House of WACHS

HURRY UP AND SCREW! SCREW UP AND HURRY!

Here's a story about a 29-year old grandmother in Quad Cities, IA....the person on the right....uhhh, I think.

Look, I'm all in favor of helping cruel stereotyping disappear from our society, but come on, folks. Help out a little, would ya?  What? You have a lake of semen in the backyard?

Russell Eugene is 1 day old.

His mother is 15.

She fidgets with a bottle of milk as she talks.

Then, sitting up straighter in bed, she asks, “When do you think I can play basketball again? I want to go out for the team at school.”

Oy vey!

New vocabulary word: NEVER. It means, "not ever."

Back at home with her mother and brothers, Celia — wearing pajamas and a do-rag that covers her hair — holds the baby. Her tank top shows off two black tattoos on her arms.

One, which winds down her forearm, reads “Tish,” her mom’s nickname. Another, below her shoulder, reads “Manica Magee,” which is the teen’s rap name.

Leticia told the girl she could get inked if she kept her grades up. They went to Chicago to get it done.

“She earned them,” Leticia said, nodding her head.

It's like watching the Munsters where everything horrific is perfectly normal.

"Oh, Herman. Eddie got a D in math, so I let him dig up the graveyard. Isn't that wonderful?"

"HAWHAWHAW...Lilly, that boy is a chip off the old slab...HAWAHAWHAWHAW."

(house shakes, ceiling tiles and dust fall, never to be replaced)

SOUTHERN COMFORTABLE

The hell with holiday travel. I haven't left my house in 3 days. That's what Thanksgiving is all about. A chance to be openly depressed. The only reason I've showered is to get in some slap and tickle.

This is my first Thanksgiving in my own home in a decade. That's it. No more Thanksgiving travel for me for the next 5 years. If people in my life really like me, they'll show up.

My parents were the only ones who came this year. Not attending my Thanksgiving feast was the first thing my brother and his ex-wife have agreed upon since 2001, if I could brightside it.

My sister went to Jamaica for her father-in-law's wedding, which is OK, unless you consider it part of a continuing pattern of excuses, dating back to the days when I would lure her into the bathroom after I took a huge dump and locked her in with the odor, as to why she can't travel to Georgia more than once a decade. Maybe not a lot of flights here from NY.

Well, more food and fun for me.

Here's our premium quality, tightly cooped, genetically modified, assembly line slaughtered, frozen turkey.

Here's our turkey frying rig out back on the lush green barely legal lawn.

Old Man Pickle Nose prepares a post-breakfast snack. He's a good cook. His secret is aging. He treats every meal as if it could be his last.

We engage in sports.

Happy hour! Fresh guac and chips. I missed out because I was busy

Back to involvement in sports, and the film industry.

The two turkeys! HA! Brown and crispy, the way they serve it in heaven

Crispy potatoes. Don't they look good? Yeah, well, they were.

Crispy asparagus. I actually enjoy the smell my urine gives off after eating these.

Crispy cornbread stuffing. Tastes like manna, photographs like hell.

From scratch pecan/choco pie with a crispy crust and homemade caramel sauce spooged on it. One bite of this delight can supply the caloric needs of 10 children in Darfur for a month. It sure takes the pressure off the job search when you have this pie in the house.

Home made cranberry sauce with crispy bits of caramelized fruit. Oooh, doesn't that look tart and sweet? Yeah, you bet it does. It tastes like an orgasm. This is my contribution. I made it 3 days ago in the slow cooker. My secret is vanilla extract, brown sugar, and a special raisin wine from Spain. That's all I'm saying because I'm thinking of going national with this one day with a franchise chain of cranberry-centric eateries.

Cranny's. We'll even have a play area for kids with a giant cranberry bog they can swim around in after eating their cran-burgers and cran fries, and wash it down with some cranberry soda. We'll have cuddly characters like McDonald's has. Urethra the Clown will play up the cranberry's role in promoting urinary tract health.

Let the feast begin with a crispy turkey wing. The skin is like eating bacon. Turkey that tastes like bacon. Score! It's a club sandwich without those other non-essential ingredients. Fuck off toast, lettuce, cheese, and tomato.

Time for more athletics. Even OMPN is surprised at the ease with which the Falcons take it up the ass repeatedly.

Tea...because it gives the illusion of health.

Good night.

PHONE DUMP

Due to the Halloween being on Wednesday this year, What's Your Story will not be taping this week so that the staff can spend time sorting and eating candy with their loved ones, and harvest the crops at night.

I'd like you to get to know the staff of What's Your Story. I'm not trying to fix you up or anything, just say hey to the people who help me look sexy on internet TV. Here were the only people I managed to sneak up on with my camera phone.

Here's Scott. Scott's job is to make sure that things are funny. He does not have any infections, and always manages to find time to share a warm cup of soup with a friend.

This is Bonnie. Her job is to make sure the production runs smoothly and on time. I still have no idea what she looks like. She won't step out from behind her arms. I don't know how she eats.

Here's Lauren. Her job is to put everyone at ease. See the "L" she's forming with her hand? That's her gang sign. The 17th Street Laurens. Hang out, sip some sizzurp, yo.

While we're at it, let's do a cameraphone dump. It's been awhile.

George Stein recently invited me to his Jewdo matches at Gwinnett Center.

It was very exciting and inspiring to watch, and I left there wanting to grab someone by their lapels and throw them on their back.

This guy was a winner and a loser. Looks like he's dead, but he's not. He won his match, but broke his collarbone. The agony of victory.

Then they lightened the mood with some comedy matchups. Here's a real short guy battling a real tall one. The tall guy won and he got to take home the little guy and eat him for dinner.

Speaking of dining, let me remind restaurants that it's not cool to have reminders of disease around when people are trying to enjoy a hot meal. I know it helps your ego that you are part of something big, but I don't care.

Hey, I'm eating! Restaurants should be limited to one disease only. My vote goes for ALS, which is more appetizing then breast cancer, so go with that for this month.

"Oh, you ought to try J. Christopher's. They really are trying to fight breast cancer." No one recommends restaurants that way. Take it out back. When was the last time a cancer clinic was making flapjacks and bacon in the waiting room?

This truck has an almost Heroes symbol on it. I took this picture because I liked Heroes at the time. This was before it got pointless and hard to follow. I've watched one episode this season and it just wears me out. No rhyme or reason to what's going on. The Cheerleader can heal any wound she suffers and is played by a popular star. No way she ever dies. It's as exciting as the BCS.

The Heroes can do anything, but wind up getting nothing done. It's so frustrating. Are they really aliens? What happens to the world? Who's behind the company? Who gives a shit? It's like a sitcom for paranoids. It would be better if they picked one person with one power and gave him a show. Sure worked for My Favorite Martian.

Would someone tell the good people of Korean descent that words mean things in America? A genre is a category, right? Nail Category? How about Nail Post Hoc Ergo Propter Hoc? Anything would be better. Nail Wisdom. Nail Schadenfreude. Nail Nail. Nail Her.

