Half Past Awesome

***WARNING: THIS TOPIC WILL, ONCE AGAIN, OFFEND THE SISSIES AMONG US. SO, JUST MOVE ALONG IF YOU’RE GONNA BE A PRUDE ***

Tonight The Wife attended a “Passion Party”. Apparently, the purpose of these little get togethers is for women to huddle around sofas, drink cosmos, and then participate in some erotic multi-level marketing. There would seem to be a wide variety of, er, bedroom enhancers for sale; supposedly, in this setting, it makes for great fun to purchase things that most women wouldn’t want to be caught dead buying in broad daylight. This points out a glaring chasm in gender relations: when I told the Lyrical Jackass where The Wife was, his first question was “How come guys don’t do that kind of thing?” My response to him was that, while women enjoy embarking on potentially embarrassing tasks as a group, most guys prefer a solo approach. That would explain why women love to go to the bathroom together; it’s also why dudes prefer to do their “adult shopping” while wearing a trench coat, black socks,sock garters, black shoes, a fedora and a pair of Ray Bans (ALONE!) Men want to look like an ass to no one other than the person they’re trying to woo. Women think it is hilarious, evidently, to buy whips and chains in semi-crowded settings.

This revelation to LJ led to another tangent of conversation with Buns later on, in which I inadvertently stumbled on a stroke of marketing genius. Being as how The Compound is also the site of The Wife’s hair salon, there is no shortage of female-centric magazines that I find littering the place. I am not ashamed to admit that I have read more than my share of this pulp crap, and my general opinion of it is that, AT BEST, it sends mixed messages. Chief among these is that women should be happy and content with the bodies they’ve had bestowed upon them; this is followed up with miles of dieting advice, pictures of anorexic looking waifs and supermoms who manage to juggle six kids, yoga, volunteer work at a violence prevention center, a fulfilling career and no television in their homes. They never show a picture of the husband; he probably looks as though laying his head on some railroad tracks might be a welcome diversion.

ANYHOW, one other element that strikes me as ludicrous (and hence my stroke of genius), is that the covers of all these rags often shout to the reader How To Keep Your Man Interested, How To Spice It Up In The Sack, Ten Tricks To Blow His Mind, Three Things You Learn At Tantra Camp, whatever. And, apparently, this sells magazines, a fact I find amazing. While some of the more sensitive type guys will always appreciate attention to detail when it comes to massage oil selection, most of us could care less what moves Christina Aguilera can teach you to sustain new heights of intimacy behind closed doors. Wanna know the one thing you could put on every single magazine cover every single month, that would guarantee to “keep him interested”? Just Do It.

There. I said it. Steal Nike’s slogan from the last couple of decades, print it on every cover, follow the instructions, and most guys, most of the time, will do any single thing you want done. Shutters need painting? Wear some high heels, a come hither look in your eyes and little else, and that poor slob will give himself a heart attack splashing up paint like the fate of the free world is riding on him. Need the oil changed? Casually mention that you were considering taking it down to the dealer to have such a simple task done, while wearing nothing more than a smile after a shower, and all of the sudden he’s juggling 10W-30 and a filter in some bizarre attempt to establish alpha status. Works every time.

As men, we’re relatively simple creatures. We thrive on competition, owning tools, a good cup of coffee and a turn in the sack on occassion, although not necessarily in that order. There is no need to complicate the issue. Romance isn’t dead, ladies; it just needs to get laid once in awhile.

Uli Amigos, Tales of Misery, Wandering Ponderings Buns, The Wife

About seventy five years ago (or so), I worked for NAPA Auto Parts out of Anchorage, and there was a running joke circulating around the fax machines that would define the kind of person you were by what you drove. It had some real gems such as “Ford Taurus – I drive something most lower mammals wouldn’t use as a nest.” I thought that this brand of stereotyping was insanely humorous. As the years have passed, I thought it might be prudent to update my list of vehicular judgments; here is my highly professional psychoanalysis on just a few different car types. Mind you, these are based on years of unfair and biased science. Enjoy.

