This stinks.
Only yesterday I was totally primed to have a glamorous day off -a day of leisure -after yet another terrible week of cold, rain, and sporadic disturbing work-like rustlings, when the Mrs. -the one and only true Mrs, my Light of Lights, the Spiritual Devourer of My Every Sentient Impulse (not to mention a bodaciously appealing slice of Ultra-Womanhood) -suggested that it might not be a bad idea for me to take the Kelp kanines out for a brisk trot around the Manor.
I've never liked poodles, or exercise, so it took me some time to warm to the idea, but in no time at all I found myself stuffing them into their little sweaters and setting out over the moors, with the little jerks yapping at my heels. It's a supremely humbling experience, and no real man much likes being seen with toy poodles -especially not fluffy pinkish-white ones with those little balls cut on their ankles and tails, and especially not when they have names like Mitzi and Bitzi; fortunately for my self-respect, the other one is named Evil Roy Slade, even though his disposition is in fact almost identical to that of Mitzi and Bitzi.
I couldn't help noticing on our tour of the neighborhood that more of it seemed to be under water than usual, and I determined to check the basement on our return to the Manor to make sure nothing had gone awry. Alas, on inspection I found the basement quite badly flooded, and the heat and hot water turned off as a result.
Immediately I called the oil company, who sent someone out who informed me that there was no way he'd be going anywhere near our basement until the standing water had been removed -something about not wanting to get electrocuted, he said (wuss!) So I spent much of the day alternately shivering and bailing out the basement, which remained quite completely full of water despite my best efforts.
Today I started the day needlessly early by buying a submersible pump, which is still pumping away as we speak, having made only minimal progress on reducing the water level in the last ten hours or so, and so I am hunkered over my computer, frozen, with icicles hanging from my nose and eyebrows, enjoying spring.
A few hours ago I borrowed a little space heater from one of the neighbors, which worked fine for about five minutes before it blew a fuse; and unfortunately, the fuse box is in the flooded basement, and I'm sure Mrs. K would not want me taking any chances trying to change the damn thing with a half foot of water still covering everything.
Still, this is our second night of no heat or hot water, and I'm starting to get a little edgy. Unfortunately, the oil guy seemed quite put out with me for asking him to risk life and limb so Mrs. K could wash her hair, so I don't think we'll be trying him again tonight. It is really cold though -the poodles are turning blue. Actually, I guess that's the silver lining, as it's really the first use I've found for a toy poodle: they seem to make serviceable thermometers. Who knew?
Spring indeed; I hate my life.
Wait, I think my bride is summoning me... you wait here...
Well, OK, I'm back, and the heat is back on now, too, thanks to Mrs. K. encouraging me to stop being such a wuss and wade in there and push the damn re-set button (which I did after donning every piece of rubber or rubber-like clothing I could find -stylin'!), and now we're back up and running and starting to thaw and maybe now I can write my damn column.
Yeah, right.
Friday, April 18, 2003
Friday, April 11, 2003
More on Woo/Cheap Gas Day
Lots of excitement here at the Manor this week, as Steve “Woo-Woo” Wood played his last show at the Prodigal Son again last weekend, and yesterday was Cheap Gas Day in Eastham, so the Kolumn this week is bound to be action-packed. Whoa! I think I'm hyper-ventilating! Here -hold my soup...
Once again, Woo-Woo was wonder-iffic at another one of what could be his last Sunday appearances (apparently for as long as, but not longer than, a week) at the Prodigal; many of the same people for some reason turned out yet again to wish him yet another fond farewell, many of them trading warm reminiscences of the other recent occasions when he already said he was leaving but didn't.
If Steve were a less galvanizing performer, it would be hard to forgive such a shoddy yet undeniably effective marketing campaign. After all, how can we miss him if he won't go away? I mean, I love him, but I don't think even Steve can pull off the farewell show scam for a fourth week. On the other hand, he plays with such verve, such zest, such... shasta, even, that it's more fun to say goodbye again to Woo than hello to anyone else.
Last week he got even more carried away than usual, in the process bouncing his guitar off the floor and knocking over his amp. Actually, he didn't just knock over his amp -he actually rolled on it. Now, it's not unheard of to smash your guitar or knock over your equipment, but how many entertainers nowadays have the consideration to go that extra mile and actually roll on their amps? Not that many. Steve's special.
So I was already in a good mood early in the week, even before Cheap Gas Day, which is pretty much my favorite holiday. Some of you will know it by its more traditional handle: “Tuesday.” That's the day Tedeschi's in Eastham gives a 6 cent per gallon discount, and there's no better time to catch Eastham's cheapest, looking guilty and trying not to look too excited.