Nail Genre? In a town where the women are prone to calling it Nail Jen-ray, anyhow?

Let me shake the phone. That's it. All empty. I'll take some rest now, and have more to say when I awaken.

DRIVING THE POCKET

Kids making excuses for unsatisfactory school performance already? Why, it's only October!

My child recently uttered these words, and the only thing that kept me from shaking her like a love child in the projects was the understanding that I said the same words once and I was not shaken.

After a tough day at school she says to me, "I'm not going to need to know about physics in real life, so what's the big deal?"

"You don't know that now, and there is a terrific likelihood that you will need it."

"Prove it."

"I can't." So I shook her.

Now, I want to thank these kids from the wrong side of town, whose video I've since reviewed, and now may use to educate my child with practical examples instead of shaking.

Bowling Ball Freak Accident, it's called. It's freakish that a bowling ball would land on your car after you drive in front of it.

I enjoy watching how it collectively dawns on the children that they fucked up against all odds. I love watching the dim notion play across their faces that the word unanimous is not a synonym for wise.

"Hey man, who woulda thought 10 people can all be wrong?"

My rule of thumb is this. If it takes more than 3 people before you find someone who thinks throwing a bowling ball up a ramp at 40mph may have some negative outcomes, then you are hanging with the wrong crowd.

The idea is so poorly thought out, I'm beginning to think that they are some of the most skilled professionals I've ever seen and made this rough basement video to teach the lessons of life to youth like my daughter.

I ask her, "How much money do you think the insurance company will pay for the claim, 'I didn't know a lot about physics?'"

"None."

I'm not asking her to be McGyver, just somebody who can think her way out of avoiding a bowling ball through the roof of her car. Get an "A" in that, and then we'll discuss the fine points.

ALL GUSSIED UP

Meet Gussie, everybody.

Gussie Clementine Jones Succes. She's coming to visit us this weekend from Rochester, NY. The Succes part is the last name of her only husband, Enoch,  a Haitian refugee who used her for a green card and then ran off about 15 years ago.

I met her when I was doing the 10pm-2am shift on the radio in Rochester in 1987. She worked at the now defunct Cadillac Hotel, a place where HIV could have been invented. I think someone was killed there every week. It was the in-spot for the Rochester underbelly. Transients, prostitutes, addicts, winos, pedophiles, abusers, hysterics, morons, homeless, and bad cooks all called the Cadillac home.

Gussie was the night clerk and called the station often to request songs during moments of respite from the mayhem. She was great company at 1am in a small market when nobody worth entertaining is listening.

My wife and I needed a cleaning person since we're both lazy and slobs, and she needed extra money to keep from her "husband" who was always out pissing away their salaries when she was busy working, passing the time with whores and liquor until the greenie came. She kicked him out of the house one night with no clothes on her,  she was so fed up with him. There is an upside to a society that has not yet gone digital.

There was the time I came home to find Gussie naked and stuck in our bathtub. She decided to take a bath between chores, and must have swollen up a bit in the hot bath and couldn't extricate. It didn't help that she weighed 450 pounds, either. I closed my eyes and gamely grabbed her arm as she used a small washcloth as best she could to cover her lady bits. I do hope you're not eating now.

And then there was the time she didn't show up at our apartment until 6 hours after she was supposed to. She fell asleep on the bus and went around the city several times before waking up at 3pm, and getting off at our stop, Rochester's own Pascual Perez.

Hope your Labor Day weekend is just as fun. I think big things are gonna happen for you this September. I can feel it. If Mickey Rooney makes a return appearance on this year's MD telethon, it'll be perfect.

Before I forget, I'd like to pay tribute to Richard Jewell who died the other day at age 44. He was an avid listener to The Regular Guys Show, called in on several occasions, and, like myself, had to endure the cruel joke of being wrongly accused of a crime in public.  I read that he had a heart attack, which is ironic, because during the Olympic Park bombing, of which he was accused, the band entertaining the crowd at the time was Jack Mack and the Heart Attack. That's all I got. Rest in Peace. Mr. Jewell.

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 4

House of Wachs faithful, and fan of the Wachs Beach Diaries, Andy Mele writes:

Larry,

Any chance of you posting a recent picture (from your current trip) of your sister?

As predictable as a drought-ridden Georgia summer, the Andys of the world come out of the cheesy wood veneer paneling every summer hoping for more glimpses of my hot, Jappy sister, Nancy of Long Island. You'd think she's a grunion.

To calm y'all down, I have taken some snaps of her for your enjoyment. If you can't behave with these and start doing stuff to them and spreading them all over the internet, OR the outernet, which is what dialup people have, then I will remove them.

Here she is cleaning a table....

Throwing something in the garbage....

Pondering her kitchen shelf strategy

Yelling at my nephew for being too wild...

See how wound up he is?

I'm thinking of selling this photo to anyone who's writing a book about ADD or spazism. "The Fractured Mirror: Cracking the ADD Code," would be a great title.

The other day, my nephew and I were having a game of Tickle Torture (I was winning), when he peed on me a little from laughing so hard. Not a lot. Just a wee (get it?) bit before I threw him to the sand. Right after these pictures were taken we got involved in a game of Titty Twister, and everything was going swell, until Old Man Pickle Nose chimed in.

"Just pee on him, Charlie. That'll stop him."

Hey thanks, pappy!  Why not just advise him to take a dump on my chest since there's no real moral difference?

Enjoy the snaps, pervs! 

WACHS BEACH DIARIES '07--CHAPTER 3

Even though the eyes roll when it's said, it is nonetheless true. Peace and quiet focuses the mind like nothing else. If you don't fear your thoughts, it's the only elixir for regrouping. There is a shortage of that here what with 13 people in our vacation group scattered over 3 buildings. One third of the group is teenage girls, which means our group rolls as smooth as a flat tire, and as noisily. Therefore, I have fallen behind in the Wachs Beach Diaries as the ridiculous conversations and multi-lateral bickerings continue well into 2200 hours.

My hot Jappy sister and Mee-Maw Wachs are having a heated discussion by the kitchen. Let's listen:

"Mom. How come you didn't answer your cell phone before? I called you like three times"

"I couldn't answer the phone. I was in a hardware store."

"Were you trying on welding helmets?

"Nancy! Their policy is no cellphones in the store."

"What? Are they landing planes in there?"

"No!....They just don't want them ringing in there."

"I don't understand. Who is incensed at cellphones ringing in a store that sells noisy things? And why would you even pay attention to such an asinine policy? And what are you doing in a hardware store? You can barely walk!"

"Naaaance...ya know what? I don't want to talk about it."

That means "I lost."

Dr. Mike is not a teenage girl, but just as disconcerting. He's becoming less conservative with age. It concerns me at his age that his ethos is still "Why wouldn't a guy?" and believes "because" is a reason.