Nissan Xterra

This car lets the world know that what you really, really want to project is the image of someone who might get recruited by Lance Armstrong at any moment to lead some sort of globe-trotting adventure lifestyle while simultaneously promoting cancer awareness. Most of the folks who own this kind of car have (unused) bike/canoe/surf racks on top and a love of Kashi cereal. They most likely wear flip flops and there is a better than average chance that they’ve never taken this vehicle off any road more challenging than the gravel parking lot at the beach. Likely bumper stickers: “Go Climb A Rock”, “Save Mono Lake” & “GObama ’08!”

Ford F-150

When lowered, this vehicle suggests you want to join the kind of gang that supports the Oakland Raiders and considers Limp Bizkit music to be “groundbreaking”. When left in the condition it rolled off the assembly line, this everyman’s truck tells people that you haul your own sheets of drywall from Home Depot when your wife has seen too much HGTV and decides to remodel the kitchen. When lifted and jacked it says that you dip Skoal Bandits and thrive on visions of your high school glory days when you were the tri-county bull riding champ. Likely bumper stickers: “B.A.S.S. Life Member”,  “K&N Air Filters” and “My Pit Bull Wears Lipstick”

Land Rover

People who own this kind of vehicle often insist on calling it a “truck”. They are almost proud of the spectacularly crappy British engineering, and have no problem admitting that they are mechanically unreliable, notoriously expensive motorized lemons. The trade-off, I suppose, is that you can still be an environmental defense lawyer and drive one of these English turds without one ounce of hypocritical irony. Plus, you’ll look like you might just be going “on holiday” with your bird dogs and Jason Statham. Spectacular! Likely bumper stickers: “GB” (in a circle, like we don’t know you love the Brits), “Highland Springs Country Club Member ’09″, “Catholic High School Booster Club”

Subaru Forester

Almost a requirement if you live in Portland, Oregon, this ironically named hippie wagon is more of a lifestyle statement than anything else. You care greatly about salmon population counts, you read obscure books about “green” travel in the Far East and you telecommute when possible. These days you wear Crocs with cargo shorts (no matter your gender). You weep for Jerry Garcia’s death,  and swear you smoked pot with him backstage at Shoreline in ’94. Secretly you want to operate a bulldozer and shoot a rifle, but could never handle the social stigma you’d inherit down at the organic food co-op if you actually DID these things. Likely bumper stickers: “Impeach Bush”, “Shoot Cheney In The Face”, “No One Died When Clinton Lied” and “Wage Peace”

GMC Suburban

When you drive one of these babies, you take a certain kind of pride in flipping off the EPA. You may claim that as a “soccer mom”, this vehicle is necessary to haul little Brittney and all of her friends to cheerleading practice, but the reality is that you LIKE feeling like the biggest mo-fo on the road. You go to church regularly, you spend weekends at the lake consuming lime flavored beer and Marlboro Lights and are convinced that if they ever do a “Real Housewives Of Wherever-You-Live”, they’re gonna want you on the show. Likely bumper stickers: “W ’04″, “Don’t Blame Me, He’s Not MY Messiah” and “Know Jesus, Know Peace, No Jesus, No Peace”

Chevy s-10

THE vehicle of choice if what you are trying to say is “I don’t give a shit HOW I get there”.  These trucks are perfect if you’ve just turned sixteen and want to spend more on a stereo system than on the vehicle itself. If you like the sound of metal rusting, look no further than this sweet ride. Likely bumper stickers: “In N’ Out Burger”, “YES, It’s Paid For” and “Eat More Beef”

Uli Wandering Ponderings

I’m now on my fourth cup of coffee, and have yet to clear the cobwebs out. The house is empty, the only commitment, like, three hours from now and music is thumping out in the background; you’d think the muse would be practically giving me a lap dance here, but alas, she is off giving some OTHER guy inspiration and I am left devoid of any wit or humor. So that’s MY Monday to this point. Perhaps this is the price I pay for a jag of normalcy around here. What I need is The Wife to chase me around the shop with a broken beer bottle accusing me of crimes I may have, indeed, committed. THAT’S when the inspiration starts hitting me in waves. I give you the post-holiday Raising Of The Pint Glass / Karate Chop To The Throat list here as well as the Half Past Friday survey question. Email me your answers at bluecayucos@gmail.com . Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to go antagonize my sweet bride in the hopes of fresh material.

