what I'm talking about, really, but I think
a person would have to be a pretty sad excuse for a businessman not to
make it here. If you build it, they will come. Or so it seems. I have a
feeling that a person could open a business right next to a dollar
store, selling the exact same items for two dollars each, and
make a go of it. And I'm not joking. People just like having another
place to go.
For a few months we considered opening a little hipster coffee shop here
in town, but the idea evaporated over time. It's starting to bubble up
again in my brain, though. We could rent a small storefront downtown,
buy a few pieces of thrift store furniture and some coffee making
supplies, call it The Smoking Fish, and start printing money. Toney
could run it, and I'd be in charge of music and promotion... I have no
doubt it would succeed.
But it'll never happen; it's just the winter talking. Daylight Saving
Time is only three weeks away, so we're almost out of the woods. I'll be
able to take the Secrets fishing on the weekends soon, instead of
walking around Target... we'll start camping again, and all will be
right with the world.
Dreams grow in winter, and spring brings 'em down. It's the way of the
world.
-- I went into work for a few hours on
Saturday, and afterwards I
was starving so I went to McDonald's. I usually avoid that place like I
would a street person wearing a derby of turds, but a Filet O Fish
sandwich sounded damn good to me right then.
Toney had mentioned that the big St. Patrick's Day parade was happening
that day, in downtown Scranton, which explained all the people walking
around with shamrocks painted on their faces, and green beads hanging
around their necks. The parade is a big deal here, and people supposedly
travel for hundreds of miles just for the privilege of getting
bed-shitting drunk at such a prestigious drunkfest. The bars have
special permission to open at six in the morning, or some such
ridiculousness, and I guess it's just full-blown Sodom and Gomorrah down
there.
And as I walked into Mickey D's for my deep-fried fish swammich, I saw a
teenaged girl puking with gusto into the gutter, as her boyfriend rubbed
her back and lent moral support. Both were sporting much green
novelty-wear, and had obviously been to the "parade." It was
about two in the afternoon, and she was done. Wotta lightweight.
The subsequent oozing of the tartar sauce did cause my stomach to flex a
bit, but not too much. I'm generally fine with puke, as long as I don't
catch a whiff of it...
-- They have a new ketchup dispensing
method at our local McDonald's, and I think I like it. It's a long
curved pipe with a nipple -- a ketchup nipple -- on the end. Have you
seen these? No more sticky packets, or big Wendy's-style hand pump.
We've now entered the era of the condiment nipple, and I say God Bless
America!
-- Here's
that picture I was telling you about on Friday. I snapped it with my
camera phone inside the men's room of the Dairy Queen in Danville, PA.
And, yes, that's a cup of piss on the back of the urinal. Can somebody
please explain this to me? What series of events would lead to such a
scenario? I've thought about it, and can't really come up with anything.
Any assistance with this would be appreciated.
Hey, at least the culprit had been
taking his vitamins...
-- Last night's episode of Deadwood was not only hilarious and
really good, but it also contained the highest concentration of fucks
since the infamous "Mr. Wu" episode of last season. Check
it out. They're clearly taking it to the next level now.
And that's gonna do it, folks. I'm dragging ass this morning, as usual,
and I'm gonna call it a day. More tomorrow.
March 11, 2005
A few random things:
-- I was messing around on the computer a few nights ago, after
everybody else had gone to bed, when the back door suddenly EXPLODED
open. It crashed and banged, and sounded like somebody had kicked the
bitch off its hinges. Holy shit! My heart leaped into action so fast it
felt like I'd given myself a coronary charley horse. I seriously thought
we were in the opening seconds of a full-blown home invasion; I figured
some low-rent Vin Diesel had already crossed the threshold.
Instinctively, I grabbed my game-used Johnny Bench bat (with cupped
end!) and left the relative safety of the bunker to investigate. As I
turned the corner my heart was hammering away in my chest at a dangerous
clip, while I prepared to get in at least two good swings before the big
knife opened me up and spilled my guts on the floor. But it was just the
wind. Apparently the door wasn't shut all the way, and the wind was
blowing really hard out there. After that, of course, I was spent, and
experienced a serious adrenalin crash. I was kinda shaky as I returned
the bat to its regular place beside the electric beverage cooling
machine, and went to bed. Fuck.
