Half Past Awesome

I’ve never had writer’s block before. That’s because I’ve never been a writer, unless you count the post-it note reminders I leave myself so that I remember where I live. But for the past several weeks, in this, the most beautiful and scenic time of year in the Ozarks, I’m completely stumped in terms of being able to describe anything, much less anything amusing. You’d think all the fall foliage, the cold and rainy days, the time spent home alone – you’d think I’d have inspiration pouring out of my pores like sweat. You’d be wrong.

Taking care of a spouse on the mend doesn’t exactly lend itself to amusing scenarios. I’ve even been poring over the stupid and trashy magazine sites, in search of celebrities to irritate me with their antics. No such luck. The best I can come up with is that I nearly backhanded an old lady today in line at the coffee shop when she decided to cut in front of me only to try and pay for an $0.84 cup of joe with a check. WITH A CHECK. The barista waited until the entire check writing process took place and then informed the woman that there was a minimum of $5.00 that needed to be purchased in order to use a check. The process continued. Normally, this would dictate an incredulous freak out on my part, or, at the least, an offer to pony up a buck so I could get Mrs. McScrooge out of my way. But I was hacked that she cut me off and wouldn’t have given her a dollar any time in this life (this is based on principle, now). And in reality, I was just too damn down and too damn lazy to pitch some sarcasm her way. WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?

Hockey season has begun, both professionally and in the rec league – the place where I take a weekly beating by punk ass college kids and old men alike. And when the St. Louis Blues are playing on the television, I usually get all peppy and jittery and stoked to witness the poetic, chaotic circus that is hockey. I’m really glad that I’ve finally found a sport that holds my attention longer than 34 seconds, but even my beloved Blues aren’t doing the trick. Of course, the fact that we haven’t won one game yet in our rec league may be an enabler of my funk.

The Heathens are healthy, The Wife is healing and I’m fortunate enough to have a job that allows me to take family medical leave in order to care for them, so all in all I have no chair on which to stand and shout about just how bad life can get. But to lose the muse? Ever since starting this blog back in the spring, there has been an ample supply of material from which to draw; in fact, there are about five posts waiting in the wings in various stages of completion, and I can’t seem to get off my creative ass to give them the touch they need. Sending out half hearted attempts isn’t an option either.

You know what I think I need to snap out of this? A road trip, probably to the Northwest. That, or an epiphany as to how to make it in the world of writing. Or, a new MIG welder. So either I’ve got to hit the pavement, have a revelation or discover untold thousands in credit down at the welding supply shop. That shouldn’t be too hard, I’d guess. But it sounds like a problem to tackle on, say, Wednesday. There’s hockey on tonight.

Real Interviews That Never Really Happened

Have you ever wondered what some folks are really thinking? Yeah, I bet you have. I find all the fluff style journalism pervading our popular culture somewhat lacking in any sort of substance, and I decided to do something about it. No longer will you have to worry about what is going on out there with the major movers and shakers of our society. I will no longer sit idly on the sidelines and accept that a bunch of androgynous femme boys wearing eyeliner and skinny jeans are to be considered “groundbreaking” musicians. I will seek out and ask the tough questions that those sissies on E! Network won’t. And I won’t let pesky little facts (like that I’m making all of it up) get in my way, either. I want these people to be held accountable and to not just spout off what their publicists tell them to say. So, I created “Real Interviews That Never Really Happened” in order to make sense of such quandaries. This week, I interviewed Jeffery “The Dude” Lebowski, the protagonist of the film “The Big Lebowski”. He was kind enough to sit down with me and answer some long unanswered questions and debunk popular myths about the man that is The Dude. If you’ve never seen the movie, this essay will make absolutely no sense to you, and you should probably stop reading right now; if you have any ideas about who you’d like to see next in my office for a question and answer session, let me know: send your suggestions to bluecayucos@gmail.com.  So now, without further ado, I give you the results of my time with The Dude. Enjoy.

Uli: All right, all right. Wow! The Dude, right here in my office, right now, doing an interview. First off, I’m a big fan of your movie.
The Dude: What? What movie? What the hell are you talkin’ about, man?
Uli: Your movie, The Big Lebowski. It’s a cult favorite, and in heavy rotation here at my house. Watch it all the time.
The Dude: Man, whatever it is you’re smoking I want some of it.
(awkward pause)
Uli: Dude, I’m not smoking anything. Why don’t we just get right down to the interview shall we?
The Dude: That’s a great plan, Walter. That’s f–kin’ ingenious, if I understand it correctly. It’s a Swiss f–kin’ watch.
Uli: Um, my name’s not Walter.
The Dude: Whatever, man. Let’s just do this thing, I’ve got a tournament to get to.

