Half Past Awesome

“What’s it like to be inside a burning house?” After more than a decade in the fire service, I’ve found that this is one of the top three questions people have when they find out what I do for a living.  Structure fires are a part of the job, and I suppose it’s a fair question; it just really doesn’t cross my mind much anymore. I guess the reason I like posting up about firehouse life more than life in a house fire is that it’s always funnier to BE a fireman than it is to be fighting fire. Plus, it’s damn well impossible to write about with any consistency since every fire is different. One has to be really careful in descriptions about situation “mitigation” because, as firefighters, one of our primary jobs is to drop the Bullshit Flag on our peers anytime their stories use words like “brave” or, the very worst of ALL descriptors we can use – “HERO”. In fact if ANY one of our co-workers uses this word in ANY way to describe him/herself, we are morally obligated to punch the offender right in the mouth, and refer to that person as a “delusional asshole” for the rest of their career.

So, to answer the question without seeming flippant or full of crap, I tell them the best description I’ve come up with: put a black garbage bag over your head, fill it with smoke and crank up the heat and you’ll get the basic idea. What Top Gun did for portraying all fighter pilots as short, ill-tempered young Scientologists, movies like Backdraft and Ladder 49 have done little to temper the fantasy of fighting fire with any sort of reality. A more accurate description could be found in Star Wars, where the protagonists are sloshing about in the trash compactor of a spaceship. Add some acrid smoke and a little more chaos and you’re pretty close. All the training in the world can’t prepare you for the dismal fact of crawling around blind, looking for a distant glow, or worse, a person. Much like CPR has been described by some medics as “the ritual flogging of the dead”, on the rare occasion that a person is pulled from a fire and survives, we’re as relieved and surprised as anyone.

That’s probably why we’ve developed such a macabre sense of humor; it’s a screwy coping mechanism for dealing with the improbable scenarios we encounter, and it can come across to outsiders as insular behavior. As much as I can try and understand what it was like for my brothers and friends who’ve gone and fought in Afghanistan and Iraq, the truth is that I’m only imagining the horror, the fear, the boredom. And that’s why those vets understand one another better than anyone else does, and I can appreciate that fact. In the same fashion, there’s something about bumbling through some meth freaks domicile on a snowy Christmas Eve, tripping over hose and dragging through trash and filth that allows us to bond with one another. You’re not thinking about the danger, you’re wondering what in the hell possesses these people to live like this. And, if you happen to be crawling towards the fire and encounter some bizarre sex toy, you’re expected to pass it back to the guy behind you and ask if he lost something out of his coat. That sort of behavior would make my mother die of a shame-induced aneurysm, but in our world, it’s unofficial standard operating procedure.

The fact remains that for whatever reason we got into this line of work, we like to claim that we stay for the schedule, the benefits, the job security that comes with a never-ending list of people who get themselves into trouble, whatever. But the truth is that when the tones go off and we strap the black garbage bags over our heads, there’s nothing that beats the feeling of heading into chaos with people we can call our friends. At the very least, we’re looking for some piece of discarded trash to abuse one another with; if we’re lucky, we’ll get to do our jobs right and someones bad day is made just a little better.

What is the measure of a man? This is a question that has eluded philosophers, teachers, coaches and the IRS for generations, and I think I’ve found the answer. It’s around 45 pounds. How can I say this with such certainty? Because that is the precise weight of a lifting bar. You know what I’m talking about, one of those contraptions that metal plates are affixed to and then lifted, hefted and tossed about the gym. As it so happens, these bars are extremely prolific, and I have yet to go to a gym that did not employ several of them as a means by which to intimidate and abuse paying customers. Not coincidentally, I think said bars are also a tool of the devil, although the science behind that theory is still a little shaky.

Yesterdays workout at the Springfield CrossFit gym involved lifting these bars in a movement known as a “clean”. I’d describe it to you, but that would be akin to me describing cold fusion principles: I’d just be making it up. Here’s the downside of all this business – outside of some lame attempts in the past to bench press and curl, I’ve never in my life lifted weights, so I lack what some call “proper form”. Roughly translated, what this means is that while all the other people are pushing around the iron and getting all pumped up, I’m having fits in the corner and risking some serious back injury while making all the noises I assume you’re supposed to make while lifting weights. I don’t know, I’m just faking it the whole time. I grunt and heave and sweat a lot, but really, nothing’s getting done.

