Jeff Kay's Blog, page 24

What’s The Worst Job You Ever Had? I Bet Richard Kimble Can Top It

I’ve started watching The Fugitive again. I have the complete series box set and ripped through the first three seasons in short order. But the fourth and final season — which is in color — is so preposterous I lost interest for a long time. Like maybe two years. But the DVDs have been hanging around the living room all that time, and Toney is starting to complain. So, I’ve decided to push through to the end and put the box set away for good.

The first three seasons are great. They’re atmospheric and melancholy, and make you feel some of the loneliness and despair of being an innocent man on the run, knowing that if you’re caught you’re going straight to the “death house” as they call it in the opening sequence.

But by the final year, it’s become full-on stupid. For a guy who is trying to lay low, he certainly gets himself into a large number of predicaments. In every episode, he’s working a different job in a different city, and using a different name. He’s a butler, or a field hand, or a pit boss at a casino, or a veterinarian’s assistant. But no matter what he’s doing, or where he happens to be, he finds himself in some sort of outrageous circumstance without delay. He gets caught up in any number of kidnapping situations, for instance, and is often being held at gunpoint by some smart-mouthed young tough who uses phrases like, “You ain’t going nowhere, daddy,” and that sort of thing.

Thankfully I’ve never been on the run from federal agents, but I’m fairly certain I could fade into the background better than Richard Kimble. I’ve had lots of jobs in my life, in five different states, and have never once been implicated in the death of a Mexican union organizer. Or been forced to go to bat for a wrongfully accused semi-retarded carnival roustabout. Or been hassled and beaten at a rodeo for refusing to wear “Western clothes.” I generally just go to work and come home when I’m done. Sometimes if I’m hungry I go through the Arby’s drive-thru, but that’s about as exciting as it gets. Not once have I found myself seeking refuge in the embassy of an obscure African nation, or felt a moral obligation to protect a young violin prodigy from his powerful and overbearing father. Maybe I’m the weird one?

Yes, it’s ridiculous,  but I’m pushing through to the end. I want to see the final episode, which was one of the most-watched TV shows in history. I assume Kimble is captured, returned to death row, thoroughly sodomized, and eventually fried-up like a goddamn box of Sizzlean? That’s how I see it going, anyway.

By the way, the movie version of The Fugitive, with Harrison Ford, is one of my all-time favorites. It’s almost a perfect movie, in my estimation. I just wanted that on the record for some reason. I love that thing, every time I watch it.

Writing all that broke loose a memory of a book idea I had years ago. It was going to be a retrospective guide of a 1970s sitcom that never actually existed. For some reason, the show was called Billy White Eggs. Or maybe The Adventures of Billy White Eggs. I sincerely can’t remember why. But the book was to feature a synopsis of every episode, perhaps 150 in all. Every one of them, of course, would be absurd and wholly manufactured by me. And there would be a lot of fake trivia and history about the stars: where are they now? etc. Also photos. I was fired up! I sent a query letter to multiple agents and actually got a little interest. This was long before the website, by the way, when I was in California. One agent, in particular, was intrigued and invited me to submit a full-fledged book proposal. She asked me to sign an agreement of some sort and told me to get to it. And… I never wrote one word of the thing. The end. Great story, huh? Oh, there are more where that came from.

Thinking about The Fugitive, and all the jobs he worked during the run of that show, I wonder how he’d answer the question: What’s the worst job you’ve ever had? I mean, he was repeatedly shot and stabbed and beat to shit at work. I’ve got nothing to compare, thankfully. But I’ll answer the question.

The worst job I ever had was overnight stocking at a Food Lion grocery store in Greensboro, NC. The bosses were, without exception, assholes. And my co-workers were imbeciles who were also boring. Oh, I’d encountered many imbeciles by that point, especially at the Dunbar Exxon. But they were entertaining, which made it a little more palatable. The guys at Food Lion were both stupid and dull.

Plus, it was hard physical labor with a fair amount of pressure. The managers walked around yelling at us, and it just sucked all the time. They blasted some horrific Top 40 radio station in there, and they played maybe 15 songs in a continuous loop. No way they were playing 40. And it was shit like “We Built This City” by Starship, and “Broken Wings” by Mr. Mister. There were many nights in that place when I thought I might a) take a swing at someone or b) break down in tears. Or both.

I was responsible for the so-called Cleaning Aisle. I had to buy, stock, and maintain every item in it. And the buying was the tricky part. The worst was the bleach. It came in giant boxes of six, and you could only fit maybe 18 of the big bottles on the shelf. And those 18 would disappear quickly. However, there was a Sgt. Carter asshole bastard who managed the backroom, and he’d be all up your ass if you brought in too much overstock. He had the floor taped off for each stocker, and you couldn’t have anything outside your allotted space. Those boxes of bleach were huge, so you can see my problem. If we completely ran out of bleach, the store manager would scream at me. And if I had a lot of overstock Sgt. Carter would lose his mind. It SUCKED. I was there for months and never cracked the bleach code. I was a little afraid of Sarge because he looked like he was capable of killing me with his hands, so I always leaned more toward running out. So, the store manager viewed me as an absolute incompetent. It was paradise, I tell ya.

Oh, and I forgot… We worked until we were done. So, no set quitting time. I was exhausted 24 hours a day, and my ego was being blasted without let-up. Oh, God. It was a terrible job. I finally quit and went to Peaches Records, for much less money. And that turned out to be one of the BEST jobs I ever had. Pass the beer nuts.

I’ll leave you with the same Question: What’s the worst job you ever had, and why? Please tell us about it in the comments. Hopefully, none of them resulted in you being held in a roadside diner by members of a motorcycle gang, or anything like that. I believe that happened to Richard Kimble multiple times.

I need to call it a day, my friends.