-- I saw a commercial a few nights ago for a new reality TV show that
features, as best as I could tell, two teams of fatties who are trying
to lose weight. Apparently the team who drops the greatest amount of
ass-riffle will be awarded a cache of unspecified prizes. Ho hum. These
shows are a dime a dozen nowadays. I wasn't really paying attention
until the end, when they showed the participants struggling to climb
onto a giant scale, something along these
lines, to see which team weighed more. I'm not sure why, but I
thought that was hysterical. And still do. I think it's the blatant
indignity of it all that appeals to me.
-- A reader sent me this
really cool Deadwood graph a few days ago. I have it linked as a Season
1 Recap on the master fucks page, but wanted to highlight it here as
well. Really awesome. Thanks!
-- Toney made brownies yesterday while I was at work, and I've been
eating them up, corners first. I love the edges, and corners have them
on two sides. So I've eaten the corners out of the pan, and am now
working my way down the left side. I'll keep you posted...
-- Last night when I came home from
work our two trashcans and recycling bin were lying in the middle of the
driveway again. Two weeks in a row. I think the trash guys hoist them
above their heads, with both hands, and just hurl them as hard as they
can toward the house. Pisses me off. I have to park my truck in
the street, call Toney on my cell phone and have her open the garage
door (she has one of the remotes in her car, and the other is inside the
house), and drag all the cans into the garage. It turns the simple task
of parking my goddamn car into a huge production. Last night I slammed
the Blazer into PARK, jumped out while spewing obscenities, and promptly
slipped on the ice and fell on my ass. My whole left side was covered in
shitty slush. It was like the 3 Stooges out there. I know they do it on
purpose; I have no doubt whatsoever. The pricks.
-- You know that wimpy old song by Bread, "Everything I Own"?
Well, it's in my head and I can't get it out. The chorus just keeps
playing over and over. I feel like crashing my face through plate glass.
-- Today is my mother's birthday, and I remembered! Thank you God, I'll
try to repay you by being good. ...Ahem.
-- Check
it out. September 6, boyee. Oh, I'll be there with cash in-hand.
And I know this is a pretty scattered update, but I'm kinda rushed this
morning, and this is the best I could
do under the circumstances. I have an, um, interesting picture I wanted
to share with you, taken with my camera phone in the bathroom of a Dairy
Queen, but am having technical difficulties. I'm sorry, but it's gonna
have to wait until Monday.
So, until then... Have yourselves a great little weekend. And I'll see
ya.
March 10, 2005
-- Before heading to Centralia some
food really needed to get itself purchased and eaten. Not necessarily in
that order. So we stopped at an old diner in downtown Pottsville that
looked both historical and promising. Here's
a picture, in case you should give a damn.
As soon as we crossed the threshold of the place, we were assaulted by a
terrible heat. Apparently they were running the furnace wide-open, and
it felt like a greenhouse in there. "Jesus Christ!" we
were hollering as we made our way to a booth in the middle of the joint.
By the time the waitress arrived with our menus, beads of sweat had leapt
from my forehead, and I felt shinier than James Brown.
She was pushing the new hot food bar, all you can eat for $5.99, or
whatever. But who goes to a diner to eat large quantities of lasagna
from a steam table? I opted for the club sandwich, fries, and iced tea
instead, which seemed to irritate her. Steve didn't take the food bar
bait either, and she huffed off with our orders.
As we waited we saw that everybody in the place was smoking like
maniacs, and it was not only mind-bogglingly hot, but also full of the
exhale of strangers. Excellent. Two men with walkie-talkies clamped to
their belts sat at the counter and kept looking back at us suspiciously.
I'm not sure what that was all about, maybe only locals go in there? Who
the hell knows?
An odd-looking couple sat in the booth behind us, and I got the feeling
there were a few mental defects at play there. After a while the woman
got up and left, leaving the guy sitting there with his cigarette. And
when she walked past the window outside, he got all excited and pounded
on the window. "Hi there!" he shouted, and waved excitedly as
if he hadn't seen her in months. Holy crap.
