Jeff Kay's Blog, page 28

A Few Quick Things, vol. 11

I’m typing this at our dining room table on Saturday afternoon, but… as you’re reading it, I’m very likely in West Virginia. Probably sitting in my parents’ living room, watching something hosted by Steve Harvey. And he’ll be doing this. It’s some kind of WordPress-fueled hoodoo time-shift black magic. And who could blame you for being a little scared?

In any case… I took my car in for an oil change, to a place I stopped patronizing several years ago, because they try to rip me off. Or, so I’m convinced. And (are you ready for this?) the guy called, and said I need front brakes and rotors: $320. “I wouldn’t drive it like this, it’s dangerous,” he added, for maximum effect. I just had $750 worth of work done to that car, including extensive, expensive brake repair. I told him I wanted an oil change and tire rotation only, and he made the sounds of disapproval. And we moved on.

But, do you see what I mean? Now I’m going to have that idea in the back of my mind the whole time, even though there’s been absolutely no evidence of a problem with the brakes. I think he’s just trying to bend me over the proverbial fainting couch. And $320?! Can he smell the lack of knowledge and gullibility on me? Was I unknowingly “presenting” as I walked through the door?

My dad probably has an industrial lift in his garage. He’s into things like car repair and lawn maintenance, while I’m more partial to the Buzzcocks and Taco Bell. So, I’ll ask him to take a look. I’m getting irritated just thinking about it. During the entire drive I’m going to be certain the brakes are about to shit the sideboard, and we’ll go cartwheeling into the side of a Panera Bread. Bastards.

Just so you know, I almost typed “Helen Keller jokes” above, instead of “Taco Bell.” But my inner comedy sensors told me Taco Bell was slightly funnier. But I do have a good, quick story to tell about Helen Keller jokes.

One time we were on our way to a WEA convention, possibly in California somewhere. It feels like it was California. And a bunch of us were on an airport shuttle, headed toward our hotel. As far as I knew, everybody on that thing was from WEA. I didn’t realize there was also a handful of “civilians.”

And people started telling Helen Keller jokes, for reasons unknown. It was all the usual ones, like Q: How did Helen Keller’s parents punish her? A: They rearranged the furniture! But I waited for an opening, and dropped the greatest of them all: Q: Why does Helen Keller masturbate with her left hand? A: She moans with her right!

Laughter rocked the short-bus, and I leaned back in my chair. My work here was done. But, when we stopped at a hotel other than ours, just a few minutes later, an unknown woman stood up, turned to me, and said, “You’re disgusting.” Complete silence overtook the vehicle. But after she was gone, and the doors closed behind her, we all shared a hearty secondary laugh that lasted for an extended length of time. And I still don’t know what part of it offended her. Oh well. She can ram it up her ass.

Also, for the record, I heard that joke during high school. A girl named Janet Smith told it to me, and I thought it was just about the best thing ever. That was more than 35 years ago, and it still ranks up there in my mind. If I bump into her while I’m home, I’ll have to thank her. I’m sure she has no recollection of it, and might even say she’s never heard the joke itself. That happens to me, all the time. Steve will bring up something we talked about decades ago, which stuck with him, and I’ll have absolutely no memory of it. Some of the comments I reportedly made back then are pretty funny, though. I have to hand it to me.

I’ll leave you now with a quick question. I’m heading to the greater Dunbar, WV metropolitan area. And Dunbar is known for a few things, all fairly small.

For instance, it was the original home of Gravely Tractor. They used to have a big manufacturing plant there, and here’s some info about it. “Benjamin Franklin Gravely, of Dunbar, West Virginia…” How’s that for scintillating? And, by the way, they left Dunbar in 1968.

Also, Dunbar is the home of the Commode Bowl, which has been held on Thanksgiving Day there for 68 years. Railroad tracks split the town in half, and folks say they live on the river side or the hill side (of the tracks). And so, the teams that do battle every year are the Hillside Rams and the River Rats. There’s also a parade, and a dance. And there’s a considerable amount of alcohol involved… Here’s some footage from the 1963 parade, and game:

The question: What is an interesting fact about your hometown? If you’re from NYC, this probably isn’t such a great question. But if you’re from a small town, it might be interesting? We’ll see, won’t we? Use the comments link. If you’ve got nothing, feel free to tell us about car repair ripoffs, or the times you’ve said inappropriate things that were overheard by innocent bystanders.

And I’ll be back with you guys on Thursday.

Have a great week, boys and girls.

Now playing in the bunker

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

Have You Ever Been Forced To Say Things Or Do Things At Work That Made You Feel Completely Ridiculous?

I’m going to do another guerilla-strike visit to my parents’ house in West Virginia this weekend. I’m leaving on Sunday, returning on Tuesday. I need to visit them on a regular basis, and don’t have a great track record with it. It’s in the top five Things I Feel Guilty About. The list is long, mind you, hundreds and hundreds of entries long. But that one is in the top five.

I know it’s just an excuse, and where there’s a will there’s a way, etc. But one of the main reasons I don’t go more often is that it’s at least an eight hour drive. That’s best-case, without two or three Chick-fil-A stops, or whatever. So, it’s a considerable excursion. Hell, if you drove eight hours from London you’d probably be in Luxembourg. I don’t really know what point I’m trying to make here, but thought I’d throw that in.

I need to get an oil change before I leave, and called a couple of places to see if they could fit me in tomorrow or Saturday morning. No dice. They’re all booked up. What the? Am I on some kind of list? Are there homemade signs hanging above phones all over the valley that say, “If this number pop’s up DO NOT engage! Extract yourself from the conversation ASAP!!” That’s what it feels like, anyway. And notice how I put an errant apostrophe in there, for authenticity’s sake? Good stuff. Of course they would never use the words ‘engage’ or ‘extract,’ but whatever.

