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May 31, 2006
-- Man, it's hot up here. It's early in
the morning as I type this and I'm sporting a shiny whole-body patina of
sweat. And I don't like that. Monday night I tossed and turned because
of the heat, restless and wallowing around in my own natural juices. So
last night, after work, Toney and I installed the big Soviet humboxes in
the bedroom windows, so we can sleep in comfort at the very
least. Those babies ran wide-open all night long.
I hate this kind of weather. I'd take a snowpack up to the windowsills
in a heartbeat, over this misery. At least with cold you can curl up
beneath the Scrote-watching blanket, and life is good; there's no escape
from the Satan weather.
Before turning in last night I took Andy outside so he could snorkle
around and sling urine and whatnot, and was surprised to find that the
temperature had dropped dramatically. There was a thunderstorm a-brewin'
and it felt pretty good out there. But not inside. Oh no. It was as if
there was some sort of self-sustaining heat core somewhere in the house,
just going to town.
Toney said the clattering and humming of the air conditioner irritated
her, and she didn't sleep very well. Me? I was like JFK in Dallas.
-- Last night I turned over to the Weather Channel to see if there's any
relief in sight (supposedly there is), and noticed that they have a
second-by-second countdown to the beginning of hurricane season, down in
the corner of the screen. It starts tonight, you know. At 11 PM you're
completely safe, but at midnight you'd better start watching your ass,
mister.
Is that not hilarious? Don't you just love the hype? And people like
Sunshine will lap it all up, believing that setting foot in Florida in
June or July is as risky as anything the Apollo astronauts ever faced.
It's almost as classic as people who say," Oh, I'd never
have the nerve to visit California, they have all those earthquakes out
there." Or the ones who believe that the internet is nothing but
one big baby-rapist social club. You know, like Sunshine. ....And some
other people.
-- On Sunday we worked in the yard like
the guys on Cool Hand Luke. A few times I was forced to take an
emergency break, because it felt like I was on the verge of upchucking
into the rhododendrons. But we got everything done, and it looks
great.
I'm not one to pat myself on the back, as you may know, but I believe
the shit is nothing short of stellar. There are other yards in the
neighborhood that are as nice as ours right now, but not many that are nicer.
And that's the troof.
When I left for work yesterday I drove real slow, so I could take it all
in from the street. And I think I experienced something that I'd always
believed was a myth: the satisfaction of a job well done. Who knew that
it was for real??
-- After our day of toil, I took an ice-cold shower and hobbled out to
the deck, adult beverage in-hand. Toney joined me, and we both moaned
about our aches and pains for a while. At least until the Rolling Rocks
kicked in....
The Secrets wanted out of the sun, and were inside playing a new-to-them
PS2 game called The
Simpsons: Hit & Run .
But Andy joined us on the deck and immediately began trying to catch
bees again. For some reason the hound is obsessed with bees; he leaps
and barks and tries to hypnotize them with his stare. He completely
ignores other flying insects, like flies and gnats, but bees cause him
to lose his shit. I warned him (once again) that if he ever manages to
catch one, he'll wish that he hadn't. The dumbass will end up looking
like a border collie with a full-on set of Sandra Bernhard lips.... But
he pays me no mind. It's as if he can't understand a word I'm saying.
The Half-Shirts next door were having a big holiday blow-out, as we
nursed ourselves back to health. As best as we could tell, they had a
bunch of extended family over there, and were kicking up one hell of a
racket. They were knocking back the booze, of course, and it sounded
like the whole gang was talking at once -- and it was a heady brew of
New Jersey, Philadelphia, and Scranton accents.
One woman had a voice that cut straight through everything like a knife.
Every time she opened her mouth it felt like knitting needled were being
plunged into my temples. I told Toney that I couldn't live with such a
person. I don't care if she was the sweetest person in the world, and
the love of my life. I'd have to settle for second-best.
There were several teenagers down there, and their parents were letting
them drink beer. I heard one person holler (there was no speaking, only
hollering), "You're allowed twelve sips, because you're twelve
years old." Maybe it's because I was raised in Baptist-saturated
West Virginia, but that was almost shocking to me. What do you think
about that?
When I went to bed that night the Half-Shirt Jamboree was still in full
swing. I was reading my (kick-ass) Lincoln
book
in bed, and could barely concentrate because of all the noise. The last
thing I remember hearing, before drifting off to sleep, was somebody
screaming, "Bullshit! Just utter undiluted bullshit!!" Sweet
dreams.
-- And that's all I have time for today, kiddies.
Before handing over the reins to Buck, please allow me to alert you to this
extra-cool, and slightly art house, Smoking Fish sighting. Thanks for
going above and beyond, Todd! You guys keep 'em coming, OK? Our logo is
always out and about.
And Will, the Keeper of the Blanket, has made a few additions to his
list here.
The fresh quotes, as always, are at the bottom.
-- Finally, here's
our good friend Buck to close out the category.
See ya tomorrow. permalink
May 30, 2006
-- And we're back....
I hope everyone had a great holiday, and got to spend some downtime away
from work, and all that good stuff. Ours was nice, thanks for asking. I
had the whole thing envisioned in my mind before it happened, and
reality ended up being fairly close to fantasy. And that's a victory,
huh?
On Friday I took my company up on its offer to let us all go home at 1
PM. That sort of thing usually translates into me getting out of there
at 5 instead of 6:30, but I was hell-bent on jumping ship at the first
possible opportunity. And as soon as the second conference call (the One
O'Clock Ballbuster) was over at 1:30 or so, I turned off my computer and
walked out the front door. Didn't even tell anyone I was leaving, I just
got in my truck and drove away. Ahh, what a wonderful feeling....
On my way home I bought a case of real Latrobe-brewed Rolling Rock in
the classic longneck bar bottles, Toney and I went for a nice Mexican
lunch while the Secrets were in school, and the super-sized weekend was
officially underway.
-- We'd planned to spend Saturday working in the yard. All the weather
"experts" kept telling us that the weekend would be beautiful
and sunny, the "nicest Memorial Day weekend in twenty-five
years." And when we crawled out of bed on Saturday, it was raining.
So that was that. We decided we'd go buy yard supplies instead.
I pulled into the drive-through garden center at Wal-Mart, and loaded
the back of my Blazer with a dozen bags of mulch. They supposedly load
it for you, but I didn't feel like spending the entire day there, so I
did it myself.
As I waited to pay, I saw the most excellent nerd. He was wearing a
Sherlock Holmes cap, and was sporting a huge unkempt beard with no
moustache, like something out of Moby Dick. Unconventional. His
too-tight brown(?!) t-shirt was tucked into a pair of massive uniform
pants, and the dude was in bad need of a sports bra. He was with his
elderly mother (of course), and was acting all exasperated. He kept
calling her "mother," and rolling his eyes a lot.
I couldn't stop
watching the guy. He was a perfect specimen -- a fully-realized geek.
And I wish I had video footage of him helping the clerk load a gas grill
into the back of their Jeep Cherokee. He was sweating profusely and
huffing and puffing... His massive ass was pushed way out, and I got the
impression that he'd never lifted much in his life heavier than a
Gamecube controller, or a family-sized sack of Cheetos.
It was all so entertaining I didn't even really notice that the cashier
was moving as if she were underwater, something that would normally
ratchet my blood pressure right up. When I realized this, I considered
walking over and shaking the man's hand in gratitude. But then I thought
about where it had undoubtedly been, and the myriad tasks it had
performed (probably within the past hour), and decided against it.
-- When we finally got away from that cluster-fornication, we went to
Home Depot, where I planned to purchase a new weed whacker. I bought a
really nice one when we first moved here, but one of the Secrets took
care of that for me; by the time he was finished with it, the thing was
nothing but a prop. Thanks! And since last summer I've been
making-do with a ridiculous cheap-o model that would undoubtedly cause
my Dad to avert his eyes in shame.
But no more. I've now got the big honkin' heavy-duty whacker, with
enough power to slice through telephone pole guide wires. And the
Secrets can "help" with the cheap-ass grandpa-shamer, thank
you very much.
As we were leaving, I noticed the hot dog stand in the parking lot, and
the excellent smells it was pumping out. I'm not much for breakfast, and
was starting to get hungry. I saw that they were supposedly serving the
same kinds of dogs as NYC street vendors, and wondered if they had onion
sauce and all that goodness. And they did! I bought a
"regular" from them, and it was just about the best thing
ever. I gobbled it down in three or four bites, standing in the middle
of a handicap parking space only a few feet away from the stand itself.