But the food was good, damn good, and we ingested it and bailed
out of that crazy place. The guys with the walkie-talkies didn't even
kick our asses, which I chalked up as yet another victory. I could tell
they wanted to. The waitress gave me a coupon for $1 off the hot food
bar when we paid, but I don't think I'll be using it anytime soon. It
was like something off Twin Peaks in there.
-- Centralia, of course, is the town in
central PA under which a large mine shaft fire has been burning for more
than forty years. It started in 1961, and is still going strong. The
resulting noxious gases that rise from the ground, and fiery sinkholes
and whatnot, have rendered the place all but unlivable. The government
bought up most of the property, condemned it, and tore down the houses.
But even today there are a dozen or so families that refuse to leave.
Their houses are here and there, alone in big open fields that were once
bustling neighborhoods.
It's an eerie place. The paved streets of a town are still there, but
the town itself is gone. Last time I visited an old general store sat
alongside the main road, but it's gone now too. Slowly but surely it's
dying off, and it feels kinda haunted. Really quiet and haunted. Here's
a good history of the town, if you're interested.
Back in the day there was a big four-lane road that went through the
heart of Centralia, but it's now barricaded off and traffic is diverted
to another two-lane road that kind of swings around it. I parked beside
the barricade and Steve and I started out on foot, up the old main drag.
A sign warned us that we risked serious injury or death if we continued,
but all the beer cans and crap made it pretty clear that the road gets a
substantial amount of foot traffic. And you don't hear of people be
swallowed up on a regular basis.
It was covered in snow and Steve jokingly wondered why they hadn't
plowed it yet. We walked for probably a mile on a steady uphill grade,
then the snow went away and we saw some big-ass smoking crevices in the
blacktop. It was really weird how there was no snow up there, the fire
must be right under the surface. I could see the road ahead and it was
snow-covered again, just the little section where we stood was clear. I
figured the ground would shift at any second and we'd tumble into the
flames, and that made me a tad uneasy, if you want the truth. I'm not a
big fan of the flame tumbling.
But it was obviously party central. The debris of beer-drinking and
sexual activity was strewn about. What a date: "Hey baby, let's get
drunk and screw atop the mine shaft fire!" "What time are you
picking me up?!"
After we hoofed it back down the hill we went into "town," and
parked beside the cemetery. (Talk about your smokey bones!) There were
big clouds rising out of the ground there, and we walked around and I
snapped some pictures. It felt like we were in a junkyard. The ground
was black and scorched, and people had dumped all sorts of debris. The
people who bought those cemetery plots might wanna come back and apply
for a refund. They obviously got the short end of the firestick.
I took a leak outdoors up there as well, for the first time in many
years. It wasn't too bad; I enjoyed the cool breeze. I might have to do
that more often now, the boys deserve an outing every once in a while.
After kicking around that war zone for a half-hour or so, we jumped back
in the Surf Report company car, and drove around the streets of
Centralia. It's like a ghost town, and kinda creepy. It's hard to
imagine it once being a vibrant community. But apparently it was, and
not too long ago. It was probably a lot like the town I come from. And
now it's just big open fields, dotted with strange-looking rowhouses no
longer a part of a row, and warning signs about poisonous gases and
sudden ground collapse. There's not really much to see there now, and
that's kind of sad.
There used to be a red paper heart nailed to a big tree in the center of
town, with the words We Love Centralia in the middle. But it's
not there now. I guess they don't bother anymore. The town doesn't even
appear on most maps at this point, and before long it'll be like it
never happened. Once the diehards die off, the government will tear down
their curious houses, and it'll just be a big patch of nothing, used
only for Schlitz drinking and teenage novelty sex.
Here
are some of the pics I took. And I'll get back to the regular stuff
tomorrow.
Have a great day, y'hear?
March 9, 2005
-- Once the Great Yuengling Shoe
Controversy was put to bed, a woman entered the gift shop and hollered
for us all to follow her. There were sixteen of us on the tour, a
smallish group by all accounts, and we piled into the old bar at the end
of the hallway. The bar was built in the 1930's (I think that's what she
said), so the workers could take their breaks in there over a pint or
two of the golden elixir(!). Now, of course, because of the gradual and
steady pussification of America, they don't allow the staff to drink on
company time, and it's only used by us tour hooligans.
