Half Past Awesome

All right, Ramblers, let’s get rambling. As far as weeks go, this one’s been marked by hints of mediocrity, a dash of adrenaline, and just a splash of awareness that none of us are getting any younger. The perfect recipe for a summer stew of aging. Any way you cut it, it’s good to be here at Friday at last, when we can look the System in the eye and yell “SUCK IT, System! At least until Monday. I’ll see you then.” And, in that vein I posed this question to you on monday for the Survey:

Describe for the me the worst job you’ve ever held and why (I promise to keep names out). Major bonus points for an awesome firing or awkward workplace scenarios (caught-in-the-deep-freeze-with-the-boss’-wife kind of thing).

Your responses rolled in, awesome as ever, and I ranked them in a fit of misguided energy exertion. Why only nine, you ask? Because the tenth spot was reserved for the Lyrical Jackass who promised me a list-worthy story by deadline. And guess what? He flaked. Again. For the millionth or so time. And now, we all suffer with nine tales of misery with a black hole of humor where the Jackass frittered away yet another opportunity for fame and infamy. So here you have ‘em:

Number Nine
I’d have to say, I have had some tedious jobs throughout my young career; but there is one that imprints it’s self the most clear. It took place while I was in holding for a military school; lots of precious time to kill! There was about a football field worth of grass accompanied by lovely patches of dirt. Apparently with out my knowledge when you sign up to become an Army Ranger, landscaping 101 is part of the process. The grass and dirt seemed strategically placed under the lovely shedding autumn leaves to produce hours of mind vegetating work. Armed with rakes and brooms a squad of future Rangers set out to ensure the production of parallel rake lines throughout all the grass and dirt. Of course the on going task was never completed, even after hours of work; partially to the fact that the piles of leaves some how teleported back onto the grass…(not to mention a rake can make for a good sword fight ha-ha). Call me crazy but raking clean dirt for twelve hours a day is just not my forte!

I always wondered what went into the training of an Army Ranger. Please keep future training secrets just that. You may well be jeopardizing the safety of our nation with your tales of the rake.

Number Eight
I was a gas station jockey, if you will, and I can easily say this was the worst job to date that I have ever held. I mean I did enjoy the undercover drug busts, watching these poor illegals get rolled and laughing when you see the undercover mini vans come up out of nowhere, only to find a big huge bag of something that looked similar and rhymed to “let it rain”… hidden in the trunk. I knew exactly who the guys at the payphones all day long were about. I even saw a guy try to commit suicide right in front of the pumps. The worst part of this entire job, was getting assigned Toilet Cleaning Duties. I would put on the bright rubber gloves, sometimes 2 pairs, and armed with bleach and an extra long-handled mop. The smell was that bad, sometimes. Others, it was the smell of fresh graffiti mixed with the kind of urine that tells you this/these individual(s) haven’t had a drip of water in a very long time. Absolute insanity.

Truly, not a job for the faint of  gut. Surprising, considering what a slave to cleanliness you are, that you were able to clean up after others. I suspect you’re making this part up.

Number Seven
I guided llama treks through the Rockies.  Sounds idyllic, right?  After round one of getting nailed in the face with a gritty llama loogie — not so much.

Clearly, this event has molded you into the manly man that you are today; robust, hearty, hale and a lil’ llama juice coursing through your veins – I dig it.

Number Six
The Plump Chicken!  Buckets and buckets of dead raw chicken!  I would toss them in the big industrial sink, wash them, pluck any extra feathers, remove all the yummy parts inside.  It was just lovely.  Then season them and slide a big metal skewer up their butts and let them spin on a rotisserie oven for hours.  When they were cooked I would cut them up for customers.  At the end of the day I had to remove the meat off of all the poor rejects that didn’t get purchased.  They became BBQ sandwiches and chicken soup.  Did I mention the HOT pink t-shirts with a big yellow chicken on them and the trucker hats!

Strangely enough, this story makes me crave bacon.

Number Five
I worked EMS and was once based with my partner in a small town. Each person working had their own bedroom, so the occasional “visitor” was not uncommon. One night my partner had a “visit” from a married employee of where we worked (she had parked a ways away from the base and walked over) and they were in his room. That left me alone in the living area when her husband, an on duty police officer for the town we were based in, stopped by to shoot the shit and see what was happening. I had visions of being the only living witness (if I lived) after the blood shed. I told him my partner was sleeping and not feeling well so we went out side to enjoy the evening air, the cop stayed and BS’d for an hour. It was a very nervous hour of my life.

I can only dream of you getting caught up in what can only be described as a “hail of gunfire”. Ah, to dream.

Number Four
I didn’t write any of my job stories because it would be too depressing for me, although I will regret that decision as soon as I have to read about all of the young hedge fund managers you seem to run with and their sorry stories of silver spooned opulence in the work place.

Your bitterness and vitriol have inspired me, sir. Tomorrow, I shall INSIST that I brush my own teeth, rather than have my man-servant do it for me, just so I can see “how the other half lives.”

Number Three
Worked at the leather factory as assistant sales manger. Sold raw leather to quite a diverse group. Some clients were bondage gear manufactures that were always showing me there catalogs with let just say nice looking models in positions and gear on to explain what type of leather buckles and studs they needed. Then we sold to prisoners that I took collect calls from recorded by the prison for them ordering snake skins and stuff over the phone with me!!! Had many recurring prisoner calls that asked for me!! They were a fun bunch.

Let’s take a quick tally here, shall we? Leather, S&M folks, prison and and snake skins. If this isn’t a heavy metal album in the making, I don’t from nothin’!