However, his golf swing today didn't have the same fly-every-hazard, never-say-layup daring. The course we played was a little ridiculous. War Admiral was the name of it, the fairways formerly roamed and grazed upon by the famous racehorse of the 30s of the same name, who was later upset by the even more famous Seabiscuit.

It's a nice place with a Ruth's Chris in the clubhouse, but the course strikes me as the product of an ailment afflicting every sector of the entertainment industry--creating something more out of a desire to impress fellow professionals than the customer.

This course looked like it was designed by status seeking course architects trying to outdo other designers as the most gimmicky and clever. It had giant swales and pot bunkers in the middle of the fairway. It's corruption of principle pure and simple when you build a golf course for the middlebrow hacker that doesn't reward a fairway tee shot of 280 down the center. Worse, my brother-in-law bisected the fairway once, landed on some gimmicky eyebrow shaped ridge, and it kicked near a hazard. A good shot penalized. Ridiculous. We're not on the tour.

I figured Dr. Mike was intimidated by the course layout.

"Nope. It was my back."

I had forgotten that Dr. Mike's club bravado landed him in the surgical ward, this time on the patient side of the scalpel. Last year, he torqued into a big drive and ruptured a disc. Even Tiger admitted on TV that his putting sucked this week because he couldn't shake the memory of the US Open's greens from three weeks earlier, which were quicker than a teenage boy with his best friend's mom. It's not surprising a ruptured disc on a golf swing would conservatize even the most devil-may-care amateur.

"I had this 23-year old nurse come in after surgery and ask me how my pain level was, scale of 1-10. I said 6. She shot me up with Dilaudid. It's the best drug ever invented. Then she petted my hand and said if it got above a 5 again, she would have to give me more. She comes back a couple of hours later and asks what my pain level is. It was about a 3 at that point, but I said 6. She's 23 and petting my arm and Dilaudid is the best drug ever. Why wouldn't a guy? If I could have, I would have had a drip of it in one arm and a drip of viagra in the other and pressed that call button until I came or went.

"Meanwhile, the room is starting to turn blue and a bright blue disc is closing around me. They had to revive me because I got so relaxed I stopped breathing."

"So, you started dying?"

"Yep," with that detached M.D. cool. "It wasn't scary at all like they say in movies. I really wouldn't have minded going at that point."

"Are you glad you're here now?" Somebody needed to pay the Ruth's Chris check, and if he didn't really care too much for life, why wouldn't a guy pick up the check?

"Of course. I don't want to die. I'm just saying it was very pleasant at the time. More pleasant than anything going on."

"Do you believe in god now?"

"No. That's bullshit. I just saw a blue disc."

"What if that was god's blue disc?"

"That was all in my mind."

"How do you know?"

"Because no one else in the room saw the blue disc."

"Who invented the mechanism that gives you one last moment of extreme pleasure before you die?"

"No one. It just happens that way. That's science."

Yes, brimming with inquiry. At least his golf swing is slowing down a bit. Perhaps the rest is coming. You just don't shake the blue disc.

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. 

BENOIT BALLS UP

I noticed that most of the individually wrapped Lindt chocolate balls at the checkout desk of Borders have been squished by unsupervised hands. If I were the Border's manager, I would review the security video and match up receipts with the timeline, find the addresses of the miscreants, and throw all the coffee shop trash on their lawn after work. And I would put up a sign next to the candies outlining this procedure explicitly so they know what's going on when they wake up and find Seattle's Once Best covering their lawn jockeys. How do you think Giuliani cleaned up NY? Same thing. The idle hands which are permitted without comment to squish the chocolate balls, will invariably test the limits upward until someone is damaged. Laugh now, but save some of that energy for picking up all the knocked over bookmarks.

This wrestler murder/suicide outrage has got me so emotional I haven't been able to speak for days. The idea that a whole family is just wiped out in an instant.... Even a small one takes years of work to put together and maintain. Man, that's hard to take.

I was listening to the radio this morning on the way to the foot doctor as the local practioners of poorly prepared commentary tried to tackle this problem of rampaging wrestlers. The need to blame and make logic of just plain crazy is always a fun struggle to listen to.

The 99Xcrement morning crew took the position that the wrestler killing his family was a sick thing. I took the position that the sick thing is that they have jobs and I don't. The celebrity dirt journalism segment informed us that the son had a rare generic disorder. So rare, yet, so routine.

"Your son has a rare generic disorder. It's called "That Thingy." I'm so sorry."

"But doctor, is there a cure?"

"Yes, but not yet."

Those lads are in good company in the medical news business, though. This bulletin just flashed across my screen from no less an authoritative source than the Associated Press:

LOS ANGELES - Comedian Richard Jeni, who shot himself to death in March, had a history of mental illness...

How about that? You don't say? Well, I'll be. Right out of left field.

Serving suggestion: You might want to start institutionalizing people again before the streets fill with more homeless, and wrestlers and comedians start wiping out their families epidemic-style.

Alright...OK...I know...It would interfere with their rights to...to...be a danger to themselves and us all.  Ya don't have to get all snippy. Just a thought. Keep the borders wide open too while you're at it. What's the harm? 

"Hey. Bentwand wasn't crazy, he was on steroids."

Hmmm. OK, but aren't 102% of wrestlers on steroids? How many kill their whole family in a premeditated act? 

"He was anguished over his handicapped son."

Well, who isn't? It's not an easy thing, but this is not the 1400s. Plenty of people cope with severely handicapped children, and do so with less income, I might add. Last I checked, the government has fallen all over itself to make sure we live in a handi-capable world. Check your paystub and see how much is taken out for people who can't. I kick myself daily for not investing in the ramps and handicapped parking space contracting business in the late 80s when I had the chance.

Even in today's Wall St. Journal, (might need to subscribe, Ace) right in the middle of the front page.... 

Babes Among Elders: Nursing-Home Kids

COMMERCE, Ga. -- Ronnie Rivera, a 15-year-old in braided pigtails, sits in a wheelchair in a narrow hallway of Hill Haven senior-citizen nursing home.

Right here in the same state as where a high income narcissist and his apologists claimed his son's situation was so impossible he had no other choice than to flip the board and end the game, children and teens are using Medicaid to lawfully occupy space in a nursing home. 

It's not a great solution, but it beats being put into a sleeperhold at home by Crazy Calhoun at age 7.

Now as we go on, doctors will be arrested for handing out scary stuff in bottles, Roe V. Wade will be scrutinized for it's role in our filicidal culture, and your old friend, TV violence, will pay us another pre-election visit. Nowhere will people be calling for the building of more insane asylums. That's too crazy. Are you nuts? 

BUT AREN'T THEY ALL?

I'd like to congratulate the Strange-Slappeys, chronicled here in the House of Wachs August 2006, on 6 months of continued wedded bliss.

But there's a storm on the marital horizon here in the JC.  I don't know if this one will survive.

The marriage of Sharp-Payne.