Then I was in a frenzy. I wanted some of that sauce, goddammit. I asked
Toney if she'd ever seen it in a grocery store, and she blinked at me
like I was suddenly speaking porpoise. But I was almost certain that
buried inside the scarred-up folds and flaps of my brain, I had a vague
memory of seeing it on a shelf somewhere. And I would find it.
We went from store to store, and it wasn't a popular mission amongst the
family. We started at a fancy-pants specialty market, where we bought
steaks for Sunday's planned deck extravaganza. As Toney perused the
wares, I wandered off in search of my beloved onion sauce. I couldn't
find it, and finally decided to ask an employee. Surely it was under
that roof somewhere, the shit was right up their alley....
But the zitster listened to me describe it, and said, "Dude, I have
no idea what you're talking about." Dude??
Then it was to this store, and that. And finally I tracked it down, only
a mile or so from our house. It was in the meat case, above the wieners
-- just a tiny jar that cost four dollars(!). Super-expensive, I
thought, but worth every cent. I've been eating the living crap out of
the Ballpark Franks over the past few days, and it's almost time for
another jar of the secret ingredient.
Have you ever had this
stuff? It's almost too good.
What do you think goes into the making of the perfect hot dog? I
arrived late at the onion sauce, and worry that I might be missing
something else kick-ass.
-- And I'll tell you more about our exciting weekend tomorrow.
In the meantime, here's
a cell phone picture I snapped outside Wal-Mart only a few minutes after
our mulch-purchase. I'd sure like to know the back-story on that deal...
Wonder if Ahab Holmes had anything to do with it? Perhaps
"mother" got the wrong flavor of Nestle Quik, and he snapped?
And here's
an interesting duck x-ray being auctioned off at eBay. Usually the duck
x-rays they offer at that site aren't quite as intriguing as this one,
y'know?
Finally, this
is a brief video that the Warner Bros. animation crew supposedly did for
inclusion in a WB Studios in-house blooper reel, back in the 1940's.
Apparently the cartoon folks were feeling a little left out of all the
fun, and decided to make a contribution. Good stuff.
More, lots more, tomorrow. See ya then. permalink
May 25, 2006
-- I'm having my Eight O'Clock Bean
Coffee this morning from a San Francisco mug. It has a sailboat on it,
and a few uniquely-shaped buildings in the background. It looks to have
been illustrated by a second-grader who knows his way around the
construction paper and glue, and is one of my favorites.
I know it's semi-retarded, but I like to buy a mug whenever we visit
someplace new. I picked this one up in 1993, on the trip Toney and I
took after we were married. (I hesitate to use the term
"honeymoon" because it sounds ridiculous.) I'd been to San
Francisco once before, through work, but had only seen the inside of a
fancy-pants hotel then. And that first visit didn't merit an official
mug purchase.
Some of my other favorites are from the Baseball Hall of Fame, the
Strand bookstore in NYC, an old-fashioned diner mug from Cape May, NJ,
an oddly-colored classic from Depoe Bay, Oregon, and one that says in
big bold letters: Don't Mess With Texas.
I feel like I've been to a lot of mug-worthy places, but there are so
many more to go. As I inventory my collection I realize that I've never
logged much muggable time in the middle of the country. With the
exception of several work-related visits to Chicago and Dallas, I've
spent most of my life near the oceans. I need to make an effort to
remedy that situation.
On Clive Bull's radio show from London, people often call up and cite
some statistic about Americans, and the number of us who have never had
a passport. And they snicker and insinuate that we're self-absorbed and
lack curiosity and/or respect for other cultures.
Perhaps. But there's more to it than that. It also has to be taken into
account (if you want to be fair, mind you) that this is one big-ass
country. ...No pun intended. A person could spend two lifetimes
traveling around America, and still not see it all. Plus, there's an
awful lot of water to cross in order to get to Europe and other places.
And crossing water costs money.
I, for one, would love nothing more
than to have a whole cabinet full of European mugs to slurp from. And
Asian and Australian and... most other places too. But when I was young
and free I was also poor as fuck. I was worried about keeping myself in
Burrito Supremes -- seeing Prague (or whatever) was out of the question.
And now that we have a tiny amount of disposable income, we also have
kids... and it all gets logistically complicated.
So those callers to Clive's show tend to irritate me. They speak in such
snobby and knowing tones. Who are they to judge my mugs? It's easy to
criticize when you can drop your doughy white-fish ass in a train seat,
and be in Paris or Brussels in three hours. If I traveled for three
hours I'd be in Maryland.
Yes, I've still got a lot of gift shop work to do, I admit it. But it
has nothing to do with lack of interest. If I hadn't stormed out of that
convenience store on Saturday, and had hit the lottery as the Powerball
gods intended, I'd be all up in Prague, and Denver. And what's
wrong with Denver? Should I feel guilty and narrow-minded for wanting to
see Denver?? Should I hang my tiny Duke
head in shame?
Dammit, I'm starting to get pissed here, and that wasn't my
intention.... What parts of the country remain mugless territories to
you? I've been up and down both coasts, with the exceptions of Maine and
Washington State. But nothing much in-between. What about you?
Pass the freakin' whitener. And the Irish Whiskey, while you're at it.
-- The season finale of LOST was fun to watch last night, but
typically frustrating. There were few answers, and lots of new
questions. And so it goes. I've never seen one minute of American
Idol, but I hear that Skippy Hicks was the winner? Is that his name?
Anyway... what are we going to do now?? Everything's come to an end. How
can we possibly go on? Will somebody please hold me?
-- Here's
a very special Surf Report shirt photo. Congrats man, on both your new
tax write-off, and your impeccable fashion sense. I'll hoist a
deck-beverage in your honor this weekend.
-- Finally, a little something new from
Buck, who seems a bit agitated as well. Sweet Maria, it must be
in the Mountain Dew.
And that'll do it for me, boys and girls. I need some time away from
this computer and this website (re-read this post if you don't believe
me), so the next update won't be until Tuesday, 5/30.
Have a great holiday, and I'll see you then. permalink
May 24, 2006
-- I think I made a big mistake this
past weekend. I went into a convenience store, a place called,
coincidentally enough, Convenience Store, to purchase my weekly three
dollar allotment of lottery tickets. Because, as you may be aware, you
can't win if you ain't in.
In line was a middle-aged man with his t-shirt tucked into his shorts (wotta
douche), an old lady, and me. My sphincter automatically seals off
whenever there's a senior citizen there, because they're generally in no
hurry, buy lots of scratch-offs (which they invariably scratch right
there), and request specific numbers for the Powerball drawings,
and whatnot. Usually they have some sort of heavy plastic "lottery
pouch" with them, in which they store loads of mysterious
paperwork. Oh, they're serious about that shit, and it makes me insane.
But it wasn't the oldster causing the problem this time, it was Mr.
McTuck. He was tapping his finger on his lips trying to decide which
scratch-off games to play, and asking the cashier for advice as if he
were seated at a four-star restaurant. When I arrived he already had
dozens of cards spread out across the counter, like a game of solitaire,
and he had absolutely no concern for anyone other than himself.
I fantasized about lifting the nearby rack of NY Posts high in the air,
and bringing it down hard on the top of his head. But I decided that
might not be a good idea, and sighed repeatedly and with exaggerated
volume instead.
When he finally finished with his scratch-off games, and removed a long
list of specific lottery numbers from his neatly-pressed shorts with
belt, something inside me snapped. I said, "Oh, you've got to be
shitting me!" and made a big show of storming out of the store. In
the parking lot I was nearly struck by a Ford Explorer, and I yelled at
the driver like a crazy homeless person.
And as I made my way to an alternative
lottery establishment, I realized that I'd probably just blown millions
of dollars.
I have a feeling that it was
pre-ordained that I'd hit the jackpot that day. All I needed to do was
buy my tickets at that particular Convenience Store, at that particular
time of day, with three particular dollar bills. And if I met those
simple requirements, the planets would align in my favor.
I'd been so close, but had blown it by losing my cool!
Indeed, the tickets that I bought at the other store didn't do a damn
thing for me. And that proves it, doesn't it? ...How could I have
been so stupid?!
-- Tonight's the big season finale of LOST, and I'm excited. It's
a super-sized two-hour episode, which should translate into about one
hour of actual show. Is it just me, or are there more commercials in
that deal than any other TV program in history? Regardless, I'll be
there with adult beverage in hand, sitting way out on the edge of my
seat and smiling like a retard. I'm completely under the spell of that
show. And I still maintain: Locke is the key.
