Hi folks

Yesterday and most of today I’ve been doing some deep-cleaning around the house, and man, it sucks.  That kind of nonsense is horrible on a regular day, but it’s suddenly so hot and humid I feel like I’m living underneath a heavy scrotum.  Not just a scrotum, mind you, but a heavy one.

My home office (aka The Bunker) is a thing of beauty, though, and so is the entire downstairs.  Toney is tackling the upstairs, and I had the boys mow the lawn.  So, we’re getting there.  It hasn’t been fun, and my mannery glands are as slick as twin seals.  But as I type this… it’s almost cocktail hour.

I have to work on Sunday night, but have Monday off.  Couldn’t they just give us a long weekend?  No, I guess they could not.  They’re giving us the SECOND day of the week off.  Hey, whatever.  As I said before, it’s too hot to give a shit.

Some fresh outrage:  A few days ago I was in the post office, to mail some DVDs.  I checked my PO Box before I went to the counter, and it was completely empty – again.  Every time I check, there’s nothing.  I don’t get much mail there, it’s true.  But not a single thing in weeks?  Not even pizza coupons?  It seemed weird.

So, I asked the guy at the counter about it, and he went and checked for me.  When he returned he told me there was a cardboard “plug” in the back of my box, which indicates the fee wasn’t paid.

“That’s weird,” I said.  “It seems like I just paid it a few weeks ago.  I’ll have to check it when I get home.”

He had a concerned look, and asked a woman to confirm the status of Box 88.  She logged onto a computer, and a couple of minutes later told him it’s paid-up until August 14, or something.

“So, how long has that plug been in there?”  I asked.

“Um… since late February.”

What?!  I asked him what’s been happening to my mail, and he told me it’s all being returned(!).

“Why does my key still work, if you think the fee wasn’t paid?” I said.

“It doesn’t make any sense, does it?” he answered.

Good thing I’m on those new blood pressure pills…  God only knows what was returned as undeliverable.  I don’t even want to think about it.  It’s infuriating.  They’re supposed to do an “investigation,” but I don’t expect to get any satisfaction.  I mean, what am I, an idiot?  There’s no positive outcome to this.

So, in the unlikely event that you sent something to my PO Box, and it was returned, I apologize.  I don’t know what the hell happened, and how their high tech plug system broke down (what is this, 1923?).  It’s just one stupid thing after another.

I have more outrage, involving Subway (nothing about mayonnaise this time), but it’ll have to wait.  Do you have anything new to report, on the rage front?  Please use the comments link below.

Also, there are a lot empty stores at our local mall, and the boys and I were trying to come up with some businesses we could launch, to fill the gaps.  It was complete silliness, and my two favorite offerings were Acre of Pants, and Jeff’s House of Exotic Baloneys.

So, if you want to give us some new mall stores to ponder, that would be cool, too.

I’m going to open a beer now, and start down that slippery slope.  I’ve been working my big ass off, and feel like I’ve earned it.  Of course, I also feel like I’ve earned it when I take my shoes off, or successfully scratch an itch in the center of my back.  But that’s beside the point.

Have a great weekend, my friends.

I’ll see ya next time.

Now playing in the bunker
Treat yourself at Amazon: US and Canada

Yesterday

Me:  Stressed.

Toney:  Are u there?

Me:  Yeah, and I’m the youngest person by 20 years.

Toney:  I know!  Some of them bring their own nurses with them.

Me:  And somebody doesn’t smell too good in here.

Toney:  Yuck!

Me:  I’m probably breathing in cancer.

Toney:  LOL.  I don’t think that’s contagious.

Me:  This sucks!

Toney:  You’ll be fine.

Me:  I bet he’s back there lubing up a fist, right now.

Toney:  You’re insane!

But, to my utter surprise, everything’s fine.  They tested my blood and (mid-stream) urine for a ridiculously long list of things, and there wasn’t a single problem in any category.  Whew!  I don’t understand how it’s possible, but whew!

My blood pressure was also down significantly from last time.  I took the doc’s advice and cut down on salt and soda — I’ve stopped eating Marlene Collateral frozen meals altogether — and my BP was a lot closer to normal than it’s been for a while.