Also, there’s this… I called Monro Muffler a few minutes ago, and the guy answered, “It’s another wonderful day at Monro! How may I help you?” Seriously? I’m extremely skeptical about that statement. I’ve been in that place, and don’t believe there’s anything ‘wonderful’ going on there. I imagine there are a handful of people sitting around on metal chairs, breathing in the aroma of new tires and swamp ass, and flipping mindlessly through copies of Sports Illustrated from the fourth-quarter of 2014. Every one of them thinking: “I bet this guy is fucking me.”

I assume they’re required to answer like that? Have you ever worked a job where you were forced to answer a phone in a way that annoyed or embarrassed you? I can’t think of any particularly bad ones in my past. However, I went through a way-too-long phase when I worked at WEA where I was answering the phone, “Thank you for calling Peaches!” I was stuck on my previous job, and couldn’t transition into the new one. And it lasted for years. Not 100% of the time, but it would occasionally pop up. It was disturbing. It made me worry about early-onset dementia.

At my current place we’re supposed to recite some mantra when we answer the phone, and I’ve never done it, not once. I just say, “This is Jeff.” Nobody’s ever said anything to me about it, and we’re coming up on ten years now. In fact, there’s a guy who works for me who always answers in the proper way. And I say, “Well, aren’t you Mr. Fancy-Pants?” It’s become a tradition, of sorts.

A million years ago I dated a girl who worked at McDonald’s, and she was always complaining about the “stupid shit” they wanted her to say. Like “Welcome to McDonald’s. Would you like to try our new McDLT?” That was literally one of them, which will tell you how long ago it was.

I’ve been lucky enough to avoid most of that stuff. The only time I’ve felt totally ridiculous at work, because of some corporate requirement, was when they forced us to wear ties at Fas-Chek. Which was like putting a monocle on a dog turd. Also, when they made us wear uniforms at the Toll Bridge. Ha! I already took an inordinate amount of abuse in that place (flying quarters at my head, airborne Frostys) without making us masquerade as the world’s most out-of-shape and ineffective military unit. I don’t remember sporting a jaunty hat, but the uniform worn by my toll collector brother above is very similar to the one I had to wear. I was mortified, almost to the point of tears, on the first day they made us come to work in those stupid things.

What do you have on this one? Anything? Have any of your employers forced you to say or wear things that made you feel ridiculous? If so, please share. This website comes equipped with a comments feature, where you can leave your thoughts. How cool is that? It’s very modern.

I need to go to work now, where I’ll continue to be a phone answering anarchist.

See you guys again soon!

Now playing in the bunker

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

Big Night Out For A Bitter Man: Tom Petty And The Heartbreakers In Philadelphia

Tom Petty is one of those guys I’ve always liked, but on a fairly casual basis. I mean, I have his greatest hits album on CD, which sounds sensational in a car, and picked up a handful of his latter-day albums when I worked at WEA. But, for whatever reason, I never fully engaged with him after the late-1980s. I bought all his early records on vinyl, and know them very well. But I never re-bought any on CD, like I did with so many other artists.

However, during 2017 I’ve changed course, and gone all-in on Tom Petty, as well as the Heartbreakers. I mean, you can’t forget the Heartbreakers, right? This year I’ve purchased all of the studio albums on CD, watched the four-hour documentary on Netflix, and read the biography. It’s been one Petty-heavy year so far.

And Saturday night I saw them in concert, for the second time. Supposedly it’s their final “big” tour, whatever that means, and is being billed as their 40th Anniversary. Even though they’ve been together for 41 years, as far as I can tell. Hey, whatever.

And I have a few thoughts on the experience, if you’ll indulge me? Good, let’s go.

Because of the ticket prices I would’ve NEVER in a million years considered going to Saturday’s show, if it hadn’t been for the relentless campaigning of my older son. He was going to go with his girlfriend, and for some reason (I barely listen) she had to bow out. He called me one night at work, and asked if I’d want to go with him instead. And, of course, pay for one of the tickets. “How much are they?” I asked. “Probably close to $200 each,” he said.

After I got my violent coughing fit under control, I told him there is absolutely no way. I paid $8.50 to see Queen in 1980, and was very likely bitching about that price at the time. Just going out on a limb here… Two hundred dollars?! What am I, a complete asshole? I suggested he get one of his dipshit friends to go with him, ended the conversation, and waited for my Father of the Year plaque to arrive by courier.

Fast forward three days… and we’re on Stubhub looking at the astounding prices for the sold-out show. And the next thing I know, the credit card is out and we’re paying (get this!) $540 for a pair of tickets. It still makes my sphincter wink, but I try not to dwell it. Sweet sainted mother of Catfish Hunter!

I had mild anxiety every time I thought about the show. There was so much money invested, and the boy had it built-up in his mind to a dangerous level. I didn’t want him to be disappointed for any reason. Plus, I wasn’t 100% confident the tickets were even legit. What if we got there and found out there were eleven other people with the exact same seats? I don’t know anything about it, and am not qualified to even have an opinion on the subject, but had decided Stubhub is nothing but a hive of thieves and swarthy con men, probably with advanced eczema. Oh, I had a very specific vision of them in my mind.

But, the day finally arrived, and the picture above was how the entire drive to Philadelphia went for us. We were apparently moving inside a storm cell, and it moved as we moved. It was intense and continuous. People were driving at 30 mph, or pulling off the road completely. It certainly wasn’t ideal, and I was shouting at all the pusslets impeding our forward progress. “It’s rain, you whistle-dick bastards!!”