Number Two
Uli knows me.  Most of you in out there in cyber-land don’t, so you won’t see the full irony in this particular ill-fitting job, but here it is anyway. I had a job. Photographing children.  At the beginning of each new week I would travel to a lovely new town in my beige 1982 Volkswagen pickup, unload the equipment from my home-made plywood “camper”, and set-up my temporary “studio” in the local Wal-mart(s).  It was the same every time.  My week ran from Tuesday to Saturday.  From Tuesday to Friday I would see the same meth-whore moms dragging the same snot-nosed kids by my “studio”.  Every day.  Kicking and screaming. Spitting and biting.  Slapping. (Those were the moms. The kids were bad too.)  So ten times a day I had to get on the Wal-mart(s) intercom and remind the lovely customers to stop by during the week because there would be a long wait on Saturday.  Did they ever stop by during the week.  NO. Every Saturday there it was.  A freaking line of little pink dresses with matching bows stuck to their little skulls, with their mothers, standing four wide (and I do mean WIDE), backed up half way into the freaking parking lot.  One begins to cry—THEY ALL FREAKING CRY.
I find myself screaming right now.  Cursing. I don’t hate kids. I really don’t.  But I think I’ll just stay with my cats, Charley and Karen.  Vasectomy.  Best $400 I ever spent.

Holy. Crap. I die, just a little, from the laughter this story. CLASSIC!

Number One
‘Twas the summer of ’88 and I was gainfully and joyfully employed at Kimmons Farms in Billings Missouri.  July heat and 200 hogs excreting what 200 hogs excrete made for an intoxicating aroma of sulfur and rotted flesh.  I thought cleaning those pens was the worst job on the planet…..until I met “the lucky lady”. The lucky lady, as the foreman called her, was a 3 ft long prosthetic pig vagina.  The trick to holding the lucky lady has a very short learning curve.  If Mr Pig dropped his load on the back stroke and you weren’t holding tight…..well…..you got to remake the pig version of every “money shot” at the end of every porno ever made.  Being covered in pig  j**z  SUCKS.

Gonna have to take your word for it. The closest I know is that of a bull. And that ain’t no picnic either.

Around 2:30 this morning,  a single car detached garage decided to catch on fire. The hows and the whys are the kinds of questions our fearless Fire Marshals are paid to answer; I am paid to keep the situation from escalating from “fire” to “raging inferno”. Along with Engine Co.2, the boys from Ladder Truck 2 LOVE a good house fire. Hell, that’s half the reason we want to work on the north side of Springburg. The other half is dealing with the mad-dog antics that many of our esteemed clientele engage in on a regular basis. I’m talking about our urban outdoorsmen who pass out in the alleys, brawl each other with the drunken vigor of fighting sloths and light their shopping carts on fire on a regular basis. It is in this kind of environment that we found ourselves facing a bread-and-butter burner.

We roll up and immediately hop out of the Truck to help the Engine boys put the liquid refreshment on the blazing garage. Not too big a thing, really. As we were working around the structure, I noticed that the garage wasn’t exactly being used as a place to store vehicles, but rather, to store the homeless in their off time. All the trappings necessary for a life on the streets were being consumed by fire as evidenced by the piss-stained couch going up in the center of it all. There was a random bale of hay, cardboard tables, endless alcoholic beverage containers, enough makeshift ashtrays filled up to have put one of the Marlboro Man’s kids through college and the ubiquitous nasty mattress, all turning to glowing embers before our eyes.

Just as the nozzle man was making his entry, I heard this weird high pitched cackle. What the bejeezus? I turned around to find a crazy-eyed wild man sitting on top of a doghouse, wearing a shirt as a kilt, and little else. I start to holler at him, through my air mask, so of course, we look like a pair of idiots yelling at each other. At least the news cameras were out on the street. When I got near enough to him to yank my mask and ask what in THE HELL he was doing, he just kept giggling and informed me that “I better get in there and get Granny.” WHAT? IS THERE SOMEONE IN THERE MISTER? “Yeah, Granny went in there to look for Elvis and say goodbye to God.” AGAIN, WHAT? AS IN WHAT THE F–K ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? The two firefighters continued to toss water at the situation and I informed them that there might be someone else in there. Great.

The boys knocked down the fire in short order and I drug kilt-dude out to the street and had him repeat his story to the head honchos on-scene, because this? is totally unbelievable if you didn’t witness it. He continued to rant and rave like a lunatic about Granny (who was across the street, by the way. On the sidewalk. In a lawn chair. At 2:30am) and Elvis,  then shuffled down the street until the cops caught up with him and hauled him off to the pokey (where, I was told, he ripped off his kilt/shirt combo at the booking desk and basked in his nude glory; that’ll make him most popular in lockup). By this time, we were waiting on the Marshal to arrive and do his thing, so we took the time to check over the scene, and let me tell you one thing: this place is going on the Top 15 list of nastiest residences in our entire town.

Picture this: cobwebs hanging from ceiling to about 5ft. high on the walls, all colored brown from dirt and wayward cigarette smoke. A toilet falling through the floor with water running in it continually. Five gallon buckets throughout the house in case you didn’t feel like making the trip to aforementioned leaning stool of nastiness (a well utilized option, I might add). Several years worth of cigarette butts crammed into every available container strewn about. Rotting food scattered to every corner of the joint. Computer screens and monitors in various locations with a wireless router sitting on an overturned shopping cart in the erstwhile “living” room. Trash up to your knees throughout smelling like, well, old decaying trash. The smell. Oh, the smell. God, for the smell. I’d rather take up residence in the burned out garage than try to live in this environment.