I hope they don't move in with his dad, who lives in Cumming. They would be the Sharp-Paynes of Cumming. Ooh, boner killer.

STANDARD TIME

Another great day at my folks’ basking in 17 degree temperatures. This is the first non-entertainment oriented snow I’ve seen in 5 years. I couldn’t be more unhappy about the weather, especially since it’s 70 at home, and we came here after a week of golf and 65 at home everyday. I feel cheated, like I went on Spring Break to watch the filming of “Girls Gone Mild.”

Everything is cold. I’m eating my way to warmth. I have no motivation to exercise. There is no mealtime. Just a series of feedings that blend together until I collapse for the evening. I am a true southerner now.

The upside to all this is that my parents have a lot of great pills, and I readily partake. All the top ones that younger people enjoy. In plentiful supply. Courtesy of your government. Ready to help me sleep off a few extra hours that would otherwise be spent dwelling on my physical discomfort.

My dad has been a libertarian sort for most of his life, but I’ll be damned if he doesn’t leap for joy when he gets his walking around money from SS every month, and takes whatever free meds the government will pay for. Fuck it. He paid into the system.

When I was 7, I vowed never to touch a girl, but that was broken.

When I was 11, I vowed never to participate in TV or radio commercials that interrupt my favorite shows, but I skipped out on that one, too.

When I was 17, I swore that I would never pay for a show-offy car or anything but good, reliable transportation. Yeah, right.

And when I was 30, I vowed never to accept anything from or get involved with the government.

Well, I wish my 30-year old self good luck with that one, because with pills like this awaiting me when I’m in my sixties, I’d vote for Chelsea Clinton if it meant getting more of them. In fact, looking back on my track record of keeping principled stances, I think my last voting will occur when I’m 59. After that, who cares what judges and policies and laws are put into place? They won’t have any impact for decades, and I’ll be gone. Let the grandkids pick up the mess. That’s what they’re there for. I tried.

I didn’t know it until I left my hometown and went to other cities and got perspective on the situation, but everyone in Baltimore is ugly. I haven’t seen one woman I’d like to bone yet. It’s got to be the weather. It’s a sex chaser for sure.

While I’m feeling like I’m 80, I called the Weather Channel about a job over there. Last weekend, I applied for the position of “graphics spell checker.” It’s obvious they don’t have one, but they do need one.

They didn’t post the position. I made it up myself after seeing an outrageous spelling blunder on one of their teasers, which is doubly infuriating because I’m already not a fan of even correctly spelled weather teasers. Tell me the goddamn weather. Don’t give me this “coming up” crap. It’s unethical to play ratings with people’s lives. And it’s not like I can’t find the information from 20 other sources.

The teaser graphic said:

“Coming up-Tempertures Today.”

I called their station programming voice mail, told them of the gaffe, and the good news that I’m immediately available for future service as a spell-checker for the WC. Haven’t heard back yet, so if anyone over at the Weather Channel listened to me on the radio, please put in a good word for me.

“Guess who’s the new guy at the office, honey?”

“Who?”

“Larry Wachs of the Regular Guys Show.”

“OMG! He’s so sexy.”

“Yeah, and he’s a great guy, to boot. He’s gonna make our company a lot of money someday.”

It would be cool to work with Larry Wachs, and have that exact conversation happen to you. And you can make it happen. Think about it.

Standards are ebbing for sure, but I’m only curdled by it because they’re my standards that are being ebbed. The people eroding my standards are setting new ones, most of which I think are horrible, like lip piercing and not spanking children, but at least I am comforted in knowing someday they will get their just desserts and die of hepatitis or patricide by their self-esteem laden offspring, and their methods will be discredited and targeted for ruin as well.

What are my standards? What’s Larry’s America like you wonder? Well today, I was intrigued by the storyline of a Leave it to Beaver episode.

It seems that Wally and Lumpy were getting set for the big track meet that weekend. Of course, with Wally being short and having carefully arranged hair, and Lumpy, with his double chin and body fat percentage teetering on the brink of triple digits, both would be counted on heavily to carry Mayfield to a victory over their arch-rivals at No Negroes Academy.

The coach tells the boys in the locker room that they need to buckle down and concentrate and ....absolutely no horseplay would be tolerated.

Well, wouldn’t you know it but here comes ole’ Haskell strolling by and that seductive and wily rascal Haskell starts a towel fight with Wally and Lumpy, and only Wally gets caught by the coach while the others roll him under the bus.

“I’ll bet you had a gay old time throwing that towel,” says the angry coach, who promptly tosses Wally out of that week’s meet despite the huge loss to the team. Well, at least they have Lumpy in the 500yard hurdles.

I don’t know how the story turned out because I had to go eat something because I felt cold, but I ask you: What is wrong with that era in American life? I’d sure like to go back to it. Except we should keep all our current technology. I’m not a lunatic.

I’m sure people watching that show when it first aired were uniformly disturbed by Wally’s ethical predicament and uniformly unaroused by the use of the word gay. They had standards. That’s what I want. Get back to some standards. Life is too short to be this confusing.

Now, no one gives a shit when the Weather Channel misspells “temperature,” one of their bread and butter words, and they giggle until they wet themselves, as I did, when someone uses the word “gay” wrong. And why should people care when they’ve eaten so many boxes of Krispies and sat in millions of La-Z-Boyz?

Feh. Pass me the pills and build a fire, would ya?

OVER 6 RIVERS, 5 STATES, AND THROUGH THE WOODS

Made a trip to see the folks this week before they perish. It’s likely to happen in the next 5 years based on national statistics alone, but also due to the fact that Mee Maw Wachs needs the Army Corps of Engineers to get her from her domain at the kitchen table to any other place inside the house. Old Man Pickle Nose is doing all right, although we had a scare yesterday.

I talked to Mee Maw from the road:

“Hi, the GPS says we’ll be there at 8pm.” 

“What?”

“Um....we’ll be there around 7pm.”

“Oh, good. I have some men here fixing the heat, but they should be gone by then.”

“What happened to the heat?”

“It doesn’t work.”

“How long has that been going on?”

“A few days.”

My parents keep their house as an ice box to offset the many pounds of uneeded flesh that coats and heats them all year long. It’s like sleeping on Lambeau Field in January, so it’s less than surprising that they wouldn’t notice the heat not working as they rarely use it. Actually, when you think about it, it’s probably why Al Gore is so heavy. He heats himself. He’s his own carbon offset.

“Where’s dad?”

“Sleeping.”

“It’s 2pm!” 2+2 equals......”Can you check on him to see if he isn’t frozen.”

“Hold on......LEEEEEHHHHHHNNNNN ” she yelled. Very effective method of determining if your husband has frozen to death. Walking to the bedroom is out of the question because it would use up about 3 months worth of my cell minutes waiting for the report.

“LEEEEEEHHHHHNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN..........I’m too far away, Lar. I’ll call you back.”

