April 30, 2007
-- We had a great time in
Gettysburg
yesterday. I think it was our
third visit, and I was a bit concerned I might be bored.
I mean, just how many times can a person walk around the battlefields
and stare at the monuments? And
how many times can he wander through the stores and look at shot glasses
with cannons on them? And how
many times can he contemplate five hundred musket balls under glass at
the battle museum? Well…
apparently lots of times, ‘cause we had a blast.
The whole thing is surprisingly satisfying.
It’s like when you’re getting ready to leave on a long car
trip and don’t really have
to pee, but feel like you should try it anyway.
And then it goes on and on and on….
I’m not sure the Chamber of Commerce would approve of such an
analogy, but it’s accurate, I believe.
A Day at Gettysburg
: It’s Like A Great Pee That
Sneaks Up On You!
This one isn’t getting off to a very good start, is it?
When we arrived in town we took a wrong turn and ended up in a park we’d
never seen before. We drove on a
narrow one-way road between the trees, and there were monuments and
markers everywhere.
It was pretty darn amazing, and creepy as well.
I could just imagine being seventeen and scared, and up in those
woods with the knowledge there are hundreds (thousands?) of people in
the general vicinity who’d like very much to blow your freakin’ head
off. I wouldn’t want to be in
that so-called park after the sun went down.
No way.
We drove and drove, and I started to worry we might not find our way
out. It seemed to go on forever,
and there wasn’t even a hint
of civilization in any direction. Finally
we were deposited at the base of a KFC, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
We had lunch at a place called The Pub (I think that was the name of
it), and I ordered a club sandwich but forgot to say “no mayo.”
Every time I bit down on it, that terrible crap (the devil’s
condiment) oozed in every direction, and I was fairly grossed-out.
The food was really good otherwise (provolone = yum), but the restaurant
clearly understands that most people only use sandwiches as an excuse;
in most cases they’re nothing more than a vehicle with which to
transport spreads. And I don’t
swing that way.
After we finished our meal, and I got mayonnaise off my pants and out of
my eyebrows, we walked around the neighborhood there.
We bought the Secrets each an authentic Civil War-era bullet,
which are so plentiful every store in town has buckets of the things,
and sells ‘em for three bucks a pop. They’re
incredibly heavy, and could flat-out ruin a person’s day, I imagine.
There must’ve been
some kind of greyhound convention going on.
Because we saw about thirty of those hilarious, high-stepping
animals being walked by people who looked a little like greyhounds
themselves. Plus, and this is a
new one on me, many stores had professionally-made (permanent?) signs in
their windows that read: Greyhounds
Welcome! Very strange.
Can anyone explain this to me? Because
I’m baffled.
And speaking of animals, we passed a pet store with puppies and kittens
in the display windows out front. Needless
to say, this drew a crowd and everyone was hollering the word “cute,”
and acting like their legs were about to give out.
There were four tiny cats in the cats section, and one was spread out on
the floor like a bearskin rug. The
other three were romping around and putting on a show for us.
One (I shit you not) actually climbed a ladder, which almost
caused an old lady to black-out and fall face-first into the gutter.
I was prepared to step in and catch her if she fully succumbed to
the cuteness, but she was able to dial it back at the last minute.
Toney said, “They sure are cute, aren’t they?”
And I answered, “Yeah, but wonder why they don’t do something
with that dead one?” Man, oh
man. That little joke didn’t go
over very well. I thought it was
pretty funny, but white-hot dirty looks came flying at me from every
direction. Sheesh.
I guess there’s no joking allowed when it comes to kittens? I
felt like Don Imus.
We finally went back to the parking garage where we’d left our car,
and the woman inside the boof had a big ol’ TV with her. I’d say she
was in her early 60s, and looked like a stereotypical school teacher.
But I’m almost certain she was watching Scarface.
I handed her my ticket, she shoved it into a machine on the counter, and
there was just continuous gunfire on the television.
She said I owed her a dollar, I handed it to her, and as we were
driving away I saw a close-up of a man screaming in pain and covered in
blood.
TF??
We spent a half-hour or so at the museum, and that was pretty cool.
They have cannons in there, about a million guns, tents, playing
cards, shaving kits, uniforms, and every tiny (or otherwise) item a
Civil War soldier might encounter.
I was most intrigued by the ammo display.
It appeared that most of the stuff wasn’t even designed to
explode, it was just balls of
metal to be launched in the other guy's direction.
And how bad would that suck? You’d
be sitting there minding your own business one day, maybe eating some
cold oatmeal or whatever, when a twenty pound sphere of iron comes
sailing over a tree and strikes you full in the back.
No, I don’t think I’d much care for that.
They also had a huge display of photographs taken at a reunion in 1938.
It showed very old men, many sporting ZZ Top beards, seated at
picnic tables and eating pie. Supposedly
they were all veterans of the battle at Gettysburg(!), just sitting
around, chilling – blue and gray together - all the old issues long
ago settled. I could be wrong,
but it appeared the only thing on their minds that day was getting
another slice of that good blueberry, and maybe catching a quick nap
under a tree somewhere.
The battlegrounds never fail to get me in the gut.
I’m no Civil War fanatic, and I'm certainly not a member of the
thuper-thenthitive Oprah Nation, but just walking around those fields
where so many people died has the power to move even a cynical bastard
such as myself. I took some
pictures, but when I got home I realized they were almost exactly like
the ones I got last time. So I’ll
just save myself some time and link to the old
ones. Screw it.
Here’s one from yesterday.
It’s the marker for the graves of unknown West Virginia
soldiers. People leave coins on
them, for some reason, and WV’s dead didn’t have too many.
So, most of those are from my own pocket.
The site of Lincoln
’s Gettysburg Address got much
more respect, and I think I was experiencing a mild case of coin-envy.
Next time I think I’ll bring a roll of quarters and even the (four)score
a bit.
-- And that’ll just about do it
for today, my friends. But before
I go… we've got yet another Smoking Fish sighting, this time in
Chile! Check it out. Our logo,
man, he gets around.
Also, I want you to know that your peer pressure worked.
On Saturday I went out and bought a copy of The Stand. I was called some
very hurtful things at this website, and finally broke-down and bought
the damn thing.
But I’m telling you, the book is HUGE.
I don’t think my concerns are unfounded, pussy-boy or no.
Take a look.
That’s me waiting in the checkout line at Borders.
It’s a wonder I wasn’t killed!
I'll see you guys tomorrow. permalink 
April 28, 2007
-- We’re going to spend Sunday
in Gettysburg
, as part of our just-launched Distractions For A Man On The Cusp Of
Losing His Shit Full-Out program. It’ll
do us all some good, I think, to walk around with the ghosts of Civil
War dead for an afternoon. I know
it’s worked wonders in the past.
We also picked our dates for Myrtle Beach
, and made our reservations. It’s
sometime in June; I’m not sure of the exact days.
But my parents are letting us use their big manly camper.
So we’ll get to spend a week or so sleeping almost literally on
the beach, without all the pain of dragging that ridiculous box o’
beds across the full thickness of America
.
No, it’ll just be a leisurely drive in the Camry, with Tom Petty in
the CD player and a big sack of Jelly Bellys on the console.
Just the way God intended.
Like I say, I think it’ll do us all some good.
-- I do have another interview on
Wednesday, so at least I’m getting some
action on the job front. This is
for an inventory manager gig, and the location of their office is
freaking me out, man. It’s
literally on the same plot of land as my former job.
I’m not kidding, the building where they’re based is the former
corporate headquarters of the manufacturing plant where I worked for the
past seven years; it’s located literally in the shadows of my old
place of employment! Several
years ago the powers-that-be decided they didn’t need the outside
building, and sold it off. And
now I’m interviewing for a job there.
And how forkin’ weird would that be?
But it sure would be nice to get back to work, regardless of the
location. I’m starting to go
batty in this house. Lots of
exciting things have happened since I’ve been able to devote more time
to the site, but I really need to get back to a “normal” life.
I think I’m only a few weeks away from building poop castles in
the living room. Or, even worse,
Sudoku.
Will somebody please hold me?
--
Sunshine and Mumbles are coming for one of their marathon visits
soon. By this time next week they’ll
be here, unless something changes, and they’re supposed to stay for at
least ten days. And I have no job
where I can hide-out… Sweet
sainted mother of Luther Mahoney.
While
they’re here we’re supposed to spend a day in Philadelphia
,
and presumably the rest of the time will be taken up with Sunny sitting
around on couches fanning herself, gasping for air like a trout on a
pier, and complaining like a person entered in a complaining contest.
What’s that old John Denver song? Sunshine
on my soooofa, just a-bitchin’? Yeah,
I think that’s right.
Why me, Lord?
-- A man told me yesterday that
many large companies try their best not to hire white males, in an
attempt to demonstrate their devotion to diversity in the workplace.
It’s nothing I didn’t already know, of course, and I shrugged
it off. But I was thinking…
Perhaps if I tweaked my resume a bit, and listed my name as Jeff K’ay?
Or maybe Gephree Que? What
do you think? Would it get me
more interviews? And how else
could I enhance things to get past the moratorium on big fat middle-aged
white guys?
-- Toney got called for jury duty
yesterday, and I’m extremely jealous. I’m
44 years old and have only been called once, and it was for Los Angeles
County
after
we’d already moved to Scranton
.
So I’ve never had the experience of serving on a jury, or even going
through the jury selection process. Why??
I’m always registered to vote, wherever we live, but I never
get called.
All my adult life I’ve wanted to be one of twelve angry men, even if I’m
just pretending to be angry for the benefit of the other eleven.
(Passion is for suckers.) Why
am I continuously denied the right to roll up my sleeves, eat Chinese
takeout at a conference table, and run my hands through my hair at 1 am?
Hell, I can vote GUILTY AS ALL CRAP, as well as anyone.
Have you ever served on a jury? Tell
me about it, won’t you? Use the
comments link below. Since, you
know, I’m apparently never going to be called, and can only live the
experience through others. Wotta
ripoff…
I’ll see you guys on Monday. permalink
April 26, 2007
-- We went to the Old
Country Buffet last night. This
is a significant development, because Toney and both our kids claim to
hate the place. It’s long been
my contention, however, that they don’t really hate the restaurant
itself, they hate the other patrons. And
that’s not really fair.
It’s like people who supposedly dislike Lynyrd Skynyrd.
I’m convinced it’s almost always because a significant
percentage of the band’s fans are shirtless, Old Milwaukee-hoisting,
rebel-yellin’ rednecks. And
that doesn’t have anything to do with the songs, does it?
I submit that it does not.
Oh sure, the Old
Country Buffet draws hillbillies out of their hollers, and there’s
generally people there with catastrophic skin conditions, and botched
grafts, and the like. But that’s
what the sneeze guards are for, right? And
just because there might be a mountain man seated beside us with 6
ounces of Thousand Island dressing in his Robert E. Lee beard… how
does that affect us?
The Secrets especially have dug their heels in about the place, and we’ve
had actual arguments about it in the past.
One time we were driving to meet Toney at a Chinese restaurant
both boys love, and I pretended to be talking to their mother on my cell
phone – and changing the plan.
I acted like Toney and I had decided at the last minute to go to the
Buffet instead, and nothing good came from that, nothing at all.
I think somebody eventually started crying, everyone was mad, and
I ended up calling my sons Niles
and Frasier.
But last night I floated the idea, and there was surprisingly little
resistance. So I seized the
opportunity, and we went.
It cost $33 for admission into the Gravy
Kingdom
, which is pretty damn steep, I think. But
whatever. Since I only get to go
there once every six months or so, no use focusing on the negative.
One thing you’ll notice about those kinds of places:
the Keeper of the Meats is the anchor position.
Everything revolves around that one person.
They’re in place to make the customer believe they’re
receiving hand-carved freshly-prepared ham, turkey, or steak, just like
in fancy restaurants on TV shows.
But, of course, their true role is to limit the consumption of the
Expensive Stuff. Truly
accomplished keepers can make a person feel like a disgraceful glutton gently, and discourage most folks from asking for more.
The Keepers of the Meat are the goalies of the standard family
buffet, and a good one is invaluable to the entire organization.
At least that’s the way I see it.
Last night I had two full adult meals,
possibly three, and it was good. The
only thing I didn’t care for was the meat loaf, which was kinda saucy.
My last trip to the bar featured said meat loaf, taters ‘n’
gravy, a fully-loaded taco, and some sort of Chinese stir-fry.
All on one plate. I wanted
to wedge a little lasagna in there, but was afraid the plate might
fold-under while I was carrying it.
Toney and the boys ate their share too, but I couldn’t get the Secrets
to admit they liked it. They’re
fully invested in hating the Old Country Buffet, but I know the truth.
The truth lives inside me.
-- After we left the restaurant,
we went to Borders. I wanted to
have a look at The
Stand ,
and try to decide if I really want to undertake a 1200-page novel.
I found the thick-ass thing, and opened it to the middle.