The monsoon continued, and we had to sprint across the parking lot. There was standing water everywhere, and I was thoroughly soaked by the time we reached cover; my underwear was suctioned to my ass like Saran Wrap on a ham. I knew it! This whole thing was cursed. Probably by one of my grandfathers in heaven, looking down on me and not at all liking what he’s seeing.

Speaking of that, I’m slowly turning into my dad. You know, without all the pesky know-how and integrity. A good percentage of the evening revolved around me complaining about the high cost of things. It started with the parking. Twenty-five dollars?! Are you shitting me? It’s ludicrous. And look at the prices of the t-shirts above. Not that I’d buy one, mind you. I’m 54 years old. It just annoys me. I saw a sign at one of the food stands: Philly cheesesteak and soda: $20. What the? I was starving, so I ordered a hotdog and a bottle of iced tea, and it came to $11.50. Roving assholes were selling boxes of popcorn for $7, and 16 oz. beers (swill, like Bud Light) for $13. It’s almost shocking. They probably had 12 cents invested in that popcorn, and 8 of it was the box.

I also did about fifteen minutes on people carrying luggage all the time. Look at this shithead. He’s at a rock concert. Why does he need a duffle bag? Right after he hears “Breakdown” he’s hopping a red-eye to Denver? Somehow I doubt it. And I see it all the time: people carrying backpacks and overnight bags and canvas paperboy pouches. What are they toting around? I’m a average guy, and don’t require a goddamn satchel everywhere I go. What is this alcoholic carrying? It doesn’t look like much, because it’s all collapsed ‘n’ shit. So, why’s he at a concert venue with an empty weekender over his shoulder? It makes me angry, because it’s so stupid.

The tickets worked, of course, and the seats were really good. I took the photo at the top during “I Won’t Back Down.” They kept bringing up the house lights during that song, and I snapped it while the lighting was right. It’s a good one, I think.

However, I was wedged between my son and a roly-poly man who was spilling over into my personal space. And I need all the room I can get, dammit. I’m not exactly a prancing sprite, myself. And as I wriggled into place, he turned to me and said, “Is it just me, or are they making these seats smaller and smaller?” It was two fat guys having a moment, on a warm July evening in Philadelphia.

But he turned out to be an odd character. He was about 60 and alone, seemed semi-hostile toward the whole thing, and never applauded or showed any kind of emotion. He stood a couple of times, when everybody else stood, but just stared at the stage, stoic and unmoved. Hey, whatever, Dumplin’.

The opening act was Peter Wolf, former lead singer of the J. Geils Band. He’s 71 years old, and thrashed around for an hour like he was caught up in a swarm of hornets. I was afraid he was going to spiral off the stage, or explode his pelvis or something. He was going to town, fully and completely. I didn’t recognize most of the songs, until the last three or four. Here’s the setlist. He sounded good, and his band seemed topnotch. And he’s still doing that rapid hand-spinning thing he was doing in the ’70s and ’80s, which made me happy. He is, without a doubt, one of the best hand-spinners in the business.

After Peter Wolf finished, the couple on the other side of my son left in disgust, complaining about the volume. I don’t know if they moved to other seats somehow, or left the facility altogether. And, what the hell, man? They were both outraged because it was “too loud.” At a rock show. The tickets cost a small fortune, and those folks disappeared before Petty even hit the stage. It was the greatest turn of events ever! “Scoot down one,” I told the boy. I was tired of having a stranger’s red-hot side-fat pressed against me, and this was like a gift from heaven. Thank you, delicate flowers! I think the Little River Band is on tour this summer. Maybe that will better suit your fragile sensibilities.

The show itself was good: tons of hits, audience singalongs, rocking performances. Here’s the setlist. Even though they played for two hours, or thereabouts, there were many, many big songs they didn’t play. I guess that’s to be expected when you’ve been cranking out platinum albums for four decades, right? There’s no way to do ’em all. It was fun and exciting, just like we were hoping it would be. Here’s a review, and here’s another. I snapped the photo above before the encore, and only included it because I think it looks kinda cool.

I’ll leave you now with some quality audience footage from the show. How do people do this? With just a phone? It’s crazy. This is “Free Fallin'” from Saturday night:

I’ll see you guys again soon. Have a great day!

Now playing in the bunker

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

Did You Ever Have A Teacher Who Was Straight-Up Insane? I Did!

When I was in fourth grade I had a teacher who was the size of Larry Csonka. Her name was Mrs. Hill. She looked like she should’ve been in a ladies’ prison, and called “Big Maude.” It was just a wall of humanity, large but surprisingly fleet of foot. A couple of times during the year she roared at Tammy, a messy little girl, to stand up. Then she grabbed Tammy’s desk and began shaking it violently, like King Kong. All the papers and notebooks and clackers and four-color pens came raining down. Then she bellowed, “Now, clean it up! And be neat about it this time!!” It was fairly terrifying.

I remember seeing Mrs. Hill out of context a few times, and it was also disturbing. At that point in my life I never considered that teachers were real people, who lived out… you know, in the actual world, like everybody else. But I saw Mrs. Hill coming out of a grocery store once, with a cig dangling. Smoking like a goddamn longshoreman. Another time, a few years later, I was out wandering the streets, lookin’ for trouble, and noticed her walking down an alley carrying a 12-pack of beer. She stepped on a rock, rolled an ankle, muttered some profanities, and continued on. She was a hard woman.

But, as amazing as it might seem, she was the fourth grade voice of reason at our school. ‘Cause the other woman who taught that grade was completely out of her mind.

