Half Past Awesome

Few things can be ingrained in young minds as severely as shame. We are taught at an early age to be ashamed of letting our parents down by cracking a sibling across the head with a croquet mallet. We felt embarrassment when caught in a heinous lie as to our whereabouts at 3 am (ps- where ELSE would a teenage boy be?) When the other kids mocked you for being  – insert here - tall, short, thin, round, weak, strong, mustachioed, you name it – you’d look down at the pavement and kick your Vans in the dirt, hoping the attention of the group would soon turn on another, weaker member of class, while secretly wishing you had the ability of Mr. T to crush them against the cafeteria walls.

So tell me, if you can, why on earth some folks insist on naming their kids with a one-way ticket to an ass-kicking? I am a certified authority on the subject; not only is the Johnny Cash song “Boy Named Sue” relevant to me on a personal basis, I survived grade school through this very day with a name that still makes people say “huh?”

Somehow, in May of 1974, my sweet mom decided it would be a “good idea” to name her first and only son after his father: thus Ulrich W. Gulje, jr. was hatched into existence, more commonly known as “Uli“. Let’s get the first part out of the way. It’s pronounced “oooo-leeee” (uli), “ool-rick” (ulrich), “goool-yay” (gulje) and joon-yur (junior). The Lyin’ Dutchman (aka “senior”) somehow was able to get by with being called “Bill” when he arrived stateside, and while there are plenty of jokes centered around Bill, nothing makes you a marked target like a name that people think is pronounced “ooleygooley”. My own loving bride even made the comment to several people while we were dating that she would NEVER date someone named UleeGulee. As the marriage certificate states, I showed her.

So Uli it was through grade school, with teachers all taking great pains to announce on the first day of class, “myyyy, what an INTERESTING name, why don’t I subject you to further humiliation by making you talk to the class about such an UNUSUAL and UNIQUE name?” Then, after being drug out from under the desk of shame, and compelled to make up a reason why I had such a jacked up moniker (“my folks are international assassins, and I’m only here to hide out from the KGB while they’re at work, maam”) she would no doubt refer to me as “you-lee” for the rest of the school year. And I never quite looked like a “Rick“, “Rich” or “Ulrich“, even. When I first moved to Alaska and got a job with NAPA Auto Parts, my bosses all wanted me to go by “Ulrich”, because “Uli” sounded like too much of a kids’ name. WHAT? Who in their right mind would name their kid “Uli“? My parents, that’s who. And to say they were in their right mind is a bit of a stretch.

All of my siblings from The Lyin’ Dutchman’s other nuptial endeavors managed to escape serious harm; there’s Daxter, Trevor, Davis, Alan and Matt. Oh yeah, I also have an older brother and sister I’ve never met named Reggie and Penny. Get married enough times and I guess the law of odds mandates that ONE of your progeny is gonna end up with a name that seemed like a good idea at the time, but in reality, just sounds like something you might cough up. The situation was only exacerbated by moving to the Ozarks, where to stand out with a name like mine, you might as well declare that you’re currently engaged in a love triangle with Rosie O’Donnell and her cat. I’ve gotten all sorts of comments ranging from “You got some sorta disease, or is that yer name, son?” to “Man, your parents must have HATED you, to name you something like that.”

Any diseases I might have are long gone thanks to the advent of pharmaceuticals, and no, my parents did not HATE me per se, they just have an appreciation for a lifelong practical joke. I’ll never lack for conversational material with strangers, who often believe I am making up my name. I still get the treatment from cashiers and bartenders who want to know where the name originated, and I still tell them lies to amuse myself.  As we’ve all gotten older, and I am no longer the skinny little kid getting picked on, fewer third graders take liberties with mocking me to my face. As well, I took care to give the Heathens names that are easily recognizable in the Western Hemisphere.

After all these years, though, I think I’m gonna stick with Uli; I’ve earned the right to use it. Brad, Adam, David and Mike may well be fine names for fitting in in this world, but then, I’ve not been one for whom fitting in is a priority. Just don’t call me Sue when I crack you over the skull with my croquet mallet.

There has been too long since last we met for the Monday Mud. I thought that for new readers, it might help to run through the rules, so that we can have some more interaction and this becomes more than just a vain rant. Each Monday, I put up the Monday Mud, wherein I give three things the “Raising Of The Pint Glass” and three things the “Karate Chop To The Throat”. If you have any ideas, or items that need to be either lauded or chopped in the windpipe, drop me a line, and I’ll put it in for the next week. Also, at the bottom of Moday’s post there is a survey question to which I want your responses. The wittier and funnier they are, the better chance of them making the top ten list, which is posted the next Friday, after a night of imbibing and scientific ranking. Many of you out there are far funnier than I could be, so it’s YOU to whom I appeal. I hope you find your wit, and when you do, send your answer to bluecayucos@gmail.com Now, it’s on to this weeks heroes and villains………

RAISING OF THE PINT GLASS

1.) Rec League Hockey Players, et. al. – there was a rec league tournament held here in Springfield this past weekend, one that involved teams from as far away as Omaha (home of the Mutual of and the Wild Kingdom). Good folks who appreciated a good beer and the company of a bunch of wanna-be puckheads. I salute you guys! Good times were had by all!

