Subdivided We Stand Meets Marathon Man

Don't Read This -- Read That

I've got nothing.

But Joe Kelly -- now HE has something. Check it aht.

Weekend Update

Whoo -- what a weekend!

If you had told me even as recently as 5 years ago that my Saturday night would consist of dinner at a sub-mediocre chain-style restaurant, followed by a trip to Target to buy a toilet brush...

But the thing is -- I LIKED this weekend. We walked the dogs, we watched the Stillers lose with John & Ding & Emily & DanBob, I cleaned out Smithers' ears, we fed Adam, we changed Adam, we fed Adam, we changed Adam...but still, it was cool.

The down side to weekends such as this one is that not as much gets done as needed done -- especially in light of the looming annual Halloween bash. Usually, at this time of year, I'm already working myself into a frenzy trying to complete household projects. But this year, people will just have to make do without some of the usual touches. Besides, in all the years we've been here, not one person has come up to me and said, "Hey, nice pressure washing job on the front porch!"

One task we DID manage to accomplish was delivering a bunch of past-their-prime electronics items to a recycling event. I've discussed my reluctance to part with things previously, and nowhere is that more evident than in the four VCR's, two cd players, and other miscellaneous items that were taking up space in the house. I just didn't have the heart to put those items in the garbage -- and thanks to this event, I didn't have to. We packed up the VCR's (two of which used "flywheels" for tuners, which is a concept that pre-dates most of you), an old typewriter, a printer for my Mac Plus, and more, and carted it off -- all the while listening to the PSU game, where the PSU coaching staff provided even more evidence that it, too, is ready for the recycling bin.

Next project -- dumping the three-plus years of back issues of Newsweek. I always keep them, thinking that I may need to reference an article someday, but of course I never do. Besides, all that info is probably online anyway. There was about a three-month period after the birth of Adam where I didn't even crack open the new Newsweek. They're sitting there in a stack beside the bed. I plan on reading them soon -- really. The entire war with Iraq is in there. I'm looking forward to reading the part where we uncover the Weapons of Mass Destruction (which are likely being guarded by the Rodents of Unusual Size), establish the Saddam/9-11 link, and all the Iraqis join hands in celebration of democracy -- American Style.

More Broadcast Excellence

Today: The thrilling conclusion to Tuesday's tale of titanic transmitting triumph!

Or, in other words, the rest of my recollections of being the morning dj at WXVX -- Monroeville, PA's 1000-watt flamethrower, where AM stood for "Alternative Music."

If I recall correctly, I left of at the end of my first day of training -- during which I apparently impressed the management enough that they gave me a key and told me to show up for sign-on the next morning. Which I did. But the guy who was supposed to be training me didn't. I sat in the freezing studio by myself for about 20 minutes, when the phone rang. It was the PD, calling to ask why I hadn't started the show.

After a few minutes of sheer panic, I managed to fire up the ancient transmitter, and began cranking out the tunes, and continued to do so for the next year or so. My three-day-a-week shift turned to five -- all of which were unpaid, of course. Apparently I thought this would get me somewhere.

It didn't. But it WAS fun, in spite of, or perhaps BECAUSE of the low-rent nature of it all. WXVX was owned by a female doctor, who maintained it as a tax write-off. In the finest WKRP tradition, it would've been a disaster for her if it made money. She was in no danger of that, however -- especially considering that we didn't even have a salesperson out there trying to sell advertising.

We did have some ads, though -- all bartered by the PD. We could always tell when he'd ordered a pizza -- all of a sudden, there'd be a Donna Lyn's Pizza spot in every break for a couple of weeks. I eventually figured that the going rate for a large pepperoni must've been 40 spots. Other prominent X-15 advertisers included the gas station where the PD filled his tank, and the car wash where he washed his car.

So other than trading ads for stuff, how did the PD make his money? Simple -- he sold our assets. Specifically, he sold off the music, bit by bit. You could always tell when he needed money, because cd's would go missing from the rack. Classy guy. At one point, we were receiving some heat from the FCC -- to which our fearless leader responded by splitting town for a couple of weeks.

But in spite of all that, it was fun. Since I was working for free, and no one was listening, I was free to goof around on air as much as I wanted. I had creative freedom to do pretty much whatever I wanted, although most of the time what I really wanted was just to stay awake long enough to finish my shift. Surprisingly, I did manage to garner a handful of steady listeners, who would call and keep me awake -- at least until we disconnected the phones to save a couple of dollars.

Anyway, X-15 was fun, we played some pretty good music, and I got radio out of my system -- for a few years, at least, until I began working for minimum wage at WTAE. And how many other dj's get to say that they could look out their window at deer, ducks, and -- one time -- a fox.

Speaking of dj's, I'd like to raise a 25-cent, 10-ounce plastic cup of warm beer to the memory of Harry the Wire -- the late, great dj at the Upstage who provided the soundtrack to about a thousand of my debauched nights in the mid-to-late 80's.