-- We were told yesterday that we can leave work on Friday at one
o'clock. I don't usually take them up on such offers, but I will this
time. I'm gonna rocket out of there like a breakfast burrito from a beer
drinker, and start the long weekend early.
Believe it or not, I'm all fired up to work in the yard. I'm itching to
whip this place into shape, lay in some mulch, engage in much
weed-whacking and sidewalk edging, and top things off with a good
soak-down of harsh chemicals.
Yes, that's what Saturday's going to be all about, working like a
freakin' Amish, followed in the evening by thick steaks on the grill and
some genuine Latrobe-brewed Rolling Rock.
And by the way, I'm gonna close-up shop here for a few days. I really
need some downtime, and the bunker is going to go dark from Friday
through Monday. So, tomorrow's update will be the last until next
Tuesday. You know, in case you should give a tiny crap...
-- Here's
yet another Smoking Fish sighting, this time at a place that was
previously christened Further
Evidence. Keep 'em coming, folks!
-- And this
is something new and hilarious from lakrfool -- one of his best efforts
to date, in my opinion. Don't miss it.
-- Finally, the question of the day.... This sounds like a Clive
Bull topic, but isn't; I made this one up all by myself, using my
own beleaguered brain. What accent irritates you the most? It can be a
regional American accent, or one from a foreign country.
I have a strong opinion on this (my whole body is tensing up just
thinking about it), but am going to keep it to myself for now. I want to
hear your opinions first. Use the comments link below.
-- Oh, and before I forget... the fingernails sank.
Have a great day, boys and girls. See ya tomorrow. permalink
May 23, 2006
-- On Sunday, at Sam's, we got onto the
subject of fingernails, and whether or not they float. Yes, you read
that correctly. As I polished off my big emasculation dog in the snack
bar, a few feet away from a man purchasing a 50-inch plasma screen TV
and a rotisserie chicken, Toney told the youngest Secret she needed to
clip his nails when we got home, because they were getting a tad
womanly.
At the same time, the older Secret was telling us about a friend who
hated one of his teachers, and was always coming up with elaborate
schemes to "get back at her." These included such classics as
the thumbtack on the chair, as well as a few originals that seemed to
invariably feature a network of lines, pulleys, and cream pies. It just
goes on and on.
As usual, I was barely hearing any of this, because it's just too
confusing. It seems like the entire world is talking, all at once,
'round the clock. But I got enough of it to suggest that both things be
brought together for mutual benefit. Perhaps, I said, the friend could
put fingernail clippings in the teacher's coffee?
Toney shot me a shocked look that screamed, "Don't give him any
ideas, dumbass!" But the oldest Secret was already running with it.
He was laughing and imagining the woman taking a big slug of Maxwell
House, and ending up with a bunch of nail clippings stuck to her lips.
Good times.
Then we started wondering if fingernails and toenails would float. I
thought they'd probably sink, but everybody else had the opposite
opinion. So, there was but one thing to do.... we needed to conduct an
experiment.
And when we got home Toney cut the youngest Secret's fingernails, we put
them in a paper cup full of water, and watched with great anticipation.
Care to guess the outcome?
-- A few people mentioned this yesterday in the comments, but it looks
like Anheuser-Busch has gobbled
up Rolling Rock, and is planning to shut down their historic
brewery in western Pennsylvania. It's that last part that makes me
sick.... They're reportedly going to start making the stuff in one of
their sprawling beer factories somewhere, and that's a sad state of
affairs.
So, does it mean that they'll now have
to change the label? It says, and has always said, "From the
glass-lined tanks of Old Latrobe...." But that won't be a true
statement anymore. I think they'll need to change it to something like,
"From a characterless but functional football field-sized vat in an
industrial park near St. Louis..."
Somehow it just doesn't have the same ring.
For a few years (Greensboro), Rolling Rock was my beer of choice. I
drank a lot of it. Oh, nothing like this
guy with his Coors Light, but a substantial amount anyway. They
served it in the longneck green bottles at College
Hill, one of America's great bars, for a buck seventy-five each. We
called it R Squared and did our best to drive up their stock prices.
It's not a great beer, by any means, but it's better than most everyday
brews. It has a distinctive flavor, and I might buy a case this weekend,
just for old time's sake. Here's
the Snopes page where they attempt to explain the mysterious
"33" that is printed on every bottle and can of Rolling Rock,
and don't even come close to pulling it off.
Those St. Louis fuckers just better keep their booger-hooks off
Yuengling, that's all I can say.
-- And since we're on the subject, here are the 100
best beers in the world, and the 50
worst. Supposedly.
-- Have you ever revisited, after several years, an album that you
thought you didn't like, and realized that it is, in fact, really
fucking good? I'm experiencing that now.
I was a huge fan of the early Angry Young Man albums by Elvis Costello,
the ones produced by Nick Lowe "with one hand on the board and one
hand on the bottle." But then Elvis booted Nick to the curb, and
started crooning. He went from writing pop songs, to creating
art. And I don't like that.
Maybe if he'd just eeeased into it? I don't know, but I've always
had a real problem with Imperial
Bedroom, the moment everything changed. It sounded completely
different from all the previous albums, and I never warmed to it. I was
pissed that he'd abandoned Nick and changed his approach, and the thing
always meant betrayal to me. I can remember hollering at my turntable:
Just sing, goddammit! What are you, Bobby Vinton??
But over the past few years I've been working on getting all the Elvis
albums on CD, preferably in the new fancy-pants
editions from Rhino. A month or so ago I picked up Imperial
Bedroom, out of a sense of duty, and was shocked to realize that
it's incredibly good. I can't stop playing it.
So there you go. Perhaps I was a tad unfair, back in the day? Anything's
possible, I guess. I hope Elvis will accept my apology.
But the Nick records are still best. I will never concede that it isn't
true. Never!
-- And finally, Surf Reporters Kyle and Daniel spotted the Smoking Fish
this past weekend, and managed to snap a few photos. Check
it out. Thanks guys, for being on your toes. Our logo, man, he
gets around.
And that'll do it for today, children. See ya tomorrow. permalink
May 22, 2006
-- I hope you guys had a great weekend.
Ours was nice, thanks for asking. It's pretty damn cold up here, and
rainy too, so that always helps. Perhaps I'm weird (anything's
possible), but cold and rainy make me happy.
I was in a deep, deep funk most of last week, feeling pessimistic and
questioning the point of it all. I was like Morrissey with a southern
accent and a preference for women. But the weekend helped, thank God. I
was getting sick and tired of feeling sick and tired.
Not even staring down the barrel of another five-day work week is
getting me down this morning. It's amazing. Cats are sleeping with
dogs....
-- Steve came to town on Saturday and we bought our Steely Dan tickets.
They cost sixty buck each, which almost turned my colon inside out. But
we've got 'em, and they're pretty good seats. So that's that. Barring
death or dismemberment, we'll be in attendance for the Khaki Slacks and
Stock Options Tour '06. Pass the merlot.
After our excellent Ticketmaster adventure, we went to lunch at Five
Guys. Man, I need to take better advantage of that place. I've been
there four or five times now, but I should be hitting it at least once a
week. They serve up some of the best hamburgers ever, and a
"regular" order of fries is enough to feed a family -- which
is perfect for me. Plus, they have big crates of peanuts to munch on
while your order is being prepared. It's the happiest place on earth.
After lunch we returned to the Surf Report compound, and Steve helped me
cobble together some notes for an extracurricular writing project I've
undertaken.
This exercise mostly involved sitting around in chairs and reminiscing
about various episodes of ridiculousness from the Dunbar days. Like in
Jr. High when we'd get behind the curtains in Mr. Lee's West Virginia
Studies class, and throw handful after handful of magazines out the
second-floor window for sport. That was our entertainment back then....
And when we'd go to lunch and see paper strewn all over the
neighborhood, we'd just laugh and laugh. The whole thing was
inexplicably retarded, yet I still find it funny to this day. Go figure.
-- On Saturday night Toney, the
Secrets, and I attended a block party in our neighborhood. I was
dreading this thing like a rectal exam, but it turned out to be a lot of
fun. They closed off a short street that runs past a park, fired up a
bunch of grills, set out a long table o' snacks, and tapped a keg. It's
a recipe that rarely fails to please....
I had it in my mind that Toney would be talking non-stop to the many
people she knows, and I'd be off by myself staring at my shoes and being
a big miserable sack. But, surprisingly enough, we didn't know hardly
anyone there. Nobody from our block attended the thing (I guess it was
too cold to be outside in only half a shirt), so I was able to hide
behind my wife all night, and that's the way I prefer it.