Please don’t forget to use our Amazon links while doing your holiday shopping this year. Simply click through and shop as normal. It’ll cost you nothing extra, and I’ll receive a small percentage of whatever you spend. Thanks!

I’ll see you guys again on Thursday.

Have a great day.

Now playing in the bunker

Support us by doing your shopping on Amazon! In Canada? Here’s your link. Thank you, guys!

Everybody Thinks They Have Problems, But None Are As Big As Mine

Several weeks ago I got a haircut from some unknown woman who botched it nine ways to St. Louis. I’m thinking she must have lied to the managers of the place, and told them she’d cut hair before. So, they hired her and, like a scene straight out of a 1980s sitcom, I came strolling through the front door, whistling and smiling and completely oblivious.

I get a very simple procedure: clippers, using the 2 and 4 guards. “Two on the sides and 4 on top?” they always ask. Yes, I prefer not to look like Martin Van Buren, thank you very much.

Anyway, it’s very simple and takes no more than five minutes in the hands of a professional. But this bitch didn’t know what she was doing. And I say bitch, because she was also unfriendly, with a pronounced white trash edge. She did everything out of order, and it was one of my worst cuts in recent memory. She was semi-hostile the whole time, probably to discourage me from challenging her lack of abilities. The whole thing was highly unsatisfactory.

There was a ridge going all the way around my head where she abruptly switched from 2 to 4. Generally, they blend that shit in, but she did no blending. I suspect she didn’t know how. Plus, she cut the sides, then went straight to sideburns and neck, before cutting the top. It’s unorthodox. Sideburns and neck are what happens at the end, not in the middle. I knew that as my hair grew over the next couple of weeks it would be all unbalanced and wonky, like a goddamn rhombus. But I didn’t dare push my luck with this hard woman: she might snatch a straight razor off the counter and open my throat.

But the point of all this isn’t about the bad haircut. It’s about the tip I gave her. I don’t use cash for anything unless I have no choice. And this place does not allow you to write in a tip while paying for a haircut. It’s weird. So, I always have to go to Sheetz beforehand and get $5 out of the money-for-nothing ATM. It comes out as five one-dollar bills. And that’s what I generally tip: $5 on a $12 speed-sheering.

No way was I giving this person five bucks, though. She didn’t deserve anything, and certainly not the max. So, I reluctantly gave her $2. I thought it was low enough to be insulting, but not a complete slap in the face. It felt right.

But then… I had three one-dollar bills in my wallet. I knew I’d never use them. When I say I never use cash, I mean that literally. I never have any, and it never occurs to me. These three singles might hang around for years. Years, I say! I thought about maybe waiting until my next haircut, and just getting $2 out of the ATM. My shit would be going full-rhombus in just a matter of days, and I’d be right back over there begging for an adjustment. But I didn’t like that plan. It’s not like it would save me a trip to the ATM. There was no upside to it. And I just felt uneasy with three loose dollar bills in my wallet.

So, I gave them to Toney. “Please take these,” I begged her. “They’re causing me a low-grade anxiety.” At this point, she doesn’t even question these types of things, and just took the money. My explanation would likely annoy her, and she’d pepper me with a hundred logical ways I could’ve gotten rid of the three dollars, which would’ve annoyed me. So, she just rolls with it.

However… I’ve been back to that place several times since then. And just this weekend I got another bad cut. I’ve never seen that horrible woman there again — I assume she was fired or arrested. But some girl who looks 14 years old, and that’s not an exaggeration, did an awful job on me. She clearly didn’t know what she was doing and kept positioning herself so that her right armpit was basically mashed against my face. It’s not ideal, a full armpit to the face. And the cut is an abomination. She did some rudimentary blending, but something is off. I don’t know. I’m getting pissed. There are some talented hair artists there, but they work on the old ladies who make the appointments, etc. And they use the misfits and societal castoffs for us walk-ins.

But, she got the full $5. No way was I going through all that again. It’s too stressful. So, now I’m in a position where I’m forced to overtip the incompetent, to avoid the issue of problematic residual moneys? Why does everything have to be so difficult?!

You guys are with me on this, right? …Hello?

I have to go now. I’m a little worked up if you want to know the truth. For a Question I was thinking about asking how you’d rid yourself of three one-dollar bills. But I know a few of you will say something like “How about giving it to the needy, asshole, or the center for hand cancer research?” and make me appear petty and uncaring. So, screw it. I’m just going to go to work, and continue scowling there.

I’ll see you guys again soon.

Have a great day!

Now playing in the bunker

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How Would You Spend A $100,000 Lottery Jackpot?

Years ago I was acquainted with a guy (purposely vague) who was a recovering alcoholic. He was nice, but extremely intense. It was easy to see how he could take almost anything too far. He was one of those people who gets out of bed every morning, and just swings for the fences. Ya know? If he’d been able to harnass it in a positive way, he’d be a trillionaire by now.

But he’s not a trillionaire, he’s dead. He got deeply into buying lottery tickets, to the point (in my mind) of absolute insanity. I rarely play the lottery in any capacity, and when I do… it’s $2 or $3, or something like that. This guy was laying down a large percentage of his weekly pay on it. Crazy!

And then he won $100,000. He acted like it was no big deal, and said he might buy some new living room furniture. But he claimed most of it would be going into the bank. “It’s just money,” he said, with a shrug.

Yeah, he came completely off the rails. I don’t know everything about it, but do know he started drinking again, and took his gambling up another notch. He was fired from his job, and was just spiraling down, down, down. In short order, maybe two months after the windfall, he was found dead in his apartment.

Whenever I tell this story, people generally say, “Over a measly hundred grand?” Which is true. It’s a lot of money, but it’s not enough to be able to quit working, or anything of the sort. It could improve your quality of life, if you don’t spend it on a heart-stopping amount of booze or whatever. But it’s not like you’d become Richard Branson all of a sudden.

