Jeff Kay's Blog, page 29

Let’s Build The Perfect Bar! I’m Gonna Need Your Input, My Friends

Back before every one of my hopes and dreams burned to the fucking ground like a 1980 Richard Pryor, I used to daydream about things. Like… maybe owning a little neighborhood bar somewhere. Even though I have no experience, and even less knowledge, I believed I could do well with something like that. I felt like I had my fingers on the pulse of the sizable functioning alcoholic community, and would be able to give the people what they want.

That is:

Good, simple pub food in largeish quantity, at a reasonable price. No nonsense like wild game sausage, or stuffed pork chops with mint jelly. I mean, seriously. Somebody else can educate and expand the horizons of the drinking public. And wave goodbye to their life savings in the process.

No bullshit props like pool tables, poker machines, or dartboards. And if any staff member even MENTIONS karaoke or trivia night, they’re out. Drinking, eating, and telling inappropriate stories should be the focus. A jukebox might be OK, but every song would have to pass through the Jeff Kay filter. This ain’t no cologne and tight-shirt dance club, goddammit.

No glass & chrome furniture and fixtures, or flashing lights in the floor. Just normal chairs, tables, and couches. Maybe some table lamps. Also, no punch-in-the-face disinfectant smell. Too many bars smell like hospital wards. And that’s freaky, man.

What would be the guidelines of your imaginary bar? Please bring us up to date on it in the comments. Do they coincide with mine, at all? I’m interested to know.

Also, have you considered possible names for your never-gonna-happen establishment? I’ve always thought Smoking Fish Tavern had a nice ring to it, and would probably go with that. But I could come up with a million others, like, say The Scowling Lesbian. That’s a good one, right off the top of my head. See how easy it is?

You know what irritates me? When a bar has a really boring name, like P.J.’s Pub, or whatever. It almost makes me angry. I also don’t like when they have alternative spellings, like Trax or Morganz Saloon. It’s stupid. There’s a place a few blocks from here called Nyx. WTF?? It might be a great bar, but the name makes my jaws flex.

What the owners decide to call a bar is important, in my opinion. College Hill Sundries was a place I loved in Greensboro, not only because of the great name, but that didn’t hurt. Some other memorable bar names I’ve personally experienced during my tipsy travels: Fuzzy Ducks, The Euclid Avenue Yacht Club, The Blind Tiger, Hooray Harry’s, Now Voyager, The Vortex (tagline: “It’s never too late to start wasting your life”), The Empty Glass, Highland Tap, Billy Goat Tavern, The White Dot, The Lamb and the Flag. There are others, many others. All great names… Not as good as T.J.’s Place, granted. But not bad.

So, tell me about your daydream bar. Use the comments section, and break it down for us. Also, what are your favorite real-world bar names? You know, places that actually exist outside of our imagination?

And I need to go now. Another week of stimulating work awaits!

Have a great day, my friends.

I’ll see you again soon.

Now playing in the bunker

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A Few Quick Things, vol. 811

It’s a beautiful day here in the Upper Exasperation Belt. Possibly the most perfect day of 2017, so far. And I’m sitting in the public library typing out this update. There’s an old man running the microfilm machine behind me, as usual, cranking the wheel on that bastard like he’s trying to generate enough electricity to power his dying wife’s lung blower. What’s the story with old men and ancient newspapers? It’s never the same old man, but there’s almost always one in here, cranking away. Do they even stop to look at a page? All of it’s excruciatingly unclear to me.

Anyway, if this were last spring and it were the First Perfect Day, you can be assured that I’d be on the deck right now drinking an unreasonable number of craft beers, and ingesting charred meat, tortilla chips, and various dip-ables. But today I’m sitting in the library breathing in the aroma of paper decay, and getting irritated by all the noise. I’m not going to get into it again, though. Just put it in the ever-lengthening column titled People Certainly Do Suck, Oh Yes They Do. Sweet sainted mother of Bruce Froemming.

Speaking of drinking, I had a dream a few nights ago that I said fukkit and had a few beers on a Saturday night. And I experienced crushing guilt, deep into the night. It felt like I beat myself up, emotionally, for about eight hours. When I woke up I realized it was only a dream, and about a million pounds of anxiety was released.

I’m not sure why I dreamed about it, because I don’t really think about drinking much anymore. It’s not like I’m white-knuckling it, crawling out of my skin. So, it was weird. I guess it’s still in there somewhere, lurking underneath the surface. Right?

The good points of nine months of raw sobriety: My mind is sharper, I sleep better, I read an enormous number of books, and I feel healthier.

The bad points: I’m mildly depressed and lethargic most of the time.