Immediately I saw that not only is the book ridiculously large,
but the print is ridiculously small. My
pupils began to dilate as I tried to read a random paragraph; the font
was, I think, the same as used in those disclaimer pamphlets they put
inside packages of cold medicine.
Ferget it. No way I’d read some
shit like that; I’d probably end up having a seizure.
They did have a
hardcover version, with a less-painful print-size, and it was only
$14.99. The paperback was $8.99,
so that would be an easy decision to make.
But I just couldn’t do it. I
left every copy sitting there. I’m
sorry, but I’m intimidated by books that carry a warning label on the
outside that shows a man lifting with his legs and not his back.
Then I happened upon the Score of the Day, my friends.
It was in the bargain books section, and the floor of my ass
nearly fell out when I saw it: the
National
Lampoon Sunday Newspaper Parody,
for $3.99!
This thing was originally published in 1978, in the format of an actual
Sunday newspaper. For reasons I
can’t explain, I never owned a copy of it.
I had the 1964
high school yearbook parody
(genius!), and most other Lampoon products from that era, but never the
Sunday newspaper. I tried to buy
a copy on eBay several times, but the prices always got way out of hand.
Then I recently learned that it was reissued as a book, and it’s been
on my Amazon wish-list ever since. And
now it’s mine, all mine, for less than five bucks.
Not to be too graphic, but I think I had to stand a little
farther from the shelving than normal.
And speaking of that… seconds before the Score of the Day, the oldest
Secret almost caught me flipping through another bargain book, called
the Bible of Great Sex, or somesuch. It
was a big glossy hardcover, and I’m only flesh and blood here.
I flipped it open to a random page, and it seemed to feature hundreds
and hundreds of color photographs of a Barbie and Ken couple pretending
to have sex in improbable positions. The
man looked like that guy on the news, Stone Temple Phillips, or
whatever. And the woman was
sporting a Hitler moustache in an area of the female anatomy Hitler
himself probably never saw.
When the oldest Secret came bounding around the corner, I slammed the
thing shut and hid it behind my back, like I was ten years old again.
Indeed, it reminded me of a time in fifth or sixth grade when I was
sneaking a peek at a Playboy
in the local Kroger, and a female classmate (Janet S., who sometimes
reads this site…) caught me. I
think I literally shrieked and dumped the magazine in a freezer full of
Eggo waffles, before bolting the store, completely horrified.
More recently, I was
in an airport somewhere, casually perusing a rack of magazines.
I reached for a copy of Hustler
that was missing its plastic wrap, and the second I touched it the
entire shelf of smut came loose, and crashed loudly at my feet.
Every head in the place turned, and there I was, standing amongst
a pile of close-up vaginas.
And I don’t know how any of this happened today, how I went from
chicken gravy to pornography. I’d better just wrap things up here.
But, you know, if
you've got any embarrassing porn stories to tell...
Tomorrow I’m supposed to take part in something called a Supply Chain
Roundtable, which is apparently a schmoozing event for out-of-work
operations managers, or some deal. I’ll
have to leave the house at 9 am
, so there’s a real possibility I won’t update on Friday.
I’ll try, though. And if I’m
unable to pull it off… check the site over the weekend.
I’ll do my best not to shortchange you folks this week.
I really will.
Before I turn it over to Buck, can any of you guess who this
is? (No, not Booji Boy.)
Brad sent me the pic yesterday evening, and it caused me to toss
and turn through the night. Sweet
sainted mother of Danny O’Day.
Also, I added a new item to the Ads vs.
Reality page, one that probably pruned two full weeks off the
back-end of my life. Damn
good though. Check it out, at the
top o' the page.
Now here’s something new and good
from our old friend Buck.
And I’ll see you guys again real soon.
permalink
April 25, 2007
-- Last night Toney was on the
phone with her mother (Sunshine), and the boys were playing on the floor
of the living room making one hell
of racket. The TV was on as well,
and it sounded like there were 25 people talking at once.
I couldn’t take it anymore, so I yelled, “It sounds like a freakin’
Chuck E. Cheese in here!” and went upstairs and started reading on the
bed. Andy apparently couldn’t
handle it either, and joined me.
So it was me, Bentley
Little,
and man’s best friend, in the quiet sanctuary of the bedroom.
Then Toney opened the front door downstairs, and our stupid dog
was thrown into one of his frenzies. His
ears perked up, he stood on the bed at high-alert, then used my right
thigh as a launching pad for his investigation.
He cut a twelve-inch swooping gash in my leg with the big Kruegers
on his rear paws. Well, gash might be a bit dramatic, but it was a big honkin’ scratch.
And I started howling like a retard at a potato-sack race, as
that idiot dog crashed through the hallway, and down the stairs.
And when I showed Toney the giant blood-drizzling rip in my skin, she
laughed. Laughed!
I don’t know what it is, but whenever I get hurt my wife thinks
it’s nothing short of hilarious.
Every. Single. Time.
Yes, it’s very important to have a strong support network.
-- Since we’re on the subject,
I’ve got a little more information on the ridiculous novelty dog I’ve
been seeing tip-toeing around at the neighbors’ house all week.
Before he nearly amputated my right leg, we took Andy for a walk
yesterday evening. The neighbor
with the new laughable dog was in her front yard when we passed by, and
Toney struck up a conversation.
Apparently they're only keeping the hilarious Dr. Seuss hound for a
friend, and it doesn’t actually belong to them.
But check this out: she
said it’s a chow.
Now, I’m no expert on the subject, but I’ve never seen a chow
with long spindly legs, and a mane. I’m
highly skeptical. I think she’s
hiding something. It reminds me
of the Coneheads telling everyone they’re from France.
And another thing… there were delays in the conversation,
disconcerting delays. Toney would
ask the woman a question, and there’d be a gap of silence before she
answered, as if she were speaking via videophone from Iraq
.
What up wit’ dat? Do you think
our neighbors are from outer space? I
believe it’s a real possibility. I’ll
try to get a picture of this so-called “chow” in the coming days,
and maybe we can put this mystery to bed.
Unless, of course, I’m sucked into the mothership the very
moment I upload this. Holy shit
on a sugar cone!
-- We’re planning to spend
Sunday in Gettysburg
. We
need distractions, people. I’m
losing my flakin’ mind hanging around this house, just eating chicken
salad sandwiches and looking out the windows all the time like Mrs.
Kravitz. A day away will do us
all some good, I think.
And we’re also going to take my parents up on an offer they made us a
few weeks back. They have a big
camper in storage at Myrtle Beach
, and they said we could use it
whenever we want.
It’s one of those big babies, with the slide-outs and the whole nine
yards. And all we’ll have to do
is make reservations at the campground, and the people there will have
it all set-up and ready for us when we arrive.
How cool is that? No dragging the
rolling box o’ beds up and down the east coast.
No more emasculating camper-backing episodes.
No propane tanks working themselves free in Virginia
, and blowing up a Stuckey’s.
None of that, with all the benefits.
So, when Toney gets home this afternoon we’re gonna pick four or five
days on the calendar, and just do it. Because
we need distractions, people.
-- I received an email this
morning from a guy who wants to interview me for a radio show in
Switzerland
. He’s
interested in the Ads vs. Reality page
(of course), and says he read about it in an Italian newspaper.
My brain is starting to hurt…
-- Yahoo sent me this icon
yesterday, and urged me to place it on my website.
So, I’m doing as I was told.
-- Surf Reporter Matt sends along
these photos he snapped in the
parking lot of a school near his house. Man,
those auxiliary classrooms are getting smaller and smaller, aren’t
they?
-- Here’s
a handful of fresh new Smoking Fish sightings, including one that might
be pushing the limits a bit. But
thanks folks, I really appreciate it. And
keep ‘em coming!
-- Before I turn it over to Brad,
I have a quick question (or two) for ya….
For reasons I cannot figure out, I’m suddenly very interested
in reading Stephen King’s The
Stand.
The problem? It’s 1168
pages long.
I’ve never read anything that thick. I
did read a biography of Benjamin Franklin once that was something like
800 pages. I didn’t think I’d
ever get to the end of it, and the thing hung around my neck for weeks
and weeks, almost causing me to cry a few times.
But this Stand deal is that,
plus another book or so tacked-on!
Have you read it? Is it worth the
pain? And if you haven’t read
it, what’s the tallest book you’ve ever taken on?
Can you beat my 800 page Ben Franklin book which seemed to unfold
in real-time, and lasted roughly as long as the man actually lived? Tell
us about it, won’t you?
-- But not before you read the
latest from Brad, right here. Do that
first.
And I’ll see you guys tomorrow. permalink
April 24, 2007
-- Before I took the Secret to
school this morning, I put on a pot of good ol’ Eight O’clock bean
coffee, so it would be ready to go when I got home.
It’s part of the unemployment ritual I find myself settling
into.
Toney usually comes upstairs and prods my back fat around 6:45
,
and tells me to get up. I wallow
around in heavy fabrics for the next ten minutes or so, then finally
hoist myself off the dormancy platform. After
an urgent visit to the Smallest Room, I go downstairs and sit around for
a while, grunting reactions to whatever is being said at the time.
I usually have a cup or two of the coffee Toney brewed when she came
downstairs, hours earlier, and it’s pretty much like something from a
1970s Esso station by the time I get to it.
But it’s there, and it’s hot, so screw it.
When I can’t take anymore Danny
Phantom at Cheap Trick volume, I shuffle down to the bunker and
check my email and see if there’s anything exciting happening in the
world. Like, you know, celebrity
death.
Then I click over to my special “employment search” mailbox, hoping
for the best, and finding instead a computer-generated message from
CareerBuilder: “We have two new
hand-picked, specially-selected opportunities for you today, Jeff!
Nuclear physicist, and assistant key-person at Lids.”
I sigh with deep, deep sadness, take a shower, pop in my contacts, and
all that crapola. Then it’s
time to start the real pot of
coffee, the one that will fuel my Surf Report update that day.
I drive the Secret to school, and sometimes allow our dog Andy (Black
Lips Houlihan) to ride shotgun. As
we wait for the aides inside the building to finish their honeybuns,
wipe the glaze off their lips, and lick their hotdog fingers clean, we
concoct elaborate stories featuring the other people waiting in line
there. This morning High Neck was
hit with a powerful diarrhea ray, and comedy ensued.
Then I come home, pour myself a freshly-brewed cup of good ol’
Eight
O’clock
,
and we’re off and running.
But not this morning.
Today I pressed my Baseball Hall of Fame mug against the
dispenser button on the front of our fancy-ass coffeemaker, and hot
water came out. Nothing but clear
water, heated.
The shit?! I’d forgotten to put
the basket with the coffee in there. It
was still sitting on the counter, over by the toaster.
Grrr…
So, needless to say, my whole day’s shot.
-- Our neighbors have apparently
purchased some sort of ridiculous dog. I
keep seeing the thing walking around down there, and find myself doing
repeated double-takes.
I can’t begin to tell you the breed of this animal, since I’ve never
seen anything like it before in my entire life.
In fact, I’m not even 100% certain it is a dog. But I think it is.
I think it is, in fact, a dog.
It has tall skinny legs, like a greyhound, but there are rings of fur
around its body. It seems to walk
on tip-toes and has, I’m almost sure, a mane.
It’s a real high-stepper, and possesses a tail that looks like
a single Arby’s curly fry sticking out of its ass.
At least that’s the way I’m remembering it.
I could be slightly off…. But
believe me, it’s full-blown Dr. Seuss down there these days.
I’m fully expecting to be walking to my car soon, and seeing
that thing spinning plates on a stick.
Those folks obviously don’t believe in having just a regular ol’
mutt from the pound. Their
previous dog was some sort of designer deal as well, completely white
and as big as a Shetland pony. He
could walk up to our house and look in the front windows, literally.
He was almost exactly the same age as Andy, but contracted a
neurological disorder when he was four and began walking on a slant.
Eventually the owners were forced to put him down.
It was really sad, because that dog was big, dumb, and eager to
please. It seemed like he was
smiling all the time, and you couldn’t get mad even when he ripped
open every single one of your trash bags, and dragged the
contents halfway to Dunmore
.
Andy hasn’t had the opportunity to interact with the exotic new
pipe-cleaner dog yet, and it’ll be interesting to see how it goes.
I’m not sure he’ll know how to react to something so delicate
and hilarious. But, of course, I’ll
let you know.
-- I’m listening to the latest
CD by John
Wesley Harding. His voice
reminds me of Atlanta
.
Because, you see, I was a big fan of his when I lived there.
And, if I’m not mistaken, he lived there as well.
His early albums sound exactly
like Elvis Costello. But they’re also really good, so he got away with
it. He used to play around town
all the time, and I probably saw him five or six times.
He’s one of those guys who talk as much as they sing in
concert, and is completely hilarious.
I actually shot a game of pool with him once, back during the record
weasel years. It was upstairs at
the Variety Playhouse, and I think the Judybats had just finished
performing. He kicked my ass, all
up and down.
So anyway… I’d kinda lost
track of the guy over the years. Then
I read a gushing
review of his latest, and picked it up at half dotcom.