Raising Of The Pint Glass

1.) Old-school reggae music. True, this musical genre has been described as “painfully boring” by people like Chuck Klosterman, and I will grant that the three chord pattern can get repetitive, but every person has a soundtrack to their past, and mine included the sonic stylings of reggae artists of old. I don’t give a rat’s ass about reggaeton or dancehall style. Some of my fondest memories include Peter Tosh imploring The Man to Legalize It, Toots and The Maytals telling me about their Time Tough and, of course, Bob Marley and his whole body of work. Religious cult implications aside, I can’t help but love it. And, it makes for great summer theme music.

2.) Matt the Electrician. Hotwire, as I like to call him, has provided a lot of inspiration in terms of getting my shop cleaned up. I am a social beast, and very comfortable with this fact. Cleaning up what looks like a tornado’s’ aftermath in my shop can be a bit depressing and somewhat lonely work, so Hotwire has been making regular stops in order to bark orders at me while he smokes cigarettes and drinks Diet Cokes at an alarming rate. Just what I needed. I raise my glass to you, sir.

3.) Njord, the god of wind. According to Norse mythology, this guy is responsible for the fronts and high and low pressure systems we experience. No matter his theological background, we’ve been experiencing cooler temps here in the middle of the country, and for that I am grateful. Soon the humidity of doom will be here again, but until then, if I saw this guy walk into my favorite watering hole, I’d buy him a beer. Cheers!

Karate Chop To The Throat

1.) Arsonist Dude. Look, in my experience, there aren’t too many cases of an abandoned house spontaneously combusting, so I am gonna take a huge leap of faith here and say you were responsible for our little get together on the morning of July 5th. I realize I am bypassing the Fire Marshals with all their “facts” in the case, but let’s get real; this may have been some abandoned northside pile of s**t that burned down, but it was SOMEBODY’S pile of s**t, and that’s just not cool. Chop to the throat! (ps.- I may be totally off on this, and if that’s the case, sorry, Arsonist Dude)

2.) Body Hair. I can’t, realistically, give my own throat a karate chop; believe me, I’ve tried. But if I could, I would, and it would be due to my amazing ability to grow hair. I hate it. And yes, I know how to deal with it, I just get sick of it, and I know you other hirsute bastards out there do too. CHOP! OW!(choking and hacking sounds)

3.) My neighbor. He knows why.

Half Past Friday Survey Question for July 10th

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? Send your answer to bluecayucos@gmail.com ; I’ll rank ‘em for Friday.

Uli Monday's Mud The Wife

The 4th of July can conjure up memories for many of us that are similar in nature: parades, bbq’s, Uncle Joe passing out on the lawn by 10am. Whatever our shared stories, one aspect that I am guilty of overlooking is that of the sacrifice many of our fellow citizens, family and friends have made over the years to ensure our continued security in this country. No matter your political proclivities, the folks in our military deserve our appreciation for hanging it all out there. In the rare case of sarcasm being shelved for the moment, I’d like to thank my family and friends who’ve given of their time and more in the armed services: Davis, Alan & Matthew Best (damn good brothers), Kris Tate, Jeff Elliott, David Cook, Brian Davis, Curtis Cantrell, Scott Deckard, Jeff Owings, Dave Schmidt, Dusty Schmidt, Brad Benton, Todd Williams, Randy Fischer, JB Lilley, Jeff McKenzie, Jim Anderson, Lenny Marcotte (veteran of the Guam Wars), Glenn Kimberlin, Jamie Frieze, Mike Kennedy and the myriad others I’ve no doubt missed. These guys all took time out of their lives, and, for their own reasons, helped to keep us all a little safer. I hope they and all the other veterans of our armed forces (and those currently serving) are spending time with THEIR friends and family. As well, whatever socio-political mess we’re in around the world, hopefully our troops are staying as safe as possible; in my opinion, they’ve contributed a WHOLE LOT more to our society than any celebrity, despite what People magazine would have you think. If you can, take the time to buy a beer (or whatever their choice of beverage) for someone who has or is serving and tell ‘em thanks. Now go and blow up some fireworks and enjoy yourselves, amigos!