Here’s how I’d spend my hypothetical $100,000 jackpot:

Pay off all household debt, except for the mortgage.

Do some minor home improvements and repairs.

Go back to England for a week or ten days. Drink beer in pubs, sight-see, and have fun.

If there’s anything left, put ‘er in the bank and get back to the real world.

And that’s almost exactly what would happen. I don’t have that wild-eyed swingin’ for the fences thing inside me. For better or worse. It would be fairly boring and sensible here at Chez Kay. I’m almost certain it wouldn’t lead to my death.

Of course the guy I knew claimed he was just going to buy a couch and a chair, and bank the rest. So, who knows? Wonder if he believed that, or it was just something he offered up for public consumption? I have a feeling he wanted it to be true, but knew deep down it wasn’t. The man ran wide-open.

Yes, the current version of Jeff Kay would be sensible. But, if I’d won a hundred grand when I was 21 or 22, it would’ve likely led to big trouble. Like prison, perhaps. Or a desperate quest for a Larry Hagman snap-on liver, via the Asian underground. Or something similar.

What about you? How would you spend your hypothetical $100,000? How would the current version of you differ from the 21 year old version? Any difference? I know people who were pretty much fully-formed adults by that age. I wasn’t one of them. Sweet sainted mother of Bake McBride! Is there any chance they’d find you dead within two months, as a direct result of receiving said funds? Please tell us about it in the comments.

And I’m going to call it a day, my friends. Yesterday was my birthday, and I’m now so old I’m starting to panic. I think I’m eligible for a senior discount at Wendy’s at this point. And that’s… troubling. I’ll probably be drinking coffee with dinner soon, and buying shirts with a wide elastic band at the bottom. Shit! Will somebody please hold me?

A heads up for everyone, before I hit publish: our old friend Jason Headley wrote and directed a feature film called A Bad Idea Gone Wrong. It won some film festival awards, and is highly rated at Rotten Tomatoes. It co-stars the actor who played Badger in Breaking Bad. Check out the trailer. The film is receiving a limited theatrical release this weekend. But it’s also available today through Video On Demand from your cable company, and from iTunes, etc. I’m planning to watch it tonight. Jason is a super funny guy, and a fellow West Virginian. Perhaps you’ve seen some of his other work, like this little slice o’ genius? Check out the movie, if you’re so inclined. I’m sincerely looking forward to it.

And, it’s December 1. Christmas shopping is heating up… Somewhere, probably. Please remember to pass through our Amazon links before you engage in holiday commerce this year. Just click through and shop like normal. It’ll cost you nothing extra, and I’ll receive a small percentage of whatever you spend. It’s an easy and painless way to support the Surf Report. Thank you guys!

Now, let’s hear how you’d spend your $100,000 scratch-off money. Use the comments section, so thoughtfully provided by our WordPress overlords.

I’ll see you guys again on Monday.

Have a great weekend!

Now playing in the bunker

Support us by doing your shopping at Amazon! In Canada? Here’s your link. Thank you guys!

Some Random Crap From My Notebook! vol. 41

On Friday I overheard two women in their 50s, with catastrophic cig-voices, discussing Thanksgiving. Here’s how part of the conversation went:

Haglet 1: So, how was your dinner yesterday?

Haglet 2: Already digested and down the river!

It’s true that I’m a connoisseur of the inappropriate, but that one triggered a half-squint of disgust. Good god! I wouldn’t be surprised to hear a big fat slob of a man say something like that. But a woman? A mature woman? She was basically saying, “Well, I’m not motivated to comment on the quality of the meal, Tina, but I will tell you this much: I ALREADY SHIT IT OUT!”

So classy and refined. I’m sure both those ladies attended the top finishing schools on the east coast. The acid-washed jean jackets and packs of Merits confirmed as much. America’s answer to Lady Diana!

Speaking of sophistication, I was reading this article about micropenises last night. It popped up (so to speak) as sponsored content on Facebook. And it occurred to me: if I’d read that thing when I was 15 or 16, before the internet destroyed my ability to be amazed, I wouldn’t have stopped talking about it for weeks. Now? Eh, mildly amusing.

It also led me to this interview with a shockingly crass urologist, at the same site. She has plenty of memorable tales to tell, about unfortunate wangs and whatnot. But her demeanor is off-putting. How would you like to be one of her patients? Sheesh. Isn’t there such a thing as wiener/doctor privilege? It feels like she just went into that line of work so she could be a hit at cocktail parties.

A few nights ago I stopped at Sheetz to buy gas on my way home from work. As I was fumbling with the nozzle, etc. the guy on the other side greeted me with much enthusiasm: “Hello, my friend!” What the? Do I know this guy? I don’t think so. I gave him the ‘sup? chin-lift and a half-smile, and continued with the task at hand. “It’s a wonderful day to be alive!” he shouted. What in the everlasting hell? Is this guy special needs, or something? Yeah, yeah I mumbled, without making eye contact. “It’s up to us to make the most of every day!!” he continued.

This was starting to be concerning. I wondered if I should call 911. If you see something, say something. I could imagine the conversation with a cop: “So, what did this man say to you?” Just all sorts of positive shit, officer. Take on the day, and things like that. He was relentless, and I didn’t feel safe. “That is highly irregular. I’m going to call in the feds on this one. Thank you for bringing it to our attention.”

For some reason I did a Google search for ‘greatest sitcoms of all time’ a few days ago, looking for a list that met my approval. This is the closest I could come. It features two of my three favorites: The Andy Griffith Show and Seinfeld. The only one they missed was Green Acres, which gets a bad rap. People chuckle and believe I’m being ironic when I mention that show. But it was Monty Python-level absurd and one of the wildest and funniest programs of all time. I sincerely love it, and wonder what kind of mind-altering substances the writers must have been using.