It’s really good, and his voice reminds me of Atlanta
,
in case I hadn’t mentioned it. Are there any voices that remind you of
a city? Or am I the weird one, again?
And that’s about all I can muster today, my friends.
The coffee situation has me all out of sorts….
I’ll be back tomorrow. permalink
April 23, 2007
-- Check this
out. Is that not excellent?
I submit that it is. But
you know what they say… Take a
blurry picture of a hamburger, and the world will beat a path to your
door. Then demand better
lighting.
-- The Ads
vs. Reality page is still kicking, in case you give a tiny
seahorse-shaped craplet. I
figured it would last for a couple of days, then start to fade.
But it’s not fading, it’s not fading at all.
In fact, it looks like today might be the biggest traffic-day so
far. Completely amazing.
And all I can say is I’m thankful I changed webhosts a couple of years
ago. I’m with Hostito
now and have been in constant contact with them during this whole crazy
ordeal. Yeah, the extra traffic
is costing me some money, but nothing like the old days.
Right now, as I type this, I’m a whopping 151 gigabytes over my
allowance for April. But the good
folks at Hostito have acted like partners, not enemies, and we came to a
fair agreement.
Jason Headley hooked me up
with those guys, and I owe him a huge debt of gratitude.
If you’re looking for a new host, do yourself a favor and
consider Hostito. I (and Jason)
couldn’t be more pleased.
I don’t want to embarrass anyone by mentioning my old host by name (Earthlink),
but I did the math a few minutes ago and I’d be looking at a charge of
$15,100(!!) if I was still a customer there.
I don’t think they’d hold me to that, but they’d probably
insist I pay half, or something. Anyone
who was around during the Neti
Pot Debacle knows it’s true.
And divorce proceedings would be underway in Scranton
,
the movers would be here, and I’d be sitting on a box in the basement
blubbering softly in the darkness....
So there you go; you’re up to date on all that crapola.
Let’s move on to the Regular Stuff, shall we?
-- The weekend was incredible,
weather-wise. Maybe it’s the
contrast with last weekend, when there was nearly a foot of snow on the
ground, but the past few days have seemed like paradise itself.
The sun is shining here, the temperatures are reaching the high 70s
every day, and the bugs aren’t awake yet.
Perfect!
Because of this, we spent a lot of time outside on Saturday and Sunday.
I think we visited every park within a 25-mile radius of our
house, and logged many miles of walking and sun-soakin’.
We
even fired up the grill on Saturday, popped open a few Magic
Hat #9s, and had ourselves a full-on summer-style cookout.
It was great. I hope it was the
same in your neck of the woods.
-- Not to turn a positive into a
negative here (ahem), but why are state parks such trash magnets?
Can anyone explain this to me? Like
I said, we went to several parks over the weekend, and the state
park alone was crawling with white trash.
The whole time we were there, I was humming this
song without even realizing it.
We walked beside the lake, and I think there were people actually
fishing for food there. They didn’t
look like they were out there for the sport of it, or for leisure, I
think they were making arrangements for supper.
Most of the guys were shirtless and heavily-scarred, and the women were
tattooed, pushing their tube-tops to the very limit, and hollering at
their little buzzcut hicklets with terrifying cigarette and bourbon
voices.
I saw what I presume to be a man fishing near the pier, and he looked
like a human embryo in a NAPA
cap.
Remember the “baby” in Eraserhead?
It was something along those lines.
I wondered how he’d ever reel in a fish, if he actually caught
one. But something tells me that
embryonic man-husk is shockingly strong, and could probably kick my ass.
As we were walking back to our car we encountered a morbidly obese woman
with a cig dancing on her lips, having a shouted conversation with a
chinless man down by the lake. Always
with the shouting…. She
hollered that Bobby was getting a timeout in the truck, because he’d
gone “over the line.”
I told Toney their “line” was undoubtedly located somewhere other
than our line.
Wonder what Bobby had done, anyway?
Burned down a church? I
just don’t know.
Here are some pics I snapped at the
same park, a few years ago.
The other parks were far less colorful. However,
we did see a deaf couple arguing, and that’s a new one on me.
Man, they were going to town with their signing.
Both were stabbing at the air, and getting all violent with it.
At one point the woman let loose with one of those big swooping
signs where the pinkie is extended, and I thought the man’s head would
surely explode. He didn’t much
care for the swooping.
What did you guys do this weekend? Anything
exciting? Tell us about it, won’t
you?
And I’ll be back tomorrow. permalink
April 20, 2007
-- I went for a long walk
yesterday afternoon. I needed to
clear my head and get away from this babyshit-green subterranean bunker
for a while. The
walls are closing in on me, man. So
I put on some sneakers and a jacket, and went wandering like an escapee
from an Alzheimer’s camp.
I thought about taking Andy with me, since all dogs live for that sort
of thing. But he’s a huge pain
in the ass, both east and west
of the Great Divide, and I didn’t need it.
So Andy stayed home. Poor
Andy.
For reasons unknown, I’m fairly stressed about my job situation right
now. I wasn’t stressed a few
days ago, but I am now. And I don’t
know why.
I read in a book, or maybe it was mentioned in Allentown
,
that many people experience an emotional crisis around the two-month
anniversary of losing their job. In
fact, a significant percentage of folks temporarily give up their
employment search at that point; they decide it’s hopeless, and just
say screw it. Or so I’ve heard.
Crisis is a bit melodramatic
in my case, but something is definitely happening – and it’s been
almost exactly two months. I don’t
know about you, but I don’t take kindly to self-help books correctly
predicting my emotions.
I thought if I burned myself down to a smoldering nub it might relieve
some of the tension. So I set out
for the longest of walks. I
wanted to be exhausted when I returned, and maybe have a few blisters to
bitch about as well.
So I hoofed it all over town, must’ve walked miles. It was a beautiful
day: the sun was shining, the snow was melting, the birds were talking
amongst themselves… And I
answered interview questions the whole time.
It wasn’t something I’d planned, of course.
I even tried to change the subject in my brain a few times.
But it just wasn’t going to happen. For the entire two hours a
man (sometimes a woman) inside my head asked questions, and I answered
them in full interview mode – always mindful that I’m trying to sell
myself.
And when I got home I was exhausted alright.
Oh, I was exhausted real good. I
did a free-fall into a couch, and promptly fell asleep.
Yeah, the walk was a good idea, I guess.
But it’s been my experience that beer works better.
-- I listened to George
Noory again last night. I
think I’m becoming mildly obsessed. His
guest was an “expert” on secret government facilities, like Area
51.
Apparently there’s a massive
underground complex right here in Pennsylvania
, called Site R, where guards are
instructed to “shoot to kill” if any unauthorized person comes near
it. Here’s
some info on it.
Yes, it’s all very interesting. But
do you ever get the feeling every woman who calls into that show is
morbidly obese? It might just be
my imagination, but sometimes I think I can actually hear fat pressing
up against their voiceboxes. And
the men, I believe, are all skinny, middle-aged, and balding, each with
a ham radio license and all manner of antennae bolted to their roofs.
Or is that just me?
In any case, I’d like to make a standing offer.
If anyone can capture an image of the Smoking
Fish inside Area 51, I’ll send you a free t-shirt.
Same goes for a pic of J.D. Salinger holding our logo, or a shot
of it on the moon, or imbedded in bin Laden’s beard.
What other Ultimate Fish Shots can you come up with?
There’s gotta be a million of them.
Help me out with that one, folks.
-- And speaking of radio shows, a
few nights ago I was listening to an old Jean
Shepherd program from 1961. He
was talking about hipsters, and how they’re prone to rejecting and
mocking the culture of their own country, and embracing and elevating
the cultures of other countries.
He told a story about visiting a friend in Rome
, and the guy was eager to take him
to the hippest place in town. He
kept going on and on about it, saying it was the coolest, most
cutting-edge joint in all of Italy
.
So they went there, and it turned out to be a fake Brooklyn hamburger
stand. There were guys behind the
counter wearing white t-shirts with the sleeves rolled up, and trying to
talk with a New York
accent, and the whole nine yards.
The place was completely packed with Cool People.
And they were serving, he said, the worst
hamburgers he’d ever tasted.
It's amazing how the douches of 1961 are
almost exactly like the douches of 2007...
Of course Shepherd’s description of all this is completely hilarious.
If you ever get a chance to listen to him, you should do it.
I bought a collection of 700+ shows (spanning the late '50s to the late
'70s) in mp3 format off eBay, for around fifteen bucks.
And I’m here to tell ya, it was money well-spent.
-- I wandered into a Big Lots
store a few days ago. I don’t
like those places, and generally try to steer clear.
But I needed batteries, and they always have ‘em cheap.
I do enjoy browsing the strange shit they sell there, I guess I should
admit that. Especially the food.
You’ll see something at a distance which looks
like Pringle’s potato chips. But
when you get closer you find the color of the can is slightly off, and
it’s actually called Bringle’s. Or
whatever.
I passed through the toy department the other day, and I’m almost
certain I saw a big canister of Nixon Logs.
But, of course, I was in a hurry and could be mistaken.
I bought eight AA alkaline batteries there, for about three dollars.
And some kind of freaky candy that tasted like meat.
I guess I don't dislike Big Lots, after all? What was I thinking??
-- Check it out.
They’re talking about us over at Metafilter.
Smile and wave, everyone! And here's
a snippet of Surf Reporter Barbra, aka CitizenX, calling into the
national Computer America radio show last night, and spreading the good
word. Very cool.
And I think that’s enough for one day.
I have more, but it’s feeding time.
...Hey, a man needs to eat. You
guys have yourselves a great weekend.
I’ll see ya on Monday. permalink
April 19, 2007
-- I missed the garbage truck this morning. Thursday is Trash Day here,
and I usually drag our cans to the curb after I take the youngest Secret
to school. Since it’s usually
not collected until the afternoon, this is a system that’s worked well
for me.
Some of the neighbors put out their drums of nastiness the previous
night, but animals get into it. I
told you about the time I looked out our front window and saw a massive
white dog strutting up the middle of the street with a full-on
Thanksgiving turkey carcass in his mouth.
I can’t have that.
It’s often windy here as well, and shit starts flying around.
I was once nearly decapitated by a pizza box (I had to bust out
with some ancient Kung Fu techniques to get out of the way of it), and
several times I’ve been driving and an airborne Tide bottle, or
whatever, comes sailing through the air and crashes violently into my
quarter panel.
So I’ve developed a Trash Day routine, in an attempt to avoid such
things. And it’s been highly
successful, until today.
This morning I was sitting in the living room talking to Toney, and
having my second cup of good ol’
Eight
O’Clock
bean
coffee, when I felt a low rumble in my sternum, and heard loud
Scranton-talk off in the distance. The
crap??
Then there it was, the maggot-masher -- at
6:45
am
.
I watched helplessly as a guy dropped off the side of the truck
and emptied our neighbors’ trash. I
sat paralyzed, and saw the same man lift a can high above his head like
King Kong, and hurl it into
the middle of our neighbor’s driveway.
(I knew they did that!) Much
laughter ensued, the rumbling started up again, and they were gone.
And now we’re going to have to hang onto our garbage for another week.
By next Thursday our garage will smell like an open grave, and
there will be trash bags stacked up with various sauces and gravies
pressed against the insides, wanting desperately to come out and play.
Grrrr…
But, at least it’s not as bad as it was in California
.
Out there we had one big can on wheels (known as a wheely bin),
and that’s what you had to work with. They’d
only take what could fit inside that thing, with the lid completely
closed. If the lid was lifted a
bit, they’d leave your crap sitting there.
There was also a weight limit, 75 pounds I think, and their trucks were
apparently equipped with a scale of some sort.
If you happened to have 76 pounds of garbage that week, well, you’re
out of luck, sucker.
California: better living through regulation.
Those
assholes were on high-alert for reasons not
to pick up your trash. I was in a
constant state of aggravation because of it.
They had little pre-printed explanations that they’d stick to
the lid of your can, telling how you’d violated the intricate garbage
code that week.
I’d see the bright green card as I pulled into the driveway
after work, and that was that. Another
evening ruined.
Because of all this, a Garbage Underground emerged.
Various neighbors began helping each other out, on the sly.
No doubt it was against the rules, but if someone had been out of
town for a few days, or whatever, and found themselves with extra room
in their bin, they’d invite others to fill it.
So we spread it around, and utilized every available square inch
of garbage space.
It takes a village.
When I was in grade school a teacher asked us what we wanted to be when
we grew up. Being a smart-assed
little prick, even then, I answered, “garbage man.”
This made the teacher mad, and she called my mother at work.
My mother was always getting called at work, because of something I’d
said or done. But this time she
flew off the handle. “It was a
joke!” she hollered into the telephone.
“Aren’t you familiar with the concept of jokes??”
She still talks about that one, as well as the time I smeared Elmer’s
Glue all over a toilet seat. Those
are two that she found funny. Other
such calls? Not so much.
Yeah, I was making a joke. But
Toney knows a woman whose husband travels to Staten Island
,
NY
everyday,
where he’s employed as a trash collector.