They were trying to prepare us for Jr. High, I think, and made us change classes for reading that year. So, at a certain point every day most of us would go over to the other teacher’s class, and some of her students would come to ours. And she was completely wacked-out.

She would often start the sessions by making each one of us say something nice about another person in the room, in front of everyone. I remember a kid named Billy saying, “Jeff, I like your belt.” Ha! Weird. And after the praising was completed, we’d settle in and listen to her tell us about the high-end dinners she and her husband had at fancy restaurants in Charleston. This segment often took up the remainder of the time.

And how weird is that? She’d go into detail about the food, how it was prepared, the impossible tenderness of the meat, etc. She told us we need to insist on “the finer things,” so it was ostensibly a lesson of some sort. But we were 9 year old hicklet children. We just ate baloney sandwiches, and shit like that. It all felt wildly out of place.

I remember her talking, at length, about cherries jubilee. And when she’d say the words, she’d lapse into some super-affected old money accent, like something out of a movie. Cherries jubilee?! I still don’t know what that is. I’m more of an Oreo Blizzard guy.

And when she wasn’t going on and on about her gourmet meals, she was talking about pinworms. That was another of her favorite subjects. It would usually start with her yelling at someone, “Sit still and quit squirming! What’s the matter with you, do you have pinworms?” WTF??

She told us that almost every kid has pinworms living in their intestines, and they look like pieces of white thread. They come out at night, she said, and our parents could check us by shining a flashlight up our asses. I can’t remember the exact words she used, but that was the gist of it. Or, we were told, if (for some reason) that prospect made us feel uncomfortable, we could put a strip of black electrical tape across our buttholes before bed. When we woke up the next morning, we could check the tape and see if there were any pinworms stuck to it. And if you think I’m making any of this up, you’d be wildly mistaken.

She was crazy, straight up. In fact, I believe she was eventually committed to a wacky shack somewhere. It was long after I was out of school, but I remember hearing about it and not being at all surprised.

I need to go now. It’s super-late, and I need to hit the Devil’s Parkway.

If you have anything on crazy-ass teachers, please share. Also, what are your thoughts on teachers out of context? Did that make you feel weird, too? Please use the comments to bring us up to date on it.

And I’ll see you guys again soon.

Have a great day!

Now playing in the bunker

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

In Celebration Of Period Inaccuracies, And Ludicrous Language!

Have you ever heard a man, in real life, call his wife “dear?” It happens all the time on television, but I can’t remember any actual human beings ever saying it. Ya know? It feels like there’s some kind of agreed-upon language that people use in movies and TV that’s been in place for so long, we don’t even notice how bogus it is anymore. Because everybody talks that way in the make-believe world. Am I wrong?

Speaking of TV, I watch The Americans, which is set during the early 1980s, before the fall of the Soviet Union. It’s a great show, but I regularly notice things that aren’t accurate to the period. Oh, I’m very good at it. Highly skilled. In fact, I should be hired as a well-paid consultant for such things. I mean, I’m old and bitter and pay attention to every dumbass little thing… I’m the perfect person for the job. I get genuinely annoyed when I spot screw-ups that could’ve been easily avoided. And I can root ’em out like a cadaver dog at PeachFest. Or whatever.

For instance, during an episode I watched a few weeks ago, a character ripped a paper towel off a roll and handed it to someone. It was a small thing that meant nothing. HOWEVER, it was one of those half paper towels, which didn’t exist in 1983, or whatever. Back then it was full paper towels, or nothing. And if they’d had an ancient anal-retentive motherfucker like me on the set, they wouldn’t make such mistakes.

In another episode someone invited a person to taste something in a health food store. She tried it and said, “Mmmm… that’s good.” And the guy answered, “Right?” That’s not 80s talk, that’s 2010s talk. I know because it irritated the living crap out of me when every monkey-see-monkey-do shithead started saying ‘right?’ almost at the same time. It’s in the same category as ‘really?!’ and ‘you know what?’ Oh god, I’m getting a little worked up here.

Season 5 of The Americans is over now, so I thought I could let down my guard for a few months. But no. I watched an episode of I’m Dying Up Here on Showtime last night. It’s about standup comedians during the early 1970s. And, so far, it’s not very good. I’m willing to watch a few more episodes, but my thumb is on the eject button.

In any case, there was a woman onstage doing her act, talking about Pet Rocks. I haven’t confirmed it, but it feels like that phenomenon happened during the mid-70s. Not 1973. So, that felt off. But even worse… she referred to her Pet Rock as a ‘rescue.’ Are you serious?? I was so agitated I thought about going out and starting a warehouse fire. It’s just ludicrous. People didn’t use the super-obnoxious word ‘rescue,’ as it pertains to cats and dogs from the pound, until the late 1990s. According to my inner-sensors, anyway.

Stephen King’s 11/22/63 novel, about a man who goes back in time to try to stop the Kennedy assassination, is sprinkled with those kinds of things, too. I can’t think of anything specific, but recall grinding my molars a few times while I was reading it. It was mostly characters speaking phrases that were not in use during the early 1960s.

And since we’re on the subject of language, corporate buzzwords also make me mildly insane. They’re generally embarrassing and stupid, but that’s not what annoys me. Not really. It’s that everybody starts using them at the same time. The phoniness drives me crazy. The worst I’ve heard recently is ‘bubble up.’ Are you familiar?

About a month ago I witnessed a conversation that went almost exactly like this:

Man 1: Well, you need to bubble that up.

Man 2: I did bubble it up!

Man 1: Who did you bubble it to?

Man 2: I bubbled it to Roger and his team.