The list includes Scrubs and Will & Grace, which I know nothing about. I’ve never seen an episode of either of them. Also, Roseanne. I might’ve watched two or three episodes of that crap, but didn’t like the way she was always chewing. Also, it seemed about as funny as all-over cancer. Is that unfair? The rest of the shows listed are worthy, I guess. I know people loved Taxi, and I didn’t hate it. But it wouldn’t be on my personal top twenty list. It’s a little… melancholy. Gilligan’s Island is a surprising choice, but I have no issue with it. Who could have an issue with Gilligan?

What are your thoughts? What shows should come off the list, and which ones should be added? Tell us about it in the comments. We’re talking about TV sitcoms: situation comedies.

And I have to work early today, my friends. Early for me, anyway. It would probably seem late to most of you. Anyway, I need to close out the category and start getting ready to go.

As always, I urge you to remember to use one of our Amazon links before doing your holiday shopping. There will be one at the bottom of this (and every) update, and there’s a graphic in the sidebar. They’re all over the place. Just click through, and get to shopping. It’ll cost you nothing extra, and I’ll receive a tiny sliver of whatever you spend. Much appreciated!

I feel weird. I don’t think I got nearly enough sleep. My brain is betraying me already. In any case, I’ll see you guys again on Thursday.

As the gas station philosopher said, make the most of your day!

Now playing in the bunker

Support us by doing your shopping at Amazon! In Canada? Here’s your link. Thank you guys!

Our Single Most Memorable Thanksgivings Ever, And A Few Other Semi-Related Items

How’d it go? Did everybody survive OK? Our Thanksgiving 2017 was fairly kick-back. I still have this life-sucking cold, so I did about 20% more couch wallowing than I usually do. But our dinner was nice, with all four of us sitting around the table together, and Andy begging like a champion. Wonder how many more of those there will be? That exact configuration? There are certainly things to be thankful for.

I was in charge of the mashed potatoes, and here’s my secret: shitloads of butter. I mean, just an enormous amount… I get nothing but praise for my taters. We also had a 14 pound turkey, a gift from my employer, and it was excellent. Toney quarters apples and onions and puts ’em up the ass of that thing, and it always comes out great. The whole feast was excellent.

I flipped through the massive stack of ads that came with the newspaper yesterday, and didn’t see anything I can’t live without. I’m pretty well-stocked in the gadgetry/computer department, and our TVs are good. So, there was nothing for me. What about you? Did you fistfight your way through a mob this morning, to get a deal on a salad spinner or something? Any Black Friday must-haves? Please tell us about it, won’t you?

I like how every store uses the phrase “doorbuster.” Like, “underwear doorbuster.” Are people literally kicking the glass out of doors to get at those $2-off Hanes? Whatever. I suggest everybody just buy from Amazon, immediately after clicking through one of our links. I received a package from them today. Some aging hippie brought it straight to our front door. I didn’t have to get into a karate stance in the middle of a Target, or wrestle a woman named Tina in a 4X Flashdance shirt. I highly recommend it. Just remember our links! Very important. Simply click through one of them, and shop as normal. Thank you guys.

Oh, and the River Rats apparently won the 69th annual Commode Bowl in Dunbar. I’m sure many of you were wondering. Check out the news report here. I lived on both sides of the tracks during my 22 years there: the river side and the hill side. So, I don’t have any hardcore allegiances. But, congrats to the Rats!

I need to get ready for work. But I’ll leave you with a fairly generic Question: What is your single most memorable Thanksgiving, and why? One pops immediately to my mind. It happened during the California years, when we drove to Reno to spend Thanksgiving with Sunshine and Mumbles, and Toney’s brother. It was memorable for the following reasons:

We left at some ungodly hour, maybe like 6 am or something. I felt drugged, and was having some kind of out o’ body experience while driving. For some reason we listened to a radio program that featured people calling in asking advice on how to cook a turkey. For hours, it seems. “What about brining?” they kept asking. Oh, there was a lot of hot brining talk. I’m not sure why we didn’t pop in a CD. I think we were just partially paralyzed, and unable to undertake such a giant task.

Once we were in Reno we were sent to the store to pick up something, like dinner rolls or whatever. Toney suggested we walk, and it felt like we could be murdered at any time. Wotta shitty neighborhood! I’m no expert on that town, but don’t have a high opinion of it. It’s probably unfair, but that’s fine with me. There were questionable people slinking around in wife-beaters, etc. Shithole.

During dinner Toney’s brother suddenly stood up, excused himself, and went into the bathroom that was about five feet from the dining room table. Then we heard a super-loud assplosion that seemed to go on for quite some time, followed by several aftershocks. Nobody commented, and when he returned he just said, “Could somebody pass the stuffing?” or whatever. I guess he freed up some room?

On our drive back to the Los Angeles area we got stuck in the mother of all traffic jams. Cars were completely turned off on the interstate, and people were out throwing footballs around, making sandwiches, etc. I saw some guy over on the median just pissing, right out in the open, in a high arc. He didn’t try to get behind anything, he was just peeing right there, amongst trapped motorists who spanned the entire age, race, and socioeconomic spectrum. I have to admit, I was impressed by the distance and height he was able to achieve. I could’ve gone without seeing his wang, however.

And I need to call it a day, my friends. It’s late, as usual. Please tell us about your single most memorable Thanksgiving, if you’re so inclined. Use the comments section. Then go get all liquored up and buy a bunch of expensive shit through the Surf Report links! Yeah. These are merely suggestions, of course. I’m not the boss of you.

Oh, and one more sad, sad thing: RIP Tommy Keene. He wasn’t well known, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t great. This news made me go ugh. I think I literally made that sound when I read it. Thanks for all the great music, Tommy!

I’ll see you guys again on Monday.

Have a great weekend!