The thousand or so kids played a game called Manhunt (who the hell
knows?) in the park the whole time, and the adults stood around drinking
booze and shooting the shit. Everybody was really nice, and surprisingly
sarcastic and funny. The joint was crawling with cynical bastards, and
we fit right in; I had no idea we were surrounded by such excellent
assholes.
One woman kept wondering why her neighbor wasn't there yet, and finally
broke out her cell phone. "Where are you?" she hollered. Then:
"Having a beer by the fire? Goddammit, get your sorry ass down here
and socialize! You can have a beer by the fire any night. We're getting
drunk in the park!" This was a fifty-five year old woman who looked
like a school teacher off Leave It To Beaver.
I went home to use the bathroom, and when I returned there was a gang of
people standing around hammering back the brewskis and reciting lines
from Animal House. And I heard a man that we do know, a
person deeply involved in the church and usually very businesslike and
intimidating, hollering, "Do you mind if we dance wif your
dates?"
One of the ringleaders of the event had some sort of harelip or
something going on. He was really nice, but it was hard to understand
him at times. And the more he drank, the worse it got. By the time the
sun went down, the shit was almost completely unintelligable. At one
point I asked him how long he'd been living in the neighborhood, and if
he was born and raised here. And here's
a recording I made of his answer. Did he say something about sixteen
years? I can't really make it out.
When it started getting dark, some people built a roaring bonfire at the
edge of the park (totally illegal, I'm sure), and surrounded it with
camping chairs. Everyone continued drinking and drinking, and it started
getting a little crazy. One guy, who looked like Ernest Hemingway, kept
proposing toasts to people like Grover Cleveland and Richard Nixon(?!).
After an hour or so, he asked his teenage son to go home and fetch his
harmonica for him. Then he wailed on that thing like J. Geils, for a
really long time. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Ernest was
throwing down!
After his little performance, he raised his cup again and said, "To
being drunk!" And the whole crowd of respectable parents and
middle-class suburbanites hollered back: "TO BEING DRUNK!!" I
laughed my big ass off at that, and wondered what my parents would think
of this shindig. We were a long way from Dunbar, WV.
It was a great time, and I sure as hell couldn't have predicted it. The
only downside: somebody offered me a Cuban cigar when we were beside the
fire, which I foolishly accepted and attempted to smoke. (I had no idea
what I was doing...) And the next morning I woke up believing that a
small woodland creature had somehow managed to crap in my mouth during
the night. Blecch. I think I can still taste it.
-- On Sunday I mostly laid around the house and wallowed in my heft. We
did go to Sam's, where I purchased a pillowcase sized sack of salted
peanuts in the shell, and a kraut dog from the snack bar (where I
witnessed a man purchasing a fifty-inch plasma television -- and a
rotisserie chicken). Then I watched an entire Atlanta Braves game,
several episodes of House Hunters and Designed to Sell,
and finally The Sopranos.
And you're up to date on my exciting life. What did you do this weekend?
See ya tomorrow. permalink
May 19, 2006
Ohhhh yeah, that was Blue Oyster Cult
with "Don't Fear the Reaper." Sounding so fine, mighty
fine, here on the Skippy and Jeff morning show at WSHT. Jeff, before we
broke you were about to tell us about some of your great adventures in
toenail trimming? Is that correct? Well, you wanna do that now? We've
got, let's see, four whole minutes to kill. Hahahahahahahaha!!
Yeah, thanks Skippy. Glad to help out with your problem -- any time.
Hahahahahahaha!! The first time I can remember cutting my own toenails,
I was probably six. And let me tell you, it didn't go very well. It was
in West Virginia, at our old house, and....
Just kidding. But not too far-fetched, huh? Screw it, I'm just phoning
it in at this point. By August I predict that this site will be nothing
but links to wacky news stories about replacement
penises being harvested on forearms and whatnot, and maybe a few of
those ghetto
prom pictures for good measure. But, of course, not until the Surf
Report watermark
is in place... Heh.
Here are a few quick and easy-to-write odds and ends to round out the
week. Then I'm going to go off by myself and wallow in self-pity between
eleven and noon, have a light lunch, then spend the afternoon raging in
anger.
-- Do you ever feel like you have a sixth sense or ESPN, or whatever? I
do. Just yesterday morning I was here in the bunker, and it flashed in
my brain that it was about time for The Beautiful South to have another
album. So I went to their website,
for the first time in many months, and learned that they just released an
album in England this week. Pretty spooky, huh?
What made me think of them, right out of the blue like that? Just a
coincidence? Perhaps. Or maybe it's something else, something psychic?
Maybe I've been gifted with the ability to sense developments in the
careers of great rock bands that nobody's ever heard of?
Wait! I'm feeling a vibration right now. And it has something to do
with... the Reivers. I'm not
getting it all, but it's definitely about the Reivers. I'll keep you
posted.
-- To learn that The Beautiful South
has a new album is always bittersweet news for your humble
correspondent. It's great, of course, because, to paraphrase Ice-T, I'm
totally and completely on their dick. But it also creates great anguish,
since the only way to get said album is to pay thirty bucks, or so, for
an import copy. And I just can't do it.
Thirty dollars for a CD?! Why, I'd surely have a stroke, and end up in
yankee bean territory.
When their last album was released, I ended up buying an import from
Singapore, if you can believe it. For some reason it was reasonably
priced, and looks to be the exact same version they sell in the UK. I
try not to think about it too much....
I shouldn't have to go through all this. Why can't some American record
company just release their CDs? Lord knows they crank out skids and
skids of bullshit every year. How about throwing a motherfucker a bone
every once in a while? Shit.
And by the way... if you ever get a chance to see those guys in concert,
do not make the mistake of staying at home. Holy crapballs, are they
fun.
-- Speaking of concerts, Steve is driving up here tomorrow and we're
going to hand over lots and lots of our money to Donald Fagen and Walter
Becker, for Steely Dan tickets. Just
in time too. I think those guys are each down to their last billion. A
real shame.
It'll be a fun time, though. I'm excited about it. Maybe I'll rip off my
shirt?
-- And now that David Lee Roth has been jettisoned
from the radio airwaves, like shit from a goose, how about another Van
Halen reunion tour? This time with DLR? Last summer they did it with
Hagar, why not Dave this year? Hell, they'd make tractor trailer-loads
of cash.
Of course, I think Eddie is still toying with the idea of becoming the
lead singer himself. A bad idea, I think. Here's
Phil Hendrie interviewing him about that, early last summer.
-- I keep hearing an electronic bing bing in here, and can't
figure out where it's coming from. It's not my cell phone; it sounds
like it might be coming from my printer. Is that possible? It's making
me crazy. I might just be paranoid, but I'm convinced that it's a
malfunctioning listening device of some kind. I just checked to see if
my Beavis and Butthead dolls are wearing a wire.
-- And believe it or not, I've got more of this crapola, but I'm gonna
call it a day. I'll leave you now with part of an email I received
earlier this week. I thought you might enjoy it, you know, since I
did....
Jeff,
Regarding the
link on today's update about the man nairing his ass... Let me
tell you that while it does remove hair, it also provides several
negative effects. Unfortunately, I know this because my Italian
ancestors cursed me what may be the hairiest ass ever (I may be wrong,
but I never lost a 'hairiest ass contest' during college), and I tried
this experiment a few years ago (with Epil-Stop, not Nair).
The negative effects:
1.) The hair in the crack acts as air
conditioning, by keeping cheek to cheek contact to a minimum. Once you
take that hair away, it is a "thumbs up" bonanza. That is to
say, that your ass will sweat like you just ate 4,000 jalapenos while
flying from Japan to the US and not having access to a bathroom, and the
sweat smell will not be pleasant.
2.) The hair offers a certain level of
"lubricity." Without it, toilet paper scrapes by, and falls
apart. This leaves shit and paper in your crack. Swamp ass is soon to
follow.
3.) Like the article said, the growing
back period is not pleasant.
I could go into further detail, but I
don't think that I need to. Just know that messing with the veritable
force of hairy-assedness is not a good idea.
Cheers,
Have a great weekend. See ya
Monday. permalink
May 18, 2006
-- And we're back.... You're listening
to the Skippy and Jeff morning show on WSHT radio, your home for classic
rock and demoralizing, soul-sapping repetition. Jeff, before the break
you were getting ready to tell us about your Los Angeles and Scranton
lunch memories. You wanna pick that up now?