She called back two hours later to say he just woke up. She sounded a bit disappointed, too. I swear these two are going to kill each other soon, making their physical health a moot point when discussing their longevity. Last night they argued vehemently about the oven. I asked my mom why her oven looked like an uncleaned air duct inside. 

“Your father left something in there and forgot to tell me when I put it on “CLEAN.” That sent my dad into high dudgeon and a Johnnie Cochran style defense of his good name and reputation that had just been tarnished wantonly by my mother.

“Excuse me. I didn’t forget to tell you. Look in the oven before you turn it on. And I don’t like being portrayed that way.” As if the media is keeping track of who wins the oven argument, getting their spin together for tomorrow’s editions. Maybe he’s worried he might not get a Wal-Mart greeters gig.

“I don’t know Mr. Wachs. We looked at your impressive credentials. You ran a multi-million dollar business and retired when you were in your 40s. But this oven deal....it’s a problem.”

My strategy is paying off. I don’t want to be one of those people whose parents die and then they wring their hands and gnash their teeth over missed opportunities.

“I never told him I loved them. Now he’s gone and there’s so much I wish I said. Poor me. ”

My strategy is to spend a whole lot of time with my parents so when they go, I’ll have had my fill. It’s working out great.

Great news. This evening we'll be dining with a celebrity. Grandma Lipstick will be joining us.

Grandma Lipstick, as you may recall, is the creator of wonderful children’s songs such as “Paper Bag Lunch,” “I’ll Give You the Facts, There’s No One Like Max,” and “March Little Robot,” and was a beloved feature of the Regular Guys Show for a number of years. Here’s some of her work.

BIRTHDAY GREETINGS

Saturday was my sister's birthday, and I didn't get her anything. Two reasons. I'm broke, and I've been thinking more about myself these days. So, I figure this audio tribute will be a nice way to wish a happy birthday to one of the 4 people in my life who isn't offended by me. It's better than throwing a $20 bill at her and mumbling some excuse.

Here's a time when my sister and I were discussing our funerals when we were interrupted twice. First, mom. Then, a prank caller. Click

LOVE YA!

IT TAKES A SQUIRREL...

Who says children's books have to be heavy-handed and infantile to get their political points across?

The official website of "Why Mommy is a Democrat."

If you're a fan of Herblock, but can't afford a newspaper or internet connection, this is the book for you. And lord knows, children need to pick a political party ASAP because, before you know it, they'll be 18 and not know what to do.

The knob job who wrote this will be on later this week to explain to us why mommy gave him a vagina for Christmas when he was 5.

We had storytime on the show today with more to come tomorrow. Here are some pages so you can follow along:

Next week, "Why Daddy Has A Girlfriend and Never Comes Home."

FOR SUSAN

A conversation held this aftenoon with my niece who's currently sleep-visiting us:

SETTING: Kitchen 6pm. I'm in from running.

ME: Where's everyone?

HER: I don't know.

Did you see anyone pass by?

I don't remember.

Do you know where the exits are in case of emergency?

Right there. (10 feet from the TV)

Good. Do you know where the other one is?

Over there.  (20 feet from the TV)

So you can see the doors?

Yes.

Did anyone you recognize pass through them?

I don't know.

Did anyone you didn't recognize come through?

I don't know. Hey, is there a storm coming or is it getting dark out?

It's 6pm in summer. The darkness combined with wind and heavy clouds would suggest a storm.

Well, I can't see the clouds.

Are you tied down to that spot? We have windows and doors.

No...Oh yeah, it's a storm.

What did you do today?

Nothing. Watched Shaun of the Dead. That was the highlight.

That's something. Ready for bed? You must be exhausted.

I don't want to miss dinner.

What time did you wake up.?

11:00

Was the internet working today?

Yes.

What time were you on it?

11:30. There's a storm, ya know.

Yeah, thanks.

Are the steaks done?

Been.  God, you're so sucked into your work.

That's why we're eating steak tonight.

----------------

Phony media outrage is like Mexican smugglers. One dies, two more take it's place. John Karr's DNA doesn't match the crime scene and no one in Boulder DA is remotely interested in pressing charges. Goodbye, scumbag. Go kill yourself.

Only a week ago we were hearing all the Atlanta connections being made as the local news media took the cue and helped along the vicious killer's story. Such chemistry and cooperation between the two scummy groups honed by decades of sympathizing with a nation's enemies.

"That's right Scott Slade, I'm standing here in the parking lot of a convenience store that John Mark Karr allegedly stopped at once when he allegedly lived in Conyers. It's a key clue in this case that is rapidly coming together here in the newsroom. We'll have more as the role-playing and water cooler speculation continues."

But in it's place arise: Conan O' Brian, Shock Emmy Host...uh...gate, and Survivor Sets Back Race Relations 150 Years....gate.

NBC and Conan had the audacity to run an opening skit on the Emmy's featuring a plane crash. Well, you can imagine how this played in Lexington, KY where a small commuter plane crashed earlier that day. How can NBC do something so insensitive when tens of people are in mourning while watching the Emmys in Lexington, KY? It's their 8/27. It's just a good thing they didn't incorporate any knife or gun humor in the Emmy presentation. Hundreds of people would have complained. I'm going to write a mean letter to them and the producers of "House," while I'm thinking about it. They aired an episode a few weeks ago showing a guy dying in a hospital, and that happened to my uncle two months ago.

Tim Andrews is calling the KY station manager as we speak pretending to be Conan apologizing. We will find the results on tomorrow's show.

If the white tribe doesn't win on the new segregated season of "Survivor," than how can they call themselves a reality show? Let's be honest, because that's what everyone wants isn't? America craves a good "honest conversation" on race, unless, of course, people start to get honest. But in a game called "Life" that's played outside of television, the whites have been the most successful bunch on the planet to date. Of course, that may change in the future, given as how the whites have an enormous appettite for self-flagellation and public apology and the Chinese are making some significant inroads toward common sense and commercial appeal.

The bet with our phone screener Kelly Brown is thus:

If a black person wins on Survivor, I'll pay her $50.

If a white person wins, she has to do my laundry until it's neatly folded. I'll put it away, because I don't want her touching my personal stuff anymore. The last time resulted in a toilet seat that was no longer tenable.

Jeff Francouer will be visiting us at about 8:50 tomorrow morning. I'll be up late making Rice Krispies Treats. Also, a guy who has a website that gets free breast implants for women.

IT WAS A STRANGE AND SLAPPEY NIGHT

Congratulations to this handsome couple, the Strange-Slappeys. I'm against hyphenates on general principle, but in this case I will make an exception. Strange-Slappeys sounds so much better, like an alternative band named after Slappy White. It'll also be a hedge against future domestic violence calls.

"Well, they are the Strange-Slappeys. Have a good evening, folks. Keep it down to a dull roar now. Come on, Roy. Let's get a sandwich."

Good luck, kids. May you have many little Strange-Slappeys. Call the show and we'll give you a wedding gift.