Man 1: You should probably bubble it to HR, too.

I was just sitting there, my mind struggling to process what was happening before me. What in the everlasting hell?? Am I in a Monty Python skit, all of a sudden?

I need to go now. If you have anything to add to this ridiculousness, please do so in the comments. I’ll be back on Thursday with more hard-hitting journalism.

Have a great day!

Now playing in the bunker

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

I’ve Been Age-Shamed By Camden Yards! What Makes You Feel Old?

I was listening to a podcast a few days ago, while driving home from work, and they were talking about baseball stadium design. It was the first episode I’d ever heard of that particular show, and really enjoyed it. Here’s a link. Supposedly the program is all about design? It sounds weird, I know, but it’s very popular and I can see why.

In any case, they were talking about the transition from the big multi-purpose “concrete donut” stadiums of the 1970s, like Riverfront and Three Rivers and Veteran’s Stadium in Philly, to the smaller, retro ballparks of today. And it all started with Camden Yards in Baltimore. I knew this, of course, but liked hearing the history of how that place came into being. They even interviewed a few of the designers who were directly involved in the project.

However… they mentioned something, in passing, that distressed me a great deal. Camden Yards opened 25 years ago? That can’t be right, can it? Twenty-five years?? It feels like maybe ten to me. I consider it to be one of the new ballparks, and it’s been around for a quarter of a century? I hate that shit, man. Everything’s moving at an accelerated clip now, and it’s super-scary. I feel like I could doze off in front of American Pickers one night, and jerk awake five years later. What the hell is going on?

Similarly, I have a Rhino Records calendar in my cubicle at work. Sprinkled throughout that thing are little notes about iconic albums being released x-number of years ago today. And it messes with my head, as well. A few days ago it said Pleased to Meet Me by The Replacements, one of my favorite records and a true landmark of my early, ridiculous life, was released THIRTY years ago. What the?! It takes me right up to the cusp of a panic attack.

And I start playing that game where I go back to some point where I was conscious and full of energy and hope — say 15 years old. That would’ve been 1978. So, roll it back THIRTY years from there, and it’s 1948. A completely different world. Just compare those two years, 1948 and 1978. The entire culture changed — multiple times, probably. And it’s the exact same amount of time that’s passed since a favorite album of mine was released, which I remember like it was last Wednesday. Hell, I saw the band on that tour. It’s not like I was a little kid. It’s disturbing.

I try to be conscious of it, and not advertise the fact that I’m now a full-blown throwback to a different era. Oh, I’m not going to start listening to hip-hop, or carrying a skateboard around, or anything like that. But I do my best not to use outdated catchphrases (“…but I play one on TV,” for instance, or “Lighten up, Francis.”). Despite my attempts though, I’m sure the younger folks at my job view me as a walkin’, talkin’ dinosaur. And that doesn’t make me happy. Ya know?

Indeed, back to the baseball stadiums as they used to be called… now ballparks. Here are the ones I’ve visited:

Fenway Park, Boston

Progressive Field, Cleveland

Dodger Stadium, Los Angeles

Fulton County Stadium, Atlanta

Riverfront Stadium, Cincinnati

Veteran’s Stadium, Philadelphia

Candlestick Park, San Francisco

Three Rivers Stadium, Pittsburgh

Yankee Stadium, New York

More than half of them don’t even exist anymore. They’re just pages out of a history book at this point. I might as well be talking about Ebbets Field, or the freaking Polo Grounds. Sheesh. Maybe I’ll pull on a pair of knickers and chase a hoop down the street with a stick?

What makes you feel old? And does it bother you? I don’t want to be one of those codgers stuck in a different era, but I don’t really care all that much what people think of me. What bothers me is that time is running out. Five years go by so fast at this point, I’ll be a genuine cannot-deny-it old man soon. That bothers me. I’ve still got stuff to do.

If you have anything on this subject, please share in the comments.

And I’m going back to work now, and that horrible calendar. Good stuff.

I’ll see you guys again on Monday!

Now playing in the bunker

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

Share Your Business Travel Horror Stories and Thoughts On Corporate Training Classes!

Last week I had to travel for work. They’re sending us, two at a time, to a sprawling city-sized building about five hours from here, for “management training.” I knew there would be approximately 35 people in the class, from all over the country. And, needless to say, I was mildly stressed about it for weeks in advance.

I’ve done this kind of thing many times – both traveled for work, and attended corporate training sessions. I’m not a complete bumpkin. But I don’t like going into situations unknown. Some of that “training” is seemingly designed to make a spectacle of everyone in attendance. I had visions of us playing Twister, or some shit, ending with me blowing the complete ass out of my pants or farting on the neck of an HR representative from St. Louis or whatever. I’m very good at creating scenarios in my mind in which I unwittingly do something horrible and unforgivable, that I’ll replay for the rest of my life.

But, as usual, it wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d imagined. So, I felt relieved and thankful at the end. I wonder how freaks who go into these kinds of things full of enthusiasm and optimism (freaks!) feel at the end? I bet guys like me come out ahead in that equation, right?

In any case, I’m going to bullet point this bastard, and give you my thoughts on a few key aspects of the trip. Then I’m going to return to my real job, and try to transition from a fuzzy world of theory to one of cold, hard reality. Let’s do it, shall we?

