House of Wachs

THE UPSIDE TO DUI

Just got back from a mission in St. Maarten, where George Stein and I go once a year to teach Judaism to the poverty stricken natives. If you're ever there, and see kids walking around in their copyright infringing ghetto wear and yarmulkes...that's our work. George and I are committed to getting the island's first synagogue up and running by next Yom Kippur. Please. Donate.

We stayed, of course, in George's modest home on the French Side.

Where crazy-eyed French-speaking guard cats prowl the premises and take no prisoners.

I bought this print for my wife out of love, and guilt that she wasn't on the trip.

Let me first acknowledge that it's a really lousy painting. It doesn't lift an emotional finger whatsoever. It's a painting with utterly no passion. Devoid of any inspirational markers. Revealing of no influences or perspectives.  It's not even good enough to be a children's picture despite the inherently low standards of children.

That's a wave in the middle. Not a seagull. They don't have seagulls down there, which is a bit of a shame since I like chucking rocks at them. But the beach is not rocky, but powdery, so it's just as well.

I paid $36 bucks for it because it happens to be a painting of an island on which I got it on with my wife during our honeymoon.

I persuaded her to go to the titty beach, which is so romantic and not creepy, coercing your new bride to go look at flabby old nude couples from Europe show off their raisins.

Well, I got aroused anyway. It wasn't the nudity, because much of it was the unfortunate kind. It was the idea of being able to run around completely nude in front of people and no one cared or laughed. It's as close to being invisible as one can get. It got me really excited.

Since nudity and not porno was allowed on the beach, we waved down a boat driven by a native with a giant package. For a small fee, he ferried us to the island in the picture above, about a minute away, where we went behind a rock ( on the right hand side) and got it on. Man, that was great.

Over the years, I never thought my wife could possibly have enjoyed it as much as me because it really is a man's pirate fantasy, and because I kept slamming her hip into the rock with every thrust, so she must have been banged into that rock about 4 times! Ouch!

My suspicions were confirmed, I'm sad to report upon my arrival. My wife hates the painting. I felt so terrible. And she made a wonderful warm bowl of cabbage soup for me, too for my arrival back into the colder weather of reality. She promised to hang it in our beach house when we get one, which is not looking all that good right now.

I might ask my Dad if I can put it in his beachfront mausoleum. That's class. Putting a print of where you first boned your wife in your parent's home.

Another busy week of What's Your Story? coming up, so I'm gonna go and look busy and sift through the week's parade of newsism, now.

MAKE ME WET

What is it Thursday? Only took me 3 days to recover from the past weekend in Las Vegas. Not bad for going to bed at 1pm last Saturday. After that refreshing nap/sleep it was off to the Palms Hardwood Suite for a 40th birthday party of a pal which lasted until 3am Sunday morning.

I've been to parties that had a basketball court, and I've been to parties in hotel rooms, but never to a party in a hotel room that had a basketball court inside it off the living room.

The entire hotel room is bigger than my home.

I think I did a pretty good job on attire for such a unique event.

The sporty sweater and tasteful jeans say: "I'm eager to have conversation and cocktails."

The sneakers and t-shirt underneath say: "But I'm ready to drain some 3-pointers if necessary."

What are the statistics on hotel rooms being broken into that have their TVs left on? I take it on faith that doing this deters criminals and degenerates, but I'd like to see the numbers to back it up.

I don't think it works if you leave it on any channel. A criminal is not so stupid to think that a Vegas tourist is going to sit in their hotel room on a Saturday night watching the hotel services channel or CNN when all kinds of funs are going on outside, so I put it on ESPN before I set off--LOUD--because it's more plausible that a degenerate gambler could be in the room catching up on college football.

Las Vegas, being a mecca for terrorists looking for a little fun before blowing up some building in the name of Allah, has some of the scrutiniest airport security in the US. The lines are snakes before they get on the plane.

I was detained at McCarren Airport briefly Sunday because the woman with the lip mole and heavy accent at the security bottle neck was confused that the "Lawrence Wachs" on my driver's license, and the "Larry Wachs" on my boarding pass didn't match up.

ME: Larry is a nickname for Lawrence.

HER: Yes, but they are not the same.

ME: It's like Bobby is short for Robert. BTW, you might notice that the face and the last name all match up.

HER: But one says Larry and the other says Lawrence.

LADY BEHIND ME: It's like Robert and Bob.

HER: Is this your wife?

ME: No. She's an American. Everyone knows this.

HER: I am American, too (but she said it like a vampire would).

...and zzzziiip....out comes the nylon barrier. Now, I've gone and done it.

She went to see her supervisor for some guidance on American nomenclature, came back with her tail between her legs, but no apology, and let me proceed for another 23 minutes of line before I could get out of Vegas.

Again, I must ask. Where's the danger in nicknames?