WACHS BEACH DIARIES '06 - THE FINAL CHAPTER

The final chapter, and since I've never produced a Freddy or Jason movie, you can rest assure that it is, indeed the final chapter, of The Wachs Beach Diaries '06 here for you now. Thank you all.

Brotherly Love 2 starring myself and Dr. Mike, who has gone to left of Cindy Sheehan...just damn.

WACHS BEACH DIARIES '06 PART 5

Today on the beach, despite video proof and eyewitness testimony to the contrary, both my parents heatedly insisted that the first dance song selected by me and my wife at our wedding was "Wind Beneath My Wings."

I want to state unequivocally that it was not. Send your best Notary Public with a lie detection machine if you wish, but it is not so.

Given that "Wind Beneath My Wings" is a song chosen by emotional cripples, I find it shocking that my parents would make such an implication, especially since our marriage has outlasted a certain other son's, whose every wedding detail has been committed to memory by them. And what group madness has come over them that BOTH insist on the same suburban mythology? Is Alzheimer's communicable?

What will next year's beach conversations be like?

"Larry, you never should have worn a baseball cap at your wedding."

"You look like my son in Atlanta."

"I didn't know you were left-handed."

"Wind Beneath My Wings" is not a song, it's a trap. Any couple who has ever selected it as their wedding song winds up 7 years later having the same argument.

"No, YOU are the wind beneath MY wings."

I'm getting a court order to force them both into CAT scans in the next 90 days. And people wonder why my sister and I go through their condo late at night arbitrarily throwing their possessions that annoy us into the hallway garbage chute, like that stupid square planter that hasn't been used in 25 years, and the stick of bamboo in the corner for which they paid a designer who bamboozled them for top dollar with that feng shui horseshit.

Gotta hit the road tomorrow, but in a few days, you're in for a real treat. Brotherly Love 2, the filmed finale to the Wachs Beach Diaries is coming soon. This sequel is a political thriller with a violent ending. If you enjoyed "Brotherly Love," you'll need to see "Brotherly Love 2" and it's shocking ending. Look for it soon.

The show returns on Monday. I know Will Ferrell will be on next week, as well as the return of "I've Got a Rash w/ Dr. Mike" to solve your medical problems free of charge and liability, but beyond that, I haven't received the rundown from Virgin Murray yet, so I don't know what other surprises await. Remember, "Watch Wachs Eat Club" returns this coming Thursday sometime between 11:30a and 1p, at Famous Dave's BBQ joint, on North Point Parkway in Alpharettaville.

WACHS BEACH DIARIES '06 PART 4

There's a good reason my sister is forming a swastika with her body at the pool. Dr. Mike dove into the pool today, taking off from the words "NO DIVING" stenciled pool side. The pool nazi  was livid that not only did Dr. Mike break the NO DIVING policy (and why would a sane person want to dive into water?) but he did so atop the very warning he was supposed to be heeding. It was a hate crime pure and simple. Seeing as how she's just some fat bitch who was hired by the building to make sure non-condo owners didn't use the pool, and has no other police powers or CPR training, Dr. Mike reminded her of her limited powers before taking another dive. Dr. Mike's god-complex aside, he was right, and so my sister, at my urging formed a swastika with her limbs in protest of the miserable treatment our brother received. Damn that's hot!

My mom actually said this to my nephew while waiting for dinner tonight: "Don't touch Uncle Larry's head. You have to eat soon. Get him a wipe" Naturally, because I haven't bathed in the past 5 minutes and we happened to be eating at the world's only restaurant with no hand-washing facilities. No, go play in the McDonald's Playland in the piss and molester tunnels. That's safer.

Poor kid. He really enjoyed rubbing my head. I was gonna let him watch me shave it his week, but now he's conditioned to think it's dirty and wrong.

WACHS BEACH DIARIES '06 MID-WEEK BREAK

The Wachs Beach Diaries will continue shortly. Computer time was at a premium today as I was burning to CD the Ladies' Pool Aerobics cassette tapes here at the condo for the woman who runs the class. My  mom volunteered me by telling the woman that that's what I do for a living.

Boy, did she nail it. That's just what I do. Make mix tapes for 65 year old women going through the pantomime of exercise. I think my mom feels guilty that she's been too lazy to go to Ladies Pool Aerobics for the past two summers, and offering her son's rare skills in converting cassette tapes into MP3s is an exercise substitute. Good deeds burn more calories than bad ones or no deeds at all. And, really, it's all worth it when you see how erotic these woman look after their bodies have been tanned and toned to cover versions of "You'll Never Find (Another Love Like Mine)," "The Alley Cat" and "Grand Old Flag." How they move around with those oxygen tanks in the pool is inspiring.

I wish Zidane would head butt me in the chest sometimes.

So I got that going on. Plus, my sister just arrived with my nephew, and....more later on the Wachs Beach Diaries. First, some diversionary items.

Here's a delightful email from the creative Mr. Barry Jackson.

Hi, Larry

I'm not sure if you remember me. My name is Barry Jackson. A couple of years ago I made a shrunken head sculpture, was told that it looked like Southside Shirley, and subsequently placed it up for bid on eBay.

Thanks to the press I received from your show, the bidding skyrocketed, and I wound up selling a shriveled apple for about 27 bucks. I'm not sure who bought it, but I believe they were on your show, and made a presentation.

Fast forward to today. Here we were at home, the kids and I, enjoying a seemingly innocent box of animal cookies when out of the blue we discover what appeared to be two sets of cookies engaged in......carnal bliss.

"Daddy, what's that?" "Why are they like that?" "What are they doing?"

Yes, the questions came fast and furious. But I held fast, and replied, "Never you mind, dear offspring. How else do you think animal cookies are made?"

So, I got off the couch, brushed the crumbs from my shirt, and proceeded to take a crappy photo of the two "intermingled" cookies on my camera phone. The next logical step, was to put them up for auction on eBay, so some perverted collector of pornographic baked goods could get leg up on his/her competition.

So, without further interruption, here is the link, so that you may also witness the horrible display that sent my children into a whirlwind of interrogation, and sent me to the bathroom to clean the cookie spittle from my clothing.

Thanks for your time, and I truly am so pleased to have the opportunity to listen to your fine show daily.

Horny animal crackers, get your horny animal crackers!

-------------------

Remember, The Watch Wachs Eat Club reconvenes on Thursday, July 20th, at Famous Dave's BBQ on Northpoint Pkwy, in Alpharetta, GA. Know the rules and enjoy. Email me if you have any uncertainty about how it all works, what to wear, the menu, etc.

Here's a preview of what to expect for you newbies.

WACHS BEACH DIARIES '06 PART 3

Tuesday, and that means it's oxygen delivery day here at the condo.

Nothing like some fresh oxygen to start the day. Makes all those years of high life worth it. You work, you sit, you  eat, you smoke, and then one day....fresh oxygen crammed into your head every waking moment. I welcome my own septuagenarian decay.

Larry! Haven't seen you in years, what are you doing here?