So, there you go. It’s like a joke of some sort. I somehow had more energy when I was guzzling booze every weekend, but my brain was sluggish. Now my brain is clicking along, but I don’t have the energy or gumption to make anything of it. When is Allen Funt going to come out from behind a pillar, buckled over in laughter?

Let’s move on.

Some things I’ve enjoyed recently: an oddball podcast called S-Town, a crazy-ass novel called Dark Matter, season four of Maron, and the return of The Americans. I also re-read Steve Martin’s memoir, Born Standing Up. I don’t usually re-read books, because there are so many I haven’t gotten to the first time. But I make an occasional exception to the rule.

What have you been enjoying? Anything? Please share in the comments.

I was talking to a friend a few days ago, and mentioned that my dad has certain opinions about manliness that I find myself considering, even at my advanced age.

For instance, he believes men should never drink with a straw. He used to call them “sissy sticks” when I was a kid. I sometimes use a straw in restaurants, because I’m neurotic about the millions of lips that have been on the rims of those glasses before my arrival. But I always feel weird about it, like I’m betraying my father.

He also believes men should not use umbrellas, which makes me laugh. Not that I disagree with him, necessarily. I just find it amusing. He probably had a jaunty nickname for them, as well. But I’m not remembering it. And I don’t currently own an umbrella.

I can also remember him telling me not to stand with my hands on my hips, because he said it “looks fruity.”

The guy I was talking with couldn’t believe it, because his dad had some of the exact same opinions. He wasn’t familiar with the phrase “sissy stick,” but his dad did have corresponding views about straws and umbrellas. Do you have anything on this? Any quirky little manliness rules passed down from a previous generation that’s stuck with you? I know it’s a long-shot, but what the hell?

One final thing, before I call it a day here… I had the following conversation with our younger son earlier this week:

Me: How was school today?

Him: Good.

Me: Did you learn anything?

Him: No.

Me: Why not?

Him: I’m in 12th Grade.

That made me chuckle, even though it’s somewhat baffling. But I wondered: Did I learn anything during my senior year of high school? And I think I did. Because I’m a sack, I always loaded up my schedule with fluff “classes.” Things like Office Aide, Rock/Pop Music Survey, Singles Survival, and (a class I had in 12th Grade) Consumer Math.

I’d already gone through Algebra II, Geometry, and maybe beyond. Who the hell knows? But I actually learned stuff in that Consumer Math class that I still use today. Everybody in there was tragically stupid, a hardened stoner, or both. So, this shit was dumbed way down. I mean, seriously. However, I learned easy methods on how to calculate percentages that I hadn’t previously grasped. I mean, I could do it, but it took a little while. After I finished that Consumer Math class though, I could do it instantly in my head. It’s a small thing, but it’s something I literally came to terms with in that room, surrounded by criminals, drug addicts, and people who just sat there sniffing their fingers.

What about you? Did you actually learn anything during 12th Grade? Please tell us about it.

And I’m going to leave this annoying place now. Maybe get a McDonald’s milkshake. Ahhh… the good life.

I’ll see you guys again soon.

Have a great day!

Now playing in the bunker

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A Doggie Scare, the Greatest TV Shows Ever, Funny Memoirs, and Shitting In A Box

I thought we were going to lose our beloved Black Lips Houlihan a few days ago, but he bounced back and is better than ever. He had another “episode” last week, and I was convinced he’d suffered a stroke. He collapsed, fired off about three shit missiles in quick succession, vomited, and briefly lost consciousness. When he woke up again, he just stayed in one spot for a long time and panted. The whole family was surrounding him, and tears were shed.

But… within an hour or so, he got up and started walking around. He drank water, and seemed to be coming out of it a bit. About two hours later he went up the stairs (which seemed impossible earlier in the evening), and fell asleep on his blanket.

The next day he remained on the blanket for a long time. We couldn’t coax him out of the bedroom, so he wasn’t totally OK. Something was still askew. But, he eventually got up and rejoined us downstairs. And he’s been fine ever since. I think it was that doggie vertigo the vet talked to us about last time. It’s weird, and terrifying. I’m definitely not a fan.

He’s doing great now, though. He barked at the mailman a little while ago, and eats like normal. He’s begging for food, and going up and down stairs like a champion. He could still use a Tic Tac, but that’s beside the point.

For the record, Andy will be 16 on June 1. I don’t want to get cocky, but I think he’ll make it.

I finished watching Breaking Bad a couple of weeks ago. I ripped through the entire five seasons in maybe a month and a half? I’m not sure, but it was quick. Some nights I’d watch three episodes, while sitting on my big riffled ass, with my right arm buried to the hilt in a ludicrously large chips sack. Yes, I’m nothing short of an accomplishment factory at this point.