Unfortunately for me, this does not go un-noticed by the sadists, aka trainers, here at CrossFit. In order to protect his identity, I’ll call the trainer from yesterday “Ryan”, since his real name sounds exactly like that, but with a “B”.  So anyways, “Ryan” didn’t waste much time in sending me to my own corner of the mat and make demands that I show him my “form” with regards to this “clean” lift. Using only the bar. What follows does not please him, and I am guessing that is because it resembles the mating dance of an irritated baboon. Face red, sweat running down my leg hair, I set the bar back down with a self satisfied look on my face while “Ryan” looks at me as though he just caught me making love to trash can. He’s incredulous. I’m good with it. And ne’er the two shall meet. He spends the next half hour keeping tabs of my form, taking enough time out of coaching others to yell at me “ULI! Again! No, I don’t care about your “feelings”! AGAIN!“ (or something to that effect). I tried to shake my fist at him, but by this time, I’ve no strength left. It looks more like some sort of limp-wristed wave, matching nicely with the drool leaking out of the corner of my mouth. He continued to glare at me as though seriously considering outfitting me with a helmet to wear. He seemed to take offense that I refused to “open my hips” for him during these lifts, and that’s just because I’m not that kind of guy. I’m no man-slut, no exceptions; just ask anyone. No, scratch that, just take my word for it.

I can see that this “Ryan” character is not going to buy any of my formless bullshit, so I try in earnest to do it right. Out of 743 attempts I get it right exactly three times. That’s a number I can live with. “Ryan” can’t. The war of wills is going to be an ongoing engagement – but I recently recieved vital information that shall give me an unmistakeable advantage. Apparently he harbors an unhealthy fear of lobsters. No idea why, but when I head into the gym tonight? You bet your ass I’ll be toting a couple of fresh cockroaches of the ocean, one under each arm, ready to again do battle. And this time I’ll be sure to use the proper form.

Note – this essay will make no sense to you whatsoever if you don’t use the social media site known to the world as “Facebook” and known to me as “The Book Of Faces”. If you don’t participate, then kindly return to whatever it was you were doing before stumbling across this site. Thank you.

For a while now, I’ve been wasting colossal amounts of time on Facebook, catching up with people I see on a regular basis, those I haven’t seen in thirty years and everyone in between. Much like karaoke has done for justifying the tone deaf singing in public, Facebook has allowed for behavior that should never see the light of day. I’m not talking about men in their fifties becoming collective fans of titillating groups with names like “Boobies” or “Girls Who Put Out On The First Date”; I’m more disturbed by how many people make themselves look like complete ignoramuses with their status updates and replies to other peoples status. In service to the greater good, I’ve compiled a short checklist to determine if you are, indeed, a Facebook Dirtbag. Are you one of these people? If so, you need to change your ways, post haste, my friend.