The Trees, The Car, and Other Things

We hereby interrupt Tuesday's sucka-dj bloggage, which was itself interrupted by yesterdays complete and utter lack of bloggage whatsoever, in order to bring you the following -- a little bit 'o bloggin' that I like to call "stuff that's happened within the past 36 hours, almost none of which is of interest to anyone whatsoever, but I felt like putting it in here anyway."

The following is dedicated to the memory of The Gap Band, for having managed to resurrect the codpiece as a fashion statement for a brief and shining moment in the early 80's. Word up!

Anyway, within the past 36, the following has taken place:

• Got the car inspected, in which I learned that (as I suspected) the guy who inspected the car LAST year completely ripped me off by requiring me to get new brakes installed, and then overcharging me for crappy brakes. New brakes now installed, a mere one year later.
• Also learned that the car battery would need to be replaced -- soon.
• Came home to find that the tree guy of mystery had indeed come while we were out, like the tooth fairy, and removed all traces of the five horrid pine trees at the back of the yard, as well as the flowering crabapple by the deck. Normally, I hate cutting trees down. There are a couple of little sticks growing on our property that, by all rights, should've been yanked when we moved in -- but I feel sorry for the little guys, and leave them be.

  These pines, however -- they're a different story. Mean, ugly, hateful things that drop pine cones year round, and litter the yard with needles most of the year as well. They had huge gaps in them, having been planted too close together. All in all, they were wretched, and now they're gone. The backyard now looks like -- well, I dunno how to describe it. Empty. Less cozy, maybe. Ah well -- we'll plant something new and nice there in the spring.

  The flowering crab was a different story. For two weeks a year, in the spring, it was a thing of beauty.

  Absolutely stunning, with pink blossoms that I just loved. The rest of the year, though, it dropped mean and hateful crabapples into the yard, which turned into a toxic sludge. The crabapples that DIDN'T fall on the yard fell on the deck -- where, if we weren't diligent, they were eaten by the dogs, who turned them into a toxic sludge of quite a different sort.

• Departing for work this morning....key in ignition....key turned...and RRrrrrrrsplut. As predicted, the battery was dead. Jump start wouldn't take, so I ended up riding with Julie -- which wouldn't have been an issue at all, if it weren't for the fact that she was taking Adam to the pediatrician for a checkup. So, I ended up tagging along, which I should've done in the first place I suppose. The reason I bring it up is to report the following stats: Weight -- 15 pounds. Height -- I forget, but he's fallen back to the 76th percentile. Monster baby no more. There goes the college scholarship and Father of an NBA star bling-bling. He will have to earn us our parental bling bling in another fashion, it seems.

• Took the car to Sears for a new battery and two new tires. Walked the mall while the work was being done, and realized that I have zero interest in anything being sold in the mall. But it was better than staying and talking to the mechanics, who kept telling me things such as "I'm not registering any blowback from your differential." After exhausting my stock of meaningless replies, including "jeez," "oh man," and "ain't that a corker," I gave up and embarked on my mall excursion.

Back to our previously scheduled radio star bloggage tomorrow.

Dumb Jobs I've Had -- Part XVX

Actually, of all my dumb jobs, this may be the one I liked the most. Not so coincidentally, it paid the least.

In fact, I did it for free.

In fact, not only did I do it for free, I quit a paying job to go do this job for free.

The time -- 1994? Maybe? I dunno. It was post-grad school, so '94 sounds about right. I was still hoping against hope to put that graduate degree in Television, Radio and Film (or, as a fellow graduate called it, a "Masters in Gilligan") to use in a city that had little of the first two and next to none of the last.

I was peeling pink stickies and slapping them on pieces of paper by day, and waiting tables by night. One night, I happened to wait on a fellow who described himself as "Assistant Program Director" at X-15 -- a tiny sun-up to sundown 1,000-watter in Monroeville. They'd been playing "alternative" music in that frequency for a couple of years, since the demise of the late, great WXXP. I knew the station pretty well, and knew it was a pretty low-rent operation. I had no idea how low.

Mr. Assistant Program Director hooked me up with the Full-Fledged Program Director, and after an extensive interview in which it was determined that I was, in fact, a breathing carbon-based form of life, I was in. Three mornings a week, sunrise to 10 am, I'd be on the air. A living, breathing radio star!

I'd been on the air before, so this wasn't that big a deal. I spent the first morning with a fellow named "Pet," who filled me in on the intricacies of the place, such as:

"Hit this button to start a song."

"Hit this button to talk."

"Here's the back door, out of which you shall pee."

Oh, sure, the place had a bathroom -- but it was filthy, and way down the hall. Why waste the effort? The studio was in the middle of nowhere, there was only one person there at a time, so have at it. And I did.

Did I say filthy? That doesn't do it justice. You could hear the pitter patter of little feet above your head in the drop ceiling. Mice. Thousands of them. How alternative!

Anyway, that first day I also learned how to turn on the transmitter, disarm the non-functioning alarm system (it was a box with a blinking green light, connected to nothing,) and various and sundry other essential items so important in the life of a burgeoning radio star.

Tomorrow: The FCC -- they can't fine you if they can't find you!

Cutting Edge

Pittsburgh's new growth industry is the perfect metaphor for a region that's lost its swagger.