She gave us a brief history of the brewery, how the original Yuengling
came over from Germany and chose Pottsville because it reminded him of
his hometown. He built the original brewery there in 1829, and it
promptly burned to the ground. In 1831 the new, and current, brewery was
opened, and it's been in operation ever since, always owned by a
Yuengling. It's America's oldest brewery.
The most interesting part, to me, was how the company survived during
the "long and dark days" of Prohibition. They branched out
into ice cream and various dairy products, and brewed near-beer and
crapola like that. And here's the weird part -- they were allowed to
continue making their porter, because it was believed to be healthful.
Reportedly is was available with a prescription(!?), and was often
prescribed to nursing mothers(!!) and people with low blood iron. Is
that not bizarre? Wonder what the co-pay was in those days, for a
six-pack of medical beer?
After the talk we followed our guide through a maze of hallways and
rooms, and finally climbed a really steep set of stairs that was nothing
more than a glorified ladder, really. Damn, it was a full-blown aerobic
workout... We were in the section of the brewery where they did all the
cooking, and it was kinda hot and aromatic. There were these giant open
vats everywhere, and our guide told us how many barrels they cranked out
every day. I can't remember the details, but it wasn't much. It's a
pretty small operation, as you might imagine. But they still do it the
same way today as they always did, and that's why it's so damned good.
We passed through a room with a stained
glass ceiling, and big murals on the walls. Supposedly the ceiling was
installed in the late 1800's, because sunlight would stream in through
the original clear-glass ceiling and cause a hellacious glare off the
big copper vats. One of the murals portrayed a group of female bottle
washers, and boy did they look pissed off.
It was all very interesting, but I was standing there wondering just how
many previous tour group members had fallen into the vats, or cascaded
down the "stairs." I KNOW it's happened, it must've. Shit, the
place is just one big accident waiting to happen. It doesn't take a
vivid imagination to envision a fat woman tumbling through that joint,
like the big ball in Raiders of the Lost Ark. I seriously can't
believe their insurance company allows all us dumbasses to walk around
in there the way they do.
After we left the cooking rooms, we went next door to see the canning
and bottling operation. They were running cans at the time, and I was
glad. It was bottles last time, and it's important to me to be a
well-rounded Yuengling aficionado. (Ahem) The machine that filled the
cans was slinging lager all over the place, and the smell was making my
mouth water. I wondered if I'd get in trouble if I laid on my back and
shimmied under the device with my mouth open? I finally decided against
it.
Then it was time for the coolest part of the tour by far: the caves.
They've been closed to the public for decades, but were recently opened
again as part of their 175th Anniversary celebration. We went down
another set of steep stairs into a chilly room that smelled like dirt,
and was lit by naked light bulbs. It was where they used to fill the
kegs, back when it was done by hand. The guide told us how the men did
this back-breaking job, and how they would seal the "bunghole"
with a big rubber hammer. Of course, Steve and I were giggling like
Beavis and Butthead at that point, and some of the more sophisticated
members of the group shot us dirty looks. Hey, I'm sorry, but I think
you'd have to be dead inside not to laugh at something like that. I
mean, she said bunghole.
We then toured the dark and damp corridors of the big man-made cave,
that was once used for cold storage. Really awesome. The walls were just
jagged rock, and the metal beams in the ceiling looked like something
from Biblical times. There are hallways going everywhere down there, and
I wondered just how far it all spread. It was like something out of an
old vampire movie. I snapped a bunch of pictures, but most didn't turn
out very well, even with the flash. Too bad, because it was cool as
hell.
After the guide gave a little talk while standing beside a scary rusted
ladder that led up to another room containing another scary rusted
ladder, she asked everyone to follow her out of there. But Steve and I
weren't finished looking around, and she eventually had to come back in
for us. And we received a stern talking-to, like we were in high school
again. When the three of us finally reached the bunghole room again, the
other group members were just openly glaring at us. I thought it was
mighty ballsy to be giving attitude while wearing loaner shoes, but that
was what was happening.