• The Cryptic Status-Updater. This person thinks they’re dangling a real gem in front of cyberspace with updates such as “no one knows pain like this” or “why do people insist on playing games?” In truth, they’re just a modern-day incarnation of the goth-teen who proclaimed that no one except Morrissey or Robert Smith of The Cure understood their inner torment. Yeah, we got your pain, we just don’t paint our faces white and scribble the anarchy sign all over our notebooks. Either elaborate on what’s causing you this supposed suffering or keep it to your damn self. I, and the rest of the world, aren’t interested in solving your romantic riddles, and your martyrdom isn’t helping your image as a Dirtbag.
• The Excessively Long Poster. When the “see more” option comes up on your status update (not replies), you are getting too long winded. Tell me your dog died, and that’s enough. I don’t need his eulogy as a status update. So wrap it up, there, Wordy McWordleson, get off of Facebook and go dwell on your anguish.
• The Lord Of The Obvious. I know there was an earthquake in Haiti. Everyone does. And while it sucks, and it’s charitable of you to donate $10 via text, merely writing “Haiti “ isn’t helping anyone at all, and it doesn’t make you a more compassionate person.
• The  Fabulous Smarmy Putz. So you woke up to yet another beautiful morning of four feet of fresh powder in Aspen? Did Jimmy Buffett come sing at your birthday party thrown on Diddy’s yacht off the coast of Antigua? Are you trying to decide what dress to wear to the Golden Globes, because, dammit, you will NOT be seen in the same thing that tramp Tina Fey is wearing? WHAT THE F**K ARE YOU TRYING TO COMPENSATE FOR? I CAN’T HELP YOU, AND I’M NOT IMPRESSED, SO KNOCK IT THE HELL OFF!! By the way, no one else is impressed, either, because we remember you when you used to walk to the chalkboard with a boner/training bra showing.
• I’m A Fan Of/Like EVERYthing! While it’s imperative that you become a fan of Half Past Awesome in order to maintain elite status in your local community, when you become a fan of “Hitting The Delete Button Three Times And Then The Space Bar And Then Remembering Where You Put Your Car Keys On Mondays”, I tend to think you are also a fan of such mind-blowing entities as “Television” and “Not Dying” and “The Color Blue”. As well, “liking” things such as updates that say “I almost died on the commute home today” makes me question your overall sanity. Again – cool to be a fan of “ShitMyDadSays” on Twitter, not cool to “like” the update “I’m thinking of ending it all today”.
• The Slayer of Spelling. This person can’t be bothered with the other two letters in the word “you” and they just utilize “u”. And if you’re over thirteen? This is totally unacceptable. I just picture some moronic twit writing “u r hott” when you speak like this on The Book Of Faces. OMG! ROFL! LOL! LMFAO!!(by the way, unless you really are rolling on the floor laughing, you’re just lying to me, and that pisses me off, too.)
• The All-Business Pimp. Look, I understand you’re trying to get your business either off the ground or expanded, but really? Is the only thing you have to offer the world your shade-tree mechanic skills, selling transmission repairs at deep discount? Listen, we’re already friends, and if I need cut-rate tax preparation, chances are I’m gonna use you anyways. So enough with the sales pitch, let me know something interesting about YOU, not your mobile cat-washing services. To be perfectly honest, you’re starting to look a little sleazy.
• The Evangelist. While living here in the Bible belt does lend itself to a plethora of folks in the business of salvation via social media proselytizing, there seems to be no limit to the lines people cross in the name of their faith. I realize you hate homosexuality/Obama/abortion/rock & roll music, but for the love of Christ, this is supposed to be a fun place to hang out. While shaking your fist at those who have a faith other than yours makes for a compelling Bible study group topic, you just come across as a member of a lunatic fringe when your entire resume of status updates is comprised of your devotion to messianic fervor. And yes, I know lightning will strike me down soon for saying this.

So there you have it. If you don’t fall into any of these eight catagories, by all means, continue to post on a regular basis. If you do, please take the time to carefully consider your approach to this wide open cyberspace – there’s no need to be a d-bag if you can help it. And in case you’re wondering, yes, I am a Dirtbag of monumental proportions. How do I know? My wife takes every opportunity to point this fact out on Facebook, and it is therefore internet Gospel. Lord, help me.

People of the interwebs: check out this guys’ site if you’re a fan of The Onion-style infotainment and live in the Springfield area:

Fair City News

It’s written by Chad Harris, a friend I met through the local bloggers association and the dude is flat out hilarious (look him up on Facebook if you hang out there). He’s also let me guest post two articles that you may find entertaining. This first was written around the holidays and you can find it here. It deals with an informal poll taken at a local bar.

The second one was published today and concerns local politics and towns with the name of Springfield. Read it here.

Recently a reluctant-to-admit-Half Past Awesome reader came up to me in Patton Alley Pub, and after the usual pleasantries were exchanged she says, “well, I’ve been reading your site, and I hate to admit it, but you’re funny. But it’s just a little…….you know……”

“No, I said, “I don’t know. I need you to finish this statement. It’s what? Sucky? Too low-brow? Sophmoric? Too many pop culture references? Too snarky? Too negative?” (all statements that I’ve heard, mostly from other firemen).