I must say a trip to the desert really gives perspective on the drought situation here in GA. I saw no one in Las Vegas praying for anything but a gambling victory or avoiding an STD. Water was not discussed at all despite the eternal drought outside.

I do believe in the power of prayer and faith. I don't know exactly the chain of events prayer touches off to yield results, but I have a notion that it's similar to the "monkeys with typewriters" effect. If you put enough minds to work meditating on a single problem, somebody's liable to stumble upon a solution.

But the Governor leading a prayer for water is really asinine. What are we?  Whoville? 

Praying for rain is the wrong prayer, too. I'd pray for grass and flowers that don't need rain or for the skies to open up and drop Purell and good red wine on us on Sundays. Maybe war on on Alabama and Florida. As long as we're throwing a Hail Mary, let's aim for the end zone, you people.

As a voter, I'm concerned when an elected leader uses prayer as a first resort to fixing a practical problem. Why vote? Just install gypsy fortune tellers or Creflo Dollar as governor. His rainmaking is legendary.

I could understand if we were being overrun with zombies. When that day comes, I will stand with the Governor, humble before the Lord. I promise you.

But water is everywhere. It's just trapped under regulation and politics. Is it that hard to make the case that an inedible mollusk in Florida is less important than a nice shower and shvitz for 25 minutes? That's what fighting is for. Prayer, in this case, communicates surrender to the obstacles and a neglect of reason.

Oh, wait! It rained a 10th of an inch last night. Sweet vindication from our Father! This drought will be over in just 7 quick years.

Hey governor! I'm tired of walking upright. How about another prayer?

ROAD TO RUINS

I've been on the road on a listening tour of the radio business and here are my preliminary findings:

Carrie Underwood is singing Before He Cheats which is a huge hit for the sexy broad but the more I hear it the more I am offended by it.

"That I dug my key into the side of his pretty little souped up 4 wheel drive,
Carved my name into his leather seats...
I took a Louisville slugger to both headlights,
Slashed a hole in all 4 tires...
Maybe next time he'll think before he cheats."

I'm put off by the woman's rush to vandalism. Is that called for? All he did was date someone that was not you. Not a pleasant thing, but what did Carrie Underwood do to make him search for loving elsewhere? We are not told.

Carving her name into the leather seats was a poor move in my opinion, and I'd like to hear the follow-up song, "Before She Pleads," detailing how she was jilted by a lesbian in jail while awaiting arraignment on vandalism charges.

The problem with these songs is that there are millions of angry women out there who hear them and whisper "you go girl" under their breath as they mini-van around town with your sugar-buzzed kids driving them nuts, and they get this deranged scenario in their heads that while they're dealing with the kids, you're having a holiday picnic complete with sack races at work. That's why when you come home and she's fishing for a fight, she's likely heard Carrie Underwood sing the prophylactic virtues of crazy.

I think it's a poor choice of song for Miss Underwood who is pretty and sweet and more suited to singing songs about single moms praying to Jesus to drive them to her parents house because she's not good in snow. Before He Cheats is good song, but more suited to that goofy looking Reba McIntire, redneck chick Gretchen Wilson, or some country music she-beast like that who you could see not only getting ditched for a hotter model, but also losing her mind and destroying property as well.

Bucky Covington is another one. He has this single out about what it was like growing up in the 50s but I don't think he's any older than 28. So who is he to say how the good old days were better?

I'm not naive. if you write Before He Cheats, and Carrie Underwood wants to record it, you'd have to be crazy to say no to the cash it's sure to bring in just because it's not a good artistic fit. I'm just saying to all those greedy starving songwriters, it's annoying to listen to.

I have to pee in Spartanburg, so I stop at a gas station in which no toilet is available.

"Ya gotta go over to the Waffle House," says the attendant.

"You don't have a restroom?"

"Naw. They's broken. Gotta go to the Waffle House." Sounds like a scam to sell waffles to me.

"What happened?"

Stupid question on my part because it gives him the opportunity to launch into a spiel about how the development has overwhelmed the sewer system in that town and how the zoning laws need to be changed, ad infinitum, which doesn't explain why the Waffle House next door has working toilets.

I don't have the time to hear a dissertation on smart growth and urban land use from the overnight Kangaroo attendant. So it's onto the BP a mile down the road. Thank god for the soothing voice of Gail Garmin coming to me live on the Nuvi 350 to guide me.

There I find working toilets, but they are occupied by an 8 and a 10 year old with colored Mohawks. Whoa, mom and dad, whoa! How is this going to help them gain a foothold in civil society? I'm going to write a song about these kids. Mohawk Gypsies in the Night...give it a flamenco, Chris Isaak, Doors feel with lots of Munsters-style bass. It'll be a hit, but only if i can get Baltimora to sing it. I don't want look stupid by selling it to the wrong artist.