In any case, it was great. One of the best shows ever, right? I’d put it in the same category as The Sopranos and The Wire. No way to rank those programs, because they’re all close to perfect. The Wire didn’t have as much humor as the other two, but it certainly wasn’t humor-free.

What are your thoughts on the Greatest Non-Sitcom Shows of All-Time? If you bring sitcoms into it, it becomes another conversation altogether. So, let’s leave ‘em out, for the time being. Please use the comments section to share your opinions.

I’ve also been reading funny memoirs. I’m almost finished with this one, which I recommend. I’m not going to link to the previous one, because it wasn’t very good. In fact, I don’t know how it was ever published. WTF? There was no point, and few laughs. But it was released by a large (maybe the largest) publishing house. Hey, whatever. This is another good one, and this one is great too. Do you have any recommendations for me on this subject? I’m talking about memoirs that are funny. Not novels, or collections of letters, or biographies. Just memoirs. Please help me out, won’t you?

I was talking to somebody at work the other day about a newish alternative to the colonoscopy, which requires (according to him) “shitting in a box.” Here’s an article that confirms what he told me, kinda-sorta. I’m not clear on whether or not you literally have to offload straight into a cardboard box, and mail it in. But it’s something along those lines.

And you’re convinced your job is bad? Just think about the poor bastards on the receiving end of those poop cartons. Do they arrive via Fed-Ex Freight, or what?

“Three more pallets of fresh-cut turds just arrived at Door Seven, Charlie!”

“Roger that. But where are we going to put it all??”

Can you imagine cracking the seal on one of those things? Oh god. Some of them are probably flapped over the lid, or hanging down the side, or something. You can’t count on precision when it comes to amateur box-shitting. Hell, some people would probably just blast a hot payload of diarrhea in there, and take it straight to the UPS Store.

Indeed, I don’t know about the logistics of “collecting” either. How does that happen? Do you hover over a box, literally? I might have to hang off a towel bar, to help with the balance issue. Or maybe you’re supposed to use a spaghetti strainer, or something? So many questions… I’m willing to try it, though. Count me in! It’s got to be better than having a Maglite twisted straight into your butthole, right?

Do you have any questions or concerns about this test? Please tell us about it, in the comments. If you’ve actually done it, well… we DEFINITELY need your feedback.

I’ll see you guys again soon.

Have yourselves a great day!

Now playing in the bunker

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A Disconcerting Night on the Town, and Your Thoughts on Tribute Bands

The Zombies show on Saturday night was interesting. The touring band played with the two main guys for about an hour, doing hits and rarities from their early British Invasion days, as well as a few new songs. Then there was a 20 minute intermission, and the original band came out. The four surviving members, anyway. For some reason they didn’t bring the dead one. And they played Odessey and Oracle in its entirety.

It was weird, to tell you the truth. I mean, it was great and I’m glad I saw it. But that album is such an obscure oddity, it was disconcerting to learn that actual human beings created it. The thing feels like it was captured by one of those giant radio telescopes that constantly listens for transmissions from outer space: otherworldly and mysterious. I’m not sure I was prepared to find out it was made by mere mortals.

Both incarnations of the band sounded fantastic, though. I saw a review a few days ago that said, “The Zombies, still led by original keyboard wizard Rod Argent and featuring the smoked-silk vocals of Colin Blunstone, is the best 60s band still touring which doesn’t have Mick Jagger as a front man.”

Blunstone was especially impressive. He’s thin as a knife blade, and seems almost timid onstage. Then he starts singing and it seems impossible. I wish I could do anything as well as that dude can sing. However, I didn’t much care for the extended-jam version of Argent’s “Hold Your Head Up,” and I’m not sure why they played “She’s Not There” twice. But those are only small complaints. It was a great show, and I’m glad I was on-hand to see it. The dude who brought them out referred to The Zombies as ‘rock ‘n’ roll royalty,’ and I certainly wouldn’t argue with that.

By the way… the man in the picture was sitting across the aisle from me. I snapped it moments before the show started. Yes, it was a youthful, raucous crowd. Very reminiscent of the time I saw Fugazi in Atlanta. My son and I were lucky to make it out of there alive on Saturday night.

I was looking at the acts who will be performing at the same venue soon. Plenty of “tribute” bands… Including Get the Led Out, Live Wire: The Ultimate AC/DC Concert Experience, and Islands In The Stream: An Afternoon with Dolly and Kenny. Have you ever seen a tribute show? I haven’t, and hopefully never will. I think I’d be so depressed I might cry. I mean, the true “ultimate” AC/DC experience would be AC/DC, right? Short of that, I’ll pass.