I kinda sorta knew the guy I was traveling with, but not well. We work on the same shift, but in different departments. I liked him, but was a little concerned about us being trapped in a car together for five hours each way. What if the chemistry was off? It could be excruciating. But, as it turns out, the chemistry was right on the money. We laughed our asses off the whole time. Or talked about music. Or both. He was a great guy to travel with. I hope he felt the same about me. Hopefully he didn’t return home and launch into a ten-minute diatribe about “Jeff Kay, the biggest shitbag east of the Mississippi.” Have you ever been forced into travel with someone you didn’t like? I haven’t, not really. I’ve traveled with a few bosses, which is a little awkward. But, I don’t think I’ve ever been trapped on a work trip with a person I couldn’t stand. What about you?
We had $75 each per day allotted for food. However, breakfast and lunch was provided at the meetings, as well as a kick-ass afternoon snack that sometimes included chocolate-covered strawberries. So, it was basically $75 for one meal. And we vowed to spend it all! I felt like it would be no problem, whatsoever. But we never made it. I never even came close, despite eating so much food I felt like I might need a wheelchair to get back to the rental car. If we’d had more knowledge of the local restaurants, we probably could’ve done more damage. I think we were in more family-friendly places. Booze would’ve helped too. Oh well. It was fun immediately going to the most expensive items on the menus, and going wild with it. I could get used to that kind of thing.
I came downstairs at 6 am on Tuesday morning, and got a cup of coffee in the hotel lobby. The metrosexual behind the counter told me it was $7.99. I answered, “Are you serious?!” And he gave me a “do you fucking want it or not?” shrug. “Charge it to my room,” I told him, and shuffled back toward the elevator. Those places are just gouging corporations, coming and going. It’s disgraceful. I had one cup every day. And two on Thursday.
I immediately jumped to many conclusions when I met the people in the class, and was right about most of them. However, a few folks surprised me. One guy seemed super-confident and full of swagger, and I involuntarily launched a squint of disapproval. But, he turned out to be one of the coolest guys there. In fact, most of the people were OK. All were smart and capable, that’s for sure. There was some phoniness, of course, which irritates me to no end. But it could’ve been much worse.
I was on edge most of the time, during the classes themselves. There was always a possibility that I’d be forced into giving some snap opinion, or have to go in front of the class and engage in a corporate improvisation game. I hate that kind of shit, more than just about anything. One guy started calling on people at random (“What do you think about that, Nick?”). I immediately flipped over my name tag, so he couldn’t see it, and noticed a few other people doing it, as well. On the final day the woman said, “I’m going to put a few of you on the spot now,” and the Indian guy across from me muttered, in a thick accent, “Oh God, please no.” There’s a good chance we have wildly different backgrounds, and ended up in EXACTLY the same place. For four days, anyway.
On the morning before we had to check out of the hotel, I clogged the toilet somehow. I don’t think I deposited anything especially remarkable that day, but the water went all the way to the rim and was swirling, threatening to go over. I looked around for a plunger, and didn’t see one. So, I just closed the lid and put that place in my rearview mirror. They probably had to take that room offline for a few days. As is my nature, I’m convinced it will lead to an uncomfortable conversation with my boss, human resources, and loss prevention today. I’m insane, right? …Right?
During the class they tried to play Jason Headley’s work of genius, “It’s Not About the Nail,” but ran into technical difficulties. I’m not sure how they were going to tie it into the training, but it was queued up and ready to go. I wanted to shout, “I know him! He’s a friend of the Surf Report!!” But I refrained, which is undoubtedly a good thing. I’ll have to let Jason know about it, though. Crazy stuff.

And I’m going to call it a day, my friends. If you have any “traveling for work” stories to share, please do so. Also, if you’ve got anything to say about corporate training classes, we’d like to hear that, as well. I learned some stuff last week that will almost certainly be in the back of my mind as I interview people, and counsel employees. There was some value in it, I think. What are your opinions on that kind of thing? Use the comments section.

Have yourselves a great day! I’ll be back on Thursday. I’m vowing to get back to a predictable schedule now.

See you then!

Now playing in the bunker

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

Some Things I Don’t Like, And Some Things I Do Like

Remember when I was briefly writing under the name Bill Oates? It didn’t last long, like many things I’ve started, but the plan was to post stuff at the Oates blog that I didn’t want attached to my real name. Well, I need to fire that shit up again…

I won’t, but it would definitely come in handy at this point. The last few weeks have been a real ball-masher, my friends, and I can’t really talk about any of it. A lot of it’s work-related, and some of it is kid-related. I could get into trouble if I wrote about the work stuff, and my blood pressure can’t handle any armchair parenting advice. No offense, but everybody can go fuck themselves.

Anyway, I think (hope) the worst is behind us now, and I’m going to try to get back on a reasonable schedule here. Sorry I disappeared again. I’m turning into Art Bell. You know, without all the success and prestige.

Toney had her gallbladder removed last week. That was relatively stressful. I guess it’s a medical conveyor belt at this point, extremely common and no big deal. Indeed, a nurse muttered in my direction that she’s surprised there are “any gallbladders left in Scranton,” considering the number they yank on a daily basis. But I’m a world-class worrier, and can build cataclysmic scenarios out of thin air.

We made it through though, and she’s at Wegmans right now. Here’s how it went:

12:00 noon: arrive at hospital

2:30: surgery begins, a half-hour late

4:30: in recovery

7:30: home watching Property Brothers

Crazy, huh? That same procedure in 1979 would probably require the patient to be gutted like a fish, and a week of wallowing in a hospital bed. Right? It’s pretty amazing, but I still turned it into a semi-calamity.

They have a big screen in the waiting room, like at the airport, where you can monitor the progress of the procedure. I looked at that thing roughly 700,000 times, and at some point decided it was taking too long. And what the hell do I know about gallbladder removal? But my inner-sensors were telling me something was surely wrong, and I began to freak out a little.