And his salary is reportedly $80,000!
That’s one hell of a commute, but shit… I might have to give
the man a call.
My great fear, though? The first
thing out of his mouth would be, “Do you have a four-year college
degree?”
Anyway, if this update doesn’t prove that I can go on and on about
almost any subject, I don’t know what will.
I’m gonna turn it over to Metten
now, and go fix myself a big ol’ chicken salad samlich.
See ya tomorrow. permalink
April 18, 2007
-- Our little Ads
vs. Reality page has officially joined the ranks of the gargoyle,
Mike Piazza, and the guys and gals of Deadwood.
Unbelievable traffic. In
fact, there’s been so much activity it makes me nervous.
Twice yesterday the entire site went down, and I had to call my
webhost and plead for mercy.
Today is starting out just like yesterday, and I’m kinda wishing it
would slow down a bit. Sure, I’m
happy so many people are interested in what we do here (these
folks, for instance), but can’t we spread it out a little?
Jesus J. McChrist.
I’m never satisfied, am I?
-- I haven’t written about
this, because I feel like I’ll jinx myself, but I had a second
interview last week with a company I’d love to work for.
That happened on Wednesday, and I haven’t heard a word from
them since.
I know it’s only been a week, but it’s making me crazy.
Crazy, I tell you! As one
of our great philosophers, Tom Petty, once said, the waiting is the
hardest part.
There are lots of exciting things happening on the website/writing
front, but I’d feel like a million pounds had been lifted off my
shoulders if I could land a new job so early in the process.
I don’t want to go into all the details, but the current situation has
cast a gloom over the House of Kay. Toney
and I don’t do uncertainty very well, it’s becoming clear, and are
both craving a return to normalcy.
So, since not writing about it
didn’t seem to help, maybe writing about it will?
I’ll let you know how that goes.
-- And speaking of job interviews…
That gives me an excuse to link to this
again, the best Dilbert ever. Man,
that is Nostrils, personified.
-- My Netflix queue has fallen
into disrepair, my friends. I
have no passion for it anymore, and everything’s gone to hell.
There are weeds in the yard, a rusted-out washing machine 'neath
the oak tree, and a muddy tractor tire on the front porch.
I hate to admit it, but I’ve become a flixbilly.
Oh, I still enjoy watching the discs, that hasn’t changed.
But I no longer move things up and down my queue, or add new
releases, or any of the maintenance necessary for a full and rewarding
Netflix experience.
Also,
I’m finding I prefer old TV shows to movies these days.
My mind is constantly racing and besodden with worry, and it’s
hard to focus for two hours straight. So
I’m clinging to Homicide, Veronica Mars,
and 24.
They’re just what the doctor ordered, it seems.
I’ve had The Good Shepherd
here for several days, and don’t have even the tiniest of desires to
watch it. It’s almost three(!)
hours long, and I just can’t see that happening.
I think I’m going to send it back this afternoon, unwatched.
Like I said, flixbilly.
-- Jason
Headley sends along this
glistening jewel of video brilliance. It’s
purportedly taken from an Atlanta
public
access TV show, and you owe it to yourself to watch it.
Just about as good as it gets….
-- Remember those pills they used
to give us in school that made the filth on our teeth turn red?
Wonder if they still do that? I
have a feeling it was outlawed years ago, because of concerns about
self-esteem, etc.
Indeed, there was a girl at our school, Cathy S., who looked like she
was wearing a boxer’s mouth guard after chewing up one of those
things. Just solid red, all the
way around. I bet that didn’t
exactly make her day.
But I think they should bring back the Filth Illuminating Tablets, don’t
you? It’s was a simpler time
when authority figures forced us to turn bad hygiene into whimsical
novelty colors. Ya know?
Hell, I think they should take it one step farther and make every kid
put on a funk suit. They could
slip it on over their regular clothes, and the thing would change colors
in places where it doesn’t smell
quite right.
I can hear it now: “Here comes
Sister Blue Crack!” or “Everyone make way for Johnny Red Pits!!”
I think that would be excellent.
-- I don’t really have a
question for you today, unless you’d like to suggest some other TV
shows for me to watch through Netflix. I’m
not interested in sitcoms right now, just crime stuff, mostly.
I’m very intrigued by The
Wire, and might go that route next. Any
other suggestions?
I’m gonna turn it over to Brad now, and call it a day.
His latest can be found right here.
Hopefully the site will stay up long enough for you to read it.
See ya tomorrow. permalink
April 17, 2007
-- I went to a job fair yesterday,
in Wilkes-Barre
,
and a more demoralizing event I cannot imagine.
There were two companies in particular I was interested in, and
both blew me off like I was a street person sporting a fecal monobrow.
I almost didn’t go, because of the snow.
There was four or five inches on the ground when I got up
yesterday, and it just kept coming. By
the afternoon we had upwards of a foot of the stuff to contend with, and
it took the four of us an hour or so to shovel the driveway.
But I wanted to talk to those companies….
I’d watched The Pursuit of
Happyness a few nights before, and if that guy could eat so many
shit-sammiches and still come out on top, I sure as hell could drive a
few miles on wet roads. So I
decided to go for it. Because of
Will Smith.
The “fair” was held at the Wachovia Arena, and there were dozens and
dozens of companies in attendance. I
wanted to talk with representatives from a pharmaceutical firm, and a
large health insurance provider. Both
are advertising operational opportunities I feel I’m qualified for.
I drove through snow the entire way, and by the time I parked at the
arena, it was pouring down rain. I
hoofed it across the parking lot and jumped over great ponds of standing
water. When I finally reached the
lobby I was soaked, and had full-on Michael Jackson hair.
A woman shoved an informational packet into my hand, and told me where
to start. I did as I was told,
and noticed the place was teeming with people all trussed-up in dress
clothes. Nobody looked
comfortable, and most had neck fat cascading out of the tops of stiff
collars; they could barely swivel their heads.
They looked like a gang of terrified muffin monsters.
I’d dressed much more casually, thank you very much, and my fat was
allowed to move around without hindrance.
Nothing was propped up on a tee of fabric.
A lot of the boofs were taken up with people peddling popcorn
machines(?!), and home cosmetics businesses, and that kind of crapola.
And, of course, there were military recruiters on hand, and
plenty of outfits looking for hourly warehouse workers.
McDonald’s even had a presence, and the guy behind the table looked
like every fast food manager in the world.
I guess if things get desperate, and I’m forced to go that
route, I’ll have to make an attempt at growing a big bushy moustache?
I’ve already got the body-type covered.
But I wasn’t there for McDonald’s.
I needed booths two and thirteen.
And that’s where I headed.
At boof two the woman smiled and took my resume, then said, “Do you
have a four-year degree?” It
was the first thing out of her mouth. I
said no, but I do have
seventeen years of real-life experience.
And that was the end of that. I
went from being an actual prospect to a six-foot stack of filth and
garbage, in two seconds flat. She
handed me back my resume, as if it had been soaked in sewage, and told
me they wouldn’t be able to help. She
was wearing the expression of a person who’d just entered a public
restroom stall, and discovered a toilet already loaded-up.
I took four of her freebie pens, shot her a “take that!” look, and
walked away. And over at
thirteen, we didn’t even get to the resume stage.
The guy said my best option would be to apply for an entry-level
customer service job, and work my way up.
Because, you see, I’d been a misguided dumbass during the
Reagan administration.
So, that was a lot of fun. It
reminded me of the World Series game I attended in 1976, and the night I
touched a living, breathing female breast for the first time.
Oh, it was quite exhilarating.
I headed for the exit, parting a sea of muffin monsters along the way.
Apparently I looked pissed and deranged, I just don’t know.
And as I began to drive away, my cell phone rang.
It was one of my BITs coming to fruition:
a literary agent calling to offer me a contract.
He works at one of the most-respected firms in
New York City
, and said he wants me as a client.
The floor of my ass almost fell out.
When I got home, I checked my email, and there it was:
a contract. Apparently I
hadn’t been hallucinating, after all. The
first paragraph ends with the phrase, “We are pleased to accept this
engagement.” Sweet sainted
mother of the Great Gazoo!
So there you go. It was the best
of times, it was the worst of times. And
I’m focusing on the former today. Fuck
‘em. I wish I'd taken five pens!
I’ll leave you now with a couple of fresh and extra-cool Smoking Fish
sightings. Right
here. Keep your eyes
open, folks. ‘Cause our logo,
man, he gets around.
See ya tomorrow. permalink
April 16, 2007
-- We’ve got five or six inches
of snow out there this morning, and the wind is tearing it up.
The schools are closed, and it’s the kind of day where
everything is the color of pewter. It’s
also bitingly cold and snow is swirling around in a fine mist, just
looking for an open collar to fly down.
And it’s April 16!
Whatever. As Mark Twain once
said, everybody talks about the weather, pass the beer nuts. Or was that
Norm on Cheers? I always get those two mixed-up.
-- We went bowling on Sunday, if
you can believe it. I used to
bowl a lot when I was a youngling, but it’s down to maybe
once a year at this point. Every
time I go I vow to do it more, then don’t.
Then Don’t is going
to be the title of my autobiography.
Back in the day the local bowling alley gave every student in
Dunbar
a card that entitled us to one free game of bowling, Monday through
Friday, during the summer. Shoe
rentals are extra, and please don’t forget the snack bar and pinball
machines….
My friends and I went over there every day, every single day, and took
them up on their offer – much to the chagrin of a child-hating old
bastard with a head the size of a softball, who supposedly “managed”
the place. We drove that man to
the brink of insanity, and had a great time doing it.
I got banned for life at least five times.
I seem to remember a pin
coming back through the ball return, but that would be impossible,
wouldn’t it? Perhaps it was
just one of my goals?
And I remember us pushing the button that caused the gate to drop, just
as someone let loose of a ball. CRASH!
Yes, that was one of the classics….
And I remember us sneaking behind the pin setters and throwing
foreign objects in there, like shoes and whatnot.
Good times. You ain’t
lived until you’ve watched the setter come down, and instead of a nine
pin, there’s a can of Lysol.
And I remember my friend Mike taking a Blow Pop out of his mouth, and
just hurling it down the way. The
thing went end over end, from about lane two to lane nine, and finally
came to rest in some kid’s Bobby Brady hair.
And it was in there deep.
I didn’t think I’d ever stop laughing.
And
this went on for years. After a
while I became a pretty darn good bowler.
Not great, but good. If I’d
stayed with it, I might be really good
by now. But you know how it goes.
On
Sunday we took the Secrets and a couple of their friends bowling, and
Toney even participated. It was a
blast. I bowled a horrible 109
(my first ball went straight into the gutter, as if I’d been aiming
for it), then 154.
By the end of the second game I was starting to get my groove back.
But at $3.75 per bowler, per game…
Yeah, we stopped after two. When
did bowling become a rich man’s sport, anyway?
It cost us fifty bucks!
There was a woman bowling beside us in a full-on winter coat, buttoned
all the way up to the top. I have
no idea… And on the other side
was some fancy-ass dude who’d brought his own shoes from home, and was
sporting all manner of apparatus strapped to his wrist.
Wotta douche. He’s the
bowling alley equivalent of the slightly-too-old guy who used to hang
out at every roller rink, and skate backwards with the wind blowing
through his feathered hair.
Unfortunately though, none of this
stuff happened.
-- After we got rid of the extra
kids, we went to the Chinese buffet again.
Yum. I’m probably losing
my edge, but that place seems damn
good to me. Here’s
what my fortune cookie told me. I was
thankful for the information.
-- On Saturday afternoon Eninen
and their passel of translucent children passed back through town.
We had an early dinner with them, and then everyone went to the
park, before the royal family hit the road again.
During the meal Nostrildamus couldn’t keep his eyes off the TV. I don’t
think he said three words to us. He
doesn’t believe in owning a television, but is sure as shit transfixed
when he’s around one.
When the weather report came on he apparently wanted to hear it, but the
place was really crowded and loud. So
he got up and pressed his head against the speaker of the TV, putting on
a big show. Everyone in the place
was laughing, and talking about him out of the corners of their mouths.
Here’s a pic I snapped with
my cell phone. And this
is the middle translucent’s high-waters and used sneakers that are at
least three sizes too big.
They cause him to repeatedly trip and fall flat on his face; the
shit’s like clown shoes. But, dammit, they’re recycled, and that’s
the important thing.
-- And that’s about all I can
muster today. I’ll leave you
now with a question based on a story Toney heard this weekend.
One of the kids we took bowling is apparently getting “mouthy” with
his parents, and getting Ds on his report card, etc.
So the mother punished him by getting his hair cut real short.
The kid’s eleven, and it’s apparently one of his greatest
fears. She told him that if he
didn’t straighten up, she’d take him back and have it taken down to
a “two.”
I thought that was, um, creative. Kinda
cruel, but definitely creative. It
reminded me of sixth grade, when somebody carved the word FUCK into the
bathroom door. The principal came
to our room and demanded to know who did it.
When nobody confessed, he ordered the door removed.