And you want to know what was in the middle of all of this nasty, filth ridden squalor? A working smoke detector. Despite living in conditions that could be likened to a 900 square foot dumpster, these folks had the sense of mind to at LEAST have a smoke alarm in their sweet abode. When you compare that to the number of people I see on my side of town not wearing (and not making their kids wear) seat belts, it almost lends some sanity to the situation. Never mind that Granny’s son was screaming at her rudely about how if someone didn’t let him back in the house he was gonna “whip (my) d–k out and take a big giant piss right here, right now” (true statement). Never mind that we were secretly hoping the police would drop a taser shot on him for being such a turd as to yell at his Granny, calling her EVERY rude name I can think of, none of which I can print. I can only hope they eventually arrest him, if for nothing more than being a disrespectful asshole; no one should talk to their granny like that.

Certainly not one savvy enough to have both a functioning smoke detector and a relationship with Elvis.

It’s Monday morning here in the Ozarks, and I’m watching the parade of mad country commuters out my office window trying desperately to beat the clock and face their weekly obligations. Even from here up at the house, I can see the clenched knuckles on the steering wheels, the eyes set in steely resolution and the grim realities of the workweek etching their lines on foreheads. All this while they buzz by at 60 mph. Okay, I may be imagining it more than actually seeing it, only because I’ll be joining them tomorrow morning for a stint at the firehouse. Either way, it’s time to clock in and contribute more of what little time we have on here on Earth to The Man. Let’s lighten the mood a bit and assign the weekly LOTPG / KCTTT. Take a glance at the bottom for the Half Past Friday survey question, and send your answers to bluecayucos@gmail.com. In the meantime, I hope your week is getting better all the time

Lifting Of The Pint Glass

1.) The bartenders at Patton Alley Pub. No matter the time of year, the state of my day or the mental condition I’m mired in, the tap yankers at my favorite local watering hole always make me smile and keep the Guinness flowing, even when I am trying to convince them that it’s Jon Voight sitting next to me at the bar. Good people, here’s to you!

2.) Fred, from Decatur, Il. The name of the gent who bought my excavator, this guy lends credence to the concept of an honest deal sealed with a handshake. Despite a variety of sketchy potential scenarios, this guy was true to his word, and I lift my pint glass to him. (stay tuned for a future essay on the subject)

3.) The Wife. She has declared this “The Summer Of Jeena.” And so it has been. In every way possible. But, as I think about it, there are few more deserving of an entire season devoted to them, and she’s earned it. So while I’m in the shop, I’ll raise my glass to you as I slave away on as-yet un-named project for you.

Karate Chop To The Throat

1.) The Wife. It seems the nicer I am to her the saltier she is to me. I am confused and conflicted, so in my anger, I give her a Chop. Damn, it feels good. Then it hurts when she kicks me back…..real hard-like.

2.) The Holstein steer across the street. It keeps giving me the hairy eyeball, and just took a dump while chewing its cud and looking right at me. If I weren’t so damn lazy, I’d mosey across the road and give the ol’ chop socky to the throat. And I’d probably break my hand doing it, you smug bastard.

3.) People doing it out of context. C’mon, you know who you are. Nobody wants to read on Facebook that you’re leaving your wife. Least of all her. It’s supposed to be a fun social site, not a place where you air out ALL your dirty laundry. And if you insist on airing it out there, at least show pics. CHOP!

Half Past Friday Survey Question For July 31st.

Describe for the me the worst job you’ve ever held and why (I promise to keep names out). Major bonus points for an awesome firing or awkward workplace scenarios (caught-in-the-deep-freeze-with-the-boss’-wife kind of thing). Send your answers to bluecayucos@gmail.com before Thursday, I’ll rank ‘em and let you know the details on Friday. Props to Buns for coming up with this weeks’ question.

FINALLY!! I begged, cajoled, harassed and browbeat you into giving me the goods for the Half Past Friday survey, and although it took you two weeks, you came through like freakin’ rock stars! As I sit here, far down in this delicious box of red wine and ranking these answers, I am again reminded how lucky I am to be surrounded by the finest minds on the internet; at least, as compared to the folks who continually remind me I’ve won some sort of lottery in Kenya. So, here was your question:

As a result of your meteoric rise to the top of your game, a big screen biopic of your life is in the works. Fortunately for you, YOU get to choose who plays the title character. Tell me who would play the role of you in this movie and why.

And here’s where they stand after intense debate with none other than myself. I hope you have a weekend full of stories that are unfit for print. If that’s the case, give me a call. Oh yeah,  my responses are those in red; you already knew this, but I thought I would flog the dead horse.

Annnnnnnddddd away we go:

Number Ten
Ok, this is hard.  I’m confusing what movie star I want to be vs. who would play me.  My first thought was Demi Moore, not that I look like her but I hope to age as well as she has, plus she gets to have relations with Ashton Kutcher!  Anyway, I’ve been told I look like Minnie Driver, so she would be the one to play me minus the British accent.

Yeah, you can’t pick Demi just because you want to engage in “relations” with Ashton. But Minnie? She’s A-Ok. And the accent is super-foxy, so don’t lose it.