Uli: Okay, first question, one I’m sure a lot of readers are gonna want to know. Did you get your rug back?
The Dude: Does the Pope shit in the woods?
Uli: What? That makes no sense. You realize, your answer right there, that makes no sense.
The Dude: Of COURSE it makes sense, man. Total sense.
Uli: Ohhhhkay. So, to paraphrase, you DID get your rug back, then, right?
The Dude: It tied the room together.
Uli: I understand that. I’m gonna throw it out again though….DID you, in fact, get your rug back?
The Dude: This is bullshit, man, I already answered this question.
Uli: Right, then.
(awkward silence goes on for around thirty seconds)

Uli: Next question…your resume says here that you were a roadie for Metallica and you are quoted as saying they are a “bunch of assholes”.
The Dude: Yeah. They were a major bummer, man. Total fascists.
Uli: That’s a pretty strong charge to level at one of the major metal acts of all time. Care to expound?
The Dude: Oh, yeah, those guys were complete dicks, I mean especially that Lars cat. I’d be tearing down sets on the Speed Of Sound Tour, just listening to my iPod, and he’d jump my ass, with all this “pirated music” craziness, man. I told him I’m not even into pirates. That’s when he lost it, went all Charles Manson on me.
Uli: Well, you know, Lars Ulrich was at the forefront of trying to shut down Napster and illegally downloaded music and all that.
The Dude: Yeah, I could really use a nap myself, man. Right on my rug.

Uli: All right….moving on. Would you call our current situation in Iraq a modern day Vietnam?
The Dude: I don’t see any connection to Vietnam, Walter.
Uli: Again, my name is not Walter…it’s Uli.
The Dude: Right! You have the same name as that nihilist bastard….wait, I got it, man….yeah….”Uli”.
Uli: That’s what I just said – “Uli”
The Dude: Yeah, Uli……Uli Kunkol. From “Log Jammin’”. I knew you looked familiar, man. Me and Maude watched that one, right after we, you know, well, you know…
Uli: I was never in any movie, Dude. I promise.
The Dude: Are you sure? Because you said your name was Uli
Uli (long sigh): Okay, let’s just get to the next question
The Dude: Do you mind if I do a J?
Uli: Um, yeah, actually,I do. There are kids here, Dude.
The Dude (lighting up): Whatever, man. I really need a drink. You know how to make a Caucasian, Gary?

Uli: So, Maude Lebowski, that was pretty hot, the artist and the vagrant, all that, right?
The Dude: I have no idea what you’re talking about, man. I already paid my rent.
Uli: I’m talking about the hookup with Maude. She was gorgeous. That had to be a once in a lifetime moment for you, right?
The Dude: Oh! Yeah, that. Yeah, man, she was hot and all, but you know, whatever, she just wanted to make some babies or some s–t like that. I dunno.
Uli: So, you weren’t mad about being used as a sperm donor?
The Dude: The Dude abides.
Uli: Well, all right. Don’t really know how to, uh, respond to that, so let’s just go with it.
The Dude (looking more bored by the second): Go with what, man?

Uli: Next question: Jesus Quintana……certified pedophile or just a creepy dude who licks bowling balls and randomly threatens the competition?
The Dude: Look, I wasn’t there and I don’t know how it all went down, man, but Walter (Sobchak), he swears it’s true,  man. And look at him, he just seems, like, out there, you know? As to bowling?  F–kin’ Quintana, that creep can roll, man.

Uli: Do you have to use so many cuss words?
The Dude: What the f–k you talking about?

Uli: Final question: any hints as to how The Dude would “fix” our broken health care system?
The Dude: Legalize it
Uli: And how exactly does that help the sad state of affairs that we as a nation find ourselves in when it comes to medical coverage?
The Dude: Precisely
Uli: Ok, well, thanks a lot, Mr. Lebowski, this has been a, well, unique interview to say the least. I appreciate your coming all the way out here to Missouri just to talk.
The Dude: Nobody calls me Lebowski. You got the wrong guy. I’m the Dude, man.

Like all of the roads that lead to hell, today’s was paved with good intentions. After The Wife’s ankle fiasco and my subsequent knee torque job (read: here) all of this crazy training for the half marathon in December went the way of the Dodo Bird. Not coincidentally, my fitness level and associated weight bore a direct proportion to the number of days I’ve been spending helping her recuperate; it looks like food is the great healer, bad-for-you food in particular. Full disclosure – I will use any and every excuse to get out of cardio training that isn’t hockey. I’ve even bailed from the spin class for the last several weeks since I feel odd about abandoning her for more than an hour unless beer is involved.