Yeah, thanks Skippy. It's a little ironic that our Southern California
stay was, without a doubt, the most miserable, feces-encrusted period of
our married life, yet it provided the best lunch experiences.
I worked in Burbank, and the lunch options were many. Including, if you
can dig it, the commissaries at various movie studios. In fact, the
entrance of Warner Bros. was only a few hundred yards from my desk, and
I dined there often.
Back in the pre-9/11 days, it was no problem to just walk through the
gate, and wander around at will. Sometimes the guards would make you
show your "pass," but all you had to do was wave some sort of
card, any card, at them, and they'd let you through. A driver's license,
a MasterCard, your membership in the Richard Marx Appreciation Society,
it didn't matter. I think I even flashed a Kleenex one day, and never
had a problem. Unfortunately, I hear all that's changed now.
Anyway, once through the gate, you could pretty much do whatever you
pleased. Within reason, of course. I walked all over the place, checking
out the various sets and soundstages. There was a full-on New York City
ghetto in there somewhere, that was cool as all hell. And
well-maintained suburban "homes," the elevated train that
appeared in ER, the Daily Planet building from Lois and Clark...
There were surprises around every corner.
You'd see people walking around in bizarre costumes, and big-shot
executives buzzing past in golf carts tricked-out to look like Rolls
Royces. One day another guy and I just stood and looked at Clint
Eastwood's assigned parking spot for minutes on end, just not fucking
believing it. I was a long way from the Dunbar Bowling Alley.
The commissary was open to anyone, and
it was good. They had real, live chefs on staff, serving up superior
meals. It wasn't exactly cheap, but the atmosphere was stellar. We
always sat outside on the patio, and took it all in.
Over the years I saw many celebrities at the WB, including the cast of Friends,
Drew Carey, and my hero George Clooney.
One time I was outside eating my sprout-laden sandwich (California,
remember) and saw a massively pregnant woman arguing with a man. She was
waving her hands around, raising her voice, and looking ready to pop.
Her bra strap had fallen onto her upper arm, and it was as wide as a
seatbelt. But, of course, it needed to be, to support the load...
because it was Adrienne Barbeau.
So that beat the living crap out of the Douglasville, GA Taco Bell. It
really did. I couldn't afford to go there every day, but I went as often
as I could. Many of my co-workers liked to pretend that it was no big
deal, but I was never able to pull that off. Every time I went I
nearly broke down in tears.
There was also a really kick-ass Chinese place not far from the office,
called Frontier Wok. Massive portions for less than five bucks, prepared
in an open-kitchen with frightening towers of flames shooting up in the
air all willy-nilly. I went there so often they knew me by name. Mister
Jeff, they called me.
And when I was really poor, which was often, there was always Del Taco
-- home of the 59 cent taco. I'd get a sack of those babies and eat them
at my desk, because drinks from the vending machine were cheaper than
the "expensive" ones they sold at the "restaurant."
Once I saw Red from That '70s Show in Del Taco, scarfing down a
burrito. He had the wrapper all spread out, nice and neat, and kept
smoothing it like it was very important to him. He didn't seem friendly,
so I kept my distance.
Another time, while standing in line at the counter, I heard tires
squealing, then an impossibly loud crash. We all ran out, and saw a car
inside, all the way inside, a laundromat. An old man was behind
the wheel, and his "gas pedal got stuck." Heh. He took out
several rows of washing machines and drove them through a bank of
dryers on the back wall. Amazingly enough, nobody got hurt. But I think
some poor bastard's underwear was wedged deep inside the grillwork of a
1989 Mercury Sable.
So those are the California highlights and, to tell you the truth, I'm
getting a little sick of this subject. So let's just skip Scranton. OK,
Skippy?
No problemo Jeff! Or should I call you Mr. Jeff now?
Hahahahahahaha. Oh god.... Here's Bob Seger, with "Turn the
Page." On SHT....
-- Yeah, I don't really know what I'm trying to do here today either,
but luckily I've got Buck to salvage the mess. Take
it away, my friend.
And I'll get back to the regular stuff tomorrow. Promise.
Ho-ly shit. permalink
May 17, 2006
-- Yesterday I was walking to the
cafeteria at work, and it occurred to me: there are few things more
pleasurable than the workday lunch break. Ya know? Lunch, in general, is
a pretty kick-ass meal, what with its close relationship to the sandwich
and the mountain of fries and whatnot, but when it comes right in the
middle of something like a job... well, it can often rise to the
level of magic. It's the eye of the shitstorm.
And I thought I'd take this opportunity to pay tribute to the Workday
Lunch Break, something that I don't believe gets its due respect. What
follows are brief descriptions of the places that have brought me so
much lunchy pleasure throughout the years. ....Hello?
My first "real" job was in Greensboro, NC. At least that's the
way I looked at it.... It was at a record store called Peaches, and I
have a feeling that some of the other employees there didn't view the
gig as "real" at all. In any case, I remember two regular
lunch spots from the Peaches era.
Near the store was a small out-of-the-way diner type of joint, called
the Greenhouse Restaurant. I'd go there and order a club sandwich and
sweet tea, and the elderly waitress would call me honey and sweety and
that type of thing. She was an old lady, painfully thin and looking like
a marionette on strings. She had a terrifying smoker's hack, and would
leave the pitcher right at my table. So, running out of tea, one of my
major pet peeves, was never an issue. I'd just top my shit off, at will.
I don't believe too many other Peaches People went there, but I always
liked it.
When payday was still a ways off, and I couldn't afford the extravagance
of a club sandwich and bottomless beverage, I'd hoof it up the parking
lot to Sally's Hot Dogs. It always smelled powerfully of onions and
grease, and by the time your order was ready, you smelled that way too.
I knew a guy who had a friend that worked there, and the funk reportedly
seeped into his skin and not even a series of showers would wash
it away. He'd supposedly be out watching a band at a club somewhere, and
when the temperature rose to a certain level he'd start stinking like a
human onion ring dipped in Calvin Klein cologne. Blecch. But Sally's
served up some good dogs for cheap, and that's a combination you can't
argue with; I tithed ten percent of my weekly pay to them, I believe. Is
it still there?
In Atlanta I worked in an industrial
part of town, and it was a road trip to the food. About five miles from
the office was a stretch of highway with every fast food joint known to
man sitting shoulder to shoulder. So I logged many an hour inside the
Taco Bell and, for some reason, Subway. There was also a Hardee's (a
filthy dump with bullet holes in the windows), an Arby's (with a musky
grandmother's-house funk inside), a McDonald's (that I can't remember
ever visiting), a Shoney's (tip required, so fuck dat), a free-standing
Chick-fil-A (really good, but shockingly expensive), and lots of others.
But it was Taco Bell and Subway that got away with most of my meal
money.
When a group of us would go to lunch, we'd usually end up at Wallace
Barbecue, in Austell. Man, I hesitate to even think about that place,
because it makes me too sad. It's quite simply one of the best places on
Earth. I can taste it right now, yet I can't. Know what I mean? Shit!
When I get to work I might check Travelocity and see how much a plane
ticket to Atlanta would cost. I need me some Wallace, urgently.
Sometimes we'd also go to a place called the Beautiful Restaurant. It
was located in the heart of an all-black neighborhood, and served up
some serious kick-ass "soul food." Pork chops, black eyed
peas, collard greens, the world's best banana pudding.... Awesome food,
but some of the other patrons didn't seem too thrilled with this herd of
whities invading their space. There was always just a hint of
cultural discomfort at the Beautiful, but it was impossible to resist
their chops and greens. If you were careful not to make eye contact, I
learned, everything would be fine.
Directly across from the office was a tiny sandwich shop that served up
lame-ass sandwiches on white bread, and I only visited it in the most
extreme emergencies. Many of my co-workers ate there daily, however,
because it was convenient. Technically, a person could walk there, and
many people did. But not me. Hell no. There was a four-lane, high
traffic road between us and the picnic sandwiches, and they sure as shit
weren't worth dying for. I saw a guy almost get clipped by an 18-wheeler
trying to cross that road once, and he probably would've been sucked
into the wheel-well and ended up in north Florida as a clump of blood,
hair, and denim.
One day a true-blue doucheketeer drove over there for lunch, then got
confused and walked back to the office. At the end of the day he
went out to the parking lot, and his car wasn't there. He started
freaking out and called the cops, convinced that somebody'd jacked his
Nova or whatever. Needless to say, he endured much mockery, once the
police found his car parked across the street at the sandwich shop where
he'd had lunch. And it lasted for about a year, until the very same guy
was caught masturbating in the men's room, and the car incident was
pushed off the radar. Heh.