I started pacing around, and severely burned my lips, tongue, and the roof of my mouth with a ludicrously hot cup of complimentary Folger’s coffee. That shit was like something straight out of a smelting furnace. Holy hell! Then I called Steve and we talked about Tom Petty for a long time, and I paced, and paced, and paced. And every time I looked at that arrival/departure board, it just said “in OR.” Occasionally an alarm of some sort would sound from deep within the hospital, and I was sure it was some kind of Toney-based Code White, or whatever.

But the doctor finally came out and talked to me. He had color photos to share, as well. Everything went well, and he said it took a normal amount of time. “She can go home in a couple of hours,” he assured me, and shook my dick-joke-writing hand with his bringing-people-back-from-the-dead hand.

Here’s one of my fellow waiting room patrons. He didn’t seem nearly as stressed as I was. Ten minutes earlier he was eating what appeared to be five pounds of boneless chicken wings from a Styrofoam container. And I was pacing around with swollen lips, and an anal pucker that could shell a walnut. I guess we all deal with things in our own way?

Some stuff I’m actually enjoying, if you can believe it:

Will Not Attend by Adam Resnick  One of the funniest books I’ve read in a long time. After I was finished I went back and re-listened to his WTF episode, as well. Then I listened to it a third time. He’s goddamn hilarious.

All things Tom Petty. Not sure what’s going on, but I’m fully invested in Petty at the moment. I purchased every studio album on CD, read this really good biography, and watched the four-hour(!) documentary on Netflix. All within the last couple of months. Also, the older boy and I are going to see the band in Philadelphia on July 1. They were FAR AND AWAY the most expensive concert tickets I’ve ever purchased. Previous record: Steely Dan. I’m not going into details right now, but it was insane: StubHub specials. Can’t wait, though! I saw them once before, in Atlanta, and was so drunk I can barely remember it. Wotta shitbag I was.

Fargo TV series. I had an attitude about this thing, and refused to watch it for a long time. But it was a mistake. I’m still in Season One (on Hulu) and loving every minute of it. Wonder how many great things I’ve missed out on, because of preconceived notions and various chips on my shoulder? I’m sure the list is long.

I’m returning to work now. Things have settled there, finally. We’ll see how it goes. In the comments, if you’re so inclined, please share some things you’re currently liking and disliking. And I know some of you are apparently powerless, but please try to stay away from politics. I’ll see you again soon.

Have a great day!

Now playing in the bunker

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

If They Brought ‘Em Back, Would You Attend A Public Hanging?

I saw this photo on Facebook a few days ago. It was reportedly taken at the last public hanging in West Virginia, on December 16, 1897. Apparently the event turned into a drunken free-for-all, and resulted in my home state becoming one of the first to ban public executions.

Here’s a short article about it, this is a longer (far more bizarre) one, and here’s a song about the event, by Flatt and Scruggs. I guess that shit was crazy?

And I can’t even imagine going to something like that. Am I alone? Watching some guy suffer and die, as a crowd of drunken hicks holler and taunt and clap their hands like Bryan Adams just launched into “Summer of ’69?” I believe I’ll pass.

Even today, when they execute a prisoner, there’s a small “gallery” as they call it. Why?? Maybe if someone was directly involved in the case, and victimized by the person… But I don’t think I’d be interested, under any circumstance. It’s not a scene I need replaying in my head for the rest of my life, thank you very much.

When we were in England we were on a tour, and the guide told us that hundreds of people were hanged at a certain spot in London, and it was always a big social event. In fact, he said, people would get feather bed-shitting drunk at these outdoor death festivals, and feel like crap the next day. And that’s where the word “hangover” came from.

I find it bizarre. Oh, I’m not going to shed any tears for murderers or rapists, but I don’t need to watch their final sufferings, either. Sweet sainted mother of Ted Bessell. People apparently used to pack up the whole family though, and make a day of it. “He’s almost done fer, Johnny! The spasms are coming pretty far apart now.” It seems weird to me.

I know, however, that public executions would draw HUGE crowds, even in 2017. If they brought them back, thousands and thousands would attend. There’d likely be a Bud Light tent, and hot dog vendors. Maybe a VIP section, or a “snakepit,” like at Metallica concerts. The hangee would probably be required to wear a shirt with an advertising logo on it (State Farm? Carl’s Jr.?), and Ryan Seacrest would almost certainly be the host. Am I wrong?

I didn’t intend for this whole update to be about hangings, but whatever. I’d like to get your thoughts. Please don’t get into politics, ‘cause nobody gives a shit and it’s highly annoying. But what are your opinions on personally attending an execution? Is it something you’d like to do? Maybe it’s something you’ve actually done? If so, we’ll need to get your story. Also, what do you think would happen at a modern public execution? Beyond Seacrest, I mean?

Finally, how do you think they’d capitalize on our renewed enthusiasm for public death? What would the promoters come up with next? Maybe a soothing lazy-river ride through a giant slaughterhouse in the midwest? Please help me out, won’t you?

And I’m going to call it a day, my friends. This is a strange one, I know. Please make of it what you will.

I’ll see you again soon!

Now playing in the bunker

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

To Be Perfectly Honest, We’ve Had Better Weeks

Toney’s been in the hospital. On Sunday she left work because she felt horrible: nausea and a tightness in the chest. Then she started throwing up. I thought she was having a heart attack, and took her to the ER. By the time we arrived there, her stomach was hurting really bad and she was actually groaning. What in the hand-rolled shit is going on?! I was hitting at about an 8 on the Freak the Fuck Out meter.