Number Nine
Here is my celebrity-as-me-in-the-best-movie-ever-made answer. Afraid that the wit you requested may not be present, but i actually came up with an answer that is so right, it would really be a shame if this movie doesn’t get made. Or–shudder to think it–some other actress played me. When I was 11 I broke my arm snowboarding. It was 1988 and “Heathers” and “Beetle Juice” were recently released. Because I had dark hair, was pale, and had a serious expression (I did have a broken arm after all), the doctor who took care of me remarked on my resemblance to Winona Ryder. He even went so far as to suggest that I get a black cast because Winona’s character in “Beetle Juice” wore all black. I settled on purple. No one else has ever mentioned that I look like any celebrity, ever.
Then this AmEx add came out: http://images.eonline.com/eol_images/Entire_Site/20080923/293.fey.amexad.092308.jpg
If she could ignore her recent wild career success, based on the look of her office, and her kid, and the expression on her face, she wouldn’t need to do any research to play me. She really wouldn’t need to act. Or change her hair. Or wear contacts… I just so happen to be watching “30 Rock” right now. It would be an honor if Tina took the role.

You make a valid comparison, with solid reasoning. Of course, you are my pseudo-friends’ little sister, so I am inclined to say “EWWWW….”, because those ladies are ultra-smooth, but again, the whole “little sister” thing comes into play. I am confused, yes?

Number Eight
It may seem like an odd choice but….Michael Cera (From Superbad, Juno & Arrested Development).
In anticipation of your confusion:
1.) I know he’s a boy, but I’m cool with gender neutral casting.  Nothing I’ve done with my life couldn’t have been done by a boy.  It’s not like I’ve given birth.
2) Yes he is young, but I resolutely refuse to acknowledge that I am out of my twenties (creaky knees be damned!).
Why him then?  It’s simple. He somehow manages to make geeky, oddballs seem charming and appealing.
That is all.

That may be the creepiest answer I’ve gotten to date. And yet…..yet, it makes perfect sense. Color me impressed. Color me drunk, too.

Number Seven
I gotta go with Elizabeth Berkley.  After that stunning performance in Showgirls, what can’t she do?!  Or Anthony Hopkins.

Interesting that you would pick such polar extremes when it comes to showcasing your, um, talent. I know now that my initial analysis of you was RIGHT on the money, not just a byproduct of mixing up my medications.

Number Six
First of all, I cannot get past anyone doing a movie about ME, it makes me a little uncomfortable. However, the two choices (one might not be available) would be Kevin James (I’ve had people tell me I remind them of him), or Drew Carey (I used to have a flat top, when I had hair). They could probably interact with those residing on the north side with the same, shall we call it tact, that I do. And, Alan does refer to me as the chubby, attractive, bald guy.

I think you flatter yourself, sir. I know you.

Number Five
If I get to choose who plays me then I’ll choose Halle Berry. Nope, I’m neither hot nor black – but artistic license allows it. If I were being realistic it would be Renee Zellweger because she can pack on pounds for a movie role. Sigh.

I happen to think Renee is extremely hot, this is why you’ve made the list. That, and your firm grasp on your reality.

Number Four
My first thoughts turn to Clooney or Pitt, but alas while they come close to conveying my boyish good looks and rock like physique, they aren’t quite right.  To be convincing an actor would need the commanding voice of Vincent Price, the rugged good looks of Harrison Ford, the comedic timing of Fred Sanford, the dramatic flair of Charo, the lightly bronzed, beautiful skin of George Hamilton, and the robust physical stature of Dom DeLuise.  Who you ask yourself can possibly fill the impossible task at hand????……YES it can only be THE HOFF!!

I like all, and I mean ALL of the references. There is no reason to NOT include Charo, as she is one spicy jalapeno who commands my every passion. And the Hoff reference….it gets no better than this, people. No, it doesn’t.

Number Three
Sam Shepard would be the person playing my role in the big screen biopic of my life. For one, “The Right Stuff” hits all too close to home with my love and fascination with all things aviation, and him as Chuck Yeager was downright badass. If he could pull that role off perfectly as a hot-shot test pilot with nuts the size of a medicine ball, I’m in. We’d have to rewind back to 1982-ish, because he is gettin’ old these days!

Of course, to rewind to “1982-ish”, we’d have to go two years before you were brought dragging and screaming into this world. I don’t mean to split hairs, but……..wait, yes, yes I DO like to split hairs.

Number Two
It is important for the actresses to be able to connect with their character so I chose woman that can empathize with the chapters in my life.  With that in mind, I cast Lindsay Lohan as a young version of myself.  Not only did the early Lohan physically resemble me with her red hair and freckled face;  we were both sweet and innocent in our youth.  Seems Lindsay went a little further off the deep end than I care to go so I think she needs to step off the set when she hits her late teens.  Marcia Cross from Desperate Housewives seems an appropriate choice for my early married years; the pursuit of perfection drives her character to kill her husband.  I kid I kid.  Before I get to the point of actually killing B—, Marcia takes a bow and Mae West enters the scene.  Like West, I am constantly being censored (by the hubs).  A writer and singer known for her quick quips, Mae could ask for a cup of coffee and someone would look for a double meaning.  Too bad she is dead….finally someone who could hang with me.

Plus, by having all those personalities, that would dovetail nicely with your multiples. But Lindsay? Knowing her now? Not so much…….

Number One
OK, so of course I would want Brad Pitt in full Oceans 11-12-13 costume design to play me. I’d be cool, smart, and too slick for all of society’s rules. Yes, the heart of my Uber-man complex is this delusion of grandeur.The hard fact of the matter is I am nothing like my distorted grandiose self-image. The accurate actor portrayal of my character should be handled by Nick Nolte in 48Hours. Reasonably unhinged with a poor wardrobe and a crappy ride.