However, he said the bottom number is still a bit elevated and he wants me to go on a very low-dose pill for a while, and try to lose 20 or 25 pounds.  If I shed the weight, he says, I’ll almost certainly be able to come off the meds.

At the end he added, “You’re doing great, for a 49 year old man.”  That sounded good, and I liked hearing it.  But as I was driving home… I started turning it over in my head.

For an old man, you’re doing well.  Not for a young guy, mind you, but for a person of your advanced age… not bad.  Is that what he meant?  I think so.

Also:  49?!  Holy shit!!  How is that EVEN possible?  I was 26 a couple of years ago.  And I feel exactly the same as I did then.  Oh, I probably understand the world a little better, and my life experiences have caused me to look at things a bit differently — possibly with more maturity.

But I still think insensitive thoughts all day long, laugh at stuff society says you’re not supposed to laugh at, and just generally approach things like I did when I was an ugly youngster.  Back then I thought a 49 year old man would be seasoned and reasonable, and would walk around thinking about pipe tobacco and cardigans.

Yet I’m still the same dumbass as I ever was.  My earthly container just keeps getting bigger, and my hair is turning gray.  Other than that… same dipshit with the same disgraceful visions dancing around inside his head.

I’m massively relieved, though.  I’m not sure if I mentioned it, but I’m not a fan of medical tests and that sort of thing.  I probably never said anything about it…  But I feel like a million pound weight has been removed from my shoulders.  Now I’m going to try to drop 25.  I really want to do it, and make this prescription nonsense a short-lived affair.

For a Question, maybe you guys can talk about how you’ve changed since the age of 26.  You know, assuming you’re older than that.  I’m serious, I’ve changed very little.  For better or worse…  How about you?

See you guys again tomorrow, or Thursday.  Wednesdays are tough, but I’ll try.

Have a great day!

Now playing in the bunker
Buy Jeff a beer, a celebratory beer!

Our oldest son

But on Sunday he was working on it, and Toney was at the grocery store.  So, he came to me with a couple of leaves, and wanted me to tell him what kind of trees they came from.

“You’re asking the wrong person,” I said.  “I don’t know anything about trees or plants, or any of that stuff.  I got – literally – nothing.”

“I need to finish this today,” he said.

“Well, wait till your mother gets back, or look it up on the internet.”

“Ohhhhh maaaaan,” he whined.

“Hey, it’s your project.  You’re supposed to know.”

“I just need to get this finished. I’ve been working on it all weekend.”

Frowning, I took the leaves and started looking them over.  “OK, let me see.  …I think this is a Chinese weeping maple, and this one looks like it might be a Jew spruce.”

I’m pretty sure he knew I was joking.  Reasonably sure.

On Thursday I mowed our whole yard, for only the second time this year.  I’ve been trying to pawn that job off on the boys, and they’ve been handling most of it this spring.

But they don’t do a very good job…  They’re half-assed, and are prone to cutting corners.  Or, more precisely, NOT cutting corners…  While I was mowing on Thursday I came across sections out back that had clearly not been touched since the last time I did it.  Grrr…  We’ll be having a brief meeting.

I got it whipped into shape, though, and loved having it done before everyone else.  It made me happy in my soul to see the neighbors out there on Friday evening, or over the weekend, their cracks awash in perspiration – while ours was already a thing of beauty.  You know, relatively speaking.

In fact, I’m tempted to just knock it out every Thursday, and always get a jump on the neighbors.  After school is out, I can enlist the help of the Secrets, and supervise their work. Thursdays will be “yard day,” or “stick it to Half-Shirt day,” or whatever we choose to call it.

Of course, the guy on the corner has a service that cuts his yard every week.  That trumps everything; there’ s simply no beating that bastard.  God, how I hate him.

On Saturday I woke up starving, and knew it would be one of those days where I’d be unable to achieve a state of un-hungry.  I’ve been around long enough to know how those things go.  If I get out of bed already super-hungry, I’ll be a bottomless pit the whole day.

So, I made that prediction on Twitter, and polished off two Little Debbies in the kitchen.  And when I returned to my computer, I had a response that said, “Oh noes. I have lots of days like that too.”  And it was from E.L. James, author of the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy.  You know, the most popular books in the world? The whole thing was disconcerting, and I sat there blinking real fast for a full minute.