They ran a bunch of tests on her, and quickly decided (well… the hospital version of quickly, which is pretty damn slow) that her gallbladder was the source of the trouble. And that caused her pancreas to become inflamed, which is why her stomach was hurting. When the doctor eventually came strolling in, seemingly without a care in the world, he announced that Toney would be staying with them for a few days.

And she was there until yesterday afternoon. They were pumping her full of saline solution and antibiotics, and she feels a lot better. They say the gallbladder will need to come out, but there’s no super-urgency. Probably within a month, somebody told her.

I’m glad she’s home. The whole universe felt off-kilter without her around. I could be gone for six months and nobody would notice. “Hey, what happened to that fat guy with all the sarcastic remarks?” somebody might say around Week Four. But take Toney out of the picture for a few days and the whole operation collapses.

I have a few random hospital notes for you guys today, and then I’m going to return to work. I haven’t been there since Friday, so I’m going to be doing the backstroke through a frothy sea of bullshit in a few hours. Let’s get to it, shall we?

— Shortly after we arrived at the ER, they took Toney through a door marked EXAMINATION ROOM, and I heard nothing for a long time. I was pacing around, nervous. Also, I thought I might avoid contracting whatever horrible disease some slumped and hacking woman was suffering near the check-in desk. I was trying to give the spores a moving target.

Finally, the exam door swung open and a middle school girl shouted, “Jeffrey?” I went rushing over, and she took me into the room and closed the door. Oh god… is it bad news?? “OK, step up on the scales for me,” she said. Huh? I was very confused. Do they weigh patient spouses now? “Jeffrey Zelinski?” she said. “Oh, sorry,” I told her, and left. And the legitimate Jeff gave me a dirty look as he made his way toward the room. Jeffs can be so judgmental.

It was like the beginning of some bad movie where, due to a series of wacky misunderstandings, I end up on a gurney being rushed to an operating room. “No!” I’m shouting, before they silence me by strapping an oxygen mask to my face. Next thing I know I wake up with a fully-functioning vagina, or somesuch. To tell you the truth, I haven’t really thought this thing through…

— The nurses knew almost immediately what was going on with Toney, and let us know their thoughts. I appreciated it, ‘cause the doctors are stingy with the information. In fact, the guy never told us a thing until the next day. Even though they started treating her for something, he wouldn’t tell us what or why. I know there are liability concerns, etc. But it’s extremely frustrating. The nurses were great, though.

— One woman came in and started going on and on about how they’re the lowest paid people on the staff, and everybody else thinks they’re “high and mighty,” and looks down on them. “Especially the nurses,” she said. I’m not clear on who this person was, or what function she was performing. She might’ve just wandered in off the street, for all I know. But she had the bitterness of champions.

— While we were waiting around for what felt like hours – mostly because it was hours – in the ER exam room, we could plainly hear what was going on with other patients. I heard a nurse ask a woman when she last had a bowel movement. “This morning,” she answered. “Did it look normal?” the nurse wanted to know. I was sitting on the edge of my seat, hoping for an interesting answer. Like “Well, I happen to have a photo of it on my phone!” But she just said yeah. It was anticlimactic, and also not the kind of information I needed to have.

— I also heard an old lady, with a terrifying death rattle, tell four or five people that she’s getting married on May 4, and going to Florida on her honeymoon. This woman was roughly 125 years old. I was expecting the nurse to say, “Well… your charts say differently, dear. You’ll be lucky to make it to sundown.” But she just shouted, “How wonderful!” Wotta rip-off.

— There was a unisex bathroom near Toney’s room that I used a couple of times to offload Eight O’Clock Bean Coffee. And inside that phone booth-sized room was the most complicated toilet I’ve ever seen in my life. I wish I’d snapped a picture. The thing had hand rails, bicycle grips, an assortment of baffling seat attachments, a ridiculous elevation, etc. I’m unclear why somebody would need to strap themselves into an elaborate shitting-cage, but apparently they do. For a second I got confused and thought I was boarding Space Mountain. Thankfully I was just standing. I really didn’t want to get too close to that apparatus.

— While I was visiting Toney Monday afternoon I heard a mournful male voice coming from down the hall: “Nuuuuuurse… nuuuuuuuuurse…” “Is that a ghost?” I asked with alarm. “Is it somebody who died here in 1979?!” This kept going on and on, and nobody was reacting. Eventually he started shouting, “I need a toilet!” Just hollering down the hall. Then I heard a woman scolding him, telling him to use the call button. She wasn’t very happy with his makeshift paging system. If it had gone on a few more minutes we probably would’ve heard, “Wipe! I need wiped!!”

— Since Toney’s pancreas was inflamed, everybody on the staff asked her about drinking. Toney drinks very little, believe me. She’s one of those freaks of nature who can have one beer, and that’s good enough for her. What the hell, man? Once that switch is flipped with me, I have to keep on going until I reach oblivion. In any case, she was getting repeatedly grilled about her relationship with alcohol. And one Asian nurse, who didn’t speak perfect English, asked, “So, do you drink beer all the time?” That’s how she put it. “I think you’re looking at one of my old charts,” I wish I’d said. Unfortunately for Toney, she can no longer have her three drinks per week for a while. It’s sad.

But she’s home now, and they’re going to schedule the gallbladder surgery soon. I’ll be freaking out about that, as well. I hate all things medical, and imagine the worst at all times. But my mother had the same thing done a few months ago, and it was close to being an outpatient procedure. Three small incisions, I think. I’m sure it’ll be fine. I hope.

And I need to go now. I don’t really have a Question for you guys, so please make of it what you will. I have a car dealer story to tell, as well. I’ll bring you up to date on that situation next time.

Have a great day, my friends!