Bravo to you, sir, for recognizing. And, when your name comes up, that mug shot of Nolte HAS been known to cross my mind. It’s why you’re my friend.

Last night marked a return to the ice after a three month self-imposed hiatus. What with The Heathens in full sports swing during the hottest months of summer (brilliant), it seemed parentally prudent to take a season off from the men’s rec hockey league, give the old blades a rest. By spending some time at the gym and riding my bike to work occasionally, I’d hoped to keep in enough cardio shape to prevent a stroke from happening upon my return. It was a big mistake.

The fire department has a loosely organized team of fools who’ve decided “yeah, hockey, that sounds like a good idea.” So most of us, for the first time, decided to learn to skate, spend an ungodly amount on gear and form a team. That was about six years ago, and each season, the group grows by one or two guys until we’ve finally gotten enough to field an actual team. It’s been a blast, no doubt, complete with locker room antics and smells, road trips to tournaments and age inappropriate behavior. We may be trying to re-create our squandered youth or maybe it’s the idea of chasing other people around with a stick that appeals to the little boy in each of us. It matters not what our motivation seems to be, but the consequences of choosing ice hockey at an age when most professionals are retiring has provided more than bruised egos and bodies. It’s been the source of guffaws for every spouse or random soul who’s been down to the ice park on a Sunday night.

I wish I could accurately describe the pain that surged through my beaten down corpse after one measely game. You ever see one of those unfortunate armadillos that is laying toes up on the highway with parts scattered all over? I would wager it felt a little something like how that thing looks. Pre-game, we all laced up in the locker room and gave each other the expected razzing over creaky joints and achy bones, while the hockey rookies looked around nervously, as though maybe this decision to play a game that involves this much safety equipment was a pretty stupid one. We stumbled out onto the ice to the capacity crowd of, I counted, fifteen spectators. And two brutal hours later, we limp-skated off, the five remaining die-hard fans laughing themselves into asthma attacks. It’s hard to sell hockey in bass fishing and turkey killing country. My own wife won’t even waste her time going to the rink, insisting “it’s cold in there.” How can I argue with that?

As for me, I think the reason I like hockey so much is that it embodies much of the same code of conduct as the firehouse. You got guys that you would never trust with your daughter but that you intrinsically trust with your own safety; the rink provides an environment in which people who have no other common denominator get together to enjoy the harassment and shenanigans that hockey provides. We cajole and congratulate with equal enthusiasm, we sit around and complain about one another; it’s as close to the kitchen table in a firehouse as I can find. I may suck at hockey, but I am damn good at drinking beer, a common post-game decompression strategy that we employ frequently. And despite the fact that we all look like a pack of escaped mental patients having meth fits out on the ice, there is nowhere else I can have that much fun while dancing that close to a cardiac event, save for a good house fire.

I think the bruises are worth it.

Manic Monday has once again meandered in and let the world know that while the weekends may belong to you, your ass belongs to The Man, and his name is J-O-B. For some folks, that is. Around here, The Wife has been gone for something like 4, maybe 14, days on a “Girls Trip” to Florida. That equates into a complete breakdown here on the home front. I’ve declared Martial Law, The Heathens countered with anarchy and chaos, and somehow this morning I woke up to a Transformer toy being shoved up my nose. Well played, boys. Counting on the old mans’ need for sleep is working in your favor. Probably best if I just hand you, the reader, this weeks Raising Of The Pint Glass / Karate Chop To The Throat and the survey question for Friday. It SHOULD look familiar. Email me your answers: bluecayucos@gmail.com before Friday, and then tune in. I believe in you. Until then, here’s the weeks heroes and villains:

Raising Of The Pint Glass

1.) Cancer. The sign, not the disease. Today is the Lyrical Jackass’ birthday, yesterday The Wife’s and a whole slew of those closest to me have birthdays in this astrological period. Don’t know what it is about you crabs, but I dig ya, and here’s a lift of the brew to you!

2.) Amigos. While I was in a constant state of trying to run this household without The Wife’s input, I was relying on three things to make it happen: coffee, alcohol (late at night, I swear) and my friends. There was no shortage of them dropping by, calling, whatever. Now this may well be because they are amused by a breakdown of my mental state, but their reasoning is of little import. Thanks, amigos!

3.) “The Herkamator”. This is the name Heathen #2 gave to the excavator when he first decided to talk. It was the last piece of excavating equipment I owned as a result of selling off Pacific Excavating, and it finally sold this week. A pain in my ass till the end, I’ve loved that iron and it served me well. The Wife will not miss making the payments, though. So here’s to you, Herk.

Karate Chop To The Throat

1.) The Springfield News Leader. The folks running the show at this “newspaper” seem hell-bent on selling subscriptions and ad space by driving a wedge between the community and it’s public safety employees. Armed with innuendo and the opinions of some local black-helicopter types, it strives to generate mediocrity at best. CHOP!

2.) Starbucks. Screw you for making me crave you every time I get into the car. I need you and your ways, and I loathe you for it. Karate…….Chop!

3.) My own lazy ass. The whole time The Wife’s been out of town, I have yet to work out. I’m going today, but that’s only because I have a hockey game on Wednesday night, and REALLY don’t want to have a cardiac episode on ice. I hate myself for the lack of motivation, and am making chopping motions as I type this. It looks real awkward.