These were little bathrooms, one in every class.
And we had no door until someone fessed up.
We’d go in there and have to stand at a 45-degree angle to pee,
and the girls had it even worse. It
didn’t take long for the “artist” to step forward; there was a bit
of social pressure.
Can you imagine something like that happening today?
They’d have the principal brought up on charges, Bill O’Reilly
would be calling for his execution, and the students would be forced to
undergo intense therapy. You know
it’s true.
What’s the most creative form of punishment you’ve ever been
subjected to? Or, for that
matter, heard about? Tell us
about it, won’t you?
And I’ll be back tomorrow.
permalink
April 13, 2007
-- When I was moving to Atlanta
from North Carolina
I rented an apartment sight unseen, via long-distance telephone.
And it turned out to be located a few feet away from a
world-famous scuzz-bucket strip club called The
Clermont Lounge.
This so-called lounge was in the basement of a large residence hotel,
catering (as best as I could tell) to alcoholics, mental patients,
derelicts, hobos, and career criminals. During
my first few months there I was afraid to walk past it – even in broad
daylight.
One time a man approached me from the front doorway of the Clermont
"Hotel" and offered to sell me a queen-size box spring.
I told him I wasn’t interested (I mean, what the hell??) and he
followed me for a couple of blocks screaming all sorts of nasally
belligerence. I was certain he
was about to lunge at me with a sharpened spoon, and stab me in the
liver.
Another time I was walking near there and the door of a parked car
suddenly swung open, and vomit came rocketing out.
Never saw the source.
The Lounge itself regularly featured strippers with the same general
body type as former Chicago Cubs manager Herman Franks.
There were stretch marks, cesarean scars, beer guts, and pubes
that went higher than the belly button. Oh,
and ice cold Rolling Rock.
On the other end of the street, the corresponding bookend of fucked-upness,
was a big rock club called the
Masquerade. It was a former
mill of some sort, converted into a freakin’ rock ‘n’ roll complex.
Inside was three separate clubs: Heaven,
Hell, and Purgatory.
Heaven was the big concert hall, located upstairs.
The floor of that place was terrifying.
It would literally bounce beneath the weight of a thousand
hipsters. I saw Iggy Pop there
once, and Primus too, and it felt like we were on a trampoline.
Every once in a while we’d literally go airborne.
And that building is old, really old... I’m
sincerely surprised the whole thing hasn’t collapsed by now.
Hell was the dance club downstairs, and I can’t remember ever going
inside. It was all flashing
lights and assholes and seizure-triggering house music, or whatever it’s
called. I’d rather plunge my
face into an airplane engine.
Purgatory, of course, was located somewhere between Heaven and Hell, in
a tiny room off the main staircase. It
was a trendy little bar where they played Bauhaus at ear-shattering
volume, and all the patrons wore fingerless gloves.
I
attended a lot of shows at the Masquerade, mostly for free through my
record weasel job. And a couple
stand out as especially horrible.
My girlfriend and I went there one night to see a British goth band
called Alien Sex
Fiend. As best as I could
tell, the whole thing was done by computers.
Sometimes the band itself wasn’t even onstage, yet the music
continued. And by music I mean
drums, lots and lots of drums. Controlled by software.
The show went on for hours. Hell,
for all I know, it’s still going on. Around
four o'clock
in the morning, or whatever,
a man who looked like a heroin addict, and sporting Alice Cooper makeup,
was standing in front of a microphone screaming over the drums:
“Smells like! Smells
like shhhiiiiiiiit!!”
Of course he was right.
The other one that leaps to mind is Porno
for Pyros – outside. The
owners of the Masquerade apparently felt three clubs wasn’t quite
enough, so they carved out a chunk of the woods behind the building and
constructed a stage there as well.
I think Porno for Pyros was the first event at this new outdoor
facility, and it was advertised heavily.
The concert itself featured people walking on stilts, men
juggling fire, and someone wearing a huge papier mache head.
It pretty much sucked.
But the thing I remember most was the mosquitoes.
There were thousands of them, maybe millions, and they were the
size of hummingbirds. Everyone
had a six dollar beer in one hand, and slapping frantically at exposed
skin with the other. I think I
lost a full pint of blood that night. It’s
a wonder we didn’t all die of malaria.
The apartment itself was inside an old house.
The place was broken-up into three units, and I was upstairs in
the front. I had a bedroom, a
kitchen/living room hybrid, and a crapatorium which attracted horrifying
palmetto
bugs that looked like a lady’s brooch come to life.
At first there was a gay man who lived downstairs.
He was really into
Georgia
football, and would
completely lose his shit while watching games on TV.
One time I’m almost certain I heard him shove over a china
cabinet down there, in the grips of some sort of sports-fueled frenzy.
After he left a group of fat girls moved in, who liked to drink.
Across the hall lived several members of Arrested
Development. This, of course,
was before their first album came out, and they all became millionaires.
They were really nice, but loud. And
sometimes it smelled like an REO Speedwagon concert out in the hall.
I remember standing outside talking to Dionne
Farris one day, about the drunken pudgies downstairs.
They’d put up a sign in our hallway, telling us where they
wanted us to park our cars. Dionne,
who would appear as the musical
guest on Saturday Night Live a
few months later(!?), was not amused.
“If someone wants to talk to me, they need to talk to me,” she
ranted, “You don’t put up a fucking sign!”
Dionne had a problem with the pudgies, and I didn’t much care for them
either. Their leader was a
disagreeable little bowling ball of a woman with a martini glass
surgically attached to her right hand. I
have no doubt she was the one who’d taped up the parking proclamation,
under the cover of darkness. We
should’ve looked around for Frito’s crumbs to prove it, but didn’t
think about it.
And that’s a little bit about My Most Memorable Neighborhood. What was
yours? Tell us about it, won’t
you? Use the comments link below.
-- Before we call it a week, be
sure to check out this cool new
Smoking Fish sighting – coincidentally captured in Atlanta
. And, as if that weren’t
enough, we’ve got something fresh and extra-good from lakrfool today.
Right here.
You guys have yourselves a great Friday the 13th.
I’ll see ya on Monday. permalink
April 12, 2007
-- I’m about halfway through a
book called The
Green Ripper,
by John D. MacDonald. It’s part
of the Travis McGee series, something that’s become near and dear to
my big sluggish heart.
McGee is a character created by MacDonald back in 1964, and went on to
star in 21 novels spanning a couple of decades.
This is
a good summation of it all, and here’s
some stuff about MacDonald himself.
A few years ago I started reading the
books in order, and I’m almost to the end.
There are only three left after this one, then there will be no
more.
And that makes me sad.
I guess I can start reading them again, and will probably do that, but I
have a feeling it won’t be the same. I
envy anyone who hasn’t read them yet, because they’ve still got 21
to go. And I don’t.
Those books have become comfort food for me.
When things get a bit stressful in my life, I often turn to
Travis McGee. The man lives on a
houseboat in Florida, answers to nobody, gets himself into (and out of)
great adventures, then settles in with a big glass of gin and a
beautiful girl at the end of the day.
He’s the greatest superhero of them all!
In the early books MacDonald describes Travis as a Korean War veteran,
and that always makes me smile. Because
another of my heroes, Phil Hendrie,
created a memorable character that was a Korean War vet, as well.
And the two couldn’t be less alike.
Travis McGee will kick your ass from here to there, then start
over again. And this
is Hendrie’s Lloyd Bonafide, a complete mess.
MacDonald got his start cranking out pulp fiction, making a living
generating trashy dime novels. I
love the thought of that, it’s a romantic vision...
I picture guys who wouldn’t, or couldn’t, join “the real world,”
sitting in shitty apartments in 1950s Los Angeles
.
There’s a filterless Chesterfield smoldering in the ash tray,
and an open bottle of cheap whiskey beside the big, black manual
typewriter. He sits there in his
wife-beater, day and night, just knocking out desperate, unlikely
stories.
Yeah, most of those guys were hacks, and probably alcoholic as well.
But some were really good, and got even better after writing day
and night to earn the rent money.
By the time MacDonald started the Travis McGee series, in the early
'60s, he’d become very good.
There doesn’t seem to be a wasted word in those books, every
letter is important. It’s the
kind of writing that seems simple and easy, and makes amateurs (like me)
believe they can do it too.
And good luck with that, my friend, if you decide to try it.
Just so you know... The Travis McGee books all have a color in the
title, a device many others have loosely (or explicitly) copied,
including the woman who writes all those S is for Shitsack books,
or whatever. And the character Travis McGee was originally supposed to
be called Dallas McGee, but the assassination of JFK was still fresh in
everyone's mind, so his name was changed to Travis.
Also, as odd as it might seem, John D. MacDonald was a close friend with
Dan Rowan, of Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In fame. In fact, a book
of their
letters
to each other was published in 1986. Is that not bizarre? I submit that
it is. What's next, the J.D. Salinger/Rip Taylor papers?
Another of the dime novel refugees who started a series later in life
was Charles
Willeford.
He wrote four Hoke
Moseley novels before he died. Also
really good, and funny too. It’s
a shame Willeford didn’t start the series earlier, or live longer,
because good ol’ fucked-up Hoke was an excellent character.
These are some of the guys I admire. They
didn’t strive to create art, they just did what they did, and did it
well. Their stuff is almost
completely free of pretension, and that’s something to appreciate.
Oh, sometimes pretentious-as-all-hell is fun too, like, say,
Radiohead. But it doesn’t
really work as comfort food.
I know this one’s a bit different, and I hadn’t intended to go on so
long with it, but that’s the way it happens sometime.
What do you turn to when things get a bit challenging?
Besides, of course, your family and religion, and those types of
things. What movies or books or
music, or whatever, has the power to make you feel whole again?
Tell us about it, won’t you?
And I’ll be back tomorrow, with The Normal Stuff.
See ya then.
permalink
April 11, 2007
-- You know that phrase about
having a full plate? Well, I’ve
got one today. In real life I
like full plates. In fact, there
are few things better than a
full plate. Ya know?
It's how I developed my powerful upper-body. But, unfortunately,
I’m not talking about chicken and salt gravy here, I’m talking about
Big Important Things to do. And I’m
a tad stressed.
Someday I’ll tell you all about it, but not today.
I’m far too superstitious to talk about BITs before they
actually come to fruition. I’m
like Sparky Anderson making sure he doesn’t step on the foul line when
he’s walking to the pitcher’s mound.
A man needs to take precautions.
What’s a peptic ulcer feel like?
-- There was some little hooligan
at our house a few days ago, running rampant and acting like a full-on
zoo animal with the youngest Secret. Both
of our kids seem to be drawn to wild-ass friends, for some reason, and
this one certainly fits the bill. The
noise he was generating was incredible.
Feeling generous and friendly, I asked the kid if he’d like to stay
for dinner. We’re having pizza,
I told him, and he said he loves pizza. So
Toney called his mother, and it was all set.
Then he wouldn’t eat a thing. Because
there was pepperoni involved. He
said pepperoni is “disgusting,” and wouldn’t touch a slice even if
we picked off the offending items. There
was knowledge, you see, that the food had recently come in contact with
something extremely foul.
Who doesn’t like pepperoni pizza??
Toney offered to make him some chicken nuggets or macaroni and cheese or
something, but he declined. So we’d
asked him to stay for dinner, and he wouldn’t eat anything.
Simply excellent.
I told him there’s nothing disgusting about pepperoni, it’s just
ground-up pig lips and hog butts. And
he started saying that, over and over, while marauding through the
house: “Pig
lips and hog butts! Pig lips
and hog butts!!” He was
running from room to room with a crazed look on his face, waving his
arms above his head and repeating that phrase.
And he was doing it in a thick Hee
Haw-style Southern accent.
The hell?? Is that little shit
making fun of the way I talk? Toney
said I was being paranoid, but why would he suddenly go all Gomer like
that? I think he was mocking me,
and I didn’t much care for it.
It reminded me of a Cuban family that lived near us when I was a kid.
They had maids and a “library,” and it was a whole different
vibe at their house; they were exotic.
But I’d be there playing with their youngest son, and someone would
suddenly crank off a little Spanish. Then
they’d all bust out in hysterical laughter.
A private joke, kept from the visiting hillbilly child….
I was convinced they were making fun of me in a different
language.
That same Cuban kid wiped so many boogers on the wall beside his bed,
they had to take an electric sander to it.
They were forced to hook up a booger-removing machine!
But that doesn’t really have anything to do with what I’m
talking about today….
The thing is, I don’t believe I even have much of an accent anymore.
In fact, my friend Tim is always busting my balls for “abandoning
my roots.” So, I don’t have
enough of an accent for West Virginia
,
and too much for Pennsylvania
.
I guess.
One time my friend Steve and I were sitting at Five Guys, having their
kick-ass burgers and fries, and talking.
And some high school chick interrupted us, and asked where we’re
from. She got a scholarship at a
university in Alabama
,
she said, and thought we might be from there.
Ha!