What’s next?  A J.K. Rowling Facebook “poke?”  It made my brain melt down.  Very cool.

And for the record… my prediction was correct.  I couldn’t stop eating on Saturday, yet remained hungry throughout.  You can’t start out with a deficit like that…

In case you missed it, I posted a super-rare Saturday update this past weekend.  Here’s your link.  It’s a story from olden times, written and cut from a book project I recently started.  I believe it’s at least mildly funny.

And if you were thinking about maybe donating to the Surf Report cause, today might be a good day to do it.  Ahem.  Here’s the beer page.  As always… much appreciated.

I’ll leave you now with a Question inspired by this article about a new line of Yankee Candles for men.  The new fragrances are called Man Town (wtf?), First Down, Riding Mower, and 2×4.  I like the last one, but sure as shit don’t want to smell fresh-cut grass, or (full-body shiver) Man Town.

In any case, I know we can do better.  What fragrances should Yankee Candle introduce for men?  Please list your suggestions in the comments box below.

And I’ll see you guys again tomorrow.

Have a great day!

Now playing in the bunker
Buy Jeff a beer, he could use a beer

Hello Surf Reporters!

When I was in fifth grade my parents conspired to wreck my life. They began searching around town for a larger house, believing the family had outgrown our cramped but familiar place on 21st Street. The whole thing was ludicrous. Unthinkable, even. So, I launched a desperate campaign to set things right.

My approach was a complicated mixture of wild tantrums, dramatic displays of dark despair, level-headed adolescent logic, and threats of never going outside again. “I’ll just stay in and watch Hazel until I’m 30,” I pouted. But none of it worked. Their minds were made up, and my life was scheduled to be wrecked.

I had a good friend named Doug, who lived across the alley from us, and the thought of leaving him behind saddened me. He and I collaborated on many notable projects, such as slinging mud and eggs against a neighbor’s garage, and hosting an annual “haunted house,” which was mostly just the two of us throwing dirt clods at other kids in the dark.

When we were very young, during second grade or thereabouts, we caused a minor uproar by making something we called “poop sauce.” We took a bucket of water and added various ingredients, such as yard trimmings and mysterious chemicals from the tool shed behind Doug’s house. After it reached the right consistency and color, it was then time to fold-in the most important ingredient of all.

We spread out, Doug taking 22nd Street, and me canvassing 21st. The purpose of our quest was to secure a bounty of premium turds, to complete the concoction. I mean, you can’t very well make poop sauce without the poop, right?

Almost immediately I happened upon a pile of white dog crap, which used to be common in the 1970s, but is rarely seen nowadays. Wonder why? It’s a real mystery. In any case, I decided I could do better and continued.

But the trail went cold after I left the white cliffs of Rover. I didn’t see another dog log for an entire city block. Discouraged, I turned the corner and headed toward 22nd Street, hoping to meet Doug approaching in the opposite direction.

However, as I neared the alley, I spotted the most magnificent pile my eyes had ever seen. A single ray of sunshine seemed to illuminate the turds, causing them to glisten like the rare jewels they were. It was a gigantic pyramid of feces. I’m not even sure it was the product of a dog, it might have been a black bear, or possibly the school bus driver.

I pulled a box from a nearby trash can, the remnants of a Fritos fun-pack, as I recall, and used a stick to transfer the spectacular load to the cardboard surface. And I proudly marched with my prize, back to poop sauce central.

“Wow!” Doug exclaimed. He was as impressed as I knew he would be, and offered to discard his meager harvest.

“No, throw it all in!” I said, enthusiastically.

We mixed it with a tree branch, until the main ingredient dissolved and became one with the sauce itself. It smelled horrific, and nearly caused me to vomit. It was perfect!

Then Doug’s mother came out, asked what we were doing, and everything went downhill from there. Before I knew it my mother was there, too, and everybody was yelling, “Why?? What would possess a person to do something like this?!” I don’t know what they finally did with the sauce, but I’m pretty sure there were private conversations about child psychologists, and that sort of thing.