And later today (or tomorrow) I'll post my lunch memories from the
California years, as well as the current Scranton era. If you'd like to
join in on this exciting celebration of work lunches, feel free.
See ya later. permalink
May 15, 2006
-- Not much to report this morning...
The oldest Secret was under the weather all weekend, and we didn't
venture too far from the compound. I was planning to take the family to
Toney's favorite Mom 'n' Pop Italian restaurant for dinner yesterday,
but was worried that a hearty stream of vomit might put a damper on
things.
So I just bought a couple of big (and decidedly kick-ass) pizzas, a case
of Yuengling Black & Tan, and it was my kind of Mother's Day.
And luckily for me, Toney's kind as well.
I hope everyone had a good one, where applicable. I'm generally not a
big fan of the extortion-racket Hallmark "holidays," but when
you can work beer and pizza into them.... much of the bitterness has a
tendency to evaporate.
Here are a few random nuggets I cobbled together during our weekend of
dormancy:
-- For the past couple of weeks I've had a copy of Shopgirl
sitting on top of the downstairs TV, nestled inside its red, red Netflix
envelope. But I just can't bring myself to watch it. I have a feeling,
and I could be wrong, that it'll be creepy as fuck. The idea of Steve
Martin, who is even older than I am, pining for Angela
Chase, makes me nervous.
I like Steve Martin, always have. The first "concert" I ever
attended was a Steve Martin comedy show at the Huntington Civic Center,
during his wild & crazy King Tut white suit days. I laughed so hard
I thought my pancreas might dislodge from its housing. I don't really
want to start thinking of him as the modern-day Roman Polanski. Ya know?
So I'll leave it in your hands. Tell me how to proceed. If it's a dirty
old man pervfest, I need to know now.
-- I'm a little worried about our neighborhood. We've lived here for six
years, and it's been a full-on Leave It To Beaver town: no
crime, kids everywhere, parents out mowing their lawns and washing their
cars, gas grills a-cranking on the weekends....
But that's the way it was in Atlanta too, until the graffiti started
showing up. I remember seeing it on a stop sign first, and it spread
from there. Before we knew it, things had become a tad questionable.
And by the time we moved, it was more than just a tad.
So you can probably understand my
concern when I discovered some tagging near our house on
Saturday. Check
it out.
Do you think it's <gulp> gang-related?
-- Steve told me about
this on Sunday morning, and I was excited all day. The
1975 World Series, all seven games in their entirety, on seven DVDs!
It's the freakin' holy grail -- the reason God and Al Gore gave us
modern technology. June 13 is the day it'll be released, and man, I'm
all over that like a dingo on a Cub Scout.
I'm sorry, I'm getting a little emotional here....
-- Surf Reporter Todd sends along this
photo of what he claims is white dog shit. I'm not so sure; it
looks more like radishes to me. But I assume he knows what he's talking
about....
Thanks Todd, for this rare glimpse of a true endangered species.
-- Here's
something both entertaining and a bit baffling. Is Jack
finally losing his shit?? Sweet Maria. Maybe it's a result of all the
times he's been, you know, dead?
-- This
is an article announcing the release of a Play-Doh perfume. Not a bad
idea, but I'm still waiting on the New Electronics scent. What other
perfumes and colognes would you like to see on the market?
-- And finally, here's
something new and tasty from lakrfool.
Have a great day, I'll see ya tomorrow. permalink
May 12, 2006
-- So, I guess I'm doing requests now,
like a lounge singer? Is that what it's come to? Apparently so.
A few days ago a friend sent me an email that said, "You need to
write about 2 Guys and 2 Girls sometime." And he was right. I'm
sort of amazed I've never mentioned that dubious episode here, but I'm
almost sure that I haven't. So I will honor the request, this one time.
But never again. This ain't Smiley's Lounge on Route 60, goddammit.
-- You see, back in our day we didn't have ready access to pornography
like you young whipper-snappers do now. In the late '70s, when we needed
it most, we didn't have fancy-pants VCRs and computers that are little
more than automated porn machines (APMs), right inside the bedroom.
No, all we had were community magazine stashes located at strategic
points around the town. Under a house, inside a rotted-out tree stump...
We all knew where they were hidden, and whenever one of us would somehow
come across (so to speak) a new issue of Oui, or Penthouse,
or Swank or whatever, there'd be a palpable electricity in the
air.
But porn films? Forget about it. It was something far beyond our
reach, not even worth contemplating. Might as well wish for real live flesh
and blood breasts, for crying out loud. Completely laughable.
Or was it? A guy at our school, who didn't generally have a reputation
for being full of crap, began floating a crazy idea. He claimed to have
access to a large stash of porn, and it somehow, I'm almost certain,
involved the local fire department(?). The details are a little foggy...
But he said he thought he could get his hands on some movies, and if we
could only find a projector and a parentless venue, we might be in
business.
Holy shit! Could it be possible? Film footage of <gulp> people
doing it?? Sweet sainted mother of all that's good! We planned
and schemed for a ridiculous amount of time, but none of us would (or
could) allow the dream to die. And finally all the pieces started to
fall into place....
The films -- two of them -- were
officially "borrowed" and reportedly in male teenage
possession. And I have no idea how this came about, but somebody also
secured the use of a big-ass 8mm film projector. Also
"borrowed," from the school or the public library? I simply
don't know. But two of our main goals were now met, including the most
crucial of all: sir, we had the porn.
Then, as if they were in on it themselves, my Mom and Dad came to me and
my brother and told us they were going out of town for the weekend. In
the standard accusing tones, they said we were expected to answer to our
grandmother (who lived all the way across the street), and they'd be
back on Sunday.
Boing!! Our three pronged plan was now complete! We had our
parentless venue. And I wanted to thank God, but something told me I
might be pushing my luck with that.
Word spread quickly, and the "team" sprang into action. And
that night, after dinner, guys started arriving for their evening of
film appreciation. The 100 lb. projector was smuggled in, wrapped in a
blanket. Somebody brought it up the driveway, and through our garage.
Then there was a frantic sprint to the house (so as to avoid the
suspicious eyes of our holy-rollin' neighbors), and finally through the
back door.
At least eight people were piled inside my bedroom, where the viewing
was to take place. In preparation for this update I conducted a number
of email and telephone interviews with fellow attendees, and attempted
to recreate the guest list. There were eight, possibly ten, guys packed
in that small (and impossibly hot) room, with the slanted upstairs
walls. Not exactly Radio City Music Hall.
But nobody seemed too concerned about the ambiance. We were
passing around the source of the evening's entertainment, and giggling
like idiots.
The movies were in plain white boxes, and one had writing on the front:
2 Guys and 2 Girls Fucking and Sucking. I'm still not sure if that was
the title, or just a description used for cataloging purposes. As we
were soon to learn, it worked either way.
The projector master was having trouble with his machine, and the crowd
turned nasty. It was made clear to him that failure was not an
option. Under the circumstances, the poor bastard probably would've
ended up in the Kanawha River, with his A/V equipment chained to his
body, if he hadn't gotten his shit correct. But he eventually got it
going, and aimed it at the only vertical and windowless wall in the
room.
We watched the little 8x10 rectangle of light with great anticipation.
And then it started! The thing was in color, but was badly washed out,
like those "health" films they showed us at school, about body
odor and gonorrhea. Every few seconds it would jump and jitter, and the
only sound was the clickety-clack of the huge heat-generating projector.
The 2 Guys were sitting on a couch, in a room with no other furnishings.
They looked bored, and ill at ease. Then, with no explanation, the 2
Girls were there. They just strolled over to the couch, as if they'd
been standing a few feet away the entire time. The 2 Guys seemed to be
very pleased with this turn of events, and there was an extreme close-up
of one of them smiling a mouthful of giant Chicklet teeth.
And we all let out a spontaneous cheer that seemed to surprise everyone.
Then the 2 Guys and 2 Girls began stripping off their clothes
(apparently introductions weren't necessary), and it wasn't exactly a
pretty sight. The guys were grotesquely hairy and had beer guts, and one
never removed his black dress socks. The girls had big bouffant hairdos,
large sagging breasts with incredibly dark drink-coaster areolas, and
pubic patches the size of a regulation Major League home plate.
From there, I don't think I need to describe it. The title/descriptor
kicked in, and after about five minutes it was over.
There was a second or two of silence, then we all started giggling again
like a roomful of Beavises. We tried to act cool, like we found the
whole thing hilarious -- as if we were appreciating the campiness of it
all. But, of course, it was a HUGE deal. We'd just seen our first porn
films, and nothing would ever be exactly the same again.