So apparently it’s true. I
sound Southern to the people up here, and Northern to the people down
there. And talk about your
regional accent bastardizations…
-- The question of the day has to
do with this
article. Erica
in Charlotte
sent
it to me, and it’s a real mind-blower.
Check it out and let me know what you think.
Sweet sainted mother of Black Lips Houlihan.
Here's an excerpt:
Occasionally,
Legotown leaders explicitly rebuffed children, telling them that they
couldn't play. Typically the exclusion was more subtle, growing from a
climate in which Legotown was seen as the turf of particular kids.
The other children didn't complain much about this; when asked about
Legos, they'd often comment vaguely that they just weren't interested in
playing with Legos anymore.
As they closed doors to other children, the Legotown builders turned
their attention to complex negotiations among themselves about what
sorts of structures to build, whether these ought to be primarily
privately owned or collectively used, and how "cool pieces"
would be distributed and protected.
These negotiations gave rise to heated conflict and to insightful
conversation. Into their coffee shops and houses, the children were
building their assumptions about ownership and the social power it
conveys — assumptions that mirrored those of a class-based, capitalist
society — a society that we teachers believe to be unjust and
oppressive.
As we watched the children build, we became increasingly concerned.
-- I’m gonna turn it over to Brad
now, and start tending to my BITs.
I'll see you guys tomorrow. Or should I say, see y'all in a cuppa two
tree hours?
Sweet Maria. permalink
April 10, 2007
--
When I was a kid my mother would often enlist my brother and me in the
household chores. I guess she thought it was teaching us something
useful, I don’t know.
But we’d be forced to dust the furniture with some nasty-ass rag that
was stiff and loaded with about a hundred years-worth of Pledge drippin’s.
And we’d have to take the trash out to the garage, which
required one of us to leave the air conditioned house in the summer, and
walk all the way across the backyard in the raw elements.
And sometimes we’d even be “asked” to vacuum the carpet.
Or, as we say in West Virginia
:
run the sweeper.
I hated running the sweeper, because I was always afraid one of my
friends would walk by and see me. Remember
that freaky Queen video
where Freddie Mercury was sashaying about with a vacuum cleaner and
tits? That’s exactly the way it
made me feel. And I can’t have
that.
Of course I vacuum all the time now, it’s one of my default jobs.
And when I was tending to the carpet in the family room this past
weekend, I remembered something from the old days.
Were any of you warned to never vacuum in front of a TV that was turned
on? Or is that something that
only happened at our house? My
parents always made us turn the television off before we started
emasculating ourselves. Because,
they said, it would cause dead
spots in the picture tube. What
in the hand-painted hell?!
It’s one of those little things that remains buried in the folds and
scar tissue of the brain, and suddenly springs free decades later.
Can any of you shed any light on it for me?
Was this a legitimate concern, sweeper-generated picture tube
dead spots? What do you know
about this? I have a feeling it
might be boolshit.
Any ideas?
And just so you know…. We
always had the big console TVs that were an actual piece of furniture.
They weighed about a million pounds, and probably had a nineteen
inch screen, or something. Heh.
Oh, and one of them was a Quasar, with the “works in a drawer.”
Fancy.
-- My friend Bill sent me this
news article yesterday, about some doucheketeer who jumped to his death
from the balcony of his apartment. The
story contains this sentence, which makes me laugh every time I think
about it:
A
woman in the building who was looking out her window, waiting for her
daughter to arrive, saw a set of legs go by, Sisson said.
A set of legs. Man, that’s
good, good stuff.
--
I received this note from Surf Reporter BCD a few days ago:
I thought you might be
interested in something I uploaded to YouTube – an interview with the
Replacements from 1984, that prominently features Bob.
The interview was conducted by a fat guy named Mike Eck, and was part of
a "video magazine" from the '80s called "Real George's
Back Room." The VHS cassette has been sitting in a box in my closet
for 22 years, and I finally dug it out and digitized it.
And here
it is. Extremely cool.
Thanks for sharing!
-- This
is Sad Kermit. What’s that frog
so bummed about, anyway?? And is
he blowing a dog puppet in that video? Did
I see that correctly? I guess I’m
sorta confused…
-- Any opinions on Sunday’s
episode of The Sopranos?
I thought it was excellent, and the Monopoly brawl hilarious.
When Tony got up with that green plastic house stuck to the side
of his face, I was dying. Still a
great show….
-- In Little League the coaches
would often tell us to “make some noise” when our team was in the
field. Then all of us would start
yelling complete nonsense, something like “Uuumbay uuuuumbay.”
So it wasn’t just random nonsense, it was organized nonsense.
How does something like that get started?
What in the Ford Frick is an umbay?
And why am I thinking about it in 2007?
-- I'm currently addicted to the new(ish) Belle
and Sebastian CD.
Sure, they sing like they've got a gayness in the anus, but that dude
can write one hell of a pop song.
-- Have any of you noticed that
Greta Van Susteren’s facelift is starting to slip a little?
I think it’s time she goes in for a tune-up, because she’s
slowly but surely looking like a stroke victim again.
At this point she’s got an almost full-blown Buddy Hackett
mouth going, just like she did on CNN.
Also, isn’t it about time for her to arrange for another college
student to be kidnapped? That
Anna Nicole Smith crap is wearing mighty thin.
She’d better send someone out to snatch a jogging co-ed soon,
or I predict her ratings will start drooping like the right side of her
face.
Hello?
-- Yeah, this thing is about to
come off the tracks…. I’m
going to turn it over to our old friend Buck now, and go buy a sweaty
bag of lard through a hole cut in the side of a Burger King, and get
myself centered again. Here
ya go.
I'll see you guys tomorrow. permalink
April 9, 2007
-- I have a job interview
this afternoon, the first one in about seventeen years, I think.
Oh, I had various “interviews” inside my old company
throughout the years, but those were usually with people I knew and had
previously exchanged filthy jokes with. Not
exactly high-stress.
In fact, in most cases those so-called interviews were nothing more than
obligatory affairs, required by HR to keep everything legal and
above-board. By the time I
got there, decisions had already been made.
So, this is something I’m not accustomed to. I
can’t really say I’m nervous, I don’t have a problem sitting in a
room and talking to someone, but a tad uneasy. I
believe job interviews are fishing expeditions for an excuse to
disqualify a person. One
poorly-chosen word and you’re officially weeded-out, Jack.
So, I’m going to have to watch what I say, and run my responses
through a filter that doesn’t get much use.
I’ll have to temper my natural tendency for smart-assed and/or
“witty” answers. And hope to
God I don’t shift in my chair and accidentally let one loose.
I’ll let you know how it goes.
-- Close Encounters of the Nancy
Kind…. The royal family was in
town briefly this weekend. So
briefly, in fact, I never saw them. They
were traveling to Canada
,
and stopped for the night in our little town here.
And since the trip was being financed by a college, they stayed
at a motel(!?).
Toney went out for a drink with Nancy
on
Saturday night, but our kids were already in bed at the time, so I
stayed home. Eninen left early
the next morning, and that was that. I
never saw any of them.
I did find out, however, what the translucents received as Easter gifts.
Our kids got big overflowing baskets of candy, complete with
life-sized mammals constructed entirely of chocolate.
The offspring of Nancy & Nostrils? They
received one jelly bean each, for every year they’ve been alive.
For example, the eight year old got eight jelly beans, and the
five year old got five. I’m not
kidding. And they probably came
out of Nostrildamus’s pocket, with lint stuck to them and everything.
Toney also heard one of them say to
Nancy
,
“Mama, can I have a Thomas the Train toy, since it has neither a penis
or a vagina?”
TF?
-- Tell me if this would make you
mad…. Toney went to Wal-Mart over the weekend to buy some groceries.
And when she finally got to the front of the checkout line the
teenage cashier was talking to another teenage cashier about the kinds
of cigarettes they each prefer. No
“good morning,” or anything of the sort.
The other cashier finally said, “Well, hurry up with this one and we’ll go on a smoking break!”
And she motioned dismissively in Toney’s general direction.
After each item was scanned, Toney slid her ATM card through the little
machine, and it was rejected. What
the? There’s plenty of money in
that account; our tax refund is there, as well as the remnants of my
most recent paycheck.
Toney wondered aloud if the strip on the card was damaged, and the girl
said, in a real sarcastic tone, “Yeah, that’s
probably it. Are you going
to be one of those people who try every card in their purse, hoping one
will work?”
She told me about this on her cell phone, while driving home, and I just
couldn’t believe it. I started
out shocked, and that quickly gave way to anger.
I asked Toney if she was going to call the manager, or if I
should do it.
Toney called, and the guy was apologetic and said he’d “deal with
it.” But can you believe that?
It’s pissing me off all over again, just writing about it.
We later learned the credit union’s computer system was down
yesterday. They were having some
sort of issue, and couldn’t approve transactions.
Of course ol’ Flashy Trash would never believe a word of it.
-- We somehow ended up at the
Scranton
Welcome
Center
on
Saturday. I was up there scouting
out the location for my interview today (I’m glad I did it too,
because it’s freakin’ hard to find), and I ended up in the parking
lot of the
Welcome
Center
on
a whim.
They have a gift shop there, and sell figurines made of coal and
expensive golf shirts with
Lackawanna
County
on
the breast. Do you own anything
with the name of your home county embroidered on it?
Yeah, me either. Why would
I? And they also sell a yellow
coffee mug with the word “
Scranton
”
printed on the side in red.
Why does that make me laugh?
The guy there was really nice, and told me the Red Barons stuff is
marked way down, and is buy-one-get-one-free on top of the huge
price-cuts.
The Red Barons were the Philadelphia Phillies’ AAA farm team that
played here, but they’re no more. I
think the team is moving to
Allentown
,
once a new stadium is built, and is playing this summer in
Canada
somewhere.
So… they have all this Red Barons stuff and the team isn’t even in
existence anymore. I bought two
New Era fitted caps, very high quality, for five bucks.
Not five bucks each – five bucks total.
I like the idea of wearing the logo of a defunct minor league
baseball team, for some reason.
As I was paying for my hats, I told the guy they should start selling
shirts and mugs and crap from The
Office. And he informed me
the show isn’t really filmed here, it’s filmed in
California
.
“They only pretend to
be in
Scranton
,”
he said.
I thanked him and went on my way.
-- I have a lot more, but I’d
better pace myself. If you didn’t
catch Friday’s LATE EDITION update, you
might want to check it out. We’ll
see how it goes, but there could be more multi-update days in the near
future. I’m trying some
different things here….
Oh, and I hate to even bring this up. But
if you’re on the monthly donation plan, now’s the
time. I appreciate everyone’s support, I really do. Now let's move
on...
My question of the day has to do with job interviews.
It’s very simple, really: let’s
hear your interview horror stories. What
was the worst one you ever experienced? Are
there any legendary stories at your office about terrible interviewees?
Has anyone ever actually farted during an interview
session?
I told you about the one I attended (for a gig at a place called Magnet
Bank) where they asked me just one question:
“What would you do if I were to give you an elephant?”
What about you? Use the comments
link below.
And I’ll see ya tomorrow. permalink
April 6, 2007 LATE
EDITION
--
I went out to buy a suit this afternoon.
I’ve never owned one, I don’t think, since my mother dressed
me up like a miniaturized Fast Freddie used car salesman when I was
five, in a so-called “Easter outfit.”
That thing was white with multi-colored stripes, and featured a full-on
bowtie. I looked like I should be
talking up the attributes of a Plymouth Scamp, and conveniently leaving
out the part about it spending time at the bottom of a lake in Indiana
.
In all of my adult life I’ve never really had a reason to own a suit.
Whenever I was required to dress-up, which was rare indeed, I’d
put on some Dockers, a shirt and tie, and some kind of sports jacket.
I’d just cobble something together from my closet, and always
got by.
And for the last seventeen years (actually longer than that) I’ve
worked in the entertainment industry, where you could wear a grass skirt
to work if you wanted. They were
all into free-expression, and not harshing your vibe, man.
So I was 44 years old, making decent money, and wearing an
untucked flannel shirt and jeans to work every day.
It was great.
But it’s all over now, and starting next week I’ll be going on job
interviews, and that sort of thing. So
Toney and I went in search of an honest-to-goodness suit of clothes
today. For reasons I can’t put
my finger on, I was extremely nervous.
In Allentown
they
told us we should wear black, dark gray, or dark blue suits only, with a
red or blue tie. They’re
supposed to remember you, not
your clothes, they said. When they’re
sitting around after the interviews are done, trying to decide on a
candidate, they shouldn’t be referring to you with a nickname; they
shouldn’t be saying, “Well, what about ol’
Fantasy
Island
?”
I don’t know anything about that, but I appreciate them narrowing down
the choices and easing the pain a tiny bit.
We started at the mall.
There are three big anchor stores there, Macy’s, Sears, and JCPenney,
and we hit every one of them. We
started at JCP, because it was the first one we happened upon, and it
looked like we were going to have luck right out of the gate.
I found a really nice charcoal gray suit on sale for less than
$200, and they had a jacket large enough to house my substantial torso.
I was ready to get the horribleness behind me, and just go with it.