Uli Amigos Barbara

Friday, and a holiday Friday at that; I congratulate you for getting to this point with your sanity. Perhaps this Fourth of July will find you and yours celebrating with parades, burnt hamburgers and overpriced fireworks. For my money, I’d rather be back in Cayucos, Ca. watching our funky hometown parade with the hordes of Central Valley tourists all looking to escape the heat by coming to the coast. Spend the day with the family, roll on down to the Old Cayucos Tavern for some blues that night, revel in the summertime fog with friends. But I digress. This weeks’ survey question went as follows:

There is not a one of us out there who has not mangled the lyrics to our favorite song, convinced that we got it right. Tell me the song whose words you unknowingly butchered, singing out at the top of your lungs, time and again. Mine? Easy enough: up until I was around 3o, I just knew that the lyrics to Pink Floyd’s “Another Brick In The Wall” went something like this: “The dogs of Hazard (as in Hazard County, home of the Duke boys)/ In the classroom” when in actuality it is “No dark sarcasm / In the classroom”

You sent the answers to me. I won’t lie: I had a few Pacificos to lubricate the ol’ creative process so I could rank and criticize (those are the responses from me in red) and came up with the following. It went a little something like this:

Number Ten

“Our house, in the middle of the street “– from Crosby, Stills & Nash– I thought was “outhouse in the middle of Australia”

I am more than a little shocked that of all the lyrics in all the world, you would not only remember, but lyrically mangle such a crappy song. And I THINK you may be confusing the song with Madness’ sonic masterpiece from the ’80s. But I am too lazy to look this up. Still, you rank, so 10,000 points to you.

Number Nine

This is the most ridiculous question ever, I butcher every song I sing, and to boot, I even sing the songs I wrote wrong; I’m awful!

The statement after the semi-colon is the first sign you’ve given all of us in the family that you are becoming self-aware. For that I congratulate you, and give you a big thumbs up. By a “big thumbs up”, I mean if you were here in Missouri I would slap you, yet again. Of my five brothers, you are the one we ALL feel sorry for.

Number Eight

I got “disappointment heartache on my knees” instead of “disappointment haunted all my dreams” in I’m A Believer (The Monkees).. Will that satisfy you?

Yes, it does satisfy me, and here’s why: I badgered this poor pregnant soul to give me an answer me ON DEMAND, THIS INSTANT, and this is what popped into her head. I love that The Monkees play on her life’s soundtrack; probably in the same way that I’m fascinated by how her husbands’ first love was a Datsun B210.

Number Seven

Well, seeing as how when I’m not sure what the lyrics are I just belt out “watermelon” over and over; I think I’ve jacked up quite a few songs in my time!!

Where in the hell do I meet these people? This is sheer genius! In fact, I will employ this method at the first opportunity, no doubt resulting in public humiliation.

Number Six

When I Grow Up by the PussyCat Dolls…I’m sure it says “I want to have boobies”, but apparently it says “I want to have groupies”! I want both!

And I want both for you, my friend. You deserve it all. 50,000 points for you.

Number Five

Mine sucks….Manfred Mann’s cover if the Boss’ song “Blinded by the Light”:
Until I was a senior in college, I gleefully sang the lyrics thusly:
“Blinded by the light/wrapped up like a douche/another ruler in the night”
Instead of the actual lyrics:
“Blinded by the light/revved up like a deuce/another runner in the night”
Bonus points: I know for a fact I sang that sh*#  karaoke style at a party back in the day (which was a Wednesday, in case you were curious)

Okay, so this was a very popular lyric to jack up, as indicated by the number of people who used it as an answer to the survey. YOUR choice made the list for two reasons: 1.) you used the adverb “thusly”,which, according to Websters was coined in 1865 and last used in 1869, so there’s that. And 2.) you threw in a bonus fact. Well played, sir.

