When I come to Myrtle Beach, will you teach me to shag?

The National Blog service has issued a Severe Randomness Warning for the duration of this post. Those in the path of this blog can expect widely scattered thoughts, which may or may not include such topics as Newhart, why the bank always asks for your mother's maiden name, and poke salad.

Since I haven't blogged in a few days, as you might imagine, I have quite a few things to talk about. I figured I could either divide them into several separate entries, or throw them all into one. Guess which one I decided to do.

In many ways, the past few days are a perfect microcosm of my life. Friday night, I hung out with three lovely ladies. (I know this same routine every weekend must get old to all of you.) OK, perhaps I should mention the three ladies were my aunt who always gives me $10, another aunt, and my Mom. We went out to eat for other aunt's birthday.

After that, we hung out at K-Mart, sorting thru the discounted Christmas merchandise until the break of 9:00 PM. OK, really just 8:30, but that sounded kind of early. I looked for a new Festivus pole, but they must have been sold out. I got a new Christmas tree at 75% off.

In other news, it looks like the the Darryls and I will be going to Myrtle Beach for our annual beach trip this year. I brought up the idea Saturday night. And since the Darryls never make any decisions and pretty much go along with whatever I suggest, I guess that seals it.

On the homefront, GabeKaplan--the fish, not the actor--has been doing swimmingly. He's almost out of food though. And by almost out, I mean the box is empty. So for the past few days, I've been on my knees scouring the carpet for pellets I may have dropped. I really think I found the last two today. Guess I'll have to go to the store.

Yesterday, my right arm itched all day. I was afraid I might be coming down with another rash. I thought maybe I'd gotten into some poke salad. But then I googled poke salad and it didn't appear to be known for causing rashes, just potentially fatal gastrointestinal problems. Anyway, around 10:00 last night, I was scratching myself and a fabric softener sheet came out of my sleeve. That's not some magic trick I do. That's my life, in a nutshell.

And what about this weather? The temps have been in the seventies the past two days. I'm wearing flip flps and short sleeves. And I finally broke down and cut on the AC last night after getting hot taking down my Christmas tree.

It's like I retired and moved to South Florida, except there's no shuffleboard and I'm still having to go to work everyday. It's really messing up my Seasonal Affective Disorder. I can't even get good and depressed anymore. There are no seasons, I'm not affected, therefore no disorder.

I don't know what's going on, but I did pass a church sign on my way home the other night that said "Eternity is straight ahead." You know, it would really be helpful if they'd put some sort of mileage estimate on that. Do I need to get a bite to eat? Should I stop for gas? I don't start out on I-10 and see a sign that says "California is straight ahead."

Regardless, I just kept driving. I mean, I spent my Friday night hanging at the K-Mart, I'm crawling around on all fours looking for fish pellets, walking around in public with fabric softener sheets in my clothes. What am I clinging to?

"Down on Peaches Corner there are Good Ol' Boys. And Mother Fletcher's makin' lots of noise. They're dancin', shaggin' on the boulevard..."

Pseudo live blogging from Wal-Mart

9:03 PM: I have arrived at Wal-Mart. Also known as THE Wal-Mart, Wally World, Wal-Marts, and Purgatory.

9:04 PM: That greeter didn't greet me. What are they paying her for? I mean, really. You have like one task... greeter! I remember when that title used to mean something. I should've said something. Larry David would have said something.

9:05 PM: Off to the DVD's to look for workout videos.

9:15 PM: After searching thru electronics for ten minutes and almost buying the Barry Manilow Christmas album, I am told the workout DVD's are in sporting goods.

9:15:05 PM: What? Hey, "Mandy" is a darn good song! Lay off me.

9:15:15 PM: No, my parents don't know I celebrate Festivus. And yes, I fear their reaction should they ever find out.

9:15:30 PM: Leaving electronics, I see Garth Brooks' Ultimate Hits is only $13. Hmm, do I know anyone who would want that? I can't think of anyone. Maybe I should get it anyway. You know, one of those gifts you buy and decide who to give it to later. Those always mean the most. 34 songs for $13. You can't pass that up. It's like a two dollar t-shirt.