Back in the car and scan again and the Delilah Show is on one of her 2 million affiliates. Delilah is very soothing, and I like soothing at night. I appreciate her soothing company in the car. Past 9pm I'm the kind of person that doesn't mind a little Air Supply in the car, but that doesn't mean I like a little sperm supply in the trunk. Get that straight.

I'm hearing a long distance dedication from a 32-year old likely virgin network technician with Asperger's  whose speech patterns are similar to Harvey Pekar's friend. Just the Two of Us is his dedication song and I get the feeling it's going out to a woman who has no idea he exists. But that's what radio is for; to be our portable friends who hold up a mirror to our hopes and dreams.

Scan to AM to catch the Braves circle the drain as predicted in these blogs some months ago. A news story comes on about how Nike is making shoes specifically tailored to the Native American foot which are alleged to be different from other races according to the report.

I was unaware that Indians had no access to comfortable sport footwear or that their feet are that much different from my own. Thank god for radio news. My concern is do we really want to open up that discussion in these hyper-sensitive times about the physiological differences amongst  the various races?

We've been down this road with Jimmy The Drunk Snyder, and Al Campanis. Nobody was happy with the outcome. Don't get me wrong. There are significant physiological differences amongst the various ethnic groups, but it's just that there are few people capable of mulling the topic and it's implications without someone getting uncomfortable and keying cars.

Now, a commercial for some local cut rate supermarket that serves the sub-Winn Dixie crowd. Bologna is on sale and the store owner who does his own spots pronounces it "ba loan a" as it reads instead of "baloney" as normal, non-shithead people would say it. It's only "ba loan a" when you're talking about the town in italy or Renee Taylor's husband.

Sean Kingston's "Beautiful Girls" comes on for the 3rd time this trip. I like the song immensely. It reminds of a time when that pain in the ass ingrate Harry Belafonte kept his ludicrous opinions to himself and entertained with pleasant Carribean-tinged melodies.

Scan to something called Charlie FM. I'll say this for Charlie FM. They will never make the mistake of playing Fleetwood Mac after Nick Gilder. Not like that moron Tony FM.

This is a symptom of the larger disease that is rapidly metastasizing into the lymph nodes of the patient called terrestrial radio. What a ridiculous business model. Talent is an asset, not a cost, people. If you want to be in the audio entertainment distribution business past 2012, may I strongly suggest to some analog transmitter owners to put down the free Heinekin at the trade show, and start looking for humans who can build franchises that the masses want, in order to save your enterprise. I should point out that labeling something with an abstract concept is not the same as having a genuine product with real human attributes that create customer loyalty for generations.

You would think that if they were going to go out in this fashion, they would at least put some imagination into the label by having a Disco Stu FM or, in the case of the local Dave FM, at least hire DJs named Dave. People often ask if i'll ever do mornings at Dave FM, and the answer is no, because my name is Larry.

Tell ya what, when I get home, I'm going to the local courthouse and get the forms to change my name to Larry FM. If anybody wants to name their station Larry FM, they'll have to clear it through me. And that'll be rough seeing as how I have some very particular ideas about how Larry FM should sound, and the cost of the rabbi alone to convert the station to Judiasm borders on the obscene.I don't want my name getting hijacked by a monotonous music loop trying to be everyone's Ipod. Nip this problem in the Bud FM.

Scan to a station on the left wing side of the dial playing some beautiful hymnal music. It's well after 11pm now and I'm really looking to relax. The music is so relaxing and inspiring that I'm narcotized by it to the point that I give no mind to four Red Bull and deadline-crazed FedEx semis who speed rape my car as they pass me with ill-regard, or that I'm listening to songs about Jesus on the wildly holy Jewish day of Sukkot.

I've decided that this is the music I want to die to. I don't know what the chances are of one being able to choose the music they hear when they die. It seems to me that window is very slim. But if I do find myself fortunate enough to set my demise to some kind of music, this would be the music I'll be selecting. I'll buy a DiePod and drift off.

Then the scan button finds the local rap station which features more than a few fellas who could use a good dose of Jesus in their lives if you ask me. From what I can decipher of the melody-free grunting, all these hooligans want is to find some money or to take some money or to spend some money. Rappers are the greediest sons a bitches you'd ever want to meet.  If I'm wrong and there is a rap song about earning or investing money, send it along.

The listening portion of my research completed, I arrive at my hotel room that smells slightly like throw up. It's sufficiently masked by a spray disinfectant but it doesn't completely conceal the fact that something once went wrong in this hotel room. Then again, I don't think it's possible to be in a hotel room anywhere where nothing unpleasant has ever happened in it. Too many people out there, myself included, don't take rented property as seriously as their own, and thus feel liberated in doing their fluid letting, binge drinking, gun play and gratuitous mutilation of coeds while in the confines of temporary quarters.