Number Four

It was 1995 at Betty’s Billiards on Glenstone when a young man and his two closest friends climbed onto a flaming red snooker table and in their best rock and roll baritone voices their drunken asses could muster, yelled out “IN THE GARDEN OF EEDEN BAABY” for 15 long minutes.   They found out very shortly thereafter,  that the infamous Iron Butterfly tune was named In-Da-Gadda-Da-Vida.  Interestingly the song was to be called “In The Garden Of Eden”, but the singer was to messed up to pronounce it correctly…

Yet another case of the backstory giving this entry a high ranking. Of course, there’s a good chance this story is complete horseshit, but it amuses me. Good job.

Number Three

Much like when the man asks me “Hey what is that guy’s name over there ; the one in white patent leather shoes?”; I would have been able to provide a better answer to this, if in fact you had not even asked the question.  Looking back, I don’t recall the actual words that I sang before my epiphany.  I do recall, however, the song was Tesla’s Love Is All Around You (please leave your comments to yourself).  Evidently there was a part in the chorus over which I just mumbled.  Frankly I think Jeff Keith just mumbled during this part too, so for all I knew I was singing it correctly.  While attending a concert in which Tesla opened for someone that I forgot by the end of the first set, I sat in the lawn section with a group of friends and cohorts.  Don’t knock the lawn section; you know that is where all the action and entertainment happens.  I vaguely remember someone smuggling in some paraphernalia in my bra; so you can imagine that my senses were at their highest (read: paranoid).  These heightened senses come in handy in many scenarios and today was my day to understand otherwise misunderstood song lyrics.  While laying on the blanket in the warmth of that summer evening, I interrupted what was a very deep and meaningful conversation (read: making out with my guy) and shouted “That’s what they say!” As you can imagine, that was not exactly the kind of shouting he was expecting but I was satisfied….er….happy.

Someone needs their meds adjusted.

Number Two

I wasn’t going to reply to this week’s Half Past Friday just because there are way too many song’s that I mess up daily. My newest one is Boy’s Boy’s Boy’s by Lady Gaga. I messed up by singing “fancy bars” instead of “fast cars”. The one I truly hate to mess up but you just have to is by the man I would turn my “get out of marriage” card in for. His europe/folk singing I just can’t grasp. J—-  knows all too well who I’m talking about. I had to look him up on Lyrics.com just to grasp what he says. The sad thing is, is that I still listen to the songs trying to get what he is saying. What a sad life I lead sometimes.

Okay, so here’s why you ranked so high: your answer makes no damn sense at all. I’m pretty sure you’re crazy, and for that reason alone, I think I love you.

Number One

suicide blonde = super salad bar

Here’s my recommendation to all you out there reading along with me – don’t be trying to down a frosty adult beverage when these answers come rolling in; you’ll only end up with a laptop screen covered in beer. Priceless, my friend.

Uli Half Past Friday, West Coast shenanigans

This story really happened and only the names have been made up. I had to, since I had neither the sense nor the testicular fortitude to ask at the time. The entire event took place at the Rogersville community park during one of the approximately 392 tee-ball games The Heathens have scheduled there. I had the good fortune to NOT be coaching in this league, as it is somewhat akin to herding cats; this means I got a front row seat on the three row set of bleachers to take in Heathen #2′s tee-ball antics. The evenings’ OTHER entertainment came in the form of an entire family sitting next to, and behind, me for the duration. They were cheering on the other team, so I felt the immediate need to hate them and wish them intense ill will under my breath. Turns out my inclination was well founded; I give you the following conversation, which actually took place, with, as I’ll call them, The Jones Family….