9:17 PM: In sporting goods now. They have exactly three workout videos. Not three different kinds. Three total boxes. One Taebo and two others.

9:19 PM: Browsing the golf stuff. I'll be back with you in a bit.

9:34 PM: You know, if that guy grew a moustache and lost like a hundred pounds, he'd look exactly like Tom Selleck. Well, Magnum P.I. anyway.

9:35 PM: On my way to the tools.

9:36:30 PM: Risk! (Sorry, I got sidetracked in toys.) "The game of world domination, played by two guys who can barely run their own lives." I always quote that Seinfeld line everytime I see a Risk game. I never had Risk, but always wanted it. I always wanted Jenga, too.

9:37 PM: Remember that Brady Bunch episode where they built a house of cards? "Watch your bracelet, Marcia!"

9:38 PM: My Little Pony is back?

9:38:05 PM: My Little Pony is forty bucks! Thank goodness for Santa Claus.

9:40 PM: You know, I would still play with Legos if it were socially acceptable. Or, if the top of this box wasn't strapped down.

9:42 PM: In tools now. They're right next to the toys. The logic behind that eludes me.

9:45 PM: Calling Dad to see if he needs any tools. You know, just as a general conversation starter. Not that I'm going to buy whatever he mentions and give it to him for Christmas or anything.

9:45:30 PM: Dad can't think of any tools he needs.

9:46 PM: Augh! That PA system is L-O-U-D! You can't even talk on your cell phone in here with that thing blaring. Automotive, code white? What kind of encoded propaganda is that? I'm tuning it out.

9:47 PM: Singing "Carol of the Bells" to myself. "Hark, hear the bells, sweet silver bells, dum duh duh dum, ding dong mmm k. Ding-dong! Ding-dong!"

9:50 PM: I've found myself on an aisle with no apparent theme. There are seemingly misplaced toys on one side and little gift sets of cheap cologne on the other.

9:50:10 PM: Strike "cheap" from that last statement. The jury will disregard. Since when is Brut $9.24?! It used to be like three bucks. Did Brut get some sort of minor celebrity endorsement that I wasn't aware of? Maybe like Tom Green or Alyssa Milano or someone?

9:50:30 PM: Thinking of Brut slogans in my head. "Hi, I'm Tom Green. If there's one thing I know better than bad movies, it's bad cologne."

9:51 PM: Actually, I kinda like Brut.

9:51:05 PM: I kinda like Alyssa Milano, too.

9:52 PM: On my way to housewares. Is that even a department? I'm just making these names up as I go.

9:52:30 PM: That guy just blocked me in! Look out, I'm taking the back aisle all the way down. Clear!

9:53 PM: The back, or outer, aisle is almost always the smoothest way around a crowded store. Sure, it's longer distance-wise, but there's much less traffic, or danger, if you will. Think of it like this. You're a CTU agent and Jack Bauer has just told you to set up a perimeter. The outer aisle is this perimeter. Well, that's how I think of it anyway.

9:54 PM: Some woman working in the floral section just smiled and said hi. Am I supposed to know her, or is she just an overly friendly Wal-Mart associate?

9:58 PM: I somehow wound up on the greeting card aisle. This lady is putting out cards in the section I need to get to.

9:58:15 PM: I begin to sing the "Dead, Dead, Dead" song from the South Park Christmas CD, hoping to frighten her away. "Dead, dead, dead. Someday we'll be dead. Dead, dead, dead. Someday we'll all be dead."

9:59 PM: It doesn't seem to be working.

10:22 PM: Most of the rest of the trip is uneventful. I make a beeline for the checkout. Leaving Wal-Mart kinda feels like escaping from prison to me. And if I don't hurry, the guards will hit me with falling prices from the watchtower and I'll be sentenced to another hour and lose even more money.

10:23 PM: The checkout lines aren't bad at all. I'm second in line.

10:27 PM: This appears to be the first time the cashier has ever seen the electronic price scanner. She scans at least six of my items twice, double charging me. She keeps having to go back and void the extras. Meanwhile, I'm having to watch the screen like a hawk.