The lobby has a wonderful selection of soft drinks, snacks, dinner portions of Ramen, and low-end frozen foods such as the ironically named Banquet. But it's 12:30 AM in Charlotte, a small Atlanta, but really a giant Duluth, and I must fuel, so I select a Michelina Lite Mangled Green Peppers with Beef and Rice. The box says the meal is a "chef-inspired recipe," and it's a good thing they put that label on there.  Otherwise, I'd have wrongly assumed it was inspired by a fellow in the lumber industry. These meals are rich in anti-anti-oxidants.

Two morons in alternative rock concert t-shirts are talking outside my door about the Chicago Bears QB controversy. Why can't they talk inside the room? They must know from their own experience inside the room that hotel hallway sounds travel far. In fact, I don't think it's possible to hold a conversation in a hotel hallway without 10 rooms at minimum being able to hear you. Oh, and by the way. Grossman should have been benched last year.

I've come up to Charlotte, NC to spend some time with friends and colleagues at the NAB Radio Convention. It's like a shiva house for terrestrial radio. Clearly, something is dead and the people at the convention are rhetorically positive but realistically sad. The discussion groups and panels mirror an industry in free fall and the only real controversy is how long it will be before a radio transmitter and FCC license is worth nothing. The convention wisdom says 20 years. Sounds optimistic to me. I'm probably one of 10 performers in the joint, and the rest are there because they were invited to speak on one of the thin offerings of discussion rooms about content and talent. The business has practically devoted itself to selling selling.

The panel sessions at the NAB Convention are devoted to discussing the finance and ad sales side of the business and hand wringing about the manifold government-inspired dilemmas that have come out of the woodwork to swamp radio operators large and small. There's a room for the FCC indeceny jihad problem. They even had a breakfast with the FCC chairman Kevin Martin in which not a single person asked him the most important question. Why are you regulating our industry to death?

Unlike TV, the bulk of radio's non-musical programming is live, and the costs tied up in staffing and purchasing equipment for an internal watchdog regime are significant in relation to revenues. Even then, there is no guarantee that every F-bomb and S-word will be eradicated by the in house blue pencil squads, resulting in crippling penalties. And with an FCC or Congress unwilling to clarify what specifically is indecent, it's even more difficult to manage the situation properly.

The first to go are those costly and difficult to manage hosts who make up the primary reason these days why most people even bother turning a radio on or buying ad time. The fix must be in. Clearly, the heads of this industry have sold out their 1st Amendment rights in exchange for a short term government fix for their other growing profit-eating woes, such as the ability to prop up dying AM stations by putting them on FM frequencies and getting a few more years of cash flow before both AM and FM go the way of 8mm film.

Ironically, in an adjacent party room another hand-wringing discussion is going on concerning the new royalty fees that another dying greedy industry, the record biz, has proposed for broadcasters. This is getting darkly funny. Here's an industry that has insisted, in the face of better music delivery competition, that it can still be the consumer's #1 choice for music. Now, the music industry wants to tax them to the tune of as much as $7 billion dollars a year for the privilege of playing their previously gratis recordings. That's a fine corner the radio biz has painted itself into. Can't afford to do music, can't afford to do talk. The only solution is to buy some text to voice software and hire a lad to type Dixie Cup jokes and riddles into it for $25 bucks a day.

Other rooms are devoted to discussions on how to plow more millions of dollars into convincing consumers that HD radio, a dead on arrival technology, is worth spending money on despite having no advantage over satellite or the internet. The audio is sketchy, the programming offers nothing unique, and the receivers are big and costly. Good luck with that.

I meet up with my friend and former colleague, Perry Simon, who has won quite a following amongst broadcasters for his insightful and blunt assessments of the business and his spot on predictions of how things will play out in the future. I strongly suggest you read his take on the whole crisis situation, if you're into this topic and wish to get more girls at parties with your media knowledge.

Not that the preceeding paragraphs mean that all is bleak in the House of Wachs. Oh, no. I just signed a contract for my next broadcasting venture, and I will have full details on it within 2 weeks, so check back in often here.

THE BRIDGE IN THE RIVER...WHY?

Like most of you, I have been in a funk ever since that bridge collapsed in Minnesota. It's sad to think that the ride at the Cumming Fair manned by the woman with 8 fingers and a mullet is safer than some of our nation's overpasses.

I don't know much about bridges except that they help people get from one side of a hole to another safely and dryly, and this one in Minneapolis did not, and therein lies the problem as I see it. I'm more of a tunnel person, so if a tunnel ever caves, I'm your guy. But common sense can help even a bridge naif such as myself to figure out how to prevent future tragedies.

First, let's blame someone. That always a good starting point. Many years working in a corporate environment has taught me to fix the blame and then the problem.