After the projector was broken down, and the crowd started to disperse,
a few of us ended up in a friend's garage, playing ping-pong and talking
about the greatness of the evening. I guess we had a little pent-up
aggression (or something), and eventually took to the streets and
engaged in a wild vandalism spree. Some rocks were thrown, a few windows
were broken, a mailbox may have been tipped over....
And so it goes.
-- What about you? Did you have to convene a friggin' Manhattan Project
to arrange for your first porn experience, like we did? Use the comments
link to tell us about it.
And I'll see ya on Monday. permalink
May 10, 2006
A few quick things....
-- Last year I made a half-assed attempt at offering these updates via
RSS feed, or XML feed, or BLT feed, or whatever. And since I had/have no
idea what I'm doing, I went with an outfit that caters to people who
had/have no idea what they're doing. For a few months I sent out a daily
feed, and only about ten people subscribed to it. Amongst those ten
people, I think seven told me it sucked. Eventually I just stopped doing
it.
Now I'm getting emails from people asking me to start it up again. And
on Monday I did. I'm trying to make it a little better than last time,
but I'm offering no guarantees. In any case, it's back up and running,
if you're interested. And if you have any suggestions for me, I'm all
ears.
-- Brad sent me these
excellent Bonds-taunting pics last night, taken at the Phillies/Giants
game on Friday. Heh. Tough crowd. I especially like the Asterisk Boys.
-- Over the past weekend I got it into my mind that I needed to add a
few new "exhibits" to the bunker.
I'm wanting one of those old Civil Defense fallout
shelter signs that used to hang on the outside of schools and
government buildings and whatnot. I watched an eBay auction all Saturday
morning, and was convinced I was on the verge of securing one for cheap.
But, as usual, the snipers moved in during the last few seconds, and
crushed my dreams. Again. I'm a very patient man however, and one those
babies WILL be mine...
After my deep, dark eBay disappointment, I decided to get some prices on
custom framing. I chose a piece from my vast collection of fucked-upness
-- a rare old advertising poster for Michael
O'Donoghue's notorious Mr.
Mike's Mondo Video -- and took it to a frame shop near our
house. The woman measured it, did some calculations, and said,
"Forty-seven dollars, plus tax."
I thanked her and told her I'd get back with them, but was secretly
thinking, "Shit!"
I went to another place in a
neighboring town, and the woman there pissed me off almost immediately.
She had an air of authority about her, like she was the High Queen of
Framing or something, and was talking down to me. Her price? Exactly
double: ninety-four bucks. I laughed in her big fleshy face, all
exaggerated and everything, and walked out.
So nothing got done. Screw it.
-- Last night I met Toney and the Secrets for dinner. And while I was
pummeling my entree into submission, one of the boys brought up that
David Blaine douche.
I guess he's trying to be the new Evel Knievel? Is that correct? Well...
I don't know everything, but I do know that the dude is one poor-ass
excuse for a daredevil. Evel jumped freakin' buses on a motorcycle. And
this guy's doing what? Holding his breath for a really long time?
Pitiful.
Remember when he locked himself inside a see-through fiberglass box and
dangled from a crane for several weeks in London? Instead of the
adulation he expected, folks were throwing shit at him -- half-eaten
burritos, ham sandwiches, etc. -- and flipping him off with abandon.
I don't really even get the guy's act. He's always having himself buried
and locked in boxes. And this is magic? It's not as if he's trying to
escape, like Houdini. He just kicks back for a while in an unusual
place, climbs out, and starts taking bows. The hell, man?
-- And finally, a question: how come there are no albinos anymore? When
I was a kid, I used to see them quite regularly. In fact, there was a
full-on albino family that lived in our neighborhood -- they had pink
eyes and practically glowed in the dark. But I haven't seen one in
years. Why??
First it was the disappearance of white dog poop, now this. I'm losing
touch with my roots!
More tomorrow. permalink
May 9, 2006
-- And the answer to yesterday's music
quiz: Steely Dan, and Black Crowes/Drive-By Truckers. Those are the two
concerts I'm seriously interested in attending, from the just-announced summer
line-up at the local Coca-Cola or Ford or Blockbuster or Kotex Hi-Flo
amphitheater.
Steely Dan are one of my all-time favorites, and are the definite
act on the list. I've seen them twice before, and a splendid time is
guaranteed for all. My friend Steve, another Dan fanatic, is delaying
his vacation by a day so he can be there as well. Oh, it's gonna be fun.
Do classic rock stations still do those rock 'n' roll party buses? If
so, I might want to get in on some of that action: the bald spot and
beer belly express.
And I'm an on-again, off-again Black Crowes fan. Living in Atlanta
during their peak, it was pretty easy to hate them. I'd go to club shows
around town, and there'd be Chris Robinson again. The guy was
everywhere, just hanging out and acting cool, with his
surgically-attached Heineken bottle, huge candy-apple head, and pit
stains. Always with the massive dinner plate-sized pit stains.
Wonder if he ever consulted a doctor about that?
But they were/are a really good band, and at least one of their albums
is a masterpiece.
So, that small fact wins out in the long run.
I've told the story about the Black Crowes listening party I attended in
Atlanta, back in my record weasel days. It appeared to be your standard
industry event: open bar, big bowls of chips, and the new album blaring
over the loudspeaker. But it was just a ruse.
Eventually, after everyone had a few adult beverages under their belts,
the buses rolled up. And they took us to a "secret" location
-- an old dilapidated pool hall across town. Inside, of course, were the
Crowes, rocking like the Russians were in Decatur. They were just roaring
amongst atmospheric filth.
Afterwards, in the parking lot, they served up a feast of some of the
best smoky barbecue ever, and an ocean of beer. They had colored lights
strung up everywhere (that I'm almost certain hadn't been there when
we'd gone in), and it was one of the coolest record weasel events I ever
had the pleasure of attending.
So I have a soft-spot in my heart for
the Black Crowes, and I'm also a big fan of the Drive-By Truckers.
Living in Scranton, and being an old man, I haven't had the opportunity
to see them play live yet. But I know their CDs, front to back. (It's
something I can do from a chair.) I bought the
new one
the day it was released, and I'll do the same with the next one. A
great, great band. As my friend Scott would say: much respect.
And there you have it. Pass the beer nuts.
-- A few quick notes on some of the other acts appearing this summer at
the Hi-Flo Auditorium:
Lynyrd Skynyrd: The only way I'd ever see them is if Ronnie Van Zant
rises from the grave, puts on his black hat, and grabs the mic. He wrote
the songs, sang the songs, and set the tone. He was The Man, and has
been dead for, like, thirty years now. The group that tours under the
Lynyrd Skynyrd name is nothing but a tribute band, as far as I'm
concerned. Fuck dat. May as well drive across town to see one of these
guys.
Poison/Cinderella: In my less-than-expert opinion, Cinderella was the
best of the 80s hair-metal bands. They had their cheesy moments, to be
sure, but they also
released this.
Say what you will, but I play that album as much as I play anything in
my collection. The thing is shockingly good. Unfortunately,
they're touring with Poison. And Poison is an oily Pringles fart
straight into the Hanes brief of popular culture. Or something.
John Fogerty/Willie Nelson: I have a feeling, and I could be wrong, that
this would be one of those Shut Up And Sing concerts. I suspect that
both of these guys would take the stage, play a couple of tunes, then
start talking politics. And, I apologize, but I just couldn't give two
shits about what that great political scientist John Fogerty has to say
about world events. Just play "Green River," goddammit. And
blow the rest of it out yer ass. Same goes for Springsteen. And Nugent.
Vans Warped Tour: I'm being told that the Buzzcocks are playing at this
thing!? Is that true? Holy shit, I'd look like Homer Simpson walking
around... but the Buzzcocks! I'm going to have to give this some
thought. Maybe if I carried a skateboard, and said Wot up G? a
lot?
I don't have even a droplet of interest in any of the other shows, so
that's, as they say, that.
-- And since this is one of those dreaded all-music updates, here's
some very sad news to close out the category. I read this yesterday,
after having just played a Go-Betweens best-of in the bunker on Sunday.
The guy was a heck of a songwriter, and died way too young.
See ya tomorrow. permalink
May 8, 2006
-- Some kind of horrible spore or
something is in full flower up here right now, and it's kicking my ass.