A couple of nights ago on a news feed, I saw that there would be a non-competitive 5k walk here in town called the “Making Strides Against Breast Cancer” event. I honed in on two words “non-competitive” and “walk”. If there’s any way on this earth that’ll I’ll be able to make an attempt at a half marathon in December, I’d better get offa my ass and back on the pavement. So I registered, with the lazy side of me thinking “if I can keep up with a bunch of purpose-driven walkers, then I’m like 7% there.”

And I showed up on un-race day, checked in, found a cup of joe to ward off the 44 degree temps and wondered a.) is anyone else going to show up? and b.) is it going to stand out that I’m not wearing anything pink? The answer to both questions was an overwhelming yes. For an inaugural annual event, I’d guess there were 1000 people there, and I was one of three people not bedecked in pink. It sort of felt like I was giving off the creepy vibe, in a gray hoodie and black shorts and my silly little “registered walker” sticker on my boob. I briefly considered knocking out a grandma and stealing her pink boa, but the word “karma” crossed my mind and I thought the better of it. Plus, there was some guy standing near us with, no kidding, a huge beer gut, flannel shirt over his race tee, Mountain Dew in one hand, cigarette in the other and a cell phone earpiece in and blinking. I wasn’t too bad, all things considered.

The pre-non-competitive race hoopla had a local radio dj trying to rev a frozen crowd up, peppered with actually touching moments such as a breast cancer survivor telling her story and the raucous response she got from an incredibly supportive crowd. I cheered with the rest of them so as to lessen the predator vibe and promised myself to walk the course with the crowd, you know, gently ease the ancient knee back into a routine. My godmother passed away from breast cancer 15 years ago, and she’s who I put down in the “who I’m walking for” category, and I would be damned if I croaked within the first mile trying to push it in her name; a walk it was going to be.

I am such a liar, especially to myself. I made it two blocks when the competitive demon made an appearance. After slipping on the earphones, it didn’t take long for Rodrigo Y Gabriela’s tune Tamacun (live) to come up in rotation, and it’s like the music possessed me, man (said in best Tommy Chong voice). The aching knee disappeared, and next thing you know, I’m hungry to take down these little ol’ ladies and jogging moms and anyone else wearing pink and laughing too loud. You see, most people approach this kind of event in teams, so Anderson Accounting is all together in spiffy shirts and having the time of their lives. The only other solo members I saw were a group of angry lesbians who’d gotten into some sort of spat and decided to run on their own. And yes, they were gay, this wasn’t just an assumption; their shirts and tatts were showing their pride, although I’d have been willing to wager they weren’t too hip on the same sex when I saw them – in fact murderous glares were being traded like currency. So it came to me and a group of disgruntled ladies being the only ones running on our own, and, in fact that’s how I like it. Despite being a damn social bastard, I actually prefer to run on my own, with no one around to mock to my buffalo-style huffing and chuffing.

I thought I was doing pretty well until I was getting passed by some kids who looked no more than ten. At that point, the shame would overtake me, and I’d walk for another hundred yards or so, only to be motivated to get jogging when I saw groups of volunteers at each intersection cheering like lunatics. Before long, mile markers 2 and 3 rolled by, and next thing you know, I’m back in the park where it all started, feeling pretty damn good and re-hydrating and high fiving total strangers. Felt great in fact, until the rush passed, and my knee began throbbing in an ungodly way. The self-promise of “you will walk” came back across my mental teleprompter. I had to make an actual effort to not punch myself in the head in front of a bunch of cancer-cure warriors while muttering “stupid, stupid, stupid” all the while. The knee is still hurting, hours later, even though it was an impressive get together for a cause that truly is worth the pain. It was a refreshing breath of fresh air, that all those people would come together in such a show of support, love and dedication, united across all lines for the day, at least.

ps- I’m pretty sure I beat the smoking guy with the Mountain Dew.

It’s back. It’s happening and you guys are making it happen: The Half Past Friday survey. This past week, I asked you to submit your best Halloween costumes with pics being a bonus, and, once again, you didn’t disappoint. I had a host of impressive costume submissions, ranging from a fully functioning bong to proctologist to my personal favorite – Jonathan Quail Higgins III from Magnum P.I.

The fact that you gave me so many cool ideas and several sweet images made it all the harder, but I finally pared it down to the top five images and my associated commentary. You people rock, and I’m grateful to have such twisted minds as friends and readers of the site.

5.) Speedy Gonzalez. Note the perfect stance, the appropriate huarache sandals, the white pants……….Sal’s got it going on, and I applaud his ability to capture my favorite smart ass rodent so perfectly. You know what this makes me want to do? Punch some jerk gringo in the face, steal his cheese and then perhaps liberate a large village of oppressed compadres. All while traversing territory at a speed worthy of my name.