As the great Borat once sang, in my country there is problem. And the problem is transport. Therefore,  throw the environmentalists down the well. Their fanciful and self-congratulatory scientistesque theories have successfully allowed people to die. At least those people on the bridge had clean water to plunge into.Yay!

Where do you think all your gas taxes and carbon taxes and BTU taxes and luxury taxes and all the other punitives of transportation freedom go? I'll tell you. They pave the road to hell by spending those dollars on things like bike paths for people going to gay marriage ceremonies, and light rail to take oldsters and junkies to get their government-funded preservatives. To road maintenence? Oh, honey! I have a bridge to sell you in Minnesota.

Here in Atlanta, they only recently figured out that we need to build more roads to swiftly facilitate the spread of illegals and the high skills they bring to such fields as cleaning and folding. But it's been rather slow in coming since any politician who runs on a platform of "more roads, less talk" will be confronted by a mob of insufferable peasant wannabes with ethanol torches threatening to go naked unless tax dollars are instead used to build a steam-powered mag lev peace train system that goes from one impoverished scary ghost neighborhood to another. It's hard to get even a golf cart path repaved these days without some controversy.

Since Minnesota is virtually Canadian in culture and politics, it would not surprise me that the "Rot in Hell, Road!" mentality is even more acute up there than it is here. They like their weather cold and miserable. They NEED their weather to be cold and miserable. If they don't have that, they've got nothing. Mall of America? It's a mall! Except in this one you walk past a rollercoaster on your way to Hot Topic. Yah, big whoop.

Global warming would kill Minnesotans carefully nurtured image as hardy, stoic Nordics of uncompromising inner warmth and soul; the luddites luddite. Garrison Keillor would actually get some laughs.

Well, caring about preserving caribou habitats and ice fishing lakes is very sweet and all, but it's a luxury you can afford only if you are willing to see other people die for the cause. It's sure as hell not going to reverse the corrosive effects of 8-9 months a year of road salts used to de-ice their bridges, which, if I recall my road signs correctly, always freeze before the regular road surface. Only money paid to men who can fix and maintain bridges with icky things like tar and concrete and metal can do that.

I would also ban the ceremony of christening bridges and ships by busting champagne bottles on them. It can't help. Step on a glass like the Jews do. Kick off a lifetime of married sex/driving on a corroded bridge. No difference.

There. Problem solved.

TO THE LEFT, TO THE LEFT

I ran out of my roll-on anti-depressant, so I hopped into the car to go purchase more.

Maybe it's my lack of roll-on at the time, but I felt it would be a dag-gummed shame to be sitting in traffic and not to document one of the many finer points of why traffic blows so often.

See the problem?

It's a very common problem, especially in the underdeveloped parts of overdeveloped ATL suburbs. Lots of traffic in both directions exacerbated by two opposing left turns with no traffic control device. The two left turners, one of whom is usually in a monster truck, have trouble seeing the oncoming traffic and are hesitant to turn.

In this case there's an added wrinkle. It's the Pavlovian condition brought about by years of social engineering by our nation's road czars called "Slavish Devotion to Yellow Line Syndrome."

Notice not a single person (except out-of-the-box thinker/rebel Larry Wachs) will cross the yellow line with their tires to get a slightly better angle to view the oncoming traffic. Hence, my left turn didn't come for another 7 minutes.

Why wouldn't anyone cross the yellow line? Well...because...it's a yellow line...and...uh....you're not supposed ta. It's the same thinking that makes a guy a road pariah for using the shoulder for travel on a crowded interstate.

"Asshole! I hope he dies," people wish when they see such a heathen. I say it too, but in truth, it's only a bitter acknowledgment that I didn't have the guts to make the move myself. I'm utterly trapped in a collectivist mindset that reveres the order of the painted line and refuses to admit that the shoulder could and should be used as a lane. In a nuclear crisis, I will not be amongst the survivors.

Not crossing the yellow line on roads is generally a good idea, but let's be a little less linear in our thinking out there, folks. This line is guarding NOTHING!

I purchased an extra roll-on to keep in the car when I got to the store.

WACHS BEACH DIARIES '07--CHAPTER 6

I get very little rest when I come to the beach, what with all the activities plus the putting together of the Wachs Beach Diaries, and for that reason alone, I look forward to driving back to Atlanta for 11 straight hours with my daughter's non-stop Mika tunes on CD, just to be able to sleep in my own bed for 8 straight without the aid of slumber enhancers and anti-inflammatories. We do that tomorrow. Actually later this morning.

I was all set for another restless night, when a knock came at the door. It was my mom's friend, Miriam, whom I'd promised to take to the new porn store across the street. I had forgotten. My mom would kill me for teasing her. And she was all ready to go with her cute little incognito outfit and strong odor of alcohol.

And although I'll remain a little sleepy for the folks along I-85 tomorrow, it was worth it. Here are some photos from our fun time together.