“No, no, I mean, that’s all true, but no, your site is, you know…….kinda self absorbed.”

Wow. Ok, so there has been a distinct lack of Mother Teresa’s influence on the site, I guess.  I’m not really sure what a site devoted to my attempts to humor you should be absorbed with, and I asked her this question. Her response?

“You know, I don’t know. It’s just, you know kinda full of you.”

Gotcha. I’m beginning to think she’s lying, because the stories rarely end with me looking anything less than a total jackass, so I took the opportunity to squint my eyes, real Clint Eastwood-like, and ask in a disbelieving voice

“Huh? How many beers have you had J—-?”

I was then universally dismissed with the wave of the hand and an utterance of “whatever” while she rejoined her party on the other side of the bar. I headed back to the table of amigos and was devestated for a whole two minutes, until the next pint of Guinness came my way.

My point? I want you to consider, for a moment, that I am the sponge and I am the spilled juice and therefore I’m writing all of this as a means of absorbing myself. But mostly, I just want to make you laugh a little. Enjoy the reading.

Hello, comrade.

In the past year, you’ve taken to writing to me, or more specifically, my site here, in order to establish some sort of relationship. For reasons unknown, all of your correspondence comes to the spam section of Half Past Awesome, but believe you me, I’m getting all of your letters. EVERY SINGLE ONE. While I’m so flattered that you want to be my digital pen-pal, there’s just one small hitch. I DON’T SPEAK RUSSIAN, YOU SOVIET CHOWDERHEAD!

Sorry, I shouldn’t have yelled like that. You’re just trying to talk to me about God Knows What, and here I am screeching at you because of my inability to embrace the silky Russian dialect. I regret to inform you, that while you’re being relegated to the spam filter of cyberspace, you’re in pretty shady company. Apparently there are several people with names with no vowels out there sending me messages about whitening my teeth and increasing my penis size. I’m not sure who DR.XRFlyWE&67@dentalisme.com is, but he seems a little less than genuine in his communiques. How am I to know if he really cares about my dental well being or he’s just saying that to anyone who dwells out here in cyberspace? I’m not putting him on the Christmas Card list this year, not until I see some more sincerity out of him, that much is certain.

No, he’s not like you my Bolshevik “моя родруга”, what with your fancy Cyrillic alphabet and lots of underlined words as you try and reach out to me here in the middle of America, desperate for international flavor here in the Ozarks. What’s your name? I can’t decipher it beyond a series of mismatched consonants and numbers. Is it Irina? Are you picturing us in coffee shops on opposite sides of the world, connecting over a series of philosophies and worldviews, becoming soul mates despite the miles and apparent language barrier? My little babushka, you do know I’m married, right? The Wife cannot ever find out about our forbidden exchanges. But you already know this don’t you? THAT must be why every entry is sent to my spam box. Oh, you’re a crafty little Russian fox, no? Wait. I just checked over in the mailbox, and there’s not ONE SINGLE MESSAGE, much less 14, waiting for me, from you. WHAT THE HELL, YOU TWO TIMING COSSACK TRAMP? ARE YOU SENDING MESSAGES TO OTHER GUYS TOO? YOU SIBERIAN SLUT!!

Again, a thousand apologies, I just thought that we really…….I dunno…..connected. I’m waiting here, patiently, my Irina. I’m holding out against hope that what you really want is to be my special friend, that beneath all of that Soviet-style psychobabble, you’re not trying to hawk homeopathic alternatives to Valium. I’d be devestated. Crushed. My hopes for a tawdry forbidden affair would go to my own private gulag.

I only have one question left for you to answer, my sweet little Muscovite. After your last message, I hastily looked up what you’d written to me…..and it turns out that  “Вы имеете большие сиськи” translates into “you have big boobs”. So I’m left with the burning question – how did you get a picture of me without a shirt on, you filthy bird?