I saw they had Kick, an INXS tribute band there a few weeks ago. I’m not sure I’d go see the actual INXS, much less Kick (heh). And Hey Nineteen: The Steely Dan Tribute was there recently, as well. I’m starting to segue from sadness to laughter here… Is there a documentary about those kinds of bands? If not, there should be.

In the comments section, please tell us about the tribute acts you’ve seen. And feel free to justify that decision, if you must. Also, which tributes (real or imagined) would you LIKE to see? I’ll come up with a few that I wish were real, and turn it over to you guys. Let’s do it, shall we?

The Binghamton Who

Behemoth Rhapsody: The Morbidly Obese Queen Tribute

Thin Minnie: A Tribute to Thin Lizzy and Minnie Riperton

Harlem Hatchet: The Ultimate Molly Hatchet Doo-Wop Experience

Sir Mario: The Mexican Mix-A-Lot

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!

A Holy Shit! Concert, Your Thoughts on Solo Travel, and Stuff You Never Could’ve Predicted You’d Witness

I could very easily turn this one into another prolonged whine fiesta, but will spare you guys. Nobody needs more of that shit in their lives. Right? Right. It goes counter to my nature, but I’m going to try not to complain today. We’ll see how it goes.

Next Saturday I’m going to a concert with the younger hooligan. Proving that I remain on the cutting edge, we’re going to see The Zombies, a group that originally formed in 1961. How’s that for fresh and new?

The touring band features four surviving members, including singer Colin Blunstone and keyboardist/songwriter Rod Argent. In 1967 they recorded an album called Odessey and Oracle that is one of my favorites. They’re doing a 50th Anniversary tour, where they play the entire album live. It’s one of those holy shit in a salad spinner! situations.

I heard those two guys on the Adam Carolla podcast a few months ago, when Adam and the gang were in London. They were talking about playing together again, and how well the shows were going. It seemed like a UK thing, and I assumed I’d never actually have the chance to see them. Now it’s going to happen, apparently, and they’ll be playing The Album. My nipples are exploding with delight.

One thing, though: Ticketmaster fees are now 33% of the total cost of the tickets?? Seriously? That’s something straight out of a shower stall on Riker’s Island, right there. But I said I wasn’t going to complain… Let’s move on.

Toney and I need a vacation, but it’s a difficult thing to manage. Both boys work, there’s not an enormous amount of money available, and only Toney and I deserve a trip. It sounds harsh, I know, but true.

So, Toney proposed separate trips. She said I should find a hotel on the ocean somewhere, take my laptop there for a few days in April or May, and try to jump start the book project I’ve been monkeying around with. And she’d go somewhere in October (she has a week off in October).

At first I dismissed the plan, ’cause it feels like something husbands and wives on the cusp of divorce would do. We’re not having any kind of marital problems, other than our kids are driving us crazy, and there’s a load of work stress, etc. The two of us are fine, and we’d like to travel together. But we can’t leave the two hooligans alone for days on end. We’d return to a big black spot in the grass, and nothing but a charred mound of Bud Light cans where our house used to be.

Have you ever done any solo traveling, while married or involved? I’m not talking about sex tourism to Singapore, or anything like that. I just mean normal, innocent travel. I didn’t like the sound of it, at first, but am starting to warm to the idea. God knows it would be great to extract myself from this chaos and stress for three or four days. And I really need to get the book back on track. I like the idea more with each passing hour. I’ve got my eye on this place, tentatively.

When we were in England we talked to a guy from Australia, while on a bus trip to Oxford and Stratford (I think). He was traveling alone, and had a wife back home. He said sometimes they travel together, but both enjoy taking “excursions” alone, as well. I thought that was weird, and was judging him and his unseen wife with gusto. I assumed they were some brand of eccentric, on the verge of marital collapse, or both. But maybe not? What are your thoughts on this one?

Also, what are your holy shit in a salad spinner! moments? You know, stuff you experienced that you never could’ve predicted? I have several in the music category: a Television reunion concert, seeing Queen at the height of their powers in Charleston, WV, hanging out with Paul Westerberg in a bowling alley in Atlanta, watching Nick Lowe perform four or five songs in the WEA Atlanta conference room(!) during the first month I worked there. There are more, but I’m getting tired and hungry.

I must also add Johnny Bench Night at Riverfront Stadium to the salad spinner list. It was the last game he played as catcher, and the day he hit the final home run of his career. That was pretty special, too. Do you have anything on this one? Please share in the comments.

And I’m going to call it day, my friends. I’m spent.

I’ll see you guys again soon.