She bought my dad a gift. A thing that looked like a lighter, but when you pushed the button down a small penis popped out. Miriam thought it was a real lighter at first until the Romanian clerk explained to her.

"No, no. Ees no lightair. Ess jus a deeck. See?" And he flicked the joke penis in her face a couple of times. What a nice man.

So we bought it, and the penis broke after one use. Ten dollars. One laugh. My mom swore she would take the thing back and get a refund as soon as she found the broken penis. Try sleeping with that in mind.

WACHS BEACH DIARIES '07--CHAPTER 5

Although there is no real way to quantify it, just a gut feeling, I think this year at the beach is the least amount our family people have been pissed off at each other. There were a couple of minor skirmishes, like when my wife nailed my 7-year old nephew with two tennis balls in the back because he was throwing sand in her face repeatedly.  Dr. Mike lectured me a couple of times more that I shouldn't vote for Republicans because they got me fired twice, and the Democrats, who stand for freedom and liberty, wouldn't have allowed me to end up in this pickle, and all the rest of that noise...Good reasoning, Harvard boy. The market for 2004 nostalgia is not here just yet.

My mom lied to us 24 times in one day, Tuesday, by my sister's count. And that's only when they were in the same space together. I don't mind. It makes me feel less guilty when I raid her pillbox.

My sister berated her husband for hours about walking around in public while holding his bathing suit with the skid marks facing out. I agree he could have done more to conceal them, but the punishment did not fit the crime. You'd think he took a crap in the middle of the boardwalk on the sand Jesus the way she railed at him.  And really, given the fashions worn by most Ocean City people, I don't think most them would blink if he wore a shit covered shirt at the skee-ball parlor. Hell, we went to a nice enough restaurant last night and the table next to us was reserved, as it turned out, by a group containing two men in homemade muscle shirts.

But generally, we had more joy turning on the outside world.  Like the time we buried all our empty beer and soda cans on the beach and watched from the balcony as the metal detector guy dug them up in frustration.

And then this morning....

Our beach umbrellas were not set up today by the attendant, and my sister was pissed when she came down to establish our daily beach bivouac.

There, by the dunes, was a locked equipment box and an umbrella stuck shading an empty chair.

"I'm gonna have a word or two with this moron. Larry, let me know when he gets back."

Yes, princess. But the moron is a she and there she is.

All the more reason. My sister waddled her sassy ass up to the AWOL umbrella chick.

"Excuse me, honey. Our umbrellas were not set up today and I'd like to know why."

"I am so sorry, but, like,  I was being stalked by this guy, and I, like, freaked out and left because I thought he was going to, like, attack me."

"Well, why didn't you call the cops or something, sweetie? I mean, we pay money for these umbrellas and we don't have them today. It's just a haahrrible inconvenience, and incredibly irresponsible." I love my sister in outrage mode, as long as I'm not the target. Her vocabulary becomes that of a 65-year old Palm Beach matron dressing down her driver. Yesterday, my nephew shook some Coke and opened the bottle all over the carpet. "That's a haahribull decision, Charles. Honestly, I don't understand your decision-making process. It's ludicrous. Absurd."

Now she was really thickening it for the summer job umbrella twat with the Disney Channel scrungied hair. "Can you just explain to me why one creepy guy gives you the idea that you can just leave your post and inconvenience people?

"Well, he was like, really freaking me out, and, like, telling me he's been watching me since 9:20."

"I'm sure a lot of men have, honey.  Deal with it or become a nun. I don't care. I'm getting a refund or my umbrellas. Where is this stalker? Can you point him out? I'm gonna have a few words to say to him too."

"Um, I don't see him now. He had, like, a lime green hat on."

"Oooh, sweetie...."

She had encountered Retard Resnick in 1014. Every year for as long as I can remember, he has walked up and down the beach dragging his clubbed foot, atrophied hand swaying to and fro and chatting up anyone with a beach blanket with his slurred nonsense under his lime green baseball cap. Nobody really knows how he gets here, what his living arrangement is, or who's in charge of him. He's just there as is his right as an American, and that's that. It's a rite of summer seeing Retard Resnick on the beach. It wouldn't be summer without him.

"Honey, he's retarded. He's harmless. That's what retarded people do. They say things they can't possibly mean. That's no reason to not set up people's umbrellas that they paid for. That's called stealing."

"I'm so sorry. My boss is, like, going to freak out."

"That makes two of us."

WACHS BEACH DIARIES '07--CHAPTER 2

Welp, it's 07-07-07. And that means...jack.

We're in the car headed for dinner. My mother's phone plays "From a Distance" by Bette Midler. It represents how she sleeps with my dad, who snores poorly and eats smelly food often.

"I think it's embarrassing to have a ringsong on your phone past age 20, Ma."

"I have a song on MY phone," my wife says in rescue of my mother from my outrageous attack on the way her cell phone rolls.