The macho steel industry? Kaput. Our "City of Champions" sports teams? Toothless, and not in a Jack Lambert kind of bad-ass way. Collectively, as a region -- we've lost our balls.

So the sudden upswing in botched home castrations should come as no surprise. How many does this make over the past couple of years? Two, at least, that we know of -- which would indicate to me that there are probably plenty more do-it-yourself de-naddings going on out there.

How do the guys who want castrations hook up with the bogus castration doctors, though? That, to me is the mystery of the phenomenon.

The McKeesport Mangler
Tammy/Tommy -- a love story

Got Nothin'

Well of COURSE there's no "Bob's Record Corner" today. Next week. Seriously.

In the meantime, I have nothing for today. Nothing. I'm looking at the CNN home page -- nothing. I suppose I could make something out of the fact that "Britney Spears' album date" is deemed worthy of a headline while Dubya backing off the Saddam/9-11 ties is NOT, but I'm really not surprised. We care more about Britney.

No doggie stories of note, no baby accomplishments lately. Ugh. The neighborhood's been quiet, my favorite sports teams are too lousy to even deserve mention. Yup. Nothin' blog worthy tonight. Maybe something'll strike me overnight. But I'm not hopeful.

Turkey in the Burbs

It's almost like he's taunting us.

The ice cream man, virtually absent for most of the summer, made the rounds through our neighborhood last night. And when I say made the rounds, I mean that he drove around our neighborhood about 80 times, seemingly, blaring his music at full blast.

We passed him twice on our dog/baby walk. Both times, he was just parked there, playing his music. Ok, the first time, he had a customer -- but the second time, he was just parked in front of our neighbor's house, blaring the electronic bleeping and blooping that I couldn't put a name to....but I could put lyrics to it. Oh my yes.

"Theres....a....lot of good cookin' in a can of Cookin' Ease.
There's a lot of good cookin' in a can of Cookin' Ease.
There's a lot of good cookin' in a can of Cookin' Ease.
There's a lot of good cookin' in a can of Cookin' Ease."

That's it. He plays four bars of a song that I mainly recognize from a 70's commercial. There may have been other lyrics, but all I remember is the line above. I think it's fair to say that even the lyric I remembered is a lie -- my guess is that not one iota of good cookin' was ever created with "Cookin' Ease" as an ingredient. There may well have been some good huffin' in a can of the stuff, for those brain-dead enough to try such substances, but good cookin'? Not likely.

The title of the song from which that commercial was derived came to me at the end of the walk. I believe it's called "Turkey in the Straw." And so help me, portions of my brain recall that song as being a favorite of Jed Clampett. Why, why must worthless information such as this remain in my skull? If it was possible to get a lobotomy that only wiped out pop culture trivia, I'd be first in line.

What Passes For Entertainment...

Let me see if I've got this straight.

There's a show -- on network tv, no less -- in which people dress up to look like famous people, and then lip-sync their way through a performance.

At long last, network tv has managed to capture all of the excitement of karaoke night at Nico's Recovery Room. And this is better than reading a book, or sitting home and staring at the walls? What makes it all the worse is that judging by the commercials, the performers who are being imitated are performers I wouldn't want to see in person, let alone in imitation form.

Among other choices on tv tonight -- Joe Schmoe, The Mullets, and Pirate Baseball. The fact that any of these shows are on television provides further evidence that for some, life indeed is NOT too short.

Here's a show you'll really like -- new Adam pictures. (Link deleted.)

Gettin' His Mary's Worth

Did I say there'd be a new photo gallery today?

No -- no, I didn't think so. Must've been some other Bob's Blog o' Love.

Aargh. Truth is, I expected to do some work on that over the weekend. But yunz parents know how it is. Sometimes, things don't go as planned. So, we'll debut the Fifth and Forbes gallery NEXT Tuesday. In the meantime, you're stuck with the only topic I could come up with on short notice: Mary Worth.

See the guy pouring the coffee in today's strip? That's Dr. Jeff Cory. He proposed to ol' Mare a couple of years ago. Mare is playing coy, stringing the good doctor along, making him take her to fancy dinners at "The Bum Boat." (I kid you not, that's their favorite restaurant.)

So what's in it for Dr. Jeff? Why put up with the ol' battleax? Only one reason I can think of, and I'm sure you've already figured out where I'm going with this -- Mary is a savage in the sack. You get that pink housefrau frock off of her, and you'll find out what Mare is REALLY worth. Boy howdy. Dr. Jeff's been prescribing himself viagra by the bucketload ever since he hooked up with Mary Worth. (Although the rumor is that he's going to switch to that new boner medication, the one with the tv commercial of some poor sap trying to throw a football through a tire swing, and failing miserably, until he doses up with this new groinal enhancer, and then is able to take it to the hoop like nobody's business. Subtle. A friend pointed this out to me over the weekend, and I finally saw the spot during the miserable Steelers game on Sunday...)

See that noise she's making in that last panel? I'm not even going to speculate as to what it means. I leave that to you. I'll just bet it's something filthy, though.