I come here for the oxygen.

Today's beach reading: The Globe. My nieces and daughter bought it to keep up on the headlines. Scott Peterson's lover weds. Jon Benet's mom has died from secrets. Acclaimed psychotherapist and doctor of geology, Ivana Trump dispenses indispensable tips on how to deal with life's twists and turns, such as this one from W.A. in Wheeling, W.Va.

Dear Ivana-

My husband's fraternal twin sister recently came to visit us and I was shocked when I arose one morning to find them taking a shower together. When I asked him about it, he says that they've bathed together since they were kids and that there's nothing unnatural about it. But I think it's perverted. What do you think?

That's a tough call W.A. On one hand it seems perverted. But you never know when you're just being a little uptight. Maybe you just don't get it. Let's see what Ivana says.

Well, it certainly is unusual and doesn't sound right to me!....However, there are a lot of other cultures in which nudity isn't such a big deal and people of all ages bathing together is acceptable. I certainly wouldn't allow it in my house.

Well said, Ivana. Who's to say?  It certainly is unusual and I wouldn't have that monkey business in my own luxurious home, should I be able to find my husband amongst all the rooms. But who knows? Many cultures find eating placenta or even the entire baby, perfectly normal.  Some people like putting forks in their ears. Figure it out. Good luck. Must run, the plane is ready.

This was welcome reading since my own sister comes to visit the beach tomorrow. I'll know how to deal with any tensions should they arise during bathing.

"Many cultures approve," I'll tell the naysayers. It will all work out.

WACHS BEACH DIARIES '06, Part 2

Flashback to last year's Beach Diaries.....

Old Man Pickle Nose has just gotten back from the hardware store, ready to tackle another tough kitchen drawer handle problem. Apparently, the owner of the hardware store was a prick and dad wanted to belt that nasty little cocksucker with his shitty jerk attitude.

According to the story (and isn't there one after every routine trip?) OMPN walked in to the store just as the owner was setting down at his computer, and instead of getting up and kissing OMPN's ass sight unseen, he stayed seated and said, "Yeah?"

OMPN then tried to high road him with some light-hearted humor.

"Can I borrow some screw taps?"

So the hardware owner says, "I sell 'em...I don't lend 'em." Bastard.

Sign these two up for a revival of the Sunshine Boys!

OMPN is right about one thing. Next time someone wimpers about how Home Depot or WalMart or Book Carnival or Meat Planet is putting the humble little guy out of business, bear in mind that most of these little guys are cranky assholes with shitty stores.

But having been shot down twice by this tiny plankton in the hardware ocean put OMPN in a foul mood. He's still licking his psychic wounds as I type. It looks to be a filibuster again until mealtime brings a sandwich and a cigar to his mouth.

--------------

2006 with ya again. The glass shelves above the TV collapsed spontaneously during this blog session. The culprit was a huge pottery pot that my mother put up there for no other reason than it looks multi-cultural and modern despite being the technology of the Bronze Age. Why not just tie up some oxen out on the deck to carry chairs and umbrellas down to the beach?

"Larry, you're lucky you weren't standing there when they collapsed."

"Yeah, I might have been cut."

"No, you would have been to blame for them falling."

Now he's back from the same cranky guy hardware store where he bought 8 new plastic grommet widget things to hold the shelves. 

"Did you see that jerk at the hardware store this time?"

"He wasn't there."

"I thought you vowed never to go there again."

"It's convenient."

Convenience. It's the new Principles.

WACHS BEACH DIARIES '06, Part 1

Your Humble Hebe has been traveling, while the show takes a summer break. But it's time once again for the "Wachs Beach Diaries," which was a huge hit in 2005 with readers of this space. Despite almost getting kicked out of the family for the revelations revealed in last year's edition, I'm ready to give you more of what you want. This should be a pretty scandalous year what with my hot sister joining us along with the newly separated Dr. Mike (ladies!), and his kids, and of course Old Man Pickle Nose and Mee-Maw (Love ya!) Judy. We're all here at the reliably average Ocean City, MD where nothing costs more than $5.99.

You know those douchebags that keep their turn signals on for miles at a time? I just discovered I'm one of them. I think I had my left turn signal on pretty much through South Carolina and didn't notice until I changed from the fast lane to go around a black chick doing 62 in a beat up Stanza. The legacy of Rosa Parks is a failure if this woman doesn't stick with the bus in the future. What a hazard.

My co-pilot keeps a steady narrative of my driving as we go.

"This guy just will not move over. MOVE OVER!" That was directed to the beat up Stanza in front.  Every bad driver, in my wife's view, is a guy.

"Watch out for that guy two cars ahead."

"After this guy you can turn."

"That guy is drunk over there."

Never mind that the suspect cars are piloted by females. I wonder if airline pilots quarrel in the cockpit like we do.

"Look out for that private jet, captain."

"I see it. Do you think I'm blind?"

"You're in a mood, captain."

In NC, a small SUV belonging to PETA passes doing 90, likely speeding away from the crime scene in which they've destroyed a monkey lab at some nearby university. I wonder how they square their ludicrous stance on animal rights with the possibility of not being able to brake fast enough at those speeds to avoid a raccoon or a bunny, not to mention all the dead bugs on the windshield. Hypocrites.

I speed up to follow it back to it's headquarters in VA where I will spray paint obnoxious pro-hunting slogans and swastikas all over the vehicle and see how they like it. But Nat King Cole comes on the satellite radio and it calms me. I don't believe people can destroy when listening to Nat King Cole. If the city of Atlanta would blare Nat King Cole over tornado warning speakers 24/7 in some of the more welfare-endowed areas of town, we'd surely see a sharp drop in the crime rate. I think they did it in the 40s and 50s, but progress killed it.

Luckily for PETA I have to pee, too, and curse myself for not wearing Depends this trip so stopping would be minimal. The PETA SUV escapes, but it only strengthens my resolve to acheive my main goal of this trip...kill a seagull.

I hate them notwithstanding that pussy book that sold milions of copies to suckers in the 70s. These flying rats have crapped on me, taken my food, and killed shuttle astronauts. Why do you think NASA has so many problems with the shuttle foam? It's the crappy environmentally friendly kind that doesn't really work, because it's missing a chemical that keeps people alive but might possibly, by random speculative chance, kill a few seagulls.

The religious zealot in the PETA van probably could not care less that astronauts get blown up and then they can't go to the beach with their families anymore, and the children grow up without a father or mother, and get very morose for the rest of their lives wondering who to blame for this horrible life they've stumbled into where a guy in a PETA SUV and his seagull friends have dominion over our great space pioneers and risk-takers.

I've packed an aluminum bat and chewing tobacco. The former to finish off what the latter, wrapped in a nice tasty piece of Wonder Bread, starts. And then I will listen to Nat King Cole in my room while sitting on my bed.

SHORT FILM THEATER RETURNS

As Councilwoman Martha Reeves once sort of said, "Summer's here and the time is right for making short films in the street!"