Finally, we returned to the bar where it all began. Only this time we
were allowed to drink! They had all of their products on tap, with the
exception of Lord Chesterfield Ale, and we could have two cups each.
Because of health considerations I opted for the porter, and Steve
ordered a lager. As we sat at the bar and savored our rationed brewskis,
the guide apologized for raising her voice at us. I just laughed and
told her we were used to it. Some old man said I must be married, and
everybody laughed.
My second sample was a hefty Black & Tan, and we hung out and talked
to the guide who was really very nice. In fact, everybody there was
extremely friendly, even the Keeper of the Glasses. I got the feeling
that we could've probably talked our guide into a few more drafts, but I
didn't want to get carried away.
We were the last to leave, of course, and after we had a couple of beers
under our belts, we returned to the gift shop to retrieve our purchases.
Hey, they know what they're doing... They ply you with alcohol, then
turn you loose amongst the souvenirs. I looked again at the metal sign I
coveted, and practically had to sprint from the building to stop myself
from doing something crazy. One more cup of Black & Tan and that
thing would be hanging on the wall behind me right this minute, I just
know it. And Toney and I would be arguing.
It was all great fun, though, and as soon as it was over I began
wondering when I could do it again. Last time I was there I vowed to
make an annual pilgrimage, and this time I'm going to try to keep to
that. Oh, it's highly recommended. Highly. Here
are some of my pictures from the day. Check 'em out, if you're so
inclined.
-- And that's gonna do it for today, folks. I have a few new Smoking
Fish pics to share with you, that just came in over the wires, and
tomorrow I'll tell you all about Centralia. Here
go them fishes.
See ya.
March 8, 2005
-- Yesterday was fun, but I was draggin'.
Like an idiot, I slept almost twelve hours Saturday night, and was
refreshed and feeling great as I sat around the house all day Sunday.
And the night before my Excellent Beer Adventure? Yeah, I MIGHT have
gotten five hours, and there was a nice purple glow to the bags under my
eyes. So I wasn't firing on all cylinders, and I worried that my
trouble-making talents were slightly muffled. But, of course, I'm
accustomed to such things, and pushed forward. You've gotta work through
the pain.
In addition to feeling fatigued the moment I stepped out of bed, I was
also really hungry. I asked Toney if she wanted to go to Waffle House
after the Secrets went to school, and after I uploaded my pathetic
little update. So we went over there and I ordered a ridiculous amount
of food. I didn't want to say it out loud, for fear of unleashing a
full-blown manifestation, but I wasn't feeling very good. I feared that
I was on the verge of some kind of sickness, but I kept it to myself,
and hoped it was the result of my powerful hunger. I pictured my stomach
as a volleyball with no air in it, collapsed upon itself and looking
like a bowl.
After eating everything on the left side of the menu (including grits) I
did feel a little better, but not as much as I'd hoped. I went to Sheetz
and topped off my gas tank and bought a couple of candy bars. My inner
dumpling child was crying for sugar, so I fed him. By the time I met
Steve at the Dairy Queen in Danville, I was about 75% of my normal self.
The food, sugar, coffee, and highly-amplified X music brought me back to
the land of the living, and I was starting to get excited about the day
again.
I drove and Steve navigated. (I don't like being the passenger in a car,
it makes me a nervous wreck.) We decided we didn't have enough time to
do anything before the next Yuengling tour, so we went directly to
Pottsville, the holy land. There was a lot of snow piled up, and it was
kind of hard walking up the hill to the brewery. I just knew I
was going to fall on my riffled ass, and saw the irony of practically
crawling up the side of a mountain to pay homage to the the very product
that had riffled my crawling ass in the first place. If that factory had
never been built up there, I might be able to visit it without risking
hip replacement surgery. Or something.
And as is the theme of my life, I tried
to snap a picture of the outside of the brewery once we'd reached the
pinnacle of the mountain, and the batteries in my camera were deader
than Kelsey's nuts. So it was back down the hill to retrieve the
back-ups in my camera bag, and a replay of the treacherous climb. It was
like the Lucy Show.