Grandma Jones (as she waddles up to the bleachers): “Ain’t you got the sense God gave you?” (I turn around thinking she’s addressing me, ready to put a shank in someone mouthy)

Son (about my age, in requisite John Deere wifebeater shirt): “The HELL you talkin’ about?”

Grandma: “Can’t you see I wanna sit there? Scoot yer ass over! BOBBY! HIT THAT BALL! JEEE-ZUS, it’s hot out here!”

Son: “Quitcher bitchin’ mom. BOBBY! QUIT THROWIN’ DIRT AT THE UMP! QUIT HITTIN’ THE TEE!! It ain’t like you worked all day, mom.”

Grandma: “That’s a load of crap Darren, and you know it. Me and Tina moved cattle panels all day! Didn’t we?”

Tina: “You betcher ass we did! BOBBY! RUN, HONEY! OTHER WAY, HONEY! STOP HITTING SON!”

Son: “It ain’t like you was rebuildin’ diesel engines all day in this weather, not like I was. Did I tell you we threw a rod in that piece of shit Powerstroke engine on the welding truck, Tom?” (He points this question at some other relation)

Grandma: “Hee-hee-hee, looks like we got another bully in the family. Wonder where he got THAT? BOBBY! QUIT FIGHTIN’!!” (you can tell she doesn’t really mean this; in fact she seems rather proud of her gap toothed grandson, who looks to be the only fourteen year old playing in a four year old league, if mustaches are any indication)

Son: “Mom, now who’s sellin’ the crap?” (takes a moment to high five Tom) “Besides, you two sissies was in the A/C all day movin’ them panels.” (finds himself immeasurably funny at this last statement and is chuckling to himself)

Grandma: “Don’t you be goin’ and gettin’ fresh with me Darren! Tina, HIT him for me wouldya?” (Tina happily obliges by punching “her man” in the voluminous belly region)

Tina: “Pay attention to the game, you horse’s ass! BOBBY!! NO, HONEY! GO TO THE DUGOUT! GET UP BOBBY!” (Bobby is currently amusing himself by rolling around on the pitchers mound and kicking anyone who gets near him)

(At this point Bobby’s older sister and some cousin walk up, sleeves rolled up and, I think, Copenhagen in their lips. They look to be about twelve years old.)

Mikaylah: “Mooommm! I wanna spend the night at Becky’s!” (she points to her cousin, as if there were some sort of doubt as to who this Becky cat was)

Tina: “Shut up, Mikaylah! Can’t you see we’re watchin’ Bobby play!”

Darren: “Fer Christs’ sakes, Tina, it ain’t like Bobby’s on the field. Sure, sugar, you wanna stay over at Becky’s, that’d be great. Maybe Daddy could get some lovin’!” (He sounds genuinely excited at this prospect)

Tina: “You think yer gonna get any lovin’, talkin’ to me like that? You’re outta yer damn mind. Yes, you can stay at Becky’s place tonight, hon, but you better check  with Sissy” (who I assume is someone’s sister and Becky’s mom)

Mikaylah: “DUH, mom, I already asked! You guys can be so retarded sometimes!”

At this point all the adults in the family react like a pack of rabid wolverines, obviously having taken offense at the label they’ve just been handed. Clearly they value their status as non-developmentally disabled, and are prepared to physically demonstrate this with angry gestures and accusations of who this child’s father is that she would have the nerve to talk this way. There is so much yelling and confusion going on, I lose track of who is calling whom what. All that IS clear to me is that Darren is pissed that he’s not getting any loving tonight, Tina is flabbergasted that any child of hers would DARE to talk this way to her momma, Tim is still pondering the merits of a blown Powerstroke engine (which seems to both confuse and enrage him), and Grandma is on the verge of kicking everyone’s ass if they don’t settle down this very instant. Bobby is demonstrating his own brand of anger/delight at the first base coach by screaming and pulling up tufts of grass and throwing them in the air.

Worst of all, I was so caught up in the antics, I didn’t catch the final score of the game. Guess I should consider myself lucky that this was only game one of a doubleheader. Long live summer in Ozarks baseball country.

Uli Tales of Misery the Heathens