I’m in the middle of Day Four of a big nine-day vacation from my job. Back in January Toney and I scheduled the time off, with plans of taking a trip to some beach to be named later. Then we spent what little money we had on getting our deck repaired, and that, as they say, was that.
But, there’s nothing wrong with a staycation. Except, of course, the word staycation itself. High douchery! Toney ended up temporarily giving Monday and Tuesday back to The Man, but I let mine ride. Like a boss. So, I’m off Monday through Friday, with a Saturday and Sunday tacked onto both ends. Nice.
The plan is to log some hours working on my so-called novel. But it’s been a while since I updated the Surf Report, so I’m gonna clean out the notebook today (AKA procrastination) and play it by ear for the rest of the week.
I have no idea how it’s going to go with the book. My track record hasn’t been stellar, if you want to know the truth. According to Scrivener, the first draft is 10% completed. Ha! Stephen King writes more during his 7:12 a.m. daily dump (I hear he’s remarkably regular). This thing is turning into my own personal Chinese Democracy.
In any case, I’m going to bring you guys up to date on a few things today, and take it from there. So, let’s do it.
Every spring I feel the ancient pull of baseball, which is apparently encoded in my DNA, and vow to get back into the sport. I long ago lost the way, my friends…
Last year I toyed with the idea of purchasing a package from MLB which would’ve given me access to all the live radio broadcasts, for every team. But I didn’t think I’d actually use it, and ended up hemming and hawing myself into oblivion. But this year I pulled the trigger. I went with the monthly option, which I don’t believe was available last year. And so far… I’ve heard at least part of every Reds game.
I’m loving it! I’m listening to broadcasts out of Cincinnati, with Marty Brennaman — who has been calling Reds games since I was 11 years old. I’m learning the players’ names again, and feeling the old magic a bit. I love baseball on the radio. I like to watch it on TV, too. But there’s something special about listening to the games. They stream perfectly through my phone or computer, and there’s an on-demand feature which will allow me to replay the games I missed.
It’s pretty great, so far. But I do have some concerns. I haven’t paid attention to the sport since the late 1990s, and a few things have changed. For instance, why no black players anymore? What’s up with that? They’re all white or from a Caribbean island. Where are all the Reggie Jacksons and the Joe Morgans? Jackie Robinson is probably spinning in his grave. Also, what’s this bullshit where managers are allowed to “challenge” an umpire’s call? I don’t care for that, whatsoever. And all the “pace of game” initiatives make me nervous, too. A pitch clock? Seriously?? There are no clocks in baseball. I HATE when people monkey around with the sport. Hell, I’m still pissed off about the designated hitter rule from 1973, and don’t even get me started on inter-league play.
But, I’m enjoying listening to Marty call the games again. And it doesn’t hurt that the Reds are winning so far. I know their prospects aren’t great. But that’s OK. It’s still baseball.
Last weekend I took our old propane tank to U-Haul in Scranton, to get it filled. And the guy refused. He told me they’re only good for 12 years, and ours was manufactured in 1999. Wotta nerd! When I woke up that morning I couldn’t have predicted I would encounter a hardened propane stickler later in the day. But he told me they start to leak after a while, and become dangerous. I considered going elsewhere, in search of a not-so-rare “who gives a flying fuck?” gas steward. But, he scared me with his talk of danger.
So, I bought a shiny new tank at Sam’s for $30. Our old one looked like it had spent a winter at the bottom of a lake, and now we’re rockin’ a tank that looks like it’s been buffed and waxed. Heh. On Saturday I took it back to my friends at U-Haul and there was further weirdness.
They had signs all over the place advertising “pay at the pump” capabilities, and I assumed they would have one of those handheld deals through which my card would be swiped. But, no. The guy took out an iPhone and snapped a picture of my credit card. WTF?? I howled in protest, and he acted like I was crazy. “It’s how our software works. There’s nothing to worry about,” he assured me.
Nothing to worry about? What in the finger-snapping hell? Nothing except for the fact that some shitkicker at U-Haul now has a photo of my credit card on his phone. I submit that there’s a very real need to worry. That thing could end up on Reddit, if he wanted. But, we’ve checked the account every day, and all is well. So far, anyway. Have you encountered this kind of thing? Am I behind the times and overly paranoid, or would it bother you, as well? Dammit.
A couple of weekends ago Toney and I went to a brewpub in a nearby town. We like to support that kind of thing, when possible, and had been meaning to visit the joint for some time. It’s run by local folks, who supposedly brew a lineup of tasty beers. But it was not a positive experience.
We parked on a side street, and walked past an open door leading into their kitchen. And let’s just say… there’s no way I’d eat anything that originated in that room. And I have very low standards. Good god! It was a fully-realized shithole. “I guess we’ll just have a beer?” I told Toney, as we headed toward the front door. “I’m not even sure about that,” she replied.