Now playing in the bunker

Support us by doing your shopping at Amazon! In Canada? Here’s your link. Thank you guys!

Our Day Trip To South Street Philadelphia, And A Few Other Odds And Ends

Last time I was going to tell you guys about my day trip to Philadelphia, and started in with the R.E.M. thing. And before I knew it… the whole update had been hijacked. Oh well. It happens sometimes. I’ll just do it today. Let’s get the whining out of the way first, though; I have a cold, and don’t feel all that great. I could sense it overtaking my entire life force yesterday, like some insidious demon from another realm. And now it’s fully in-place, with complete control of me. I’m like Will on Stranger Things at this point. Fantastic.

The trip to Philadelphia was fun, but nothing too outrageous happened. Other than paying $15 to leave my car in some filthy piss-sodden parking garage. $15! Yes, I know it would’ve been $35 in NYC, or whatever. But excusing stupid shit by pointing to other stupid shit just doesn’t cut it in my book. Pass the beer nuts.

Anyway, the boy and I walked around the South Street area for a few hours, and it was a good time. It was a little rainy, but not enough to cause any major problems. We had lunch at Jim’s Steaks, and it was excellent as usual. We went upstairs to that weird dining room, and had to stand along a wall to eat. The boy wasn’t happy about that, but it turned out OK.

I had a cheesesteak with Cheez Whiz and onions. The guy in front of me ordered his using the local lingo: “wit'” and all that stuff. Needless to say, I just said “Cheesesteak with whiz and onions.” I do not have the right to use the local lingo, and would feel like a complete fraud, as well as a douche, if I attempted such a gambit. The sandwich was GREAT, though. Possibly the best cheesesteak I’ve ever had. I’d been there before, but this one seemed especially good.

We spent a large amount of time in Repo Records, which was also fun. I bought this CD, which I didn’t even know was available. I’d never seen it, except on vinyl. But what do I know at this point? I’m like this guy.

And we logged at least 45 minutes inside Atomic City Comics. Neither of us know much about ’em, but the place is pretty insane, and we had a good time browsing around.

At some point I had to urinate with a fiery urgency, and there’s no place to go in a setting like that. Maybe a parking garage? I attempted to offload at Jim’s. But both unisex bathrooms were occupied, and nobody was coming out. So, I finally gave it up. Every other business had no public rest rooms or, if it was a restaurant, they required you to buy something. I finally went into a Starbucks and Frankenstein-walked to the men’s room. It had a keypad on the door. Grrr… So, I ordered a small coffee and asked for the code. 1939, she said, and I finally found sweet relief.

Afterward, I was sitting there drinking my unwanted coffee, and some swarthy asshole came in and demanded the code. He didn’t buy anything, he just hollered his demand. They eagerly gave it up, which felt like a ripoff. When he came out he bought nothing, and left. I didn’t care for that. He was not a customer, he was just some freeloader who bullied his way to illegitimate urination.

It was a good day. At least I think so. If the boy has a blog of his own, which I don’t know about, he might’ve written a completely different account of events. In fact, that’s probably a definite. For some reason I exasperate him.

By the way, it snowed last night. I mean, the roads are OK, but there’s actual snow everywhere. So, it’s started. The weather pump has been primed. At any point I can now find myself white-knuckling it home from work, my entire body rigid with anxiety. Good times.

Also, today is my ten-year anniversary at work. Can you believe it? It feels like maybe four years, and it’s been ten. It’s disturbing, my friends. Highly disturbing. Every year is now going by in a month, or something. I was at WEA for almost ten years, and Warner Home Video for seven. If you don’t combine them under the Time-Warner umbrella, my current job is the longest run of any I’ve had. That seems bizarre to me.

I have to go now. There’s some guy in our kitchen replacing our garbage disposal. He showed up two hours early, which bugs me. Two hours late would be worse, but early is bullshit too. I have to go yuck it up with this guy for a few minutes, and go to work. I feel like garbage, but the show must go on.

Please don’t forget to use our Amazon links while doing your holiday shopping. There’s one at the bottom of every update, and also in the sidebar. Just click through, and shop as normal. It’ll cost you nothing extra, and I’ll receive a small percentage of whatever you spend. It’s a simple and painless way to support The Surf Report!

Have a great day, boys and girls.

I’ll be back on Thursday.

Now playing in the bunker

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It Seems Like I Should Be Annoyed (And I Feel Fine)

When I was 22 I finally moved out of my parents’ house, and out of West Virginia at the same time. On what felt like a whim, I just packed up all my shit and moved to Greensboro, NC. I was going nowhere fast and needed some kind of dramatic shakeup. So, I got a job in Greensboro stocking shelves at a Food Lion grocery store, and was fairly miserable and sad for a while. I think I moved in October, and Thanksgiving that year was especially tough on your corpulent correspondent. Oh, I was having a pity party to rival all previous such events combined.

But I now had access to some interesting live music. In West Virginia it was just stuff like Journey and Kansas and Jefferson Starship. But I was suddenly living in a place where I could actually see some of the crazy underground bands I listened to. If I dared to go in search of the venues, that is… I had no idea where anything was, and was mildly intimidated.

The first such show was R.E.M. and The Minutemen at a high school auditorium in Winston-Salem, on December 8, 1985. I remember I asked my roommate (now deceased) if he wanted to go with me, His ears perked up when he thought I said R.E.O., but lost interest once I clarified. So, I went by myself.

It was great, and I couldn’t believe I was actually seeing it. I was probably the most appreciative sumbitch in the hall that night. It was so much cooler than Foreigner/Wet Willie/Nantucket at the Huntington Civic Center. I remember the crowd wasn’t very kind to The Minutemen, which I didn’t care for. Do you know what you’re witnessing, people? Do you know how thankful you should be?! Indeed, D. Boon, one of the leaders of the band, died exactly two weeks later in a traffic accident. Hey, my conscience is clear. But I can’t speak for anyone else there that night. Sheesh.