Lovingly yours,

me

So many insidious sitcoms and romantic comedies are based on the put-upon, far-too-hot-for-him wife and the bumbling/goofy/fat/incapable-of-communicating husband. As an hombre, I find this stereotype funny, reasonably accurate and at the same time far too formulaic. But then, how else can you keep someone amused for 23 minutes, if not by pointing out how inept the man is and how the woman is but one salvation away from saint status?

So I sat back and watched with a smug laugh as Ray Romano (Everybody Loves Raymond) threaded the line between being “adorable” and “a horses ass” in the eyes of his wife. I thought Seth Rogen (Knocked Up) played the lovable relationship ignoramus very well as he learned to deal with a woman he impregnated after a one night stand. But these buffoon-like caricatures were merely an exaggeration of the notion of the clueless male, right?

Turns out once again, truth can be more idiotic than fiction. I am living proof of this. I wanted to write the tale down, so that as it gets embellished over the years, I’ll have something to point at as a way of keeping the story from growing too fantastic. It went down like this: if you’ve been reading these posts at all, you know that recently I became a member of the local Cross Fit Gym here in Springfield. I did this for several reasons, but primarily to keep from achieving a weight that is greater than the scale is able to produce. I’d like to be around for the kids, too. The Wife is joining the same gym this Saturday and is harboring great fear as to what the trainers are going to make her endure, and with good reason. Those trainers are sadistic health enthusiasts with a drive bordering on zealotry, and a knack for producing results. So, as I limp home from each session, I report to The Wife, giving her the details of the torture while moaning all the while. She’s flat out terrified, a fact I don’t help by pointing out to her that the gym is filled with like-minded youth, getting all fit and looking far too good.

I was excited to tell her yesterday, then, that I’d met a very nice lady working out there, around our age, who was interested in getting a new hair stylist. I piped up that my wife, soon to join this entourage of pain, is a stylist always happy to meet a new client. The Wife was pleased with this effort. And it was only in the summation of the story that I committed the ultimate faux-pas and made a statement that will follow me to my grave. When asked about this new acquaintance, I gave a brief description and ended it with….“she’s very attractive, an attractive older person”. TO BE CLEAR – I MEANT THIS IN TERMS OF THE NORMAL “YOUNGER SET” THAT IS AT THE GYM. When quizzed as to just how old this older person was, I said…..

“oh, you know, late thirties, maybe forty.”

This was not my finest hour.

The veritable shit-storm that followed, both in the house and online (thanks, Facebook status update followers! Glad to know just what an idiot I am!), has only served to further diminish whatever dignity I once held. There is no backpedaling from this one. There is no excuse. There is only one option, and that is to go down with the ship, which is not a problem for me, since I seem to step in it more and more these days. I’d like to think that our lives are reasonably more intricate and complex than a sitcom could successfully portray, but I’d just be wrong about that, too. And, unfortunately for her, it seems I never learn.

“Dude, you’ve GOT to see Avatar! Best movie, ever! Make sure you see it in 3-D, dude, it’s sooooo much better that way!”

This is a statement a friend made to me recently. He took my raised eyebrow to mean I wanted to debate the merits of watching said new movie in 3-D versus 2-D. Nothing could’ve been further from reality, however. The odds of me seeing a science fiction flick in 3D on an IMAX screen in the near future are reasonably nil, a fact that baffled him. It was tantamount to missing The Resurrection as far as he was concerned, but then again, he has no kids. In all likelihood, I’ll see Avatar around the same time as I become a full fledged cocaine-cartel boss.

On the incredibly rare opportunity that I find three hours waiting to be pissed away, I find it hard to walk into a theater and plop down $13 dollars for a ticket $79.43 for popcorn and a small Sprite and sit still. Don’t get me wrong….I love the movies, and there is hardly a better guilty indulgence than to escape into a wild world of cinematic mindlessness. But I’m overwhelmed by the fact that three hours of my life will ebb into the abyss and I’ll have wasted time I could’ve spent on Facebook.