We walked inside, and the place smelled like a wet dog, and had the ambiance of an employee break room in the back of a Staples store. It’s all just linoleum and metal tables and chairs. The bar looked like it was meant for a basement in a private residence, and there were four or five people gathered around it, shouting and working hard at getting even drunker. Weird. It’s not like they were serving Keystone Ice in that place.
We sat at a table, and when I pulled the chair out it made a super-loud scraping sound. They really need some rugs or drapes, or something. Sound just ricochets around inside there. After about five minutes a woman came over, from behind the bar. I ordered an IPA, and she told me they were out of it. So, I ordered a lager, which was also not available. “How about just telling us what is available?” I offered.
Toney and I both went with an Irish Red. And when she brought it, there was not even a hint of foam on top. We looked at each other doubtfully, and tasted it. Flat. The flavor wasn’t bad, but there was no carbonation whatsoever. And it wasn’t cask style, or anything like that. I don’t believe it was designed to be flat, I believe it was just old. Oh, I’ve been around enough beer to know the difference.
But, we choked them down, and got the hell out of there. We’d driven about fifteen miles to visit that place, and couldn’t have been more disappointed. Oh well, we’d done our part. We’d gone into it in good faith.
And that night Toney began complaining about an upset stomach. We were watching House of Cards, and she said she was just going to go to bed after one episode. We watch them two at a time, but she cut it short. She went upstairs, and I switched over to Amazon Prime, and began watching The Americans. And about five minutes later I heard her shout, “Oh, gawd!” followed by frantic movement.
I sprinted upstairs (well, the fat man’s version of sprinting), and saw my wife standing in deep shadow like the first Beatles album. But, unlike the Fab Four, there was a great quantity of vomit gushing out of her mouth. Holy shit!! “I couldn’t make it,” she kept saying, between spasms. I don’t think my deep, deep grimace has fully released, more than a week later.
After we cleaned everything up, and I successfully fought my own puke-launch, she came downstairs. “That was the first time I threw up since September 6, 1997,” she proclaimed. “How do you know the exact date?” I asked. “It was the day of Princess Diana’s funeral,” she said. “And how the hell do you know THAT date?” I asked, even more confused. It had something to do with my parents coming to visit us in California, and she had shrimp scampi at a restaurant called Sisley in Valencia, and Princess Di had just been killed… I’m still not sure how she knew the exact date, but she did. So, it was almost a 19 year vomitless run. Impressive, and very Seinfeld-like.
We don’t know for sure that the stale beer was the culprit, but if I had to put my money on it, I would.
I can’t remember when I last threw up, but it hasn’t been 19 years. ‘Cause I can recall puking here, in this house, and also crapping my pants at the same time. It was blowing out of both ends, and mister… that’ll flat-out ruin your day. But I don’t do it often. If I stick to beer I never throw up from drinking, and thankfully haven’t experienced food poisoning, not a single time in my life. I did puke in the bathroom of the second prom I attended, though. I had the flu, or somesuch. It was not alcohol related. Terrible night…
Any idea how long it’s been for you? Do you have an exact date, like Toney? Shit, I’m getting queasy, just writing all these different words for vomit. But if you have any spectacular upchuck tales to tell, feel free.
I’m not anywhere near a full notebook purge here. But this thing is approaching 2000 words already. If you don’t feel like talking about puke, I’ll leave you with an alternative Question o’ the Day: what automatically disqualifies a movie or book for you? What words in the description cause you to shout ‘next!’ and move on? A few of mine: special needs, Alzheimer’s, cancer, politically-charged, race relations, LGBT, moral message, giving back, environmental, the power of love, hallucinatory. What about you? Use the comments section.
And have yourselves a great day, my friends. I’ll see you again soon.
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Yeah, when they won’t refill my tank because it’s out of date, I go swap it at Kroger. It also seems like every time I head over to get my tanks refilled, a lightning storm kicks up about halfway there.
Good Afternoon Surf Reporters…
It’s been a while. But I had to comment on poor Toney’s gastrointestinal distress. If I had to wager, I’d say it wasn’t so much flat, stale beer but more likely a dirty tap system. Since Jeff mentioned the lack of cleanliness of the kitchen, that would be a good guess.
Yes, I will second the vote for the dirty tap system. One the best beers I ever tasted was a Miller beer at the tasting room of the Milwaukee brewery. It shocked me because I do not enjoy beer from the big breweries at all. I mentioned to the server how good the beer tasted and inquired if she believed it was the freshness of getting beer at its source. She told me that wasn’t it because they were pouring from the same kegs they ship out. So I pressed her more since the beer tasted so good. She then shared the secret – that they cleaned the tap lines EVERY SINGLE DAY! I’ve done my own informal review of good beer/bad beer since then and most of the bad beer I’ve had has come from establishments where tap cleaning would not seem to be a priority.