"Well, that's because you're a retard, honey." I patiently explain. And a kiss ass, but I didn't say that to spare her feelings. 

"But I like Bette Midler, Larry"

"OK, but think about this, mother. If you put your favorite song on your cell phone, in this case, "From a Distance," you have to interrupt it's groove to answer the call. Isn't that an incentive NOT to answer your phone in a timely fashion?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Nothing. Logic. Never mind. Answer the call. It's the second verse already."

It was my mom's friend from the condo, Miriam, who wanted to know where we were headed for dinner this evening. My parents are in all their glory when we show up. Everyone wants to know what they're up to.They get treated like celebrities, mainly due to the fact that my parents are still in their 60s, making them a hot young couple, and they don't purchase oxygen off that truck that roams the zip code and plays the theme from "The Sting." But when we're in town, their status goes up a few more notches. That's because my brother's a doctor, my sister married well, and they think I'm still on the radio because they don't remember so well and I lie about it to save time.

We pass by Ocean City, MD's first ever sex shop, boldly advertising Jenna Jameson rubber parts, DVDs, and anatomically correct mannequins showing off their bedroom fashion sense in front of a backdrop of tinfoil, just like in your bedroom. It's next to the KFC/Taco Bell, and the OLD PRO mini golf center, in the exact strip mall space where I used to play pinball games, and really sticks out amongst all the family shlock that lines Coastal Highway, which, for all it's years has had nothing racier than Big Pecker's Bar and Grill. 

15 years ago, some genius tried to get a lap dance club going here. Maryland's liquor laws forbade any sort of nudity with liquor, so the business plan was built on the premise that men, just coming off the beach, would pay top dollar to buy beer from cranky, less attractive women in full bathing attire. My plan would have included arson. 

"When did Ocean City get a porno store, folks?"

"Oh, you know who wants to go there? My friend, Miriam. Call her. She'd be thrilled if you took her."

The thought of her pastel peach nails wrapped around an adult novelty....purr. 

My mom handed me her Midlerized phone and I called Miriam and asked her out to visit the porno store. Her husband wouldn't take her and she didn't want to go alone. I'm doing a good deed. What would the Boy Scouts do? We always hear about how they help old women across the street, but they never say to where the old ladies are going. Probably to save embarrassment as the odds are strong that Boy Scouts in the past have escorted the elderly into porn shops that stand tantalizingly across the street from the old person's location. 

We haven't set a day yet, but I am certain it will be during a heavy storm. 

WACHS BEACH DIARIES '07--CHAPTER 1

Fireworks were cancelled here in Ocean City last night. Authorities cited dangerously high winds and shut them down, and rescheduled for the 5th. It just wouldn't be a true Independence Day without reliance on our safety authorities to get us through it. And as excited as I am about celebrating something as huge as being free from England, I can wait another day for the explosions. I ain't do nothin!

Although empirical evidence shows it was very windy, I have a suspicion the postponement had something to do with this news item:

Jackson scouts Maryland vacation homes

Too many innocent children around.

WASHINGTON - Michael Jackson has been hunting for real estate on Maryland's Eastern Shore as he searches for a vacation home, a publicist for the pop star said.

The self-proclaimed King of Pop visited the rural peninsula last week "for about 24 hours," but has not made a purchase, Raymone Bain told The Washington Post.

Jackson, 48, is not limiting his search to the Chesapeake region. He has since "gone up the coast" to look elsewhere for a vacation place, Bain said.

"He's always admired the properties on the East Coast because they have a lot of land," Bain said in the story published Wednesday. "Neverland has 3,000 acres — he likes privacy. You can't find as many properties like that on the West Coast."

Yeah, the western US is sooo overcrowded. And there are no more large parcels of land for sale next to the Ronald McDonald House. Go east, young man lover. Besides, the West already has Al Gore the Younger endangering children in his souped-up Prius that runs entirely on drugs.  Of course, the drug and speeding offsets that come as a bonus from Toyota for purchasing the vehicle, will ultimately vindicate the lad. I also personally believe he should receive a lighter sentence for proving that a Prius can do more than 70MPH.

But I feel bad for the Gores because it's probably very embarrassing to them, especially coinciding with Al's kick-off of that concert protesting people who refuse to live like the Amish, and I'm sure I'm not the only one who's wondering if Tipper had an affair with a Kennedy to produce a boy with such a sizable fun gene.

Meanwhile, commoners such as myself without access to the elite markets of Morality Credit and Loan, must drive the holiday highways with nothing but wits and cruise control to fend off the 40 cop cars enforcing independence all along the route to the Beach.

George Stein will be mighty proud of me. No tickets. On the toughest not-getting-pulled-over-for-speeding day of the year. (July 3). On the tough, state-long speedtrap known as US 58 in Virginia, which I have been unable to beat for 3 summers straight. It was getting to a point where the law enforcement authorities of SE Virgina were offering to pay for my gas, just to entice me to drive through their cash traps for another season.