Half Past Friday Survey Question For July 24th

As a result of your meteoric rise to the top of your game, a big screen biopic of your life is in the works. Fortunately for you, YOU get to choose who plays the title character. Tell me who would play the role of you in this movie and why. Make it original and make ‘em funny. Email your answers to bluecayucos@gmail.com.   Tune in Friday for the results.

First, and this is important, I did NOT forget about the Half Past Friday Survey. For the first time since the concept was unleashed (like, a month ago), your answers did not satisfy me. Sure, there were a few choice cuts, but on balance, I was displeased. And I am an angry and jealous (insert deity of your choice). So, I will, in my magnanimous mercy, grant you one weeks’ reprieve to come up with some good answers. Or else. That, and The Wife has abandoned me for some sort of “girls trip” to Florida for five days; I have no doubt that she and her friends have all taken up residence with underage Cuban male sluts, and this depresses me. This also means it’s been me vs. The Heathens, and we all know what happens when the inmates outnumber the guards. Cut me some slack, even if I won’t for you.

In my quest to entertain the boys, I stumbled upon an invite to the Ozark Boosters Club Rodeo tonight. I am quite serious when I say that when The Wife leaves us to our own devices, we go into a survival mode that includes:

1.)  wearing only underwear (less laundry for me to do.)

2.) eating off of the table sans utensils (I’m all “green” ’cause I don’t want to “waste” water on dishes. Yeah, right.)

3.) only leaving The Compound when we run out of food stores (it’s dangerous out there, boys.)

At some point, the guilt hounds me into submission, and we begin to venture out into the big, bad world, in search of entertainment that does not involve Leogs, Transformers or Light Sabers.

My own experience with rodeos is hinged around being an ag major in college. I was neither talented nor interested enough to actually participate in the myriad rodeo opportunities Cal Poly offered, but I did like going to them purely for cheap entertainment and the chance to gawk at girls stuffed into too-tight pants with belt buckles the size of Cadillac hubcaps. We would load up on “value-priced” beer (read: Hamms or PBR) stumble down to the campus arena and take in the kind of sensory overload that can only be rivaled in a big city airport. There was a visual smorgasbord, ranging from skinny little bull riders missing teeth and brain cells to arrogant team ropers prancing around as though their ability to engage in bondage play with livestock made them superior life forms, to barrel racing babes, chewing Copenhagen, walking bowlegged and STILL looking hot. It boggled the mind. It was in this environment that I took up chewing leaf tobacco, drinking beer and killing my own brain cells, and I won’t lie, it was one of the best times of my life.

Fast forward to tonight; visualize, if you will, The Heathens and I taking this concept by storm. Heathen 1 was in a fury because I wouldn’t abide his wearing his fringed chaps to the event. Heathen 2 was stoked at the smell of livestock waste. That kid smells EVERYTHING, and this can be plain weird. Bones does the same thing, and while it’s cute when a four year old wants to smell your coffee, it’s just straight up creepy when a 24 year old is always smelling his hands (this is a plea for you to get help, dumbass). We get into the booster club arena, and it is as though I had stepped back in time. Outside of rhinestone encrusted cell-phone cases (cell phones in MY day were $600 bricks the size of shoe boxes, thank you very much), it could well have been the early nineties. The girls were all wearing 13 pounds of caked on makeup, hair teased up like Jersey gangster chicks, squeezed into Rockies and chain-smoking Marlboro Reds. The dudes all looked strung out, drunk, or both, all equally obsessed with looking filthy and sauntering around angrily. I believe the message they were trying to convey was that this “po-dunk” rodeo weren’t NOTHIN’ like that one time they went to the NFR finals and hung out with George Strait (dubious about that one, I am). I give rodeos credit for this: they are immune to passing fads, and attending one in 2009 seemed EXACTLY like going to one in 1989. The horseback-mounted announcer made the similar plugs for God, Country and Eating More Beef. The Clowns (wait, now they’re called bull-fighters…..whatever, dudes, you wear makeup), were ridiculous and funny as hell to my boys. The rodeo contestants were still treated like, and behaved like, rural celebrities. It was three ways of awesome, and I loved it all.

This is the kind of environment that a man can teach his boys a thing or two about life. So when I saw the Sherrif engage in, and eventually remove, a mulleted soul with a WWF wife beater on, I took the opportunity to point out to them what happens if you don’t listen to authority figures like the Sherrif. Or your Dad. They got to watch calves crap themselves in the pens while awaiting the dally team roping event; Heathen 2  subsequently demanded to “smell it”. I somehow doubt his mother would encourage him just “smelling it”. I did. As I get older, these are the things that truly bring a smile to my face. I’m too old and too married to be chasing the buckle bunnies. I can’t exactly load up on cheap beer when I have the boys with me. But when they weren’t looking? I took the opportunity to slip in some Levi Garrett chaw, and for the briefest of moments it was 1994 again. Thanks, caballeros.

Here’s a random one: can we be nostalgic for a time that we never knew?

I would argue that this is a completely possible scenario, one that I am guilty of engaging in from time to time. I have enough books on steam locomotives to warrant engagement of the Dewey decimal system; one of the post-firefighter scenarios playing out in my mind involves moving to Scranton, Pennsylvania in order to work at Steamtown and hang out with dudes that are like, 50 years older than me. Like every other obsession that’s possessed my psyche from time to time (wanna be a firefighter? Sounds AWESOME!), I am sure that the reality would lose it’s luster after a relatively short period of time. Case in point? Said fixation on becoming a career firefighter morphing into the phenomenon known as “The Grind“. Sure, riding the rigs is great, and I love the lifestyle, but the reality is, it truly is just a job, one that demands the same kind of sacrifices as any other. Maybe it would be best to leave the steam fascination just that: a quest for something I never truly will realize, because the truth will inevitably be annoying as sand in the shorts. As I read in a selection from my own loco-nerd library: “The only people nostalgic for steam engines are those who never had to operate one for a living”. Well put, disgruntled railroad guy. Doesn’t mean I can’t still wonder, though.