You know what they say: “It’s hard to hold a candle in the cold November rain”
It seems to me that you hurled your beer
On a candle in the wind
This is some quality writing, “standing in deep shadow like the first Beatles album. But, unlike the Fab Four, there was a great quantity of vomit gushing out of her mouth.” Thank you.
I have never vomited. No amount of drinking has caused it yet. Oh I’ve tried to vomit too. It’s a blessing and a curse. I’ve had some really powerful hangovers but they’re mostly in the past. With age comes wisdom as they say.
Hey, How’d you manage to get a classic smokin fish as your icon?
I can’t remember. Some site I had to register with for comments during “Maturity is for Suckers”.
Hey Mole, You need to change your name to Mr. Ed. Horses can’t barf and it is common for them to die because of it. Also, they can’t burp so the air they swallow escapes out the rear. Problem for you too?
Air comes out both ends with no issues. Thank you very much.
Been a couple years at least since I had to reverse the flow. Brought on by something I ate, no idea what it was anymore.
Propane tanks tend to get the evil eye when they get refilled. I guess when it looks like it spent its time at the bottom of a lagoon, it’s probably a prudent thing. And it ain’t so much leaks, as the tank rusting and getting to thin.
Diana’s tragic requiem nearly gave me nausea when I realized that Elton John had rented one of those one-size-fits-all funerary outfits at a time when he was no longer one size.
jtb
She said “Treat me like a Princess.”
So I got her drunk and wrecked in a tunnel.
Good night ladies and gentlemen…
That’s awesome; right up there with Need Another Seven Astronauts.
How does that multi-national thing go… an English princess with an Egyptian boyfriend, riding in a German car with a Dutch engine, driven through a French tunnel by a Belgian who is drunk on Scotch whisky, and they’re being chased by Italian paparazzi riding Japanese motorcycles. I think that’s all of it.
Chill, that was so perfect and beautiful that it made me cry. I love you, man.
I’ll get to the rest in a minute, but I love the pitch clock.
I saw it in spring training games last year. The ump were a little looser then since it was the first time it was used. The clock went all the way down in the first few innings, but by the end of the game there would ber15 or 20 seconds left on it when the wind up started.
The pitchers and players got used to it quickly. What I found is that I miss game action much less. Instead of getting bored watching a guy adjust his pant noodle and look down at my peanuts just as the play starts, I was actually more involved with the game knowing that play was about to start.
A lot of new players are coming from Korea now. And Japan of course. I stopped watching baseball in the late 1990s. But last year I got back into it. Although – I only watch the Pirates. I have no interest in any other teams. I went through that thing you mentioned a few years back. Everyone who was at the office Christmas party go it. It was either stomach flu, or food poisoning. I think I have not been that sick since I was a kid.
Oh, I had food poisoning once – the day before Thanksgiving. Spent the entire night on the floor of the bathroom. When I walked by the criminal restaurant the following Monday, it was shuttered and closed with a huge Department of Health notice waving in the wind.
I thought it was something I had made at home – until I talked to someone I work with and found out everyone was sick.
Raise the Jolly Roger! Go Bucs!
It’s been a number of years, but one night I woke up with a raging thirst. Went downstairs, had a drink of water (or soda?), sat on a chair and knew I was about to puke. All I wished for was sweet relief. Within minutes I was on my knees praying to the porcelain gods. Beloved jumped up and lovingly asked “What the fuck’s going on” as my body twisted and spazed for 10 minutes. I have no idea what brought that on.
“Romantic Comedy” gets an immediate pass from me.
And Jeff, I know who mentioned “Alzheimers” but “Still Alice” was a fantastic movie (Julianne Moore, Alec Baldwin). Very well done.
I have not yet vomited in this house, and I moved in right around the time Toney was recovering from the previous unpleasantness.
That credit card thing sure seems sketchy to me. I’d keep an eye on that. One time some scumbag used my credit card to buy a domain name (!). And I didn’t catch it for a couple of years, because it only came up for renewal once a year.
The designated hitter rule is, and always has been, a modern abomination. I’m glad to live in (near) a National League town.
Last time I puked was food poisoning from Emeril Lagasse’s (sp?) fancy place in Las Vegas, about 14 years ago. It was shooting out of both ends but thankfully not simultaneously, so while unpleasant it was at least orderly. Bastard.
Holy Shit! Hubster and I ate there 14 yrs ago! Daughter was 2 and our first vacation alone. No projectiles from me but from that day on I’ve told all who would listen Emerils in Vegas is awful!!!