4.) PBR delivery man. Question: who doesn’t want their Pabst Blue Ribbon delivered to their doorstop by a handsome lad of five years with highwater pants and a hand truck that is taller than him? Now, RoJo will tell you that at one time (around 10 years prior to this picture) PBR was considered a premium label. “Hogwash”, I say; it has always been and will always be the beer of choice for river floaters in their 20′s, shop dwellers at my house and college kids looking to drink something that is as “ironic” as their $65 tee shirts. What makes this shot even better is that the said deliveryman is now a California Highway Patrol officer who would love nothing better than to pull over and arrest underage beer distributors. This one goes into the permanent file for coercion purposes later on.

3.) Janet Reno. From the files of photos I’ve swiped from friends, this little gem was destined to make a reappearance on the site at the suggestion of the model in question. Few can pull off the Janet look, including Janet herself. In my imagination she had very, very bad breath, which is fitting because The Lyrical Jackass is known for smelling as though a cat went to the bathroom in his mouth. He also exhibits many of her same dance moves, stances on Homeland Security and bizzare man-crush on Bill Clinton. Weird fact: he actually already owned those earrings and necklace and only had to borrow the black dress because his “was at the cleaners”. Another Arkansas wonder to behold.

2.) White Trash Wonder Woman aka PBR Girl. Have I made it too obvious to you that when not consuming Guinness or Pacifico, my go-to junk beer is PBR? And while RoJo’s attempt was made in earnest, I find that PBR Girl may be taking something of a mocking stance as she traversed the mean streets of Portland, OR. dressed as my dream date. Kick ass shirt, sexy boots, some sort of mylar/pleather skirt and the attitude that says “after this trick-or-treat bull, let’s finish off this sixer and get us some tatts involving skulls, roses and Mom.” Kurt is one lucky man to have harnessed this incredibly saucy welfare hero; I can only hope he doesn’t piss her off and she grinds that hand rolled smoke out in his eye. Best of luck.

annnnnnnnnnnddddddddd here he-she is

1.) Little Bo Nasty. This is disturbing on so many levels. One, a male captain on the fire department is wearing lipstick. Two, I’m not even sure this picture was taken at Halloween, it may have been for that parade he participates in every year. Now he might try and justify it to you by saying his daughter was wearing the same outfit that year, and that’s great and all, but…….I mean, wow. The red wrapping paper on the shoes really ties the whole thing together. I know that firemen as a rule like ratchet the crazy up a notch, but this one took the cake. And for any of you guys out there looking for a date, just let me know and I’ll hook you up with this tranny-tastic dude. I am so damn disturbed by the images he sent, I’ve run out of bleach flushing my eyeballs, and yet I cannot turn away. So cheers, Eric, you’re number one. And no, I will not kiss you.

“I’m very important. I have many leather-bound books and my apartment smells of rich mahogany.” – Ron Burgundy

Despite whatever impressions you may have formed from reading the rants I dole out here on this site, I actually do enjoy reading; yelling at the computer screen each time the schism between pop culture and real life grows wider…..well, that’s just a hobby. But unlike my author-amigo Josh Conviser and my idiot-savant brother Buns, I don’t delve into real intellectual-like tomes on a regular basis. So somewhere between People Magazine (a favorite target of fury) and A Brief History Of Time by Stephen Hawking is where I like to get my read on. I enjoy authors that make me laugh, make me feel like I’m being let in on a hilarious family secret or just a wild yarn about some crazy adventure. I’m curious as to what you guys are reading….so give me some literary suggestions that might make a Missouri winter a little less hostile. And I thought I’d share with you the latest selections that were in my rotation. Enjoy.

1. Born To Run (Christopher McDougall) – this guy is the kind of outdoors author I’d want to hang out with based on both his superb ability to tell a tale and to utilize language to which I can relate. In other words- he’s not taking an incredibly serious subject too damn seriously. An awesome account of people who run for no other reason than a love of running, this book on the Tarahumara Indians of Mexico’s Copper Canyons makes my whining about 3 mile runs seem even more pathetic.

2. I Was Told There’d Be Cake (Sloane Crosley) – a collection of essays by a hilarious observer of life in New York City, this girl has the acid wit that made me laugh out loud while reading a few times; and yes, it was in public, and yes, I looked even MORE like an idiot than I already do.

3.) Water For Elephants (Sara Gruen) – I really enjoyed escaping into this one, and it read kind of like a grown-ups version of Polar Express. It was elegant and graceful – two traits that have eluded me all my life.