When we were older we got into more serious trouble, including the aforementioned episode with the eggs and the mud and a neighbor’s garage. But I still maintain the old bag had it coming. She was always screaming at us, and shaking a veiny fist in our direction. Oh, this wasn’t just some random crime – it was kid-on-bag justice. But, after we were caught, my dad whipped me with a belt anyway. It was a simpler time…

One afternoon we also found barrels filled with potatoes in a neighbor’s garage. Why they were there, I do not know; I’m not aware of people buying potatoes by the barrel-load. And I don’t know why we were roaming around inside someone else’s garage, either. These are details that can’t be easily explained.

But we saw that the potatoes were nothing if not throwable, and ended up flinging a dozen or more at the side of another kid’s house – a weirdo named Fred. His crime? General strangeness, and a penchant for tweaking his wiener. Always with the tweaking, and the pinching, and the twisting…

We’re lucky we didn’t knock out a window, or it very likely would have been a simpler time, again. Nothing was broken, but each potato made a satisfying THUD! as it hit the shingles on the side of the house. We were buckled over with laughter, believing this to be the absolute pinnacle of comedy.

Then Fred’s mother appeared. She was always described as the nervous type: very timid and jittery. Another of my neighborhood friends, Billy, said she had “the rickets,” but that has never been confirmed. On this day she came crashing out the front door, wearing her mean face and glancing quickly in every direction, like an agitated ferret. Uh oh!

Doug and I took off running, but not before launching two more high-arcing potatoes. We couldn’t see what happened next, because our backs were now turned, but heard two loud spud thuds followed by a blood-curdling scream. Good god, had we killed the woman? No, we’d both heard the potatoes hit the house, so it must have only startled her.

We couldn’t stop laughing. And Fred told Doug, later in the week, that his mother had been bedridden because of the stress brought on by the unprovoked “attack.” Heh. Nobody ever knew who was responsible, and I wish we could have seen their reactions when they found fifteen baking potatoes in their side yard.

At Fred’s house they also had a box fan in one of the windows, blowing in. My parents always had them blowing out, but this one was configured the opposite way. Every few days Billy would walk past and casually throw a handful of sand into the whirling blades, sending it flying all over their living room. One day he did this while the family was having dinner, and Fred’s dad came running into the yard, ready to kill something.

But it wasn’t always a meeting of the Future Assholes of America Guild on 21st Street. We also played a lot of baseball (mostly catch – we loved to throw things), climbed trees, caught lightning bugs, ate “sour grass,” bought orange push-ups off The Humdinger ice cream truck, and rode our bikes for hours and hours and hours. Sometimes we even followed the city Jeep that sprayed for bugs – the smoke truck, we called it – pedaling inside the big cloud of DDT, or whatever. And that might explain a few things, now that I think about it…

That neighborhood was the only world I knew, the only place I’d been a kid. I’d gotten my first bee sting there, and jumped my bike across a pile of 100 rocks in the alley, like a junior Evel Knievel. My friends and I walked to Charlotte’s Grocery every summer day, for penny candy and blue Slushies that made our shit turn green. And at dinner time it smelled like pork chops, fried potatoes, and pinto beans – the whole block.

The thought of leaving seemed impossible; it was a part of me, and I was a part of it. I wondered if I’d cease to exist if I wasn’t allowed to exist there. Every morning, as I woke, I immediately remembered my days were numbered, and it felt like there was a cannonball inside my gut. It’s a wonder I didn’t worry myself bald at the age of eleven.

But the dreaded day eventually arrived, and we left our home, and my friends. Doug and I were blood brothers, literally. We’d each sliced open a finger, and mashed our open wounds together – something we’d learned from some TV show I no longer recall. The pain of breaking up our little ring of terror was considerable.

My family and I moved all the way to – get this – 17th Street. That’s right, the new house was only down four blocks and over one, but it might as well have been Chernyakhovsk, Russia. I didn’t know any of the kids there, and was now zoned for another elementary school (gulp!). Just like that, everything was upside-down.

My life was officially wrecked.

Now playing in the bunker
Buy Jeff a beer, he could use a beer

Also: Random People Tweeting About What’s Going On in the Bathroom at Work