Believe me, it's quite a crowd, and I ought to know, because I'm always in it. Please don't tell the rambunctious yet ethereal Mrs. K - who thinks of me as a big spender -that I'm involved; it is, in fact, kind of a confusing social situation, and for many of us a spot we're not anxious to be recognized at, full of furtive glances and hat brims worn low over the eyes. In fact, I was mortified the other day when a neighbor called out a cheery hello from pump number seven; at first I pretended to be someone else, and when that didn't work I offered the most cursory of greetings and then tried to act like she was talking to someone else.
I shouldn't really be embarrassed, as man's love of cheap gas goes back for thousands of years (or, if not thousands, pretty darn many, anyway.) Still, it must be acknowledged that being a cheapskate has its drawbacks as a spectator sport.
By the way, if it snows again next week, I'm definitely slitting my throat. Ta!
Once again, Woo-Woo was wonder-iffic at another one of what could be his last Sunday appearances (apparently for as long as, but not longer than, a week) at the Prodigal; many of the same people for some reason turned out yet again to wish him yet another fond farewell, many of them trading warm reminiscences of the other recent occasions when he already said he was leaving but didn't.
If Steve were a less galvanizing performer, it would be hard to forgive such a shoddy yet undeniably effective marketing campaign. After all, how can we miss him if he won't go away? I mean, I love him, but I don't think even Steve can pull off the farewell show scam for a fourth week. On the other hand, he plays with such verve, such zest, such... shasta, even, that it's more fun to say goodbye again to Woo than hello to anyone else.
Last week he got even more carried away than usual, in the process bouncing his guitar off the floor and knocking over his amp. Actually, he didn't just knock over his amp -he actually rolled on it. Now, it's not unheard of to smash your guitar or knock over your equipment, but how many entertainers nowadays have the consideration to go that extra mile and actually roll on their amps? Not that many. Steve's special.
So I was already in a good mood early in the week, even before Cheap Gas Day, which is pretty much my favorite holiday. Some of you will know it by its more traditional handle: “Tuesday.” That's the day Tedeschi's in Eastham gives a 6 cent per gallon discount, and there's no better time to catch Eastham's cheapest, looking guilty and trying not to look too excited.
Believe me, it's quite a crowd, and I ought to know, because I'm always in it. Please don't tell the rambunctious yet ethereal Mrs. K - who thinks of me as a big spender -that I'm involved; it is, in fact, kind of a confusing social situation, and for many of us a spot we're not anxious to be recognized at, full of furtive glances and hat brims worn low over the eyes. In fact, I was mortified the other day when a neighbor called out a cheery hello from pump number seven; at first I pretended to be someone else, and when that didn't work I offered the most cursory of greetings and then tried to act like she was talking to someone else.
I shouldn't really be embarrassed, as man's love of cheap gas goes back for thousands of years (or, if not thousands, pretty darn many, anyway.) Still, it must be acknowledged that being a cheapskate has its drawbacks as a spectator sport.
By the way, if it snows again next week, I'm definitely slitting my throat. Ta!
Friday, April 4, 2003
Happy Birthday to Woo
One of my favorite musicians of all time, Steve Wood, had his fiftieth birthday yesterday. So did Mrs. Kelp, herself a person of very graceful demeanor and regal (yet girlish) bearing, albeit crazy as a loon; and Steve is the same, except a lot less girlish. They're both kind of iconoclastic, I think, and it is for that reason that I'd like to sing them both a hearty chorus of “Happy Birthday” right here in the column – won't you join me?
If you don't mind, I'd like to talk about the song a little bit before we do it -I just really want it to come out right. Let's sing “Woo-woo” instead of Steve, partly because that's a nickname I invented for him years ago that really irritates him, and partly because it'll just sound better than “Steve”.
Mrs. Kelp's first name, if I remember correctly, is Vivian, though she prefers DeWanda; so let's go with Vivian. (I don't know, for some reason I just can't get used to DeWanda.) Then again, it's her birthday... OK, DeWanda. Ready?
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR WOO-WOO AND DEWANDA!
(slower)HAPPY (harmony)BIRTHDAY (building)TO (pause...) YOU!!!
YAAAYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
It's not easy for a die-hard rocker like Steve to turn fifty, after being schooled for years in the theory that the really good ones aren't supposed to last that long. Frequently, it involves a considerable adjustment of one's expectations -which, again, can be embarrassing for those who were once so proud of not having any. But, hey, turns out that's why they called it rhetoric! and invented things like pirates and jelly beans to begin with.
At this point, Steve is as mature as the next person -even more so if the person is extremely immature -and people who knew him long ago are no doubt surprised to see him after all these years so completely unchanged. In fact, the last few months he has been flaunting his indomitability at the Prodigal Son in Hyannis with a series of “Drunk on Sunday” late afternoon/early evening bashes that have started to draw a pretty good crowd.
Of course, one of the many good things about the Prodigal Son is that it only takes forty or fifty people to pack it; it's homey, is what it is. They started out years ago doing mostly lower volume, acoustic acts, but they've slowly evolved into a place that rocks every now and then.