I finally got my shit together, and we went into the brewery through a
side door. The smell was really strong, and kinda bread-like. Ya gotta
love it. We walked through some rooms filled with junk, and up some
stairs to the gift shop. If there's space for a Yuengling logo on it,
they sell it in the shop there. Need a Yuengling yardstick, or a
Yuengling eyeglass repair kit? No problem. Hell, they even have
Yuengling inflatable rubber rafts. It's fairly mind-blowing.
Steve started in to shopping, and I poked around as well. There wasn't
room in the Surf Report budget for any major purchases, but I did want
to pick up a few small things. Steve, of course, was piling it up. That
boy can do some shopping. I saw a metal sign in there that would
look really great in the bunker, but I just couldn't pull the trigger on
it. For a moment I thought about whipping out the plastic and just
buying the thing, but I came to my senses and told Steve I was going
outside to call Toney. I had to get away from that place for a minute,
before I did something crazy. Steve's shopping frenzy was beginning to
cloud my judgment.
When I returned Steve had already paid for his massive cache of stuff,
and I made my pitiful purchase of two beer coozies (camping supplies), a
175th Anniversary pub glass, and a Yuengling license plate for the front
of my Blazer. I had a license plate before and it was stolen right off
my truck, in the parking lot at work. The thieving bastards. I might
have to install a set of heavy-duty anti-theft bolts this time around.
Of course, they'll probably just take the whole bumper...
After we'd made our purchases, and I'd been yelled at by the shopkeeper
because I tried to buy the pub glass that was on display ("I have
those in bubblewrap behind the counter, sir! Put that back on the
display! Put it back!! Bubblewrap!!!"), there was
nothing left to do except hang out and wait for the tour to start. We
were the first to arrive, but it didn't take long for the gift shop to
fill with other like-minded fans of alcoholic beverages. Together we
would venture into the bowels of the ancient brewery, this random band
of brothers, connected from that day forward by a shared beer-making
experience.
As folks began to stream in, the Keeper of the Glasses was watching
their feet like Andy zeroes in on an oatmeal cookie. No open toes, no
sandals or flip-flops, or anything of that sort. And she took two women
to task because their heels were exposed to the open air, and told them
they'd have to change before the tour began. "We have shoes you can
borrow if you don't have another pair," she said. Neither of the
women seemed to take to the idea of borrowed factory shoes, and said
they'd just sit the tour out, and let their husbands go on. I wanted to
suggest that their feet be bound in bubblewrap, as an alternative to the
borrowed shoes, but didn't want to push my luck. That clerk didn't seem
like a person you wanted to make angry, and I was a little afraid of
her.
And I'm going to drag this thing out, because I have nothing else going
on in my life right now. I didn't get around to preparing the pictures
last night (I came home and crashed), so they'll have to wait as well.
But, just to prove we were there, here's
one of me and Steve behind the bar in the tasting room, following the
tour. It was taken by our tour guide, who had reprimanded me just
minutes earlier, for not following the rules of the tour.
Tomorrow I'll tell you the rest of the story, or more of it, anyway.
Good day.
-- Oh, and before I forget again... Those cool Smoking Fish pictures
from Africa that I posted yesterday? They were taken by the keeper
of this
excellent online journal. I meant to link to it yesterday, but it
slipped my mind. Be sure to check it out, it's really good and funny.
See ya tomorrow.
March 7, 2005
-- This is gonna have to be
super-quick. After Toney takes the Secrets to school we're going to play
gristle hockey at Waffle House, then I'm driving into the day on my
Yuengling Adventure, X compilation a-blasting. It's a beautiful sunny
no-work Monday out there, tailor-made for brewery touring and smoking
town exploring. And my digital camera is ready to go, complete with
battery back-up, in case of emergencies. It's gonna be great but,
unfortunately, it's eating into my normal morning rituals. So, in
essence, today's update must suffer for the sake of future updates; it's
for the greater good, comrades. I'm sure you under |
The State of My
Fat Ass
March 2005
I'm loaded with
tumors darling, and I don't even know it.