The thing looked good, it was a brand I recognized (can’t
remember it now), and the price was right.
What’s not to love?
Then some old gay man sashayed over to “help,” and everything went
straight down the crap funnel. He
clucked his tongue a couple of times and told me I needed to go up one
size on the jacket. Then he went
over and retrieved an even more gigantic one from a rack marked
PORTLY (which I’d been trying to avoid).
I'm not sure about this, but I think it was from the Junior Samples
Collection.
Then Toney said I should try on the pants, which made me groan.
I hate going back in those little rooms and hopping around on one
foot and seeing some other guy’s jeans fall to the floor beneath the
partition and reading the sign that says something about wearing “undergarments”
while trying on bathing suits and trousers.
The whole thing is to be avoided, if possible.
But I’m glad I did as I was told today, because the slacks that came
with that suit looked like Hammer Pants. I
don’t know what was going on, but they were incredibly wide and blousy
at the top. I stood in front of
that three-way mirror and just busted out laughing.
I looked like a court jester who’d let himself go.
Dr. Smith said the problem was the pleats, and that he’d be right
back, before spinning on his heel and gliding
onto the sales floor.
But it was not to be. The “flat-fronted
trouser” required a different jacket, and they didn’t have any in my
size. And everything came crashing
down at JCPenney.
We went to Sears, where they had about three different suits to choose
from, all petroleum-based and shiny, and none in the desired size.
Then we hoofed it roughly two miles to Macy’s where everything
was wittle itsy bitsy tiny, and cost, like, $10,000.
Funk dat. We were done with
the mall.
Next stop: Men’s Wearhouse.
As we drove I told Toney we should call a store in Burbank
I
used to visit, called It’s
A Wrap. They sell clothes
there from the sets of TV shows and movies.
Maybe they have some old Cannon suits still hanging around?
But, of course, there’s not enough time for that sort of thing, and we
ventured on.
I don’t think I’d ever been inside a Men’s Wearhouse.
And before I knew what was happening a bald man who looked like
Mr. Carlson on WKRP had a tape
measure around my gut, and scratching his chin with concern.
He led me to a rack of jackets, and started handing them to me, one
after the other. As far as I could
tell, they were all the same. I
finally asked how much one of them cost, and he said $349.
Shit! I told him I was hoping to
stay closer to two hundred, and that’s when the relationship started
to break down. He half-heartedly
hooked me up with a dark gray suit that looked perfectly fine, and was
priced at $219. But the pants were
apparently made for a morbidly obese former NBA star.
The waist was like a hula hoop of fabric, and the legs just kept on going.
Toney urged me to try them anyway. “Maybe
they just look big,” she said, hopefully.
Clearly she was eager for it to end.
But they didn’t just look big, they were
big. In fact, I’ve never
encountered a person who could wear such laughable pants; I don’t
believe there’s anyone in the world shaped like that.
They literally didn’t touch me around the waist, and I was
forced to hold them up. And my
feet stopped around the knee section of the legs; there seemed to be
yards of extra fabric piled up at the bottom.
I took them off, without needing to unbutton or unzip; I just let go and
they fell like a curtain. Mr.
Carlson was waiting for me as I exited the fitting room, and I told him
I’d never be able to wear such hilarious pants.
And what happened next blew my mind. The
guy walked off without saying a word, and asked someone else if they
needed help. No suggestions for
me, no sales pitch, nothing. The
man literally turned his back on us. I
couldn’t believe it.
We went to Kohl’s from there and found nothing, then Toney suggested
Burlington Coat Factory. I hate
that place, but it’s roughly the size of my hometown so I figured it
was worth a shot.
And that’s where I ended up buying my first suit in 39 years.
It cost something like $225, and looks like every other suit we
saw today. And it fits, and doesn’t
feature Hammer Pants or something Manute Bol’s mayonnaise-loving
brother could wear.
So that’s what we did on Friday afternoon.
What did you do? permalink
April 6, 2007
--
I was talking to someone in the hallway of my high school one
day, out on the far edge of another larger conversation that included
Popular People. I wasn’t paying
close attention to what the other guys were talking about... probably
something to do with getting high, “fucking,” and Pink Floyd.
But suddenly there was one of those freakish moments when everything
goes quiet. It's something that
can’t be explained, I don’t believe: a whole group of people just
stops talking at the exact same time, for no known reason. Perhaps it
has something to do with sunspot activity? I just don't know.
And through this sudden silence one of the Populars said, “Well, all I
know is… I wouldn’t kick Mick
Jagger out of bed.”
Man, you could’ve heard a wispy moustache hair drop in that place.
There was shocked silence for several beats, then everyone
launched into a full menu of howls and taunts, with a light sprinkling
of FAG!
But he wouldn’t back off his statement, and even went so far as to
insinuate the rest of the guys in the school felt the same way, and
wouldn’t admit it.
Obviously, that last part didn’t go over very well.
But he was a Popular so kids just shook their heads and walked
off. If I or one of my friends
had suggested that the entire male population of Dunbar High wanted to have
sex with Mick Jagger, the beating would probably continue to this
day.
But in high school, as in real life, certain people are afforded extra
considerations.
The reason why this episode is so memorable, is because it happened in
1979 or 1980. This was a time
when guys wouldn’t admit to having ever touched
their johnsons, even while peeing. It
was all done with salad tongs and spatulas, thank you very much.
Today it appears teenage boys talk openly about waxing the dolphin, or
whatever you want to call it. (“Man,
I was going at it last night with the bra section of the Kohl’s ad…”).
Back then? You couldn’t
have pressed a gun barrel to a guy’s temple and made him admit it:
“Go ahead and pull the trigger, I guess. I
sure don’t want to die, but I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ about none of
that….”
A
joke(?) about having gay feelings for a <gulp> Rolling Stone was
simply beyond the pale. It was
more than anyone could even process.
And it’s why I still remember that conversation, 27 or 28 years later,
as if it happened yesterday. Oh,
it was definitely one of those “where were you?” moments, like the
first Space Shuttle explosion, the OJ verdict, and the cancellation of Alice.
Do you have any high school where-were-yous?
Tell us about ‘em, won’t you?
Before I close out the category, I have one more thing I’d like to say
about it:
Mick Jagger?! Ho-ly
shit. I’d rather stick it in an
oscillating fan.
It's very important that you know this.
And that concludes a very special (and abbreviated) Easter edition of
The West Virginia Surf Report, created especially for the holy season.
I’ll see ya on Monday.
permalink
April 5, 2007
--
I just went upstairs to get myself another mug of delicious Eight
O’Clock Bean coffee, and it’s snowing.
Freakin’ snowing! In
April, after baseball season has already started.
And following the annual emergence of dipshits who want
desperately to believe it’s actually warm outside, and walk around
shivering in shorts as a nor’easter blows straight up their ass
cavity.
Man, once the first signs of spring start appearing, it’s mighty
disheartening to see snow again. Ya
know? Pass the non-dairy “whitener.”
-- I think I’m going to start
telling you folks what music I’m listening to as I tap out these
updates. I know it’s a teenage
bloggy thing to do, but I don’t care; it’s a subject that interests
me, and it might give you an idea of the mood in the bunker each day.
So… I just finished with the first CD by the
Libertines,
and am now blasting Luna. This
album,
to be exact. Next up? Young,
Guitar Days.
And now you know.
-- This morning Toney said, “I’m
probably going to have to make a Sam’s run tonight.
We’re almost out of coffee, and dishwasher detergent, and trash
bags--”
And if this doesn’t give you some insight into the current state of
affairs here, I don’t know what will….
I interrupted her and practically hollered, “I’ll go with
you! I’d love to go with you!!”
Love to go with her, to buy
trash bags at Sam’s. And
hollering it! But you have to
understand… the highlight of yesterday was when I went out and mailed
a Veronica Mars DVD back to
Netflix.
You see, I know of a drive-up mailbox near here, with one of those big
hyper-extended slots on the front of it. It
practically reaches through your car window, and vacuums up your mail
for you. For some reason it makes
me feel good to use that thing. It’s
just so convenient and friendly and reliable.
And it’s my little secret
too, not many people know about that beautiful, dare
I say it? erotic mailbox.
I need a fucking job.
-- I’m going to call the T-Shirt
Lady this afternoon, and see if she can get her hands on some army green
shirts that look like they’ve already been washed a hundred times.
I’ll let you know what she says.
I’d also like to explore the possibility of Surf Report coffee mugs
soon. I have a great mug idea, but
have a few reservations as well…. I
can see those things getting broken all willy-nilly in the mail, people
opening the box and finding something that looks like shards of ancient
crockery unearthed during an archeological dig, and the whole thing
turning into a “situation.” But I’ll check it out, at least
half-heartedly.
-- There’s a bunch of stuff in
today’s Scranton
Times about The
Office. From what I can tell,
they sent a couple of reporters out to Hollywood
to hang around the set and
bug the living shit out of the actors.
I can’t read it though, at least not yet.
Because Toney has this “thing” about newspapers.
She has to be the first one to read it, you see, and everything
is ruined if it’s in disarray and misaligned, etc.
So, out of courtesy to my wife, I leave the paper alone until she’s
had a chance to go through it.
Lord knows she has her share of “things” to deal with when it comes
to me.
Anyway, I want to see what they have to say about the many local
references they make on the show. How
they do the research, and so on. The
show is surprisingly genuine.
For instance, the snacks they have in the vending machine are always
regionally accurate (usually Herr’s). And
the inspection stickers on the windshields of cars are always from
Pennsylvania
.
And the road salt all over the vehicles…
And the restaurants they mention… And the way Michael sometimes
asks question with “or no” at the end:
“Are you going to help me make this video, or no?”
Stuff like that.
They must have people living here undercover, and sending back
information. And just how does a
person get a job like that, anyway? Hell,
I’d be perfect for the gig! It’s
what I do naturally, without even trying.
I’m always sending back information.
So, B.J. Novak, Ricky Gervais, and Stephen Merchant…
When this post shows up as a Google Alert in your email, please
give me a call. I’m rested and
ready to go, and already live here. Just
hand me my first assignment, and I’ll hit the ground, well... walking
a little faster than normal.
My email address is at the bottom of the homepage.
I’ll await your letter. Thank
you in advance for taking the time to hire me at an exorbitant rate of
pay. I sincerely appreciate it.
-- Check out this
review of the new WKRP
In Cincinnati
DVDs. The dude says it’s an
absolute butchery, like something out of Helter Skelter.
Or whatever.
-- And my friend Tim sent me this
link this morning, featuring breaking news about our old
pal Sean Combs.
Sean "Diddy" Combs claims to be the crown
Casanova who can last 30 hours in the bedroom with his girlfriend Kim
Porter.
“As soon as we landed, we
went straight to the Eiffel Tower, drank champagne at the top and just
kissed and kissed. Then we went up to my suite and had tantric sex for
at least 30 hours, ordering up whipped cream and strawberries while we
were at it," he told the London Mirror, regarding a romantic visit
to Paris with the mother of his new twin girls.
Combs added, “As
meticulous as I am with my work, I'm more meticulous with lovemaking. I
like to do it for a long time.”
And according to London Net,
the music mogul magnifies his manhood by shaving any pubic hair.
"I shave down there. I
do it myself — or I have my young lady help me, because I don't want
to get no nicks,” he told the site.
Tim also included a few famous quotes at the bottom of his email:
"I
regret that I have but one life to give for my country." --- Nathan
Hale
"A
house divided against itself cannot stand." --- Abraham
Lincoln
"I
don't want to get no nicks." --- P.Diddy
--
And I’ve got some other things, but suddenly lost the will to
continue, somewhere around the word "pubic" in that last
article. I’ll leave you now with
a rare treat: something new from
lakrfool. That’s right,
lakrfool. He’s been away for a
while, but now he’s back and you can read his big bunker-buster of a
return, right here.
See you guys tomorrow. permalink
April 4, 2006
-- I believe I’m on the mend
here. Oh, I’m still a tad phlegmigated,
but I feel roughly 1000% better than Monday, and even better than
Tuesday when I put the number at 500%. In
fact, just as quickly as the illness descended, it departed.
Usually it doesn’t work that way.
Ya know?
In any case, it looks like we’re all in luck.
Pretty soon I’ll be completely better, and you guys won’t
have to put up with my whining anymore. About
that, anyway.
-- My music plans for the day:
the complete Steely Dan box set. Then the entire Police box.
Then whatever I feel like. Just
wanted to put my cards on the table…
-- And speaking of music, I went
to an actual record store yesterday, and bought a
CD at full retail price on its release date.
It felt like the 1980s again.
Except, of course, I had a harder time wedging my heft through the
turnstile by the front door, and almost turned over a rack of “bawdy”
greeting cards with my starboard love handle.
And the “you may approach the throne” kid behind the counter failed
to treat me like a contemporary; he didn’t say “thanks man,” or
anything of the sort. No, he acted
like I was one of his teachers, or his pastor, or his Dad’s insurance
agent.