That train of thought led to my next sub-question: if I am nostalgic about a time I never lived in, is this just a function of getting older? My conversations with The Dirtbag as of late center on career choices we’ve made, and I hear him often lamenting aspects of his former career as The Dark Overlord of The Night Shift at a poultry processing plant. Apparently, screaming at minimum wage chicken pluckers in the wee hours of the morning brought him a Zen-like sense of inner peace. In truth, I think he misses the financial security more than the cigarette-in-each-hand, five-pots-of-coffee, never-see-the-sun lifestyle. But it would be a close race either way. RoJo speaks often of his summers running a laser leveling tractor on his family’s tomato farm, as though whiling away his nights in the cab of a John Deere on the Sacramento Delta was much preferable to issuing moving violations to California drivers. I knew him then, though, and our actions were looked upon as a means to getting somewhere “better”. It’s as though we’re never satisfied: when younger, we’re dreaming of our future; when older, we’re longing for the adventures of our youth.

Here’s where I gotta give the Lyrical Jackass credit. He is one of the few people I know who has been able to live in the moment, every moment. This equates to someone grabbing life by the cajones and savoring each slice of life like your it was your last. Of course, the downside of this is that he has little past anywhere. He’s constantly on the run from one psychotic girlfriend to the next, switches jobs at intervals normally reserved for oil changes, and hardly slows down long enough for the dust to hit the furniture. He claims to WANT to “settle down”, but I think that the pandelerium dictating his life is as unpredictable and unrelenting as the tide; he’ll go wherever the next woman chases him. The chaos is what binds us, I guess, but I just happen to be a mite less unpredictable (The Wife makes sure of this).

Truth is, I’ll never play in the NHL, I’ll never fly an F-14 Tomcat off of a carrier, and I doubt that the Drive By Truckers are going to give me the call to play bass on their next tour. It’s best to focus on the myriad other things that are going on in the here and now. Little things, like, say, parenting The Heathens. Making a good pot of coffee. Being a husband that The Wife is a little less embarassed to be seen with in public. Being a friend worth having. That sort of thing. And, in the late hours, when no one else is looking, I’ll keep looking for steam engineer jobs. It never hurts to live in the past a little.

This past week saw a couple MORE folks I know getting laid off from their jobs. That sucks. Guys who were eligible to retire from the fire department have been jumping like rats off of the Titanic, worried what sort of shenanigans our politicians may try to attempt; these can be troubling times, indeed. There does, however, remain a perverse juxtaposition for a good many of the people facing an uncertain future: new opportunities. While I wouldn’t want to inflict the chaos of no income upon my family, the side of me that thrives on inconsistency looks upon these chances with a little envy. Of course, I also think that it would be great to live in an old caboose, so you have to take my mental capacity into account. That being said, I give you the weeks Raising Of The Pint Glass / Karate Chop To The Throat as well as the survey question for the Half Past Friday survey. Remember to send your wittiness to bluecayucos@gmail.com and check back in for the rankings. Till then, here’s to new horizons for all.

Raising Of The Pint Glass

1.) Old School Tradition. Recently, a battalion chief for our department had his “official” retirement party here at Station 2. Great. Cake, punch, some war stories, take care, have a good life. But then he went on to throw a shindig down at Springfield Brewing Co. a few weeks later. AND HE BOUGHT THE BEER. Nothing gets firefighters together like the prospect of free beer. I raise my glass to him for showing the class. Good luck, Chief!

2.) Alan Best. That is the real name of the character I call Nan, who happens to be my brother, and who also set a WORLD RECORD for his weight class in the bench press. 675lbs. is nothing to sneeze at. I salute you and your freaky muscles, brother. Congrats!

3.) Heathen #1. My oldest turned six years old yesterday, an event marked with an ungodly amount of Transformers toys, crack-dealer amounts of sugar and general mayhem. I am so proud of my little man; he’s a testament to great parenting….by his mother. I figure it is my job to teach him how to eat dirt, drink diesel and stay out of trouble. And when he’s old enough, I’ll take him down to my favorite watering hole and buy him a beer, so I can raise my glass to him.

Karate Chop To The Throat

1.) Work. I can’t quite justify retiring at 35, but that’s mostly because I would have to live under a bridge for the remainder of my days. I should have earned it the old fashioned way – inheritance style. That way, I could indulge the slacker lifestyle. Having worked up to this point in several knuckle-busting trades, I think I am qualified to appreciate laying back for a living.

2.) Hipster coffee server dude down at the place near the square. Look, I can see the disdain in your eyes when we walk in after shift at 7am and order up plain old coffee and begin our intense bull sessions. Your square eyeglasses and hipster-induced 70′s retro ad tee shirt just add to the fact that you look like a condescending ass. We may be just a bunch of aging blue collar bastards swilling your joe, but guess what? It provides you the means to get your faux-hawk styled and a new pair of fitted woman’s jeans, so quit giving me the hairy eyeball, or I will chop you to the throat.

3.) Bad Timing. I got it. Wish I didn’t, and I can’t shake it.