The actual truth is a few blocks down from that statement. The fact is that I’m a dad with two boys under the age of ten. If I’m going to waste a weeks’ pay on a cinematic experience, it better be one that they choose. I can’t see anything that can’t be purchased in toy form at a McDonalds. I cannot name the provinces of Iraq that my brothers served in, but I seem to know the Transformer characters by name, and have cursed their names in vain as I smashed them against a wall in an futile attempt to convert them. I’ve never given a second thought to how moronic it is that a robot would want to transform into a semi truck (I mean, really. What’s he gonna do in everyday life? Haul produce and lounge around in truck stops, only to have his driver seduce prostitutes on an hourly basis?) No, I gladly submit to the hell that is one million parts of Chinese plastic in an attempt to remain relevant in this household.

Those without children use me as an example of the pity they feel. They don’t know the depth of the unspoken, unconditional love that keeps me motivated to engage in thirty light-saber battles a day, always willing to lose for the cause. I wouldn’t do this for your kids, and you wouldn’t do it for mine, but something happens when you’re this invested. Hare-brained schemes like leaving it all to join a Bob Marley & The Wailers tribute band take a back seat, and you’ve become that guy. The one who gets mocked in a silent way when he leaves the party, stone cold sober and eager to catch the 763rd reading of “I Stink” before bed time.

Someday, I’ll be able to join in on discussions about the impact of the latest Hollywood blockbuster on pop culture, but, by then, I probably just won’t care. In the meantime, I’ll still build Lego spacestations and create forts of blankets and pillows to stave off attacks from the Imperial Mom. I can only hope they might want to catch Transformers 12 with me down at the cineplex in a couple of years; at least I’ll know all the characters’ names.

Here we go again. Another New Year’s and another set of broken promises lie before me. I’ve already listed my set of what not to dos (read here), but the truth is that some changes need to be enacted, post haste. The reason is that my descent into middle age lard-assedness has been given an unfair advantage by my sheer laziness and unwillingness to make decent food and exercise choices. How many of us have sat and watched some mixed martial arts fight, football game, jai-alai tournament and thought, “hell yeah, I could probably do that. I know for sure I coulda ten years ago.” I love the little lies we tell ourselves as we order another round of cheese fries (ranch dressing on the side, garcon). The truth is that left to my own devices, I will comply with the overwhelming demands of the convenient, delicious fat-food cartels and before long TLC will be doing a special about how a crane is required to move my bed to the local obesity clinic. Well, maybe not that bad, but it’ll be damn close.

I’ve been going to cycling classes at the local Y, still play hockey and once in awhile I go to a Pilates class, if for no other reason than to hear myself grunt and pop. And, while I’ve enjoyed limited results, the truth is that the scale is giving the middle finger to these attempts. After torquing my knee attempting to train for a half marathon, I began to appreciate what my body was screaming at me: “YO, fatass, I can’t take this abuse anymore, so I’m compressing your knee to the point of pain. Take that, asshole, and lay off the special #7 at the Peking House, for the love of Christ!”

Motivated by The Wife’s recent purging of our refrigerator of all that is not raw, green and/or disgusting, I decided to jump on her bandwagon. We signed up for a Biggest Loser competition going on here locally (in which I intend to take home the entire pot of prize money, even if I have to adopt a temporary meth habit), and I signed up at the local Cross-Fit gym, where the motivational theme seems to be centered around puking. Several other firemen are working out there and have seen some awesome results, results that will benefit us in our everyday work environment. As was put to us so eloquently in the introductory course… “when in life are you going to be required push a metal bar off of your chest?” However, when you get up off of a toilet, you’re basically doing a squat, and there’s a lot of that sort of thing going down in this gym. I like this concept, because in my twisted mind, I’ll claim a workout every time I get off the can.

So, we’ll see. The goal here is to chuck somwhere between 40 and 50 clunkers off this tired body, and in the meantime derail the heart attack that awaits. Adios, deep fried Chinese food, we might meet again once in awhile, but I doubt it. Bacon….it’s over, I’m seeing someone else, and her name is “chicken”. She’s not near as tasty and naughty as you are, but the ugly truth is, you never cared for me anyways – you just wanted me for my gut. Guinness and coffee, I’m keeping you on the team, but you’re getting a lot less playing time; you have to understand, it’s for the greater good. To the rest of my body, I deeply apologize for what I’m about to put you through…..just know that it’s gonna hurt me a whole lot more than it will you.