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A Few Quick Things, vol. 571

I had a dream a few nights ago that I was driving through a toll plaza, possibly on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. It definitely wasn’t the Dunbar Toll Bridge, where I was a highly-decorated toll collector for many years. Which disappoints me… If a toll plaza is going to appear in one of my dreams, it’s GOTTA be the Dunbar Toll Bridge, right?

In any case, as I slowed and passed through, a young girl — maybe 13 or 14 years old — walked nearby (inexplicably). She was smiling and happy, and practically skipping along. And I thought, “How long has it been since I’ve been that happy? Wonder if I’ll ever be that happy again?” Then I agonized about how my time is running out, and how I’m stuck in some kind of low-grade sadness loop. And it felt like the agonizing lasted for hours.

It’s not good, my friends. I think I need a team of psychiatrists, like George. And that’s not really even a joke. I’m not writing, I’m not responding to emails… nothing is being accomplished. I’m on autopilot, just doing the bare minimum required to not completely destroy my life. For the past month or so I’ve been nothing but a fat sack of melancholy.

Will somebody please drive up here and shoe me in the nuts? Seriously. Some people have real problems. If I was on the outside looking in, I’d say fuck that guy. I’d want to punch him straight in the mouth.

Anyway, let’s move on.

The original Project Petty has now been completed, as of ten minutes ago. I was planning to buy every studio CD (I don’t buy live albums) from the debut through Full Moon Fever. Then I realized I just needed to buy four additional CDs and I’d have the entire catalog. I already have five of his Warner releases, just from working there. One still had the shrinkwrap on it. Heh. So, I’m pressing on with a new super-sized version of the Project.

The mustachioed mailman just delivered Full Moon Fever, and next on the list is Into the Great Wide Open. I’m going to order it before I leave for work today. I don’t think it’s a very good record, if memory serves, but I’m required to acquire. Ya know?

The album that surprised me the most was Let Me Up (I’ve Had Enough). That one’s loose and rockin’ and fun. I don’t think it gets much respect, but it sounds great in a car.

After I close out the category, I’m going to need to start a new project. But, I’m having trouble coming up with a target. It has to be an artist that sold a lot of records, or the price of the CDs will be too high. Or they’ll be out of print. AC/DC is done, and so is Van Halen. I can’t stand Pink Floyd, so don’t recommend those wankers. But who should it be? Remember: it can’t be obscure. And there has to be a classic rock nostalgia vibe to it. Help me out, won’t you?

Speaking of Pink Floyd, I stepped in dog shit last night. In our kitchen. Andy is getting old (he’ll be 16 on June 1), and if somebody doesn’t let him outside the moment he requests it… he just offloads where he stands. It’s not a huge problem, yet. But he’s erected pyramids in the living room two or three times over the past six months or so, and last night in the kitchen. And I stepped in it, while wearing socks! I threw both of them in the trash, even though only one was soiled. It felt like both needed to go. Am I wrong? One sock was shit smeared, and the other had been shit-adjacent. Yes, it’s quite a life I’ve carved out for myself.

If the price was closer to $50, instead of $400, I’d be tempted to buy one of these. I don’t know why, really. What would I do with such an item? It’s pretty cool, though. What do you think? And which TV show set replica would you like to see next? I’d like to have the sheriff’s office from The Andy Griffith Show, maybe with Otis sleeping in one of the cells? What do you say?

And I need to go, now. Another day of non-stop fun awaits. I’ll try to snap out of it, and not go so long between updates. I’m also trying to work on this book project, and Andy’s output has been superior to mine. I need to go on a vacation, or climb into a sweat lodge, or something. Sheesh. This shit is ridiculous.

I’ll see you guys again soon.

Have a great day!

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A Few Quick Things, vol. 687

We got about eight inches of snow last night, and the boys are out shoveling the driveway as I type. I made a decision that I’m not doing it anymore. We have two healthy males, ages 20 and 18, living in this house, and they’re doing all of that shit from now on. All of it. And when they complain… which goes with the territory, I’m going to call them delicate flowers and sometimes Little Lord Fauntelroy. Then I’m going to take a hit off my coffee, and pop a cookie into my mouth. These are a couple of the life decisions I’ve made recently. There have been others.

I’ve had enough of this crap, though. I don’t really care about the cold all that much, but snow and ice causes me problems during the Tom Petty/Burger King hot dog/talking to my brother or Steve on the phone commute. It complicates matters. My little wind-up car is uncomfortable — it feels like I’m sitting in a plastic laundromat chair going down the highway — but it’s pretty good in snow. Regardless, there have been several white-knuckle rides homes from work this winter. A few weeks ago I had to tap the brakes, on account of chronic shitheadery up ahead, and the back-end of my vehicle attempted to change positions with the front-end. On Interstate 81! That one caused my sphincter to wink, I don’t mind admitting. So, enough is enough. This has officially crossed over into bullshit already.