Anyway… a few days ago I did a Google search for the exact date of that show for some reason, and found something that blows my mind. Check it out. It’s some kind of home decorating piece for yuppies and assholes who care deeply about quartz counter tops and his & her sinks in the en suite. It’s bizarre. Why would they choose that particular band, that particular show, in that particular city? The chances are remote, right? We’ll probably see the Property Brothers hanging one of those things soon, during the fake rushing-around segment right before the “big reveal.” One of them will hang it on a wall, the other will do a final karate chop to an accent pillow, and invite in the couple.

It’s weird. If I were the high-horse type I could probably fashion some kind of self-righteous protest about phony nostalgia, or corporate America appropriating and profiting from my cherished life experiences, or something. But I’m clearly not very good at such things. Does it bother me that shitheads all over the world will probably have that poster hanging in their houses and apartments, but didn’t actually attend the show? No. What do I care? Fuck ’em.

Here’s the actual poster for that concert, by the way. The new poster isn’t even a reprint of the original, it’s some kind of cool and with-it modern thing. Hey, whatever. I’m probably going to buy one, anyway. The smallest one, for the bunker. Right? Gotta do it. I was there, goddammit! BTW, the photo above was taken during the 1985 tour, but NOT in Winston-Salem.

Speaking of buying stuff, it’s time to start reminding you guys to please use one of our Amazon links while doing your holiday shopping. Or your personal shopping. It’s all the same to me. Just click through, shop like normal, and Amazon will give me a small percentage of whatever you spend. It’s painless, and costs you nothing extra. Thanks in advance!

I don’t really have a Question. If you’d like to help me with my high-horse protest, that would be OK. My brain doesn’t work that way, I don’t find great joy in being aggrieved like many people do. Also, I’d be interested in knowing about the times you’ve been truly homesick. That Thanksgiving I reference above was terrible. I had dinner by myself in a Shoney’s restaurant that was filled with laughing and smiling families. And I was off to the side at a table for one. The waitress was clearly taking pity on me, and I lashed out at her during a disagreement about pie. It was ugly. The woman was just trying to be nice, but all I could think about was my family back home in Dunbar, sitting around the table without me. So I was mean to a waitress who was working on Thanksgiving, and trying to be friendly. Good job! Or we can go with the most memorable concert you’ve seen. I’m not sure the high school R.E.M. show was my most memorable, but it was definitely one of ’em.

I’ll see you guys again on Monday.

Have a great day, my friends.

Now playing in the bunker

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A Few Quick Things, vol. 22

I have a substantial amount of paid time-off I need to use before the end o’ the year. We can carryover (that’s one word? weird) 40 hours, but I’m still having to burn a bunch of days. Woe is me… And so, I was off on Friday and don’t have to return until Wednesday. And I have additional days-off sprinkled throughout the rest of November, and December. I don’t think I have a single five-day workweek (another one?? WTF?) left in 2017. It’s the most wonderful time of the year!

On Monday the younger hooligan and I are going to Philly. Friday was his birthday, and I’m going to spend a day with him, just eating junk and perusing record/comic book stores. We’ll see how it goes. It’s not a slam-dunk that it will be a successful outing. He’s a curmudgeon at 19. Not sure where he gets that.

By the way, Thursday was also Toney’s birthday. And here’s how I played it… On Thursday I told her “happy birthday.” And on Friday I told the youngling the same thing. It’s a system that works for me. I didn’t feel the need to go on Facebook and write a couple of rambling, sappy-ass tributes. “Nineteen years ago today our family was made complete…” and “Happy birthday sweetie! I feel so lucky to be sharing this journey with you” etc. Blecch! Will somebody pass me the vomit bucket? No, I live in the same house as they do, and see them from time to time. So, I just tell them. You know, in the kitchen or whatever. It’s wild, I know.

Last week I thought my two month-old desktop computer had completely shit the credenza. It would power-up, but nothing more. The monitor wouldn’t come out of sleep-mode, and it didn’t even sound like the machine was fully booting up. Great! I just bought the thing. And I could imagine arguments with people at the store, and then the Lenovo customer service reps. ‘Cause, I knew for a fact the store wasn’t going to do anything for me. I mean, seriously.

So, I paced around the house like a dementia patient at dusk, muttering obscenities and getting more and more fired up about the upcoming interactions I could envision inside my head. “Just call the store!” Toney kept telling me. Finally, out of a sense of exasperation, she called herself.

The guy said they’d be happy to diagnose the problem for free, but exchanges or returns have to happen within the first 14 days. “Could you hear his neck beard scratching against the receiver?” I asked her. “I bet he’s morbidly obese, and has a full neck beard. No facial hair whatsoever, just a big wraparound beard on his bulbous neck. Asshole! They’re going to pass the buck, or try to charge me hundreds of dollars to fix it. This is bullshit!”

And the next day I took the tower over there, ready to do battle. Oh, I was prepared. I knew I’d ultimately lose, but would get in a few good licks before it was over. That’s for goddamn sure. So, let’s get to it, big boy.

Yeah, and he was super nice and figured out the problem in less than five minutes. The cable running from the monitor to the computer was bad. The replacement cost $20. Everything is now fixed, and working great. I was ecstatic. The man’s a genius, and a credit to the human race. He could’ve easily sold me a new monitor, and my dumb ass wouldn’t have known any better. But he was a good guy, as well as impressively knowledgeable. Who could’ve predicted such a thing??

He did have a magnificent neck beard, though. So, at least I was right about one thing.

For the past week or so there’s been a single firecracker beside the sink in the upstairs bathroom. I keep meaning to ask about it, but never remember. The only thing I can come up with is that somebody in the family is experiencing a severe case of constipation, and they’re fixin’ to blast it loose. Right? There can be no other explanation.