4.) BOBOS In Paradise (David Brooks) – this book attempts to reconcile the Bohemian and bourgeois lifestyles (hence BOBOS) in a very definitive study of how aging hippies can afford to live in places like Santa Barbara and not feel guilty about it. It’s something of a hard read in that it tends to be dry as toast at parts, and this explains why it’s taken me so long to slog through the thing. Plus, I don’t think that I possess the kind of intellectual capital which would afford me a “summer” home in Martha’s Vineyard. I’ll continue through to the end, however, because there are some pretty eye-opening theories that he puts forth with regards to wealth and values.

5.) Let My People Go Surfing- The Education Of A Reluctant Businessman (Yvon Chouinard) – possessing all the ingredients for a potentially badass read, the founder of Patagonia wrote this horrible turd of a book that was impossible for me to finish. It had everything I love – life on the ocean, blacksmithing, the West Coast that is my home and it still managed to irk me to no end. Was it his condescending tone? The apparent megalomania? The holier-than-thou approach to environmental conservation? The constant self-congratulations? Yes, yes, yes, and yes. I gave the book back to the friend I borrowed it from, muttering that I’d just like to cold-cock the smug bastard/author in a bar sometime. So much for my time-tested approach of judging a book by it’s cover……apparently, you can’t.

6.) Classic Trains, Fall 2009 – because, really, who doesn’t like steam trains?

As I was scanning the news on Google this morning, I came across a headline (read: here) that immediately made the vein in my forehead surge in anger and swell in disbelief. In its entirety, the story’s caption was thus:

Heidi Klum Probably Won’t Have More Kids

Well, praise Allah and The Flying Spaghetti Monster, we can all rest easy tonight knowing that she probably won’t have more kids. Guess what People Magazine? I probably will wash my hands the next time I go to the bathroom. I am probably going to drink another pot of coffee. I probably won’t go on a murderous rampage in a Target any time soon. I am maddeningly underwhelmed by your journalistic “integrity” People Magazine. The supermodel / scholar of the obvious then went on to say (in reference to the number of kids she has):  

“It’s a lot!” Klum, 36, told PEOPLE last month. “The noise factor around our table is unbelievable. There’s so much going on … My husband sit and look at each other and say, ‘Soon there will be No. 4 at the table. It will be even noisier!’ ”

I understand that she is German and since English is her second language she deserves some leeway. In fact, she is not the issue at all. An apparently successful businesswoman, model, television personality and child bearer, she’s rather accomplished, even in the area of acute observation of the noises kids make. What is so ludicrous is that a magazine not only ran the headline and story, it seems to think that this is obvious need-to-know vital information. This is somewhat like the parents that post blogs about what a miracle it is that Baby Grace has learned to use a toilet; I have yet to meet a kid that never learned to use one at some point. Sure, it’s moment of pride for mom and dad, but throughout millennia, kids have figured out how to take a dump into a receptacle. Parents the world over have decided that four children are “probably enough mouths to feed”. I fail to understand the significance of this article.

Who really cares? Is there some sort of butterfly effect taking place whereby the Duggar family won’t add a 25th child upon hearing that Heidi is “probably” done with the whole thing? Will some kid not turn to a life of drugs and crime when he finds out her uterus is closed for business? Does the whole thing qualify as “entertainment”, “news” or “random crap we fill a magazine up with since we don’t want to engage anyone on a level beyond celebrity uncertainty”? This is why I cannot tolerate reality television. Somehow, celebrity status means that the mundane details of your life are now considered newsworthy grist for the mill. I know that everyone has curiosities about the famous (what color underwear was Elvis wearing when he took that ominous death-poop?) and there are times when I give thought as to whether Willie Nelson is more of a “Nacho Cheese” or “Cool Ranch” Doritos kind of guy, but those aren’t the kinds of questions you devote print to, are they?

Apparently, for a large portion of our population, you do. And what used to be the realm of information that was featured in magazines targeted for 12 year old girls (Tiger Beat?) is now comfortably at home in media designed for people who will sooner than later qualify for membership in the AARP. I’m not a high-brow intellectual by any stretch of the imagination, but I’m more than a little embarrassed for us as a society that we place value on the sexploits of Paris Hilton and whatever her flavor of the month is. Reading articles on economic principle and health care reform just don’t hold anyone’s attention the same way a lurid description of David Letterman’s sex dens can. I wonder when we’ll come to our collective senses and just say, “you know, there’s no reason in this world why I care about the carnal happenings of the children of has-been pop stars”?

In the meantime, your life and mine will continue unabated. We’ll make the good and bad choices, come unhinged on our own children, fight the battle of the bulge, bitch about the weather and local politicians and get on with our own versions of normalcy. And I’ll continue to lay awake deep into the night, wondering if there’s any chance Heidi Klum will have more children. Probably not.