2.) Dr. Price – after years of battling the effects of aging, gravity and those kids, The Wife finally got to have her back pain relieved by having a, er, um, “lift kit” modification. Already feeling well enough to verbally abuse me again, she is grateful to the nth degree to have had the work done. Can’t say I’m not a fan, either. A brew for you, good doctor.

3.) The Two Dudes – after putting our busted clothes dryer at the end of our gravel drive with a “free” sign on it, two Whiskey Tango specials in a beat to hell silver mini-van pulled up within the hour and loaded as fast as a shipment of stolen electronics. Bets were laid as to how fast it would take to get it ganked. I lost, but got rid of trash in the process. Ah, for cheap thrills. We toasted their boosting speed and skills by raising our cocktail glasses to their mullets as they sped off into the sunset.

KARATE CHOP TO THE THROAT

1.) Surfey the Hermit Crab – in your epic battles against Spiderman, your hermit crab compadre, you somehow ripped off one of his claws (the big one, btw) and left a once macho king of the habitat little more than a one-armed exoskeletal freak. At least get rid of the evidence, so I don’t have to explain THAT one to the youngest Heathen. Chop to you.

2.) The Month of August – you serve no purpose. Kids hate you because you represent the onset of school. I hate you due to the humidity that causes an ungodly amount of sweating in places where the sun don’t shine. My lawn hates you because you do nothing but kill it with a lack of rain. You should be stricken from existence. At the least you deserve a backhand to the throat.

3.) Whoever Is Sponsoring THAT Ad - we have an ad running around the radio dial out here stating how we are so “lucky to live in the Ozarks”. I’m telling you, whenever you have to CONVINCE people that they are lucky to live in the land of  the cheap, it just comes across as desperate and contrived. I know it costs little to live here. I know that there’s a church on every corner. And you just piss me off when you have to take out ad space to remind me of it. Especially in August. CHOP!

Half Past Friday Survey Question

It’s deserted island time – give me your one movie, one food, and one album .

Tell me the why. Make me laugh. And send your answers to bluecayucos@gmail.com

Till then, take it easy amigos……..

Once in a great while I have a scandalous desire to wander from my commitment. I long to feel the strange caress of another, to stray just a bit with a sweet alternative. To ride the high of forbidden intimacy while escaping the bonds to which I’ve become accustomed; to soar to new heights of manic passion bordering on a nirvana-like state of mind and body. I am, of course, talking about cheating on coffee.

I love coffee, much in the way a junkie loves heroin -  if by love you mean “hopelessly, aimlessly and madly addicted”. That describes my relationship with the bean to a tee, and I am so deeply embedded with the stuff that there’s a pretty good shot that I would rather shave my face with a rusty spoon than go without the joe. And yet. Yet, like all relationships, there comes a time when speedbumps pop up on the superhighway of hopped up jitters. When the dog days of summer get here (like, this past week, thank you very much Satan) it becomes a slightly less appealing to throw steaming hot mud down the pipe – but only slightly. As of late, I’ve tried alternatives (Java Monster, iced McCrap from the golden arches, and, most infamously, The Chinese Rocket Fuel incident). Frankly, little compares to the real deal, and this presents a bit of situation.  Regular soda just rots teeth and encourages horizontal expansion of the belt. Not good. I long for that close tango that I do with coffee daily, wherein it scalds my tongue and then rewards me with an ability to perform like a tweaker on a binge. Glorious, gorgeous nectar of the bean, I wonder what can compare? That got me to thinking about the alternatives and then in a divine moment of recall, an old idea finally hit me.

A long, long time ago (somewhere in the early eighties, I believe), we used to frequent a 7-11 convenience store in Santa Barbara when we’d wander around on our BMX bikes. In the time before energy drinks or even the awesome Jolt Cola, we’d look for ways to achieve the ultimate forbidden rush. I can’t remember who stumbled across this idea, but it was revolutionary for it’s time: The Suicide. The idea was to take a hit from each of the soda flavors in your cup, thereby creating the ultimate (and ultimately nasty) concoction. It was the beverage equivalent to theater hopping (another pastime of young idiotic turks like us). You got a little of this, a little of that, something that tasted like carbonated printer ink and you’d earned enough chops to strut like a Bantam rooster.