Also, I mentioned this at Facebook… But on Friday we had dinner in a local restaurant, and I ordered a Founders All-Day IPA. And the rim of the glass was coated with Old Bay seasoning. What in the star-spangled shit?! Why?? I have never, in all my ludicrous days, encountered such a thing. I attempted to wipe it off with a napkin, but it was still burning my lips like fire. I don’t understand, I really don’t. Have you ever encountered a baffling beer delivery system that bordered on insanity, like that? Please tell us about it.

I finished watching the second season of Stranger Things last night. It was good, even better than the first season, I think. However, it’s set in 1984 and I noticed a few inauthentic moments. For instance, a character made reference to KFC in one of the early episodes. Um… it was Kentucky Fried Chicken until 1991. NOBODY called it KFC in 1984. So, that was absolute bullshit. Also, there was a scene where high school boys were playing basketball, and one of them shouted, “Yeah! That’s what I’m talking about!!” In ’84? I don’t think so. And everybody uses “chill” all the time, as well. Please. That’s NOT period-accurate.

How could these kinds of things make it past the QC crew? They need to hire me to serve in that capacity. I’m both old and mildly insane about that kind of shit. I was also picking apart Stephen King’s 11/22/63 while reading it. I don’t know about stuff like specific models of flashlights that weren’t produced until 1990, or whatever. But I’m zeroed in on the language, like a sumbitch. There was some terrible program on Showtime recently, about standup comedians in 1973 Los Angeles, that was so awful I couldn’t make it past the second episode. People were talking about their dogs being “a rescue,” etc. In 1973! My brain nearly exploded.

I want to be a highly-paid period-accuracy Nazi. Wonder how one might go about making that happen?

For a Question, let’s stick with 1984. People are always talking about how much better it was back then, or before. What are some things that were worse, far worse? Please tell us about it in the comments.

And I’m calling it a day, my friends.

I know I’m off-schedule again. Sorry. I’m going to Philly tomorrow, so I’ll tell you about that adventure next time. Maybe Wednesday, but probably Thursday.

See ya next time!

Now playing in the bunker

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In Celebration Of The Worst Cars We’ve Ever Owned!

Thankfully I’ve never really owned a complete piece of shit car. I had a couple that started out OK, and I kept driving them until they became pieces of shit. And I had a Blazer that made me crazy. But I’ve been pretty lucky, overall.

I had a Chevy Luv truck that was, perhaps, my favorite vehicle. I don’t remember what model it was, probably 1981 or 1982. I bought it in West Virginia, shortly before I left for North Carolina. And I kept on driving it, until it started to literally disintegrate. The floor was rotting out, and mud would come flying into the cab whenever I drove during or after a rain. I’d routinely arrive at my destination wet and filthy.

I also went to war with General Motors over that truck, because the transmission went out in it, after something like 12,000 miles. I filed a complaint with the Better Business Bureau, and they conducted a hearing on the matter. I was an absolute dipshit in his early 20s, going up against a team of GM lawyers. And I came out of that room practially holding a bloody rag to my ass. They probably spent $5000 to make sure they wouldn’t have to pay me $800. Or something.

But I loved that Luv. It was a great little truck, and I wish I still had it now. But once it started rotting away, and returning to the Earth, I traded it in on the first brand-new car I’d ever owned: a 1989 Hyundai Excel. It was dark blue, looked great, and was impossibly inexpensive.

My dad did not approve. A Korean car? Why not Mexican, or something engineered and manufactured in the Soviet Union? But it was reliable and comfortable, and was a make they didn’t even SELL in West Virginia in those days. I’d go home for a few days, and people would be fascinated by that thing. Until they found out it was Korean. Then there would be meaningful glances exchanged, and half-smirks galore.

Anyway, it was a good car until it reached 100,000 miles. It feels like the trouble started on the exact day it turned over from 99,999. Everything started coming apart on me, and I was paying crazy repair bills. It went from good car to absolute piece of shit almost literally overnight.

Eventually I was driving around with a case of oil in the trunk, and would have to add more to the engine multiple times per day. I parked it on the street when I was at home, because I didn’t want our driveway to be covered in motor oil. I’m sure the neighbors were thrilled. It would take a few hours, but the stuff would eventually transition from the car to the pavement below. I had people look at it, and the repair bill would’ve been more than the vehicle was worth. I needed to off-load that bastard, but still owed money on it.

I remember standing at a dealership, talking to a salesmen, and seeing a rivulet of oil coming down the hill from underneath my car, to where we were standing. I tried to be nonchalant about it, but it kept getting closer and closer. I could see it in my peripheral vision, inching toward our feet. I ended up trading it for an almost-new Mazda Protege, but had to roll the remainder of what I owed on the Hyundai into the new car. Somehow I’m probably still paying for that hunk o’ junk. And that’s not really even a joke.

But the worst vehicle I ever owned was purchased here, in Pennsylvania. It was an almost-new Chevy Blazer. I bought it from a real dealership, and it had a limited warranty. Which apparently means it’s limited to the problems you’re not currently encountering. That thing had electrical problems from the get-go. There was no issue with the engine or the transmission, or anything like that. But the electronics were all fucked-up in it. It made me insane. I wanted to roll it off a cliff, or set fire to it. I hated that thing with the intensity of a thousand suns. I know it’s not fair, but I’m not sure I’ll ever buy another GM product. It was a straight-up lemon.

What about you? Have you ever owned any rolling shitboxes? Please tell us about ’em. My brother had some terrible car that would start to overheat whenever he’d stop at a red light. There’d be smoke coming out from all four sides of the hood. Heh. Do you have any stories like that? If so, please share them in the comments section.

And I’m going back to work! Yes, there’s electricity in the air, my friends.

I’ll see you again on Thursday.

Have a great day!