Hey amigos! The Monday Mud has been on hiatus for a bit, but it’s back with a vengeance this week. Below you’ll find three things worthy of respect and disdain. I hope everyone is doing better than can be expected by the time this finds you. Don’t forget to answer the survey question at the very bottom, and send your answers to bluecayucos@gmail.com.   Until then, take it easy, my friends.

RAISING OF THE PINT GLASS

1.)  Hockey Season – I suck at hockey, but I’m really good at drinking beer afterward. And the season means the end of hot weather, the familiar stench of the locker rooms and the old familiar chest pains after each shift on the ice. I love it. All of it. I raise my cold Guinness to you, sport of lunacy.

2.) The Show-Me-State – it’s fall here, and the colors are making their annual appearance. I dig it. I dig the cold nights and the firing of the shop stove.

3.) Sea Shanties – Around this time of year, I get a real bug to go traveling. I want to see other parts of this world, and this desire to roam is succinctly addressed in several of the sea shanties blaring from these tiny computer speakers. I’d like to explore new countries, learning local customs and traditions; I think I’d start in Ireland with a tune by Flatfoot 56.

KARATE CHOP TO THE THROAT

1.) The Kardashian Family - or any “reality” television “stars”. Unless you’re seeking a familial implosion, why in the name of all that is right and good would you invite the world into your home night and day? These people are vain, attention-starved weasels who would sell their sick grandma down the road for another ten minutes of air time on the E channel. And, like justifying the horrors of Roman gladiatorial contests, the only answer I can find is “that’s what people want to see.” What people? I would lump said people and the Kardashians, Lohans, Simpsons and Jon& Kates all together and collectively chop their throats. THAT would make for good reality television.

2.) Bumper Sticker Pundits - while I agree that brevity is the soul of wit, it can also be the soul of the witless. Sticking to party lines because “you just should” is ridiculous in and of itself, and marks you in my eyes as incapable of independent thought. I give you a whack to your throat and challenge you to think for yourself for once, for crying out loud.

3.) My knees – What the hell? I am trying to get my aging ass into shape and now you want to act up, giving me shooting pains and making me stagger around like a seizure-prone silverback. I don’t appreciate it one bit, and I’d rid myself of you if I could get away with it.

Half Past Friday survey question for the October 16th.

What was your best Halloween costume ever? Those with pictures go to the top of the heap. Best of luck, make ‘em original and legit and I’ll rank the best for Friday.

Whenever you and I scroll through books, magazines or articles, inevitably there will be references to how one must cherish friendships or, in the words of the Lyin’ Dutchman “you must cherries and culture your relationships, son” (that is a direct quote from the bowels of insanity). Now, while we ALL pay lip service to the value of friendship, and we ALL have those relationships that stand the test of time, most of us can count on one hand the folks who’ve had a direct influence on who we are as adults. Parents? Sure. Grandparents? Why not. The amigo with whom we always went to Denny’s at 3am after a bender? Of course. And the list goes on: kind parents of a classmate, that evil Spanish teacher who threw very heavy dictionaries at your head while you tried to sleep in class (you know who you are), etc, etc.

But once in a while, we have someone in our life who defies conventional paradigms. The kind of person who challenges all your deeply held beliefs, challenges you to think for yourself, to not just regurgitate the party line. This person is dangerous, because he or she will be a radical departure from your upbringing, the kind of person your folks warned you about. Often times this guy or gal comes in the form of a college professor, a first boss, that dude down at the Food Co-Op who rails against fossil fuel consumption then roars off in his mandatory Volkswagen hippie-bus. For me, that person is Steve Watt.

Being from a small town, I knew Steve as a local builder and craftsman since I was a kid, but didn’t really get to know him well until my freshman year in college. This is a time in your life when you are genetically pre-disposed to pissing everyone off. You annoy your parents with your platitudes of wisdom, you irk your girlfriend with the constant humping of the leg, you enrage the neighbors with never-ending parties and 1am bonfires and you make an ass of yourself on a constant basis. The shame you bring on your family is palpable. Despite engaging in all of the aforementioned crappy behavior, Steve and his wife Joanie gave me the one thing that every single angst-ridden teen needs: affirmation that I was alright. Steve brought me into his group of aging guitar slingers and encouraged me artistically and philosophically to explore the world outside of my safe confines. He helped to ease the transition from short board wannabe surfer to a more mellow style of longboarding and fellowship with your friends in the ocean. His gift of melding artistic vision and wooden creations led to many hours of my watching and learning in his shop. And always, always, he and Joanie were there with a smile and a hug, fresh food, a cold beer and a willingness to listen. This in and of itself is amazing – I mean, who wants to listen to some punk ass kid who claims to have the patent on heartbreak? They did. In the process they gained my respect and admiration, and despite the years that have passed, they remain close to my heart.