Speaking of my car, I think I’m going to trade it once spring gets here. In early June, or whatever. I’ve had no problems with it, not really. I just don’t like it. Ya know? I’m not much of a car guy, I view them as nothing more than pieces of equipment I use to get around. I have no romantic Springsteen-like notions on the subject. But I’ve never liked this car. In fact, I believe it’s the first time in my life that I’ve had an actual sustained opinion on my current vehicle, one way or the other. So, screw it. I think I’m going back to the tried and true Toyota Camry. At the first sign of spring… in mid-June or whatever.

I keep forgetting to update on Toney’s attempted bribe of the cable guy. As you might recall, she had a twenty dollar bill set aside for the “project.” She had to call them out for some kind of work-related stuff, but wanted them to also activate another cable line to our bedroom. You know… off the books. Well, he did it without hesitation, and no money was ever mentioned or offered. She just said, “Any chance I could talk you into activating that line while you’re here?” And he said, “Sure, no problem” and took care of it. She wondered if she should’ve tipped him, but didn’t. He didn’t act like it was any big deal, so she quickly dropped it. It saved us a $45 connection fee, or maybe it was $40. And that’s how it went. We’re not sure about the tip. It’s one of those situations where you don’t really know what to do. So, she just thanked him and said nothing more.

A few days ago I read this article about a substitute teacher in Texas who did a cartwheel in class while wearing a skirt and no underwear. It was mildly amusing, but the internet has raised the bar so high it wasn’t anywhere near shocking. However… this part of the story is pretty goddamn memorable:

A 17-year-old female student told police that Sponsler “had said that she was not wearing underwear before performing the cartwheel,” which exposed her “bare vagina.” The student noted that she saw Sponsler’s vagina “open and close, as her legs were in the air.”

Open and close?! Ha! That’s amazing. I’m hearing Pac Man sounds in my head. There are some other crazy-ass quotes in that thing, as well. The woman clearly needs to be in an asylum somewhere. And I don’t understand the discrepancies in the photos. She looks halfway decent in one, and full-hag in the other. Whatever. Here’s a ridiculous video, captured by a student on his cell phone. It’s all slowed-down and perved-up. Good stuff.

I need to go now, even though I have lots more to share. I’ll try to knock out another update over the weekend, to close out the category. No promises, though. I’m a very lazy man. In the meantime, some questions for you guys to ponder:

Do you eat in your car, like I do? Anything more challenging that a Burger King chili cheese dog, at 75 mph? Maybe like a plate of spaghetti or corn on the cob? Please tell us about it.

Have you ever had a car that you just hated, for no clear reason? It’s not a piece of shit, in fact it’s very reliable, but you simply can’t stand it? I’d like to know about it.

And finally… Please bring us up to date on your most inappropriate teachers. I had one give me an F, and added, “And you know what that F stands for, right?” She hated me, openly and with good reason. So, I took that to mean Fuck You. Am I misreading it? What a horrible ugly woman. She looked like she’d been caught in a fast-moving industrial fire, permanently destroying her face skin. She was also white trash and quite stupid… but I’m getting off track here. If you have anything to add to this one, please do. Use the comments link above or below, or wherever.

I’m running late, boys and girls. I’ll see you again soon.

Have a great day!

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

A Few Quick Things, vol. 45

When I was a kid there was an insurance man who came to our house every so often. And now that I think about it… why? I’ve been an adult since late 1980, according to the standard definition. And since… OK, it’s still a work in progress according to the real world. In any case, I can’t remember an insurance man coming to any of my houses or apartments, not once. What in the world? This guy would show up with a briefcase and a petroleum-based sport coat, and spread papers all over our coffee table while my parents looked on with solemn expressions. It’s all very mysterious.

And he had a hook! The man had a metal hook where his right hand should’ve been. But he could manipulate that thing like a chef at Benihana. There was a lot of flashing and clicking, and paper-shuffling. My folks would always warn my brother and me not to stare at this monthly spectacle, but it was a difficult thing to ignore. Hell, the contortionist who performed during halftime at the Harlem Globetrotters wasn’t as fascinating. And he could’ve shouted up his own bunghole and triggered a rectal echo (recho?).

I always wondered how the man lost his hand. Maybe he got it caught in some kind of industrial machine? Or somebody let loose with a banshee scream and lopped it off with a sword? Or he made a drunken cherry bomb miscalculation? There are many possible scenarios.