According to The Wife, there were signs in the roller rink back in the day, just above the soda dispenser that said “No Suicides”. Apparently this phenomenon wasn’t limited to the West Coast, and the fact that it was in a roller rink just further proves that this was not a mild happening. The Suicide. Part of me wants to stroll into my local Kum & Go and glare like a badass at the attendant while, in a macho way, I haphazardly toss various flavors of carbonated delight into a 440z. Styrofoam cup. The moment after I paid for this fine medley of caffeine, I’d take a sip, never letting my eyes lose their lock on the no doubt incredulous clown behind the register. And then I’d probably puke it out all over myself and the counter and lose the coveted macho status I was hoping to acquire. Damn.

Maybe Suicide isn’t the answer. I no longer ride a BMX bike. Too many years have passed since I considered Pop Tarts a reasonable breakfast. Despite all of my immature antics, the fact remains that I’m getting older at an alarming rate; blistering the inside of my mouth with a shot of hot java may well be as close to living like a maniac as I can get. I just can’t get past the fact that I considered stepping out on my beloved mud. One can only hope the coffee maker will still be there on the counter in the morning, when I beg for forgiveness and a cup of scalding love.

One of the advantages to relative insanity is that there is never a shortage of material from which to draw. Disadvantage? No one believes you when you try to describe family dynamics, because it sounds like utter and complete cockamamie. I would like to cite my own pater familias as an example. Those of you out there who know him can vouch that my following description of him is accurate to the point of being tragicomic. In upcoming essays, I’ll go into details that’ll make your back hair curl and your tea turn bitter. But for now, play along as I try to paint you a picture of the man I refer to as the Lyin’ Dutchman.

The man who is known as my alleged father was born in Indonesia in 1934, one of the few facts my brothers and I have found to hold up to the passage of time. There was some migration involved following WWII, time spent in Holland, some more roaming and a (seemingly) final stop on the west coast of California. He’s been married something like seven times (kind of like Elizabeth Taylor, minus the White Diamonds) and has all the traits of a good fisherman: tall, tall tales injected with a lot of variety and loose facts. As a child, I was informed on more than one occasion that all good things in life are Dutch; therefore, music groups that were in continuous rotation on our hi-fi were all Dutch. I trundled off to lower elementary declaring bands like Pink Floyd, ABBA and Supertramp were all from Holland, resulting in more than one schoolyard fight. Do you realize how hard those kids can hit?

Some aspects of his fabrications were harmless: he convinced us that he had control over all the red lights in town by means of his cigarette lighter. By craftily staring out of the corner of his eye, he’d time it so all he had to do was hit the thing when the opposing light went yellow, then BOOM! MAGIC! How did he harness such mysterious powers? At this question he’d likely scoff that it was a trick he picked up as a tank commander in the Royal Dutch Army (……did he serve there? Outside of a few pictures, all we have are stories.) This pre-internet environment was perfect for setting up these wild delusions. We were kids without the ability to vet the stories. For all we knew, he was spending those years inventing the internet with Al Gore.

Other sides to his tales were not as harmless. There is a trail of broken marriages, lies and offspring as screwed up in the head as I am. I suppose I should be grateful that there are facets to his humor that have spilled over into my own parenting: I’ve convinced both Heathens that Darth Vader was once my neighbor and I turned him in to Planning and Zoning for building a Death Star in his backyard without a permit. These things make me laugh and convince my boys that I need help. Frankly, they’re right. I could use help trying to mend a disconnect in my mind between what I THINK a father-son relationship should be (between him and me), and the reality with which I am left. It’s not healthy and it’s based on an appallingly distasteful sort of narcissism the likes of which leave no one laughing.

There is a running joke in the family that there’s a “Wheel of Fondue Shame” (don’t ask…..we’re a weird bunch). It would be invoked each time the Lyin’ Dutchman declared one of the six boys dead to him. Pictures came down off the wall, proper names were replaced with “whats-his-name” and there was to be no mention of the incident that had offended the old man until the transgressor came back and begged for forgiveness. I once spent over a year on The Wheel because I could not attend his (7th) wedding picnic reception at a certain time. I pleaded with him to understand that I would be there the MOMENT I could get out of class, but was informed that I would be there “or else”. A stubborn bastard, I chose “else”. More than a year later, when I realized just how ridiculous the whole thing was getting, I knocked on his door, hat in hand; he greeted me as though I’d just returned from forty years in the desert.

Right now I am currently serving a life sentence on The Wheel for crimes linked to speaking my mind with regard to his pending (7th) divorce. This one has all the hallmarks of a good soap: heroes, villains, harlots and scorned sisters, stepsons disowned, medication mixups, international intrigue and at least one pseudo-suicide attempt. Stay tuned.