I bring all of this up because I recently learned of Steve’s battle with prostate cancer. From what I’ve been told, the cancer was detected early and, thanks to the efforts of Joanie, their amazing daughters (one of whom is a pediatric ICU nurse – mad props Darcy!) and their support system of friends, things are looking as good as can be expected. We talked the other day, and it made me so happy to hear his voice again; I was suddenly eighteen, wanting to confess my devious deeds, seeking his counsel and approval. There he was, cheerful, upbeat, asking about life in the middle of the country while we conspiratorially whispered about the quirks of the hyper holy-rollers. And it dawned on me, only afterward, that maybe he gains as much from my friendship as I do his. I’ve looked up to Steve for almost 18 years now, never thought that maybe I brought him some semblance of friendship that gave him fulfillment as well. At best guess, I figured I just amused the guy. If there was anyone I’ve ever met who deserves a healing grace, who has the ability to whip this cancer while smiling all the while, it’s Steve.

I’m writing this now because I think that too often we wait until someone passes before we let them know just how important they’ve been. We heap praises on the dead, and it makes the family feel good, then we raise a glass to them down at the pub. But none of that benefits the person you intend to honor; for all I know they’re busy becoming worm food and have no time for such tribute. And there’s nothing like a good cancer scare to jar it all into perspective, if only a little. So Steve, I just wanted to say thanks. Thanks for being a good friend to a mouthy, cocky kid who didn’t feel deserving of any respect. Thanks for pushing me to explore the music, both literally and figuratively. Thanks for showing me what it means to be a stand up guy, one who doesn’t back down from his beliefs, even when it’s raining bullshit. You’ve been a greater influence than you’ll ever realize, and I’m honored to call you my friend.

It was a dark and stormy night. No, it wasn’t; it was the middle of the afternoon on a perfectly average day. As the monsoon-like fury raged on, there wasn’t enough visibility to make out your hand in front of your rain-soaked face. Again, not so much; it was sunny without even a hint of clouds in the sky. The mountains were steep and rocky….. enough so that even the sure footed Dall sheep were loathe to venture higher. Actually, the whole thing took place on my dead level gravel driveway. The crevasse gave way, exposing our intrepid explorer to a sure death as the ice ax began its slow southern migration from its chiseled hold.  To be honest, the rut was like 3.75 inches deep, caused by a little rain runoff, and completely avoidable.

As I returned to a work bench in my shop, I hear a wailing cry, the kind you might expect to hear from family members when they discover Dad has driven over the beloved Shar-Poodle-Shit-Zsu on his way to work this morning. I drop the cutting torch and sprint out of the shop to find my lovely wife rolling around next to the driveway, clutching her legs as though she’d just breezed over a hidden land mine that I may or may not have placed to deter trespassers. I ask just what in the hell she thinks she’s doing, lying there when we had company coming over shortly. She immediately demands that I grab a Fresca from the shop fridge, and pour it down her throat. In case that sounds awkward, let me emphasize: SHE DEMANDS A FRESCA. “Oh, what the hell”, I thought, got her the damn Fresca, and returned to find her engaged in what looks to be Lamaze knee rolls and associated hysterical cry/laughing.

My fire department training then took over, so I engaged in our standard protocols: I took some vitals, tried to give her some supplemental oxygen, then offered to check her smoke detector and told her to wait for the ambulance. She did not find this in the least amusing. She then told me how she’d been walking back to the house, and how one ankle rolled in the rut, the subsequent over-compensation of the other and the crash landing results. Having extensive training in the medical field, I told her “stop crying. Walk it off.” We’ve all rolled an ankle or two in our time, and she’s not so special as to merit an ambulance ride or anything. Eventually, she hobbles into the house and we proceed to throw a lavish party. The kind of party that involves the use of plastic utensils, if you catch my drift.

The next day, she opts to go to the doctor, because the swelling hasn’t subsided and, as it turns out, complaining about the pain rarely heals the wound. It then comes to our attention that one ankle has a spiral fracture and one is severely sprained. That’s right (and here’s where I make the big “my bad” part of the speech): she broke her ankle in the driveway. In flip flops. So while my assessment skills were a bit, shall we say, off, you’ll forgive me if the x-ray vision is on the fritz and I missed that one. And so it began. We got the knee scooter. The crutches. And, after a particularly nasty tumble in the kitchen, a wheelchair. I’ve gotten a glimpse of The Wife at age 85. I am most amused by this development.