Half Past Friday Survey Question For July 17th

As a result of your meteoric rise to the top of your game, a big screen biopic of your life is in the works. Fortunately for you, YOU get to choose who plays the title character. Tell me who would play the role of you in this movie and why. Make it original and make ‘em funny. Email your answers to bluecayucos@gmail.com.   Tune in Friday for the results.

That time of week has gotten here, and not a moment too soon for some. I wish I could be joining you all down at the pub tonight for a couple of dark pints, but the cold hard truth is that this whole fire department “job” isn’t  exactly  forgiving about absenteeism due to a “casual Friday” attitude. Those are the breaks. So this week I posed the question to you:

You’ve just been handed a business card by a mysterious stranger. When curiosity finally kills your cat and you call the number, the voice on the other end of the line calmly informs you that you have been selected to be the most famous person in the world starting now. You accept this as absolute fact. As well, you get to choose what it is you will be famous for; any talent, any feature, any accomplishment is yours to be had, but it can only be that one thing. WHAT WOULD BE YOU WANT TO BE GLOBALLY FAMOUS FOR?

Your picks and where they stand:

Number Ten
WHAT A GREAT QUESTION!! I’d love to be known as the person who cured cancer.  Then I would like to take my royalty checks and disappear to a self contained tropical island with all the luxuries one could dream of including an airport and several guest houses for my invited guests.

Number Nine
This is so easy, I would love to be absolutely famous or these reasons only: 1. The most popular musician in the world (even though it sounds like crap and I pump it out like clock work because other people write and make the actual music) 2. spending the most money ever on the weirdest giant playground.

Number Eight
I can honestly say that I would not want to be the most famous person in the world. I would not want the constant violations of privacy and the hounding on the streets by the paparazzi (KCTTT, by the way) and crazed fans. Therefore, if my amazing ability as a soccer player were to make me world famous, I think I would rather stay the moderately good player I am today.

Number Seven
I would want to be known around the globe as the guy who defined an entire genre of music. Kind of like Elvis is the King, Hendrix defined guitar god and Zepplin was THE definition of heavy rock, I would be “The ____” of music.

Number Six
This one here is one of your toughest and best questions. I would want to be famous for researching, developing, creating and obtaining the first super-strain (not the babylonian fiyah).  People around the globe would know me for having created the first “super strain” or seed stock that could grow in any climate, anytime of year, in any condition, in any part of the world (excluding the North and South Poles). There would be a vast array of seeds for every kind of food know  to man, that could grow anywhere, essentially ending food problems and shortages around the world. That’s a nobel prize waiting to happen. Double WHAMMMMMYYYYY!

Number Five
I already have a relatively elaborate fantasy life, and this is just the sort of question that sends my brain on a free-for-all.  While dreams of being a rock-star or winning the Nobel Peace Prize for solving world hunger are all fine and dandy, if I’m going to give in to this sort of flight of imagination, I might as well go big.  So here goes.
I would be famous as the leader of the world’s first space colony.
This satisfies my inner sci-fi geek, my natural wanderlust and my dreams of conquering the unknown.  Plus it would be super rugged and challenging and full of the unexpected.
Additionally, while this would allow me a brief window of on-Earth fame, with the requisite perks, I would NOT have to stick around for the really crappy day-to-day parts (like paparazzi, loss of privacy and inability to ever be really alone again).  I’d have a limited bubble of glory, then I’d get to run away.Like I said elaborate but considering I can’t sing and don’t play an instrument, no less likely than rock star really.

Number Four
If I could be famous for anything in the world, I would choose to be the first Taxidermist in the world to bring an animal back to life.  Instead of the “Dog Whisperer” I would be called the “Animal Awaker.”  If people are curious as to how I would be successful if I was no longer stuffing the animals, I would let them know that each family only has one chance to bring one animal back to life.  So if your dog dies once, call me to be granted twelve more years of memories, and when your dog dies twice, call me to preserve it!

Number Three
My off the cuff response was curing cancer. But then I thought, no, that’s simply not good enough.  The person who cures cancer plainly will not be famous for long – it’s a medical discovery and people just completely under-appreciate advances in medicine and science.  I’m thinking it needs to be something the world has been begging for for a long time…something most folks know they need and the rest of the population realized they needed it after they had it.  I considered a revolutionary hair-removal product – but then I realized no one got famous inventing “Nads” and here you are still fussing about hair-removal so that’s not where it’s at.  Or I could achieve something never before achieved – like Michael Phelps winning an insane amount of gold medals – but then if I get caught smoking pot everyone gets all bent out of shape. I could be internationally famous for being the world’s fattest person or largest breasted woman, or like the guy who turned himself blue taking silver supplements.  None of it will do. Frankly, I’m caving under the pressure. I can not decide what to be famous for…so I’m going with MY personal dream of discovering the preventive/eradicator of cellulite.  You heard me.  And believe me, brother, THIS would make a person famous.  For a looooooong time.

Number Two
Ok Uli, put this in your pipe and smoke it…..Disproving Darwin and any theory that we as humans evolved out of a monkey.  I’m not sure if Darwin meant well or was full of shit and it stuck like War of The Worlds or that Scientology guy.  You don’t have to buy into Jesus or Allah or Tom Cruise to see intelligent design at work.  Maybe it all stopped with Abraham or maybe the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster has it right, don’t know but I think righteous popularity would be, as it always has been, a free pass to get away with anything…cool

….and in the number one slot because this righteous genius obviously shares my dreams and aspirations in this life…….

Numero Uno
I want to be the worlds most bad-ass OUTLAW TRUCKER!!