And he didn’t turn up his nose in distaste at the music I was buying;
he just rang it up and handed me the bag, as if there wasn’t even an
expectation of coolness.
Plus, I took one look at his comically-oversized sideburns and thought: wotta
hi-flo douche nozzle. What is
this, Buffalo Springfield?
Other than that, though, it was just like old times.
….I’m sorry, I’m getting a little emotional here.
-- Since my employer restructured
my ass right out the back door, like yesterday’s Filet-O-Fish value
meal, I’ve been put in charge of taking the youngest Secret to school
every morning. Our older son takes
the bus to the middle school (aka Junior High), and Toney has a
part-time job now that requires her to leave the house at
7:30
.
So, it’s up to me to get our youngest boy to class on time, which is
risky business, indeed. But, I’m
proud to announce: so far, so good.
The aides put down their bear claws or honeybuns and wipe the glaze off
their quivering lips around
8:15
, before swinging open the
doors. Then each parent waits
inside their car until they’re within a reasonable distance to the new
opening in the side of the school. Their
kid or kids finally jump out, and that parent makes way for the next
car. And so it goes.
Because I have a reputation for running late all the time (something I
protest, by the way), I’ve been over-correcting and arriving at the
school way too early. So I get in
line behind the other over-correcting parents, and we wait for the
honeybuns to be polished-off, and the frankfurter fingers to be licked
clean.
And a funny thing is happening…. The
youngest Secret and I have started creating a big epic tale, featuring
all the other parents and kids and aides, and whatnot.
We assign names and attach personalities, then put them into “situations.”
We’ve got The Knitter, Gino Vanelli, the Turtle-Neck Warrior, Pitcher
Lip, High Neck (aka Tower Neck, Chimney Neck), Mrs. Puff, and a cast of
thousands. In this morning’s
adventure the Knitter almost died in a fiery crash when a large ball of
yarn got wedged beneath her brake pedal, and she went rocketing off a
cliff.
Intricately woven plots and sub-plots are starting to develop, and
characters are becoming fully fleshed-out people with opinions and
individual quirks. And the Secret
has no problem holding his own in the process; he’s good, real good.
I groaned when Toney gave me this assignment, but it’s turned out to
be the best part of each day. We’ve
got a full-blown Cecil B. DeMille Technicolor production of
insensitivity going on. And I’m
loving every minute of it.
-- Before I turn it over to Brad
and the Question of the Day, I need a little input from you folks.
What do you think about an army green Surf Report t-shirt this time
around? I think it would be pretty
cool, but sometimes my opinions don’t exactly jive with the rest of
the world’s. So, what do you
think about that? Please let me
know.
According to this poll I’m going to have
to stock every size of shirt known to man.
I still find it hard to believe there are adults out there who
wear a small, but whatever. If
that’s what you want, that’s what you’ll get.
Heck, I can probably save postage by mailing it in a regular
business-sized envelope.
Anyway, let me know about the color. If
it sounds good to everyone, I’ll call the T-Shirt Lady and start the
proverbial ball to rolling.
-- Now here’s
something new and extra-good from Brad. Don’t
miss it, it's even better than last week’s installment.
-- I’ll leave you now with the
Question of the Day…. This one’s
specifically for people who are married, or currently living with
someone, I guess.
And I’d like to know if you have stuff sitting around your house that
a former boyfriend or girlfriend gave you?
In my case, I have a ceramic piggy bank that an ex named Kelly
gave me, back when dinosaurs roamed the earth.
And there’s a big magnet on our refrigerator of an old 1950s
car, that Sharon
bought in Atlanta
.
And there’s probably other stuff as well, that I’m not
remembering.
What about you? Do you have
Trinkets from an Ex at your place? And
does your current Significant Other have a problem with any it?
Has it ever caused any problems?
Toney’s not the jealous type, but some of my previous girlfriends
would’ve tossed that stuff into the trash years ago.
You got anything to report on this subject?
If so, use the comments link below.
And I’ll see ya tomorrow. permalink
April 3,
2007
--
As if it’s not bad enough that I’m fat, unemployed, and have
a pair of lungs full of lake water, now TheWVSR is screwed up.
I don’t know what’s going on, and neither does my webhost.
I spent a big part of yesterday afternoon on the phone with them,
trying various things, and tinkering with this and that.
And nothing worked.
George is getting irritated!
When I’m sending files to the server everything is good until it gets
to “processing web updates,” then it promptly bombs out.
So any page that happens to be in queue before that part of the
process makes it to the site, and everything else does not.
You’ll also notice that The Mountain is now gone.
Gone! What in the
hand-picked hell??
Last night the guy at the hosting place told me not to do anything until
after
9
o’clock
Central
Scranton Time. He was going to try
something on his end, but needed a couple of hours to get ‘er done.
So I waited until about 10, and started my shit uploading.
And just like before, it came crashing down.
Then a big Norton window popped-up and bragged that they’d just
stopped an “attack” on my computer. The
crap?!
Usually I’d be bouncing off the walls about this, and running my hands
through my hair at such an accelerated clip the human eye would only be
able to process a blur. But I’m
in a weakened state here, and am only able to muster an unenthusiastic
torrent of highly-predictable profanity.
It’s a sad state of affairs.
-- Actually, my illness has moved
into a different phase now, and I’m not so uncomfortable.
My chest doesn’t feel quite as congested, and I’m no longer
gasping for air between wild coughing jags.
In fact, I don’t think I’ve coughed in upwards of fifteen
minutes or more. Pretty cool.
But… my nose has started running and I still feel fairly yuck.
There’s a constant drip drip drip at the center of my face now, and I’m fighting an
urge to just free-fall into a couch and turn on some Green Acres.
I’m better than yesterday, though. So
maybe I’ll make it? Perhaps the
boys down at the crematorium won’t have to fire up “Big Daddy,”
after all?
-- Yesterday’s Braves/Phillies
game was blacked-out here. I’d
flopped down with a big bowl of salted peanuts in the shell, a pub glass
full of tap water that’d passed through a Brita filter, and my orange
& blue Scrote watcher, ready for baseball.
The
last thing I saw, before everything went black, was a commercial for
raisins. It featured a cartoon
foreigner picking grapes and putting them into a basket, or whatever.
Then: wham!
The screen went dark, and not even a sliver of sports got
through.
Man, I was pissed. Philadelphia
isn’t
exactly local, it’s two hours from here.
Plus, the game had been sold out for months.
I’m fairly certain the Phillies wouldn’t have lost one
dinglin’ cent if Comcast had let the broadcast go forward.
They do the same thing with Mets and Yankees games here, and it’s
infuriating. What is this, 1978?
Wonder if there’s any other section of the country where three
baseball teams have their home games blacked-out?
I have a feeling
Northeastern
Pennsylvania
leads
the league in that particular category.
And you can forget about listening to a Major League Baseball game on
the internet anymore. They’ve
got that shit completely locked-down, and want you to pay a subscription
fee to access radio play-by-play. Ha!
They must think I’m a complete douche.
I know XM offers it, but I don’t have XM, so that’s not going to do
me much good, is it? Over the
years I’ve learned that services I don’t
have, provide very little.
I really like the idea of getting back into baseball this summer, but
they’re not making it easy on me. Yesterday
was Opening Day, and I’m already a bit soured on the whole thing.
One more bump in the road and I’ll probably just throw in the
rally towel again.
-- Just so you know, this update
was written on the Grateful Dead. I’m
not much of a fan, but every once in a while they hit the spot.
And today is one of those every once in a whiles.
It’s long been my opinion that the Dead only had two good albums
during their entire decades-long career.
And they both came out in 1970. I’m
talking about American Beauty
and Workingman’s Dead.
Everything else was either spotty or full-blown crapola, as far
as I know.
Of course, I don’t consider myself an expert and could very easily be
wrong.
However… a couple of years ago Rhino Records released a best-of CD,
imaginatively titled The
Very Best of the Grateful Dead,
and it appears they agree with me. About
half of the songs on the collection are from those two albums.
And how many albums did the band release?
A hundred? I just don’t
know.
So anyway, that’s the disc I now reach for when I’m hankering for
some hippie music. It’s really
good, and I recommend it highly. Along
with, you know, the band’s two good studio albums.
And that’s what this update was written on, in case you’re keeping
score.
I’ll be back tomorrow with something new from Brad, and whatever half-assery
I might be able to come up with.
See ya then. permalink
April 2, 2007
--
Not to be overly dramatic, but it feels like my lungs are packed
with wadded-up paper towels that have been soaked in sea water.
I coughed all night, real deep and painful coughs that required
great effort, each letting loose a thousand flying needles inside my
torso.
Toney says I have a chest cold, the same thing she had last week, but I’m not so sure about that.
I’m fairly certain I have tuberculosis.
It’s been nice knowing you folks.
-- I took the youngest Secret to
school this morning and there’s a strange fog out there.
It’s extra-thick, and smells like toast.
I don’t know the significance of this weirdness, but it can’t
be good. It sounds very much like
one of those things Old Indians warn you about: beware the toast fog.
Ya know?
-- One of the original Rules
of Thumb is “nobody cares about the weird dream you had last
night.” But I’m going to break
my own Rule here and tell you about a dream I had on Saturday night….
We were camping, I think we were at a place in Milton
,
PA
, and it was full of punk
rockers. Well, not full of them,
really. But it was about half
regular camping folk, and half punks. For
reasons unknown.
In the dream I was sitting in a Coleman chair outside our rolling box o’
beds, drinking cans of Yuengling lager. And
every once in a while a punk rock girl would go by, all freaked-up and
wearing combat boots, etc.
Each would walk past our camper, then stop and turn, and say to me, “What
the fuck you looking at?”
The end. That was the whole dream,
and it seemed to last for hours.
There were at least a dozen such encounters.
Must be the TB….
-- Saturday felt almost like
spring here, and we went to the park for a little sun and fresh air.
Here’s a pic I snapped of
myself in some sort of crazy stainless steel “mirror.”
I don’t know the buzzcut child peaking over the top.
--
The oldest Secret told me a story over the weekend about a kid in
his class who sneezed and sent a ball of snot rocketing
across the room. This triggered
my own set of stories, and I will share them with you now.
When I was in grade school and beyond, there was a kid in my class named
William P. He had one Mr. Spock
ear, and that’s not a joke.
Supposedly he loved Star Trek
and wanted to have pointed ears like Spock.
So, for an entire summer he tugged at the top of one of them
every day, sometimes for hours on end, and it eventually started growing
that way. I’m unclear on why he
only did one ear, but that’s
the way it was.
One day in fourth grade (I think), ol’ Pointy suddenly sneezed and a
great rope of snot ejected from his nose.
It remained attached at the top, and almost reached the floor.
The thing was swinging back and forth, and everybody in the room
was howling in protest.
Then, just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse, he reeled it
back in! With one great snort the
snot rope shot straight back up his nose, as if it was never there.
Kids were practically knocking over desks to get away from that shit,
and it was instant pandemonium. And
here I am thirty-some years later writing about it.
Good times.
-- Speaking of grade school… I
have a question today. Was there
ever an item that became all the
rage during your elementary years, which the teachers finally banned
and began confiscating on sight?
I can think of three, right off the top of my head:
Super Balls, yo-yo’s, and Clackers.
We’d buy the Super Balls from vending machines at the local Kroger
store, for a dime each.
And they’d get flung around during class, and bounced from
floor to ceiling, even in the “multi-purpose room” where the rafters
were seemingly a hundred feet in the air.
A splendid time was had by all.
Each classroom at our school had its own tiny bathroom as well, and kids
would go in there, close the door, fling a Super Ball and duck for
cover. Everybody
else could hear it ricocheting around in there, and we thought that was
just about the height of comedy. Most
of us walked around with Super Ball-sized welts on our faces and necks,
but it was worth the pain for the laughter.
Teachers, of course, promptly put an end to our fun.
You can read about Clackers here,
in case you’re not familiar. Supposedly people were getting hurt
around the country with these things, when the hard plastic balls would
explode and shards of flying shrapnel would blind everyone in the room,
or rip open throats all willy-nilly. Or
somesuch.
Plus, there were kids at our school who threatened to use their Clackers
not in the accepted manner, but as some sort of makeshift Kung Fu
weaponry. They’d spin them high
above their heads, with a maniacal look in their eye, and the
administration was having none of that.
So a drawer in every teacher’s desk began filling with Clackers.
Yo-yo’s were nothing more than Clackers Lite, really.
Kids would claim to be attempting an “around the world” and
repeatedly strike their classmates in the small of the back with a
fast-moving hunk of plastic on the end of a rope.
As I remember it, that particular fad barely got off the ground
before we were met with The Clampdown.
What about you? What did teachers
confiscate at your grade school? Tell
us about it, won’t you? Use the
comments link below.
And that’s going to do it for today, children.
I’m not at the top of my game this morning, but I hope it wasn’t
too horrible. The Braves are
playing the Phillies this afternoon, and I think I’m going to take it
easy, climb inside my iron lung and watch a little baseball.
I’ll see ya tomorrow.
permalink
  |
The
State April
2007
