Holy crap in a Bundt pan... Due to the recent well-publicized shortage of
amateur websites produced by assholes who consider themselves to be clever, I
have been called into action. My name is Jeff Kay, and Iím an Ugly American living
on the cusp of a mid-life crisis, near Scranton, PA. And Iím here to serve, baby.

The View From Down Here
A journal of sorts, updated every once in a while.

Mac 'n' cheese gone horribly wrong

August 6, 2007

-- Saturday was so hot here, we barely moved. It was a disgusting day, really, with loads of inactivity and becoming one with various seating solutions. I hate that, but couldnít muster enough energy to free myself from the bonds of heat-induced laziness.

I did manage to take the oldest Secret out to lunch, to the Chinese buffet. Occasionally Toney and I like to split up and spend a little one-on-one time with each of the boys, and thatís what we did on Saturday afternoon. 

Iím convinced they flick uneaten shrimp right back onto the hot table at this so-called buffet, but the Secret doesnít seem to mind. He loves the House of Reused Crustaceans, so thatís where we went. And I ordered off the menu.

Our propane tank was empty, and Iíd meant to bring it along, to have it filled. But I forgot and this caused me to growl like a dog. The restaurant is in the general vicinity of the Big White Tank, you see. And that meant weíd have to drive all the way home, get it, then drive right back to where weíd been. Highly irritating.

Iíve been on a strong Fountains of Wayne jag over the past few days, and blasted their first two CDs in a continuous loop all weekend. 

The Secrets, who are intimately familiar with the newer FoW albums, said they didnít really like the old ones. Until they heard them two or three times, that is. Now theyíre walking around singing the songs, and canít do a damn thing about it. During all the unnecessary propane driving, the oldest Secret became fully possessed by power-pop, the likes of which no exorcist can touch. Oh yeah.

At the U-Haul place where I get my tanks filled, a guy who looked like a general infantryman in Saddamís Republican Guard took care of my problem, then asked for almost eighteen bucks in return. Shit! It used to cost $7.50 to buy propane, now itís approaching triple that price. I wished I had some political axe to grind, so I could start throwing around blame, all willy-nilly.

While we were driving home I was informed that the oldest Secret, as well as Sayid, had seen my ďcrack,Ē when I bent over to pick up the tank. And he thought this was a laugh riot. ÖSee why these father-son bonding experiences are so important?

Late in the afternoon Toney said she had to go to the store to buy something she needed for that nightís dinner, and I volunteered to ride along. I was afraid my skin was starting to become interwoven with the upholstery of the living room couch.

While we were out I suggested we stop at Jim Dandyís for a pre-dinner adult beverage, and she agreed. But nobody was at the bar, and there was no bartender either. The hell, man? We sat down and waited for about five minutes, but felt like douchebags perched up on those tall chairs, all alone. So we went home.

And that, along with roughly six or seven episodes of Drake & Josh, was the extent of my Saturday achievements.

-- On Sunday the oldest Secret, aka ďthe crack-spotter,Ē went to a water park with one of his friendsí family. And I promised to take the younger boy to a driving range. Heís interested in golf all of a sudden, and Iím trying to encourage itÖ

But hell, I wanted to play too. What was I going to do, just stand around and watch like grandpa hooked up to a lung machine? I donít think so. But I donít have any clubs. I used to have clubs, but I think Toney sold them during a yard sale in California.

She suggested I reverse the process, and try to BUY a driver at a yard sale. But I needed one today. ďHey, what about the flea market?Ē I hollered. And Toney agreed it was worth a shot.

Iíd never been to this particular jamboree of white trash culture. Itís held every weekend at a local drive-in theater, but I donít really go in for such things. On the other hand, once Iím there I do sometimes enjoy myself.

Here are a few pictures I snapped while walking around that place, and I wouldíve gotten more if most of the vendors hadnít looked like theyíd spent considerable time ďon the yardĒ at various federal penitentiaries. I couldnít risk pissing anyone off.

I saw an adult retarded man with a mouthful of teeth, each a different size and color, grooving to 50s music blaring from a public address system. And I spotted an old man wearing a neck brace and some sort of radical torso apparatus, walking while bent straight forward at a 90 degree angle. And some man who looked like he needed to hurt something, had a large table filled, simply filled, with cereal and toothpaste. WTS?! 

But there wasnít a single golf club in the house. Plenty of elongated Pepsi bottles with blue water inside, but no clubs.

We then went to Five Guys for lunch, and I just canít figure it out. Why are their burgers so good? Seriously, what do they do thatís so radically different? Itís baffling. But those things are just about the best goddamn hamburgers Iíve ever eaten. And mister, Iíve eaten plenty.

Then it was off to Wal-Mart, to see if we might happen upon a cheap-ass driver there. No dice, they were all sixty dollars or more, which isnít going to happen in this lifetime or the next.

So we just threw in the towel and went to the driving range. Screw it, Iíd just watch, and try to get a driver at the next ďmulti-familyĒ yard sale. In our neighborhood I knew I wouldnít have to wait long.

But the driving range was closed. There was a sign that said Open Seven Days, 10:30 to 6:00, but there was a chain across the driveway, and nobody was around. It reminded me of that Steven Wright joke: open 24 hours, but not in a row.

What the hell, man? This day was starting to eat it from the ass-in. What were we going to do now? I didnít want to go home and watch Josh Peck again. In fact, I didnít want to go home, period. Iíd had enough of that crapola.

So we went to the actual dairy farm where the products sold at our favorite ice cream shop are made. Yes, you read that correctly. They supposedly have an ice cream counter there, as well, right on the farm itself.

And you simply havenít lived until youíve walked around smelling the shit of the very cows responsible for the delicious dairy dessert youíre enjoying right this minute. They claim the ice cream they sell today, was very likely still in the cow yesterday. The whole thing is a bit disconcerting, if you want to know the truth... But kinda cool.

Now youíre completely up to date on our exciting weekend. What did you do? Use the comments link to tell us all about it, wonít you?

And Iíll see you guys tomorrow.



home>>

Last updated
01/17/12 12:14 PM

Surf Report
T-Shirts!

The Best of TheWVSR.com
Hey, everything's relative

Further Evidence
The end is near

TheWVSRcam
A live camera inside the Surf Report bunker

Smoking Fish Sightings
Our logo gets around

The Mountain
The evidence is starting to pile up

Ads vs. Reality
Shiny, neon-orange, liquefied pump-cheese, and all

Wal-Mart Game
Physical defects and the mentally damaged could mean big prizes for you!

Black Box Stew
Who would you like to see go down in that next big air disaster?

Rules of Thumb
Things that are true

Archives
Old issues of the terrible old paper zine

Dispatches From The Bunker
Join the mailing list!




     

 

General & Multi-product

Contents copyright © 2000-2007 by Jeffrey S. Kay.  All rights reserved. And here's more legal crap.
Snail mail: TheWVSR.com  PO Box 4  Olyphant, PA  18447  Electronic mail:  info@thewvsr.com