My eyes are itchy, there's a continuous drip drip drip of crystal
clear snot coming out of my face, and my right ear is sealed off so
tight it only serves an aesthetic purpose at this point. Also, and this
is the worst part, I'm disoriented and feel like I recently popped a
double-dose of Contac Severe Cold & Lobar Pneumonia medication. And
I don't care for that.
So don't go expecting much from me today, OK? I don't want to whine like
Mr. Banana "Vaginal Dryness" Nostrils, but I'm barely upright
here. If it wasn't for the Everclear CD I'm blasting, I don't think
there would even be a Monday update. In case of emergency break glass,
and crank up "You Make Me Feel Like A Whore." It never fails,
but use sparingly.
-- On Saturday we went to Sam's, the exclusive club we're members of, to
buy yet another window air conditioner.
Since the folks in these parts view central air as a weakness, or some
such thing, we've been reduced to collecting bulky-ass humboxes. And
every summer I'm required to drag them up from the basement, install
them strategically around the house, then perform the ritual backwards
in the fall. I'm not a fan of any of it.
Last year we added an additional humbox to our collection, to cool the
family room and make evening television-viewing tolerable. But we made
the mistake of waiting until it was already soul-sappingly hot to buy
it, and had a hell of a time finding one; the air conditioner section of
every store in town looked like a scene from Omega Man. This year
we wanted another for the living room/dining room, and vowed to buy it
early.
And we did. It's still mighty pleasant here, but Sam's has their
traditional mountain of GE air conditioners on display already, and we
yanked one down and busted out the ATM card.
So we're all set, I guess. When the humidity cranks up and the
temperatures rise, we'll have our humboxes in place, each a-humming. Of
course it'll be so loud in here we won't be able to talk to each other,
but it's a small price to pay for comfort. Ya know? So what if I'll have
to text-message Toney to pass me the white gravy at dinnertime? It beats
the heck out of 'round-the-clock crack moistness.
-- When we were rolling our new
purchase to the car on Saturday, a big gust of wind kicked up and blew a
handful of those evil spores straight into my eyes. My contacts
instantly turned into tiny discs of fire, and I had tears streaming down
my face for thirty minutes.
I was planning to mow the lawn when we
got home, but it never happened. I'll be damned if I'm going out in that
swirling hell.
Does anyone know where I can buy a used astronaut suit, preferably air
conditioned and in a men's husky? It's going to be a long summer....
-- Speaking of summer, on Friday they announced the lineup of the big
summer concert series at the newish fancy-pants amphitheater here:
Rob Thomas/Jewel
Def Leppard/Journey
Sammy Hagar with Michael Anthony
Dave Matthews Band
Phil Lesh and Friends
Lynyrd Skynyrd/3 Doors Down
Black Crowes/Drive-By Truckers
Poison/Cinderella
Ozzfest
Vans Warped Tour
John Fogerty/Willie Nelson
Counting Crows/Goo Goo Dolls
Toby Keith
Steely Dan with Michael McDonald
Allman Brothers
Rascal Flatts
Brooks and Dunn
I'd like to go to two of those, and one is pretty much a definite. Do
you know me well enough to guess the shows I'm interested in?
And what about you? Would you spend your hard-earned bucks on any of
those artists, and/or "artists?"
-- On Sunday we all went to a Scranton/Wilkes-Barre Red Barons game, at Lackawanna
County Stadium. Again it was a good time. Every time I go to a Red
Barons games, I'm a little surprised at how much fun I have.
You can say a lot about the people around here, like how they're the
worst drivers in the world and that they talk funny and whatnot, but
they sure do support their minor league baseball team. And that's a sign
of good character if there ever was one. There's always a big crowd at
the park, enthusiastic and knowledgeable, and it makes me happy in my
soul.
Here
are a few action pics I took during the game.
-- And that'll just about do it for today, my friends. I'm gonna hand
over the reigns to
Buck now, and venture out into the vortex of spores.
See ya tomorrow. permalink
May 5, 2006
-- Yesterday, before I left for work, I
thought I could sense a slight disturbance way down south somewhere. It
wasn't anything of consequence yet, but I know how these things can go.
What starts as a minor storm, out in the middle of nowhere, can
eventually transform itself into a big powerful, howling monster that
threatens us where we live. It's not to be taken lightly.
So I decided I'd better have a quick sit-down: one more for the road.
Since I've never "sat down" at work, and never will, I must be
conscience of the warning signs; I can't be all cavalier with my bowels,
like most people. A category three storm, coming ashore at noon or one
o'clock in the afternoon, can translate into one long-ass day of
sweating and squirming. And sometimes hallucinating.
Everybody was upstairs, so I opted for the downstairs facilities, where
I could enjoy the Castanza buffer zone. And when I flopped down, I felt
something wet. The hell??
Cleaner! Apparently Toney was in the middle of bathroom maintenance, and
had gotten interrupted by the Secrets or a phone call or something. And
here I was, ready to leave for work, with a big ol' ring of lemon and
pine striped across my ass and the backs of my legs.
I tried to clean myself up as best I could (now there's an image
for ya), but was pretty sure I could still smell it on me. I was
mumbling to myself as I exited the Little Room, and Toney pounced.
"Did you just use that bathroom?!" she hollered. I didn't
immediately answer, because I was, you know, a little scared.
"You're like a cat!" she continued. "As soon as the
litter box is clean, it's right back to the crapping!" She was
waving her hands around, and acting all exasperated and everything.
Hell, I was the one wearing the lemony ring of disgrace.
Shaken, I just walked to my car and drove to work. Then I spent the rest
of the day convinced that I smelled like a mop bucket. Quite enjoyable.
-- Last week I took Friday off,
creating my own personal three-day weekend. Ahh, it was a beautiful
thing... And for no other reason than laziness really, I didn't shave
the entire time. I just let it go; screw it. I will not hoist my fat ass
off this couch, I proclaimed, simply to adhere to societal expectations!
I am sedentary, hear me roar!!
And you know how some guys look really cool with a couple of day's worth
of growth? Not me. By Sunday morning I looked like Booger on Revenge
of the Nerds. And by the time I crawled into bed that night, I
appeared to be in the final stages of radiation poisoning.
It didn't go very well, that's for certain. But I'm still thinking about
growing a handlebar moustache. How long do you think it would take to
get a really impressive wingspan going? And what's the best kind of wax
to use?
Any tips on this subject would be much appreciated.
-- Earlier this week a few of you suggested that I look into Lasik eye
surgery, as an alternative to the big toenailish contact lenses I wear
every day. I don't believe it's possible in my case, because of the
issue I have with one of my corneas, but even if it was... the answer
would be a resounding NO.
The concept of elective eye surgery makes me laugh. Eye surgery
that's not medically necessary, but I can go ahead and have it anyway,
if I'd like? Gee, let me think about that for a minute….
No. No fucking way. I'm convinced that something would go horribly wrong
during the procedure. A nurse would bump a table or something, the laser
would jerk out of place and incinerate one or both of my eyeballs in
their sockets, then proceed to shear my jaw clean off. I'd probably end
up like this
poor bastard, in a pair of Yoko Ono sunglasses.
I believe I'll pass.
-- I saw this notice on a Charleston, WV entertainment
website yesterday:
SOUTH CHARLESTON MUSEUM FILM SERIES: 7 p.m. Admission $2. The schedule
includes "King of Stink," about ramps, and "The Whole Hog
— Traditional Butchering in West Virginia ," followed by an open
mic with Larry Sadler. 311 D St. , South Charleston .
You know what this means: date night!
-- During dinner last night Toney told me, in a matter-of-fact tone,
something very disturbing. She said that one of the teachers at the
middle school (where the oldest Secret will be going next year) doesn't
have tests. She has -- get this -- "knowledge
celebrations."
I stopped chewing in mid-stroke, dropped my fork, and told her we need
to step in and make sure that neither of our kids get anywhere near
this kook. And she said, "Already handled."
I don't know what that means exactly, but have no doubt that it's true.
My wife doesn't believe in half-stepping.
-- Check
it out. Technology is moving so fast, it's almost scary. And so
affordable too! Yes, it's a great time to be alive.
-- And finally… I'm curious about something. Yesterday I saw a teaser
for a local news broadcast, and one of the stories they were covering
was about a house where a mass murderer once lived.
The dude killed a bunch of people, and buried them around his yard like
tulip bulbs. Of course he's in a federal pound-me-in-the-ass prison
right now, but his house is on the market. The story, I think, was about
the difficult time the realtors are having unloading the place.
So, I'd like to know: would it bother you to live |
The State of My
Fat Ass
May 2006