Now playing in the bunker

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Some Completely Random And Ridiculous Grade School Memories! Please Share Your Own

The picture above is the elementary school I attended. Sorta. It’s been remodeled and renamed multiple times. They’ve built on giant sections that I don’t recognize, including the fancy-pants entrance in the photo. That shit didn’t exist when I went there. In fact, we entered on a completely different side of the school. As God intended. The whole thing is an abomination, a Frankenstein’s monster version of a once-proud house of learning. I don’t even like to drive past it now. The old baseball field in the back is gone… It’s depressing. It was called Dunbar Elementary when I went there, and is now something ludicrous like Dunbar Primary Center. What in the world?! I’m getting all fired up just typing this.

Anyway, today I’m going to briefly run down a few completely random memories of things that happened while I was in that building, and turn it over to you guys. Hopefully you have some similar memories of your own to share? Let’s get started, shall we?

There was a kid named William who had one Spock ear. Word on the street was that he held it that way, with his fingers, for many, many hours. Then it was permanent. One day he sneezed during class and a long string of snot came out, that nearly reached the floor. It was swinging there for an instant, still attached at the source. Then, with a great snort, he reeled the whole thing back in. I was both appalled and impressed.

During fourth grade we played BINGO a lot, or some learning-version of it, anyway. We had cards, and little plastic discs to mark them with. A kid named David would stand the discs up on their edges, and flick them like a paper football. Sometimes they’d go long distances, and it was all great fun. One day he did this and the disc went sailing, twisting and turning through the air. Then, to our absolute amazement, it landed directly in Mrs. Hill’s cup of coffee. A few minutes later she lifted it to her mouth to take a slurp, and noticed the thing floating in there. She just casually removed it, took her slurp, and continued with her day.

In that same class each of us were assigned a different animal, and allotted several days (weeks?) for “research.” At the end of that period of time, we’d have to stand in front of everyone and read a report we wrote about the animal we were assigned. It was a major project that lasted forever, it seemed. And one thing they kept reminding us: do not just copy stuff straight out of the encyclopedia. Everything must be written in our own words. The disc flicker from above, not the smartest person I’ve ever met, got up there with his scribbled notebook paper, and began, “The beaver, pictured at left…”

During sixth grade they were talking about starting a school newspaper, and asked us for our input on what features we’d like to see in the monthly publication. Another not-so-bright kid named Mike suggested “weather.” I thought that was hilarious.

In fifth grade our teacher, Mrs. Miller, was standing in front of the class talking to us. At one point she took her pen and scratched her forehead with it. Apparently she believed it was closed, or had the cap on it, but it wasn’t. So, we just sat there and watched as she inexplicably scribbled blue ink on her face. Good times.

Mrs. Hill, the fourth grade teacher with the BINGO cards, looked like Larry Csonka in a peasant dress. She was generally nice, as I recall, but had her moments. A girl named Tammy always had a messy desk, with papers and crap sticking out in every direction. A couple of times during the year Mrs. Hill ordered Tammy out of her seat, grabbed the entire desk/chair combination, and shook it above her head like King Kong. Everything came raining down, and Tammy was told to put it all back neatly. It was great!

During fifth and sixth grades (I think) we were occasionally forced to go to the “all-purpose room” and engage in what was purported to be square-dancing. An old guy from our town would come in and run the whole program, and it was ridiculous from the start. We’d “swing” the girls so fast their feet would literally come off the floor. And one time the old guy left the room for a few minutes, and a kid named Keith grabbed his microphone and shouted, “Swing your partner round and round, take her to the toilet, flush her down!” The entire exercise was barely contained anarchy.

A kid named Jerome would regularly fart in class so loud people in passing aircraft could probably hear it. It was nothing short of amazing. I remember he wouldn’t tilt to one side, as most stunt-farters do. He’d place both feet on the floor in front of him, and hoist his ass off the chair. Then he’d put his entire abdomen behind it, and create a crisp and sustained blast that had to be heard to be believed. The teachers would yell at him, but he would not be deterred.

During fifth grade (I believe) we kept going back for seconds in the cafeteria, trying to eat as many tater tots or new potatoes (there’s controversy about the actual food item involved) as possible. We were all keeping track, and attempting to outdo each other. And, for whatever reason, the cafeteria ladies just kept ’em coming. The next day we were all called into a room and given a raft of shit about it. They were not happy, for reasons I didn’t really understand, and wanted to know how many each of us had eaten. And everybody who admitted to a number higher than 15 had to wear a giant pig-shaped paper plate thing pinned to their shirts, with the words NO SECONDS written on it. I think some of the parents got mildly whipped-up about that, but mine didn’t. They just said something like, “What kind of dumbass would eat 22 new potatoes?”

In sixth grade I picked up one of those “tornadoes in a jar” things. Remember those? I started to shake it, to create the tornado, and it slipped out of my hands. The jar shattered and sent colored water and shards of glass flying in every direction. The custodian, Mr. Echols, was summoned, and was not amused. He’d always been super-nice to me, but turned on me that day. I was mortified.

Also during sixth grade somebody scratched the word FUCK in the bathroom door. Each classroom had its own small unisex bathroom, and somebody defaced the inside of the door. The new principal, Mr. Ellis, was outraged and ordered that the door be removed, until somebody confessed. So, our only bathroom had no door. I can’t remember how that worked, exactly. But I do remember the boys continued to use it anyway, and everybody could hear them peeing, loudly and clearly. The girls, though? I don’t know. But it only lasted a couple of days, and somebody finally broke, under the social pressure. And it was a girl! Amazing. I’m sure they had their eye on me, or one of my friends. Oh well.

I need to call it a day, my friends. I could easily do a part II on this subject, but I’m all out of time. I’m turning it over you guys now.

And I’ll see you again on Monday.

Have a great day!

Now playing in the bunker

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