Saturday night, and no better time for a conundrum. Normally I really enjoy a good argument with myself, because I always win. But this morning I had a “jump the shark” experience on my way home from the firehouse which has led me to this point. Let’s fill in some blanks: I normally stop at a drive thru coffee shop on the way home from work, because there’s a fair to middling chance that I’ve been up and down through the night running typically bogus calls. This is an aggravation, but lessened by the promise of wrapping my hands around four dollars of liquid heat and caffeine. From time to time the boys from different stations will meet-up post-shift, actually go inside and tell a few tall ones over a cup or three of mud, thereby pissing off the hipster baristas. Apparently, they would rather ignore other people wearing square eyeglasses and ironic trucker hats and avoid us like the plague. No big.

So, while whipping through the drive-thru at a high rate of speed, I order a drink for myself, and one for The Wife, because I need to keep her caffeinated lest we all suffer. I also happen to be on the phone with The Lyrical Jackass, who is telling me his latest feats of Lotharian prowess. As I am entranced by the tale he’s weaving, I absent-mindedly mumble my order into the squawk-box only to have LJ burst into laughter and yell “WHAT did you just order?” I told him grande something or other for Her. Only too late did I realize I had pronounced it not “grahn-dey” but “grand-day” coffee. As in “Gimme one of them thar grand-day coffees Sissy, I got me a mess o’ work waitin’ on me down at the Kwik Kash Payday Loan joint.” Oh, Lordy. What have I done? What HAVE I done?

To quote the Jackass, when the inbred Arkansas hillbilly has to correct my pronunciation of things, it’s time to ask the hard questions. What just happened? When did it begin happening? And more precisely, WHY, in the name of Dale Earnhardt, rest his soul, did it happen? Am I but a few steps away from considering fried chicken in brown gravy with cashews and onions “Chinese” food? Is it too late, or will I soon start considering Bass Pro to be some sort of Mecca and Jim Bakker a “pretty good guy” who just got a bum deal? These are, indeed, troubling times.

As I worry the Maker’s Mark out of my evening cocktail here on the front porch and the fireflies do their visual fornication-invitation dance all around me, I thought it prudent to list the pros and cons of life here in these Ozarks. I kept the list short, as mandated by my attention span.

Pros

1. Cheap housing. And I don’t just mean the vinyl siding, either. I bought my first home for the price of a decent luxury car, a fact my family in California considers a minor miracle. That may well be because it is common fact that on the West Coast, one must be willing to shell out darn near a million bones to purchase a 900 square foot crack den in a decidedly shady neighborhood.
2. Seasons. We have two weeks of awesome weather in the spring (minus the tornadoes), six months of unbearable heat and humidity followed by two weeks of incredibly idyllic fall colors, wrapped up with five  more months of winter weather with winds icy enough to freeze bone marrow, little snow and A LOT of ice and slush. Seasons.
3. The folks. With the exception of those who’ve made my List, the people of the Ozarks tend to be genuine, real folks. They work hard, they seem to care for their neighbors (there are exceptions, of course. Like when you got a good meth deal about to be busted by that no-good nosy neighbor. I’ve heard that one on a call. True story. Almost like Scooby-Doo), and will do things out of sheer sense of good will that would baffle residents of the coasts.
4. Bacon. Still a food group out here.

Cons

1. No ocean. No mountains. I mean real mountains. It is decidedly difficult to come out to the middle of the middle of the middle without much to see above 1000′ except for blue skies. We ARE, however, tidal wave free for the last six million years. Go us!
2. Holy Rolling. It’s infectious and apparently gets in the blood. This past three months alone, I’ve had more than a few people trying to save my soul and recruit me for Jesus Christ Supercenter Of The Ozarks (aka Six Flags Over Jesus). It would seem that my chaotic lifestyle presents something of a challenge to which they are drawn, in a rescue-me-kinda way. Plus, when I say that the only difference between a cult and religion is about 1000 years, that gets ‘em all stirred up. Damn me. Straight to hell, apparently.
3. Just the Good Ol’ Boys. Whether we’re talking city politics (police and fire pension, anyone?), neighbors who utilize the N-word with an alarming frequency (try explaining THAT ignorance to your six year old) or the fact that some would consider the ONE billboard in town that’s in Spanish to be a herald of the Mexican invasion, it gets old. We need to grow out of 1956, folks.
4. Meth. It is a problem, and apparently we can’t make enough of it out here. I mean, besides the whole losing teeth thing, there are some heinous consequences to the whole lifestyle. I know; we see ‘em more than just occasionally.

It’s a hell of a thing, multiple choice.