10:31 PM: As I'm leaving, the worker standing by the door--I refuse to call her a greeter any longer--is peering into my buggy and remarks, "That's a big thermos you got there." I'm momentarily confused. As she draws nearer, she says, "Oh that's not a thermos. That's some sort of... well, I don't know what that is."

It's my pink yoga mat. Just greet, lady.

"Eight table dancers, seven packs of Redman, six cans of Spam, five flannel shirts..."

Bachelor on Aisle Seven

If by some rare cosmic occurrence the stars do indeed align at some point in the future and I get married, I have a feeling I will not be allowed to do the grocery shopping for the family.

I really should live blog a trip to the grocery store one day. Despite what you might think, it's not all reaching items on the top shelf for attractive female shoppers. Rather, I think a typical shopping trip for me would best be described as laid back chaos.

For starters, I don't make a list. Ever. I mean, that'd be like Hendrix playing with a capo, or Van Gogh painting by numbers. The art and freedom of expression would be lost.

I did employ a no buggy rule for a long while, only purchasing those items I could carry in my arms, hands, and balanced on my head. But lately, I've been fudging on that rule and going with the cursed shopping cart, and it's been costing me.

Saturday, I came home with a jar of bacon bits. Nevermind that I had no lettuce, nothing with which to make a salad, nor anything else on which bacon bits could be used. They just looked good. This is a perfect microcosm of my grocery issues. By the way, I got Hormel real bacon bits, not imitation bits. That's important, somehow, for when I'm eating them out of my hand.

I failed to purchase milk because I thought I had some at home. Well, I did have some at home, only it had expired one day earlier. I'll drink it up to two days past expiration. After that, it's a crap shoot. No pun intended.

I also purchased a half loaf of bread. I always purchase a half loaf of bread. When I came home, I threw away my previous half loaf of bread which had expired about a week earlier, and of which I had only used five slices.

Five slices is probably the most I've used out of a loaf of bread in five years, and one of those I tore up and fed to a cat who has taken up residence beneath cars in the parking lot.

And don't even get me started on produce. It's good for two days, max. And when you're only going to the grocery store once every ten to fourteen days, that doesn't work so well. I've thrown away enough bananas over the years to feed every monkey in Malaysia.

Even when there is a product I'm absolutely sure I need, there are usually several options to choose from. There's skim milk, 1%, 2%, whole, and even something called half and half, which personally I find a bit offensive, but whatever.

With many items, there are name brands and store brands and generic brands. Depending on the item, the difference in quality may be great or it may be negligible. How's a bachelor to know?

And then there is tissue. To me, the issue of tissue comes down to one basic choice, comfort versus quantity. For a similar price, one may procure a 4-pack of durable 1000-sheets-per-roll Scott tissue, or a 4-pack of soft, velvety 300-sheets-per-roll Charmin Ultra.

Early on in my bachelorhood, I opted for the latter. They lure you in with commericials filled with clouds and feathers and teddy bears. But those tiny rolls run out fast! Pretty soon, you've got a two-pack-a-week habit. I felt like a chain smoker.

There are few things a bachelor hates more than leaving the house, er, going grocery shopping. So I changed philosophies to the more economical solution of quantity over comfort.

Let me tell you something, they shouldn't even be allowed to call that Scott stuff "tissue." It should be called construction paper on a roll, because that's what it is. It's a tad abrasive. I think it may be the same stuff they use to dry off elephants in the circus after they wash them.

Now I'm as rugged as the next guy, but we all have our limits. Needless to say, I'm back on the feather and cloud wagon, and my happy tail is back to buying a four-roll-pack a week.

Some might ask, "Bone, why not buy in bulk?" And to those I give a squinty-eyed look of confusion and say, "...Huh?"

I am Bone, the disorganized, disoriented shopper. Look for me in the frozen foods section of your favorite grocery store or supermarket. I'll most likely be wearing that same squinty-eyed look of confusion.

"I got rice cooking in the microwave. Got a three day beard I don't plan to shave..."