I have to say that listening to classical music during the drive helped immensely, so thanks to all those composers. It is soothing, yet inspiring enough to keep the driver's attention for the extra hour it'll be on the road due to the observance of posted limits. I don't know the names of the songs or the composers. I don't know what the music is about other than some vague notion of the way things were going down in the 1700s. All I know is that classical music makes me feel like I'm driving in the opening credit sequence of a documentary about me and my life as a Viking poet, and I like that someone is finally telling my story on the big screen. It's about time.

Here's the top story in Shelby, NC on the day of this historic drive north:

 

A 5-year-old boy grabbed a rabid fox by the neck and pinned it to the ground during a family cookout, protecting six other children before his stepfather could kill the animal.

"I wanted to protect my little brother," said Rayshun McDowell, who battled the fox in the front yard of his home Sunday in Kingstown, a town about 50 miles west of Charlotte.

What a brave young boy! Reminds me of the time I killed a dingo with nothing but a sock filled with pennies after it tried to eat my sister. This was before the laws were passed banning children from playing with socks and coins as a rider to the bill banning pre-pubescent smoking passed on July 4, 1973.

The fox bit Rayshun in the leg, but the 61-pound-boy held the animal down for more than a minute.

"I looked out the window and Rayshun had the fox by the neck and was pushing it into the ground," said his mother, Shinda Linder. "I couldn't believe what I was seeing."

Rayshun's stepfather, Ryan Thompson, pulled the boy off the animal and kicked it. A neighbor fired a handgun three times but the fox continued to advance.

Thompson, wearing a cast because of a broken leg, said he used a stick and his crutch to beat the fox to death.

Hey, Michael Jackson! There's some great land you ought to check out in Kingstown, NC.

THE TRIBE HAS SPOKEN

Overall, I'd have to say that, although the day was warm and pleasant, it was disappointing.

I was strolling near the Late Show/David Letterman Theater when a barker yelled out that he had tickets for this afternoon's Dave taping.

"I'm in."

"Just one?"

"Yes."

"Excellent. That really helps your chances."

My chances?

"Answer this Letterman trivia question correctly, and you can be in the audience tonight."

"....ok."

Let's see...born on April 12th, Worldwide Pants, Paul, Will Lee, CBS in 1993..or...94? Redhead announcer...Alan....what the fuck...Colter? Replaced Bill Wendell. Ready.

"Who is the Late Night Carpenter?"

Oh, COME ON now!

"Biff Henderson."

"No, I'm sorry. I can't give you the ticket."

Oh, that is ridiclous. Who the hell knows the answer to that? How do you get a full audience every day with questions like that?

"Well, give me another question."

"Sorry, I can't."

"Just one more. Give me a Dave history question. I'm good with those. I mean, you can tell I watch the show. Just haven't caught those carpenter segments. Come on. Fire away. I'm ready. Make it easy. Let's go. Here we go."

"Sir, I can't."

"This is a joke right? Is this being filmed? Dave is doing one of his street bits, right?"

"No. This is not being recorded."

"Who's gonna know? Seriously. This is perfect for me. I'd make a great audience member. I have experience."

"We need to have integrity in this business."

Integrity? You're an audience grabber for the Late Show! What does integrity have to do with it? If Dave is such a scream, than why must he do the show in front of a rigged audience of fanatics who will laugh at him putting on his socks? How much integrity is that? Bahhhh! Point me to Conan's area.

"Come on, one more Dave trivia question.  Please. You don't understand. I have NOTHING to do all day. NOTHING.  Please. Let me in your show. I will laugh. I swear. I will participate fully if Dave asks me about a brush with something. I won't boo Al Gore."

"I can't, sir. I'm sorry."

Well, you just lost a viewer, Buster Brown.  And I was going to watch tonight, because I don't have to get up early tomorrow. Yeah, that's the other thing that was disappointing. FREE FM/NY, the station I've been working on the past 3 weeks, rolled out the tarp. Two rejections by CBS in one day. That stings. They're now back to being K-ROCK and they fired everyone. I guess CBS just couldn't bear the revenue drain anymore and the broken eggs all over the floor from recent events, so...that's that. It is what it is. Que sera sera, and whatever else people say when they need to swallow their frustrations. .

At least they did it classy. I was taken to Times Square where a video montage of my stint was displayed on the giant video screen with Daughtry's "Home" blasting away at a heartbroken crowd. The House of Wachs has been razed.

I'll hop on a plane back to the ATL tomorrow and see what fruit my labor here has borne. Who wants ratings?

Thanks to Mainelli, Chiusano, Oliveiro, and the gang for letting me on for more time than I expected. I had a very lovely and fun time and I am grateful. Fuhgeddaboutit!!!