Every time I see his botoxed pudgy little face on TV I am reminded of explosive diarrhea. Me and the missus were scheduled to take a helicopter to the Grand Canyon the following morning. I called to cancel:
“Too late to cancel”
“I’ll shit up the inside of your helicopter if you don’t let me cancel”
“Here’s your money back”
Last puke was in Albany NY shortly after going to my hotel room while watching the Super bowl in 2012. Was starting to be a good time since I was working at the SUNY campus where the Giants did their summer training. Ordered some food at the bar and got sick immediately. Went to bed and thankfully placed the trash can nearby. Spent the next day only able to drink small sips of water and either puking or crapping the same water out in a few minutes.
You left out one of your avoidance categories, Jeff! Movies with elves and swords I think it was.
You’re right! Thanks for reminding me.
This week’s feature photo: almost certainly Birmingham, Alabama; almost certainly September, 1966; very likely the dork with the mic is Birmingham WAQY DJ Tommy Charles; almost certainly, the Beatles were more popular than Jesus.
jtb
Well, they WERE.
Yes, ma’am, and the crackers burned their records, just like they used to burn books for ol’ what’s-his-name.
jtb
Not to get too graphic but I became terribly ill December 2nd last year. After consuming all the noxious stuff they give you before a colonoscopy my body said “No way Jose” and got rid of it through any and all openings available. Yeah, we had to throw out that rug.
In the 43 years I’ve known my husband I’ve only vomited once – about four or five years ago, a sudden-onset WTF was that about incident. While I don’t remember that date, I do know I smoked my last cigarette on 21 January 1974.
One barf? That’s a hell of a marriage. I started puking right away in most of mine.
jtb
I never get tired of hearing Marty Brennaman say, “…and this one belongs to the Reds!”
re: Dude taking picture of your credit card. I seem to recall someone posting Mike Piazza’s paycheck on the internets some years ago…so it shouldn’t be a problem! 🙂
Yesterday a friend mentioned her card being compromised. She was still sitting in the restaurant when her bank called asking if she was in NYC. She wasn’t. Seems the waitress was taking pictures of cards and sending them to her boyfriend NYC. He worked at a gas station and was buying up stuff at work. Friend now has an app that pings every time her account is accessed. With my debit card use my phone would sound like a pinball machine.
That happened to me summer before last. I ate at various places around town more than usual – and one day I got a call asking me if I was using my card at a Dollar Store in another state. I figured it had to be someone at one of those restaurants who grabbed the card number.
There are five or six cities in Mali and twenty in Albania in which virtually all the gas pumps have debit/credit card readers. Jeff, you have to get out of NEPA before you start looking like Jed Clampett and voting for Donald Duck.
Sure, you can take a picture of my credit card if you don’t mind my running over your phone and your foot afterwards.
jtb
“Pennsylvania Gov. Tom Wolf signed a bi-partisan bill into law on Sunday legalizing medical marijuana across the state.”
Finally, a serum for the soul. No longer a need to stash that Old Grand-Dad in the lower desk drawer at work.
jtb
Back in the late 70s and early 80s, my buddies and I used to joke that “they should legalize pot and outlaw cigarettes.” It’s proceeding apace. Be careful what you wish for, ‘n’ shit.
Old Grand-Dad is, to me, a frightening beverage. I’ll stick to single-malt Scotch, thanks. Or Bulleit rye if money is tight that week.
I think it’s useful to distinguish sipping whiskey from desk whiskey, but, in the end, one’s choice of distilled spirit, like one’s choice of a woman (or man if we must), is as individual as a fingerprint and as personal as an indiscretion. My granddad, who was born 20 miles south of Glasgow, drank Old Grand-Dad, as did I until I exceeded my quota.
jtb
“Poor old Granddad I laughed at all his words
I thought he was a bitter man
He spoke of women’s ways”
Ooh laa laa I’ll be singing this all day. Thanks guys.
Not such a bad tune to have running in your head. Loves me some Faces!
On hour 8 of Ooh La La, and for some reason my neuronic juke box switched from the Ronnie Wood version to Rod Stewart mid-afternoon. Gave the brain machine a sharp pinball jolt to advance to the next song, and I got, “It was raining hard in ‘Frisco, I needed one more fare to make my night.” I’m thinking I should have opted for the 16 gig device rather than the 640K, to the extent that we get to choose. If I’m gonna be stuck with Rod Stewart I damn well prefer “Reason to Believe”. Tim Hardin remains too fucked up to sing it himself, and my brain remains in a tight loop.
jtb
A suggestion about your card… call the credit card company and tell them what happened. Ask if that is a thing now.
Puked on the 7th. And a year before that on the same day. Weird eh?
Happy puke-a-versary!
Wow, I am a chronic puker, not that I am bulimic. That’s my reaction to everything, I think there’s a kid on South Park like me. Sounds like I am alone on this journey