It's very comfy and living room like, but they do have beer and wine and a personable staff, and “Woo-woo” hadn't really found any good new bars to play in for awhile, and they obviously love him and vice-versa, so he's been playing more -downright regularly in fact -and consequently sounding better and better, usually with his son, Sam, on drums; and Sam's getting better all the time, too, to the point where he's playing with real confidence and authority; and they got Cliff Letsche, of the High Kings (also Steve's old confederate from Lester), to play bass, plus other musicians are dropping by and sitting in, and Woo just sounds great, just like always, with this gorgeous fatso guitar sound ripping out earthy, basic, primal rock and roll and moving like he doesn't have a bone in his body, just smokin', and they're blowing the roof off the place with great regularity and everything is peachy.
Except that they might have to dis-continue it or move it to another night in a week or two, due to a change in Steve's day job hours, so this Sunday might be the last Drunk on Sunday show for a while. Of course, they said that last week, too. My guess is, we might not be far from “Wrecked on Monday.”
Anyway, I can't tell you exactly when Steve “Woo-woo” will be at the Prodigal next, but if it's not Sunday, it'll be soon, and if I were you, I'd call the damn bar and see when. Then you can call me up and tell me, for a change.
Why do I always have to be the guy who has to find out all the stupid details about when and where something is supposed to happen? I'm sick of it! Go ahead, you do it! Find out when he's playing and call me! Here, I'll even give you the number: the Prodigal Son - 508 771 1337. Ask for David or Shelley. Then call me, tell me what they said -I'm at 508 247 8384. The hell with it; you're on your own. April fool!
If you don't mind, I'd like to talk about the song a little bit before we do it -I just really want it to come out right. Let's sing “Woo-woo” instead of Steve, partly because that's a nickname I invented for him years ago that really irritates him, and partly because it'll just sound better than “Steve”.
Mrs. Kelp's first name, if I remember correctly, is Vivian, though she prefers DeWanda; so let's go with Vivian. (I don't know, for some reason I just can't get used to DeWanda.) Then again, it's her birthday... OK, DeWanda. Ready?
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR WOO-WOO AND DEWANDA!
(slower)HAPPY (harmony)BIRTHDAY (building)TO (pause...) YOU!!!
YAAAYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
It's not easy for a die-hard rocker like Steve to turn fifty, after being schooled for years in the theory that the really good ones aren't supposed to last that long. Frequently, it involves a considerable adjustment of one's expectations -which, again, can be embarrassing for those who were once so proud of not having any. But, hey, turns out that's why they called it rhetoric! and invented things like pirates and jelly beans to begin with.
At this point, Steve is as mature as the next person -even more so if the person is extremely immature -and people who knew him long ago are no doubt surprised to see him after all these years so completely unchanged. In fact, the last few months he has been flaunting his indomitability at the Prodigal Son in Hyannis with a series of “Drunk on Sunday” late afternoon/early evening bashes that have started to draw a pretty good crowd.
Of course, one of the many good things about the Prodigal Son is that it only takes forty or fifty people to pack it; it's homey, is what it is. They started out years ago doing mostly lower volume, acoustic acts, but they've slowly evolved into a place that rocks every now and then.
It's very comfy and living room like, but they do have beer and wine and a personable staff, and “Woo-woo” hadn't really found any good new bars to play in for awhile, and they obviously love him and vice-versa, so he's been playing more -downright regularly in fact -and consequently sounding better and better, usually with his son, Sam, on drums; and Sam's getting better all the time, too, to the point where he's playing with real confidence and authority; and they got Cliff Letsche, of the High Kings (also Steve's old confederate from Lester), to play bass, plus other musicians are dropping by and sitting in, and Woo just sounds great, just like always, with this gorgeous fatso guitar sound ripping out earthy, basic, primal rock and roll and moving like he doesn't have a bone in his body, just smokin', and they're blowing the roof off the place with great regularity and everything is peachy.
Except that they might have to dis-continue it or move it to another night in a week or two, due to a change in Steve's day job hours, so this Sunday might be the last Drunk on Sunday show for a while. Of course, they said that last week, too. My guess is, we might not be far from “Wrecked on Monday.”
Anyway, I can't tell you exactly when Steve “Woo-woo” will be at the Prodigal next, but if it's not Sunday, it'll be soon, and if I were you, I'd call the damn bar and see when. Then you can call me up and tell me, for a change.
Why do I always have to be the guy who has to find out all the stupid details about when and where something is supposed to happen? I'm sick of it! Go ahead, you do it! Find out when he's playing and call me! Here, I'll even give you the number: the Prodigal Son - 508 771 1337. Ask for David or Shelley. Then call me, tell me what they said -I'm at 508 247 8384. The hell with it; you're on your own. April fool!
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