Here now, another Wachs cinema classic, this time from my daughter, who takes an unflinching look at families and summertime in a piece called, "Brotherly Love."

Starring me and Dr. Mike, with a cameo from Mee-Maw "Love Ya!" Wachs, Brotherly Love is the story of two assholes who can't get along.

BORN TO RETIRE

Happy birthday to me!

It started on a drive to the funeral home. The lady right in front of us made a sharp left for no valid reason and drove her little Chrysler straight into the Erie Canal. Here's the top story in today's Rochester news media outlets:

Woman rescued from canal

Officials say death was certain if not for passer-by's heroic action

Patrick Flanigan

Staff writer

(May 26, 2006) — David Sauter didn't want to jump into the Erie Canal on Thursday.

He really didn't.

Neither did Wachs. We were late to the funeral and my good clothes were on. Who knows why this broad made her car into a theme park ride? The sudden beeline to the water looked suicidal. It's a tough call.

But as he stood on the bank and tried to verbally coax a woman out of her sinking car, he heard the woman say she couldn't swim. That's when he realized he had to go in after her.

That's because Wachs sat in the car dialing 911 instead.

But it worked out. No one died. I did my part for society and got to the funeral safely. People like this Sauter guy are heroes, but more so are guys like me, who can quickly, and under pressure, survey a range of choices and odds and make the right move, however passive it may be. Here's to you Mr. Passive-Agressive Funeral Goer! Do what you want. See if I care.

The rest of the day was sad and gray as most Rochester days are. The air smells of old, sick, and tired. It is the opposite of California, which always smells of fruit, excitement, and herbs. It's nice to see this side of the family again. They are not travelers and so the get togethers are less frequent. That's OK. Because they don't get out much, it's easier to catch up on events of the past few years. My 19-year old nephew, Jesse,  is on disability because he hurt his back making a sheet pizza. Cousin David is able to light his cigarettes with his left arm again. My brother-in-law, Rob, plans to marry Tammy as soon as she gets divorced. And everyone still puts a possessive "S" at the end of every proper noun.

"Dearly Beloved. Carol enjoyed shopping at Walmart's and eating at Taco Bell's"

My other brother in law, Dan, tells me that I've got to try the new KFC dish where they take a bowl of whipped potatoes, throw some corn on top of it, add a layer of fried chicken tenders, cover that with gravy and cheese. He promises that I will enjoy it as much as he does, but I don't think that's possible. Still, I promise him right back that I will visit the Colonel's some time soon, and sample his newest concoction.

After putting in some quality time with them, we took our daughter on a tour of all the addresses in which her mother and I may have conceived her. It may well have been here.

The pool in the Renaissance Apts. on East Ave., Rochester, NY. Just like we left it in 1990. Empty. We never saw anyone swimming there then, either. Back then, the average age of the residents was 70. Our moving in brought down the average to a misleading 50. We had the pool and giant hot tub, there in the foreground, all to ourselves every single night. You would think that after "Cocoon" came out that year, the place would be packed. Now, same Cocoon decor, and still no takers.

Leaving the pool, I pass a guy in a walker and on oxygen near the mailroom off the lobby.

"Why don't you comb your hair, young fellow?" he says. That's senior-speak for"Hey ya bald douchebag. I'm so old I forgot how to meet people." If this were 1989, I'd have busted his nose, but now, in 2006, he's the ghost of my Alzheimer's-ridden neighbor 16 years ago, back to greet me. Twice a day he would stand in his doorway, sometimes with his pants off, slamming the door open and shut and whistling like a bird. I felt sorry for the guy and I would throw him seeds and crusts of bread, sometimes the gleanings of my wife's hairbrush, so he would quiet down for my official Morning Radio DJ Afternoon Nap. It was the last time I liked where I lived until 1996.

Unless you lived there and can paint the town red revisiting all the swell times you had hangin' with the gerrys,  there really is nothing  to do in Rochester except go here.

Not just a grocery store. The supermarket of supermarkets. Wegman's. The model for every single grocery trend in the last 20 years. Your local Publix have a trendy coffee bar? Whole Foods or Fresh Market have organic veggies and chic dinners to go? Wegman's was there first. A 35,000 square foot palace of fruit, excitement, and herbs. It makes California stores look like Rochester.

BAD DAY AT WACHS ROCK

We will cut the show back on, as Kelly "Race Card" Brown would say, on Tuesday. My deepest apologies for the lack of show on Thursday, especially after that spectacular American Idol finish. Hasselhoff crying! Clay Aiken as Shirley McClaine! 

As I boldy stated to a shocked public on Wednesday morning, that affable sum of parts, Sir Taylor Hicks, walked away with the honor of being controlled by creepy British recording moguls until he's close to 40. Other highlights included Mr.Al Jarreau, winner of Dentist Office Idol, Season 3, scatting it out with Paris Bennett on "We're in This Love Together."  Beside the uncomfortable feeling from watching a 70-year old man and 17-year old girl making a love pact, this otherwise cheerful and bouncy number has always upset me due to it's completely erroneous couplet:

...and like cherries on the vine it gets sweeter all the time....

Cherries don't grow on vines.

Time and vine don't rhyme.

Cherries grow on stems.

...and like cherries on the stem you're quite a little gem.

At least I'm trying to bring sense to it all.

Tomorrow and Friday bring memorial to the Wachs Clan on the weekend set aside expressly for such, and we travel to Upstate New York for the funeral of my sister in-law in-law. Her name was Carol, and she was very sweet and was cut off early by smoking.

The funeral is on my birthday. At 45, birthdays are now becoming days to sleep in and keep the shades closed and ride it out like a top TV meteorologist after some career-extending cosmetic surgery. But being a pallbearer on my day of arrival adds a new twist for which there is no proper etiquette. How does one balance the narcissistic tendencies of a birthday with the humility before god that a funeral brings?

To make matters tougher, SNL ran a skit last weekend, with Horatio Sanz, the Latin Chris Farley, dressed as a huge, boorish woman named Carol. The Skit Carol was a horny, voracious beast of a woman whose signature line, repeated over and over was, "I'M CAAAAAAAAAAAAROLLLLLLL." to the delight of the audience and investors of the next Lorne Michaels direct-to-DVD comedy, "It's Carol!" Well, it's not such a funny skit now, in my opinion, and I will try like heck not to think about it as I'm carrying the casket.

But the rest of y'all have a nice family time this weekend, and I'll be checking back before it's done.

MOTHER'S FINEST

In honor of Mother's Day, I'm presenting the Best of Judy: Calls From My Mom. These are a couple of her phone calls to me from the past year on a variety of overwhelmingly inane topics.

After telling me the big news that a local DJ had just died in Baltimore, my mom and I discuss the merits of the passive-aggressive birthday gift she has in store for my niece, on this clip called, The Birthday Gift.

My mom worries about tornados hitting our home in this clip referred to as, The Tornados.

Love ya!