Karma has a way of taking a steaming dump on your lap, though, when you derive too much amusement from your spouses pain. As I’ve alluded to in other posts, I’m in the middle of training for a half-marathon, a spectacle in which I completely expect to have a massive coronary event. And, one week into her rehabilitation time, I went a little off the rails at a wedding reception, prompting my knee to go from “a little achy” to “now I can’t walk on it without a limp.” With the aid of a knee brace, we are now a pair of invalids, hobbling all over creation. I’ve had to take over most of the domestic engineering, and while I am always happy to divide the labor, I ain’t so cheerful about a solo endeavor. I limp around the kitchen, shaking my fist at The Heathens, hollering that they are LUCKY to be having Mac & Cheese yet again. In the grocery store, we are constantly asked if we were involved in a car wreck. I’ve taken to lying on a much grander scale, often replying with “Why yes, yes we were. It was a 67 car pile-up and we’re the only survivors. But I don’t like to talk about it. How’s YOUR day going?” Really, it’s rather crass, but I take the little victories where I can.

And that, my friends, is why I haven’t posted in a while. We’ve been lucky enough to have the kinds of friends that have been bringing meals over and helping us out as I attempt to coddle (or yell) my family into well being. All of our visitors are of the mind that what we REALLY need is another lasagna, and while I’m eternally grateful for their thoughts and “help”, it’s as though they don’t even know me: not one cold Guinness has been offered as of yet. On the flip side maybe they know us too well; when you have two lame ducks limping all over the house, I’ve found it best if all parties are sober.

Yesterday, our fishwrap-caliber newspaper ran a story on a local pot bust. I would assume that that is a newsworthy subject due to the simple fact that the majority of our drug busts out here in Springfield are meth-based; at the least, they’re generally rooted in the transportation of drugs across I-44, our local superhighway of narcotics. The reason I found this story amusing is based on this line, right here:

“Officers from the sheriff’s office and from the Missouri Highway Patrol located and seized about 130 mature marijuana plants, many of them 10 to 15 feet tall, from the property, according to the release.”

I will admit here, in the interest of full disclosure, that I know NOTHING about growing pot. And if you were witness to my attempts at growing pumpkins a few years ago, you know that the agricultural degree I got is positively going to waste (sorry Cal Poly; in all fairness, you tried. We just didn’t work out. No shame). So my next question is this: what?

As in “What. The. Flugelhorn?”

What Einstein thinks about this hare-brained cultivation of the Devi’ls lettuce and thinks that plants 10-15 feet tall are unremarkable? Apparently our Mtn. Grove herbaliser does. I mean, even if you live way out where the Baldknobbers still tread, you’d think that you might not let your crops get nearly two stories tall. And think of the hassles when trying to tend, feed or care for this illegal little operation of yours; would you take trips to the local rental yard when it came time for maintenance? I imagine it went down like this:

Rental Guy: “Hey, Ronnie! Wow, back again! Don’t tell me…..you want to rent the aerial lift again? Jesus Ronnie, that’s like twice in the last month. What the hell are you doing with that thing? Hanging gutters? Trimming trees?”

Ron: “Yeah….something like that.”

Rental Guy: “Okay, but hells bells, Ronnie, for what you’ve been paying to rent this thing, you could own one by now. WOW. That’s a lot of cash in your hand! Christ, what are you, a drug dealer now Ron?

Ron: “Why? What have you heard?”

When my buddy Todd called up to bring this story to my attention (it already had caught my eye due to the genius quotient), these were the kinds of scenarios that were playing out in our conversation.  We were left to wonder: did the fertilizer instructions lead this man astray? At what point did he look upon his ocean of cannabis and say “Jeez…..those suckers are gettin’ a mite tall?” Are there websites and forums that he could have joined that would give him instruction? Wait, don’t answer that, I don’t want to be bombarded with anecdotes on hemp sites. I already have one brother who is the resident expert on all things green. Some knowledge is best left to others.

Everyone has a point at which their risk/benefit ratio flips and they are no longer will to assume the liabilities. I choose not to rob convenience stores when I am low on cash, because it would be hard to report for duty at the firehouse from jail. My wife chooses to not violently hack me to pieces every time I upset her, because it would be too inconvenient disposing of the body. There must have been a point in time when Ron the pot grower decided that it would be worth it to have 130 mature marijuana plants grow taller than corn. Maybe that’s standard protocol for hemp farmers. Maybe he has brass clankers. Maybe he’s just an idiot pothead. Or just maybe, he too is an alumni of Cal Poly who happened to pay attention in Crops 101.