One time he knocked on our door with his more traditional hand, and my brother yelled, “Mom, Captain Hook is here!” This caused some awkwardness, as you might imagine. But my brother was a little kid, possibly pre-1st grade. So, c’mon. But the guy clearly didn’t care for the comment, and was acting all huffy about it and causing great embarrassment for my mother. I didn’t like any of that. If I had a hook, I’d never stop making jokes — mostly, but not exclusively, about wiping. Ya know? I lost a lot of respect for our insurance salesman with the after-market hand that day. Oh well. Life is full of disappointments.

Do you have any similar tales to tell? Recurring insurance men? People with fascinating disabilities? Cringe-worthy statements from the mouths of hooligan children? Please share. Also, what happened to all the hooks? I don’t see them anymore.

And speaking of disappointments, our Big-Ass Television (BAT) has shit the bed from headboard to footboard. It is, however, ten years old, purchased with my final Warner Home Video bonus, for roughly $2500. Crazy! It’s so big I think they shipped it in by rail. And now the same company (Best Buy) is going to have to cart it outta here. They brought it in, and they’re going to take it out. Toney and I will buy a new and much better TV this afternoon, for less than $500, have it delivered (for free) and pay a $15 fee to have the old one removed. Money well-spent. I’m not dealing with that behemoth.

I paid about $2500 for my first computer too, in 1995 or 1996. It had a big 1.3 gigabyte hard drive, and our first ISP was Mindspring. That machine would freeze up all the time, and had a tower roughly the size of a nightstand. The $300 laptop I bought a couple of months ago is approximately ten million times better than that ridiculous thing. But I had fun with it. Some of my favorite websites back then included rotten dotcom and portalofevil. My mind, already warped, was pushed completely over the edge by those and similar sites. Remember when you could still be shocked by things? Ahhh, good times.

Here’s part of a new review of Crossroads Road at Amazon: Ridiculous with absolutely zero substance, but well-written and utterly hilarious!! I am totally OK with that one. But this one is still my favorite: I recently obtained this book for free through Amazon. I think I overpaid for it. It is a sophomoric piece of trash. It’ll be hard to beat that one. In fact, I’m thinking about revising the cover to include “A sophomoric piece of trash!” at the top. Clearly, this person hasn’t read my thoughts on hand hooks.

A couple of weeks ago I started something I call Project Petty. The plan was to take advantage of the crazy-low prices on the original Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers CDs at Amazon: everything from the first album through Full Moon Fever. I have fond and nostalgic memories of those records, but never got them on CD for some reason. Right now they’re almost all priced at $4.99, with free Prime shipping. So, the plan was to buy them in order, two at a time.

I snagged the first two with no problem. Somehow, I don’t think I ever owned You’re Gonna Get It, the second album. Almost all of it is new to me. So, that’s pretty cool. Then it was time to buy Damn the Torpedoes and Hard Promises. And the second one isn’t available. I’m almost certain it was when I first looked, but not anymore. So, I had to buy from a third party and it cost almost ten bucks with shipping. Project Petty was not launched with such uncertainties in mind.

Now I’m on to the third group: Long After Dark and Southern Accents. The first one is available, but it says it will ship within TWO MONTHS. What in the undeniable shit?? And Southern Accents isn’t available at all, apparently. So, I’m going to have to go third party on those two, as well? This whole thing is a disaster. I was mentally calibrated for $4.99 each, free shipping. Now everything’s in disarray. It’s an outrage! I think I’m going to call Jesse Jackson.

Have any of you purchased one of those Ancestry DNA tests? I’m intrigued, but wonder how precise they are. I’d be pissed if I handed over $200 (or whatever) and got a report that just says “Europe.” Know what I mean? Do you have any experience with it? If so, I’d love to know your thoughts. How much did it cost in total? Were you happy with the results? Did you learn anything interesting? Please use the comments section to bring us up to date on it.

And I’m going to call it a day, my friends. We have a ludicrously large TV to purchase.

I’ll see you again soon!

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Have You Ever Had Major Surgery? I’d Be Freaking Out, Man!

Yesterday I was talking to a guy who’s about to have some kind of crazy back surgery. He explained it to me, and it sounded terrifying.  They’re going to remove one disc… fuse two others together… take his spine all the way out and twirl and toss it like a baton. I might have some of the details wrong, but it was definitely involved.

“Nervous?” I asked him.

“Nah. There’s nothing to be nervous about. I’m in good hands,” he answered.

“Have you ever had surgery before?” I said, believing he must be an old pro to have such a cavalier attitude.

“No, this is my first time,” he told me.

What the? There’s a chance he was just putting on a brave face, like some people other than me feel compelled to do from time to time. But he certainly didn’t act like it. He seemed to be genuinely chill about the whole thing. And how?

There’s nothing to be nervous about?? Are you fucking kidding me?

Let’s start with the anesthesia. What if you have some kind of allergic reaction to it, or there’s a malfunction of some sort? They could roll in a healthy man with a backache, and 40 minutes later have a flipped-over cadaver on their hands. That shit happens thousands of times per day. At least in my mind, it does.

Also, the doctor could be having an off day. Maybe he stayed up too late binge-watching Sunny. Or perhaps his mind is on an upcoming sex-tourism trip he has scheduled to the Orient. So, he’s not fully concentrating, because he’s done this surgery many times before, and he accidentally snips something vital… And the next thing you know, you’re strapped to an electric wheelchair for the rest of your life, navigating by blowing through a straw, or whatever.

Or what about those raging runaway infections that people get in hospitals? They make the incision, and within three hours your temperature is fluctuating between 109 and 112. And the hallucinations are so intense you cross over the sanity threshold, never to return. Even if you survive the ordeal, you spend the rest of your days in an asylum, repeating a series of numbers and rocking forward and backward. Nothing else.

So, don’t tell me there’s nothing to be nervous about. I think I need to have a conversation with that young man.

Thankfully I’ve never had surgery. In fact, I’ve never even spent a night in a hospital. I’m sure my time will come, and I’ll be freaking out, man. You can put that one in the DEFINITE column. I’m scared of all things medical, always assume the worst, and have a pretty good imagination. And that’s not a good combination, my friends.

Have you had a major surgery? I’m not talking about wart removal, although I’d be shitting myself over that, as well. During the lead-up to it, were you more like the guy I spoke with? Or were you more like me? Please tell us about it in the comments.

And I need to go to work now.

Have yourselves a fantastic day.

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What Are Your Thoughts On This Commercial? Also, Have You Ever Tried To Bribe Someone?

I see this ad all the time. In fact, it feels like I see the same ten or so ads, over and over. But this one gets through, and causes me to consider it. It’s not really annoying either, which is the usual reason I notice commercials. It just triggers a lot of questions and comments. For instance:

This girl seems like a handful to me. She’s clearly a spirited lass, which is fine. I’m a longtime fan of the spirited lass. However, I’d probably develop a full-blown anxiety complex if I was her father. Ya know? I have a hard enough time with two laid-back hooligan sons. Inject this young lady’s level of vigor, and I’m not sure I could handle it.
There’s a lot of hopping and spinning and over-the-top smiling, which would get old real fast. I’m more accustomed to scowling and mumbling. Even when she’s just driving straight ahead at the end, she can’t sit still. I would lose my goddamn mind.
When did teenage daughters on TV commercials transition from exasperated and put-upon adultlettes, forever reacting to the ridiculous antics of their doofus fathers, to this girl who clearly has a history of lying, running off to smile and spin at the beach, and making out with boys sporting asshole haircuts on a couch?
Do 16 year olds really have access to places where they can engage in high-energy dancing, possibly lesbian in nature, with flashing lights, etc.? I don’t know how that works. When I was 16 I just drank beer in cars and listened to Van Halen II. How does a 16 year old even know how to dance? And why would they want to? In fact, why would ANYBODY want to dance, at any time? A more ludicrous activity, I cannot imagine.
I was fairly wild when I was her age, but at no time did I load my parents’ car with Asians and do donuts in the middle of a high-traffic intersection. That shit is outrageous.
And even though the teens in this ad seem a tad morally dynamic, I feel like the device being peddled is wildly invasive. Am I wrong? I would never subject my kids to that level of intrusion. I don’t even think we watch suspected terrorists as closely.

What are your thoughts on this curious advert? Please share in the comments.

And speaking of morally dynamic, Toney tells me she’s going to attempt to bribe the cable guy with a twenty dollar bill today. She’s going to ask him to add an off-the-books TV line to our bedroom. Again… I don’t know how that works, or if it’s even possible. She might be able to half the $40 install fee, but I think they can tell what’s going on beyond that. Plus, there’s a box required. Right? We’ll see how it goes. But she’s serious. The bribin’ twenty is set aside, and on our dining room table as I type. I’ll let you guys know what happens. She seems confident, and clearly believes everyone is on the take, like we’re in Mexico or Russia.

I don’t think I’ve ever attempted to bribe anyone. It seems unlikely, but I can’t come up with a single example of such a thing in my lengthy-ass history. Have you? I’d love to hear those stories, as well. Or maybe somebody tried to bribe you? Please bring us up to date on it.

And I need to go to work now. Soul-crushing nonsense awaits!

Have a great day, boys and girls.

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