Half Past Awesome

Morning Face

4:02 am – Alarm begins its relentless attack. Self-loathing is the first conscious thought. Smash the snooze.

4:07 am - Litany of excuses for NOT working out begin to stream into consciousness. Excuses make sense. Smash snooze.

4:12 am – The Wife shares her feelings: “Get your ass outta bed and get to the gym. I love you. Now, go.” Stumble around blindly. Smash toe on kids toy. Mumble curses under morning breath.

4:13 am – A glance into the mirror confirms it – God, I’m an ugly mofo first thing in the morning, and it ain’t gonna get any better throughout the day. Self-loathing begins to reach critical levels as I catch a whiff of my own breath.

4:16 am – Vigorous brushing, face splashing and cracking of joints do nothing to improve appearance. Shrug and accept lot in life, all the while pining for a wasted youth. Thoughts of coffee begin to dominate and overwhelm as I realize I really don’t care how I look.

4:17 am – Attack first pot of  coffee and begin mad dash for gym, but realize am walking out the door without shorts on. Stop for a moment to appreciate the enormity of consequences if I show up without pants. Hilarity? Restraining order?

4:20 am – First of the acceptance that this is really happening. No going back to bed. Vow to go to bed by 7pm tonight.

4:21 am – Gaze longingly at house, knowing that warm bed is 106′ away. Double check to make sure I’m wearing shorts.

4:22 am – Plug iPod into Toyota’s stereo. Decide to crank music to “11“ to punish those sleeping in the house.

4:22:30 am – Realize they can’t hear it in the house. Curse violently at steering wheel, take another shot of coffee.

4:25 am – Pull out of driveway, realize that I’m too old to headbang without getting a severe concussion. Seethe inwardly.

4:30 am – Pot #1 of coffee begins to kick in and I begin silently hoping for a deer to jump into my path, just to add some spice to my morning commute to the gym.

4:35 am – Why spice it up when I can swerve all over the road trying to find the perfect song to scream along with?

4:40 am – Realize I’m glad it’s dark out, so I can conduct full conversations with myself, complete with sweeping hand gestures, without other drivers staring at me. Congratulate myself on such stealth. Out loud.

4:43 am – Take too long staring at heavy equipment on highway lit up by floodlights. Road chaos, followed by road rage, followed by cursing of indeterminate origin.

4:44 am – Start alternating shots of coffee with hits off the water bottle. You know, cause I believe in hydration. Plus, too many coffee stains on t-shirt this early in the morning just adds to peoples perceptions of my mental stability.

4:46 am – Think to self: “screw what people think. I love coffee and I’ll wear some if I feel like it”. Kidneys begin to quiver in protest.

4:50 am – Wrap up conversation with self with a loud and violent debate over whether I’ll make it in time to 5am class.

4:53 am – Start up another round of yelling at traffic engineers for their idiotic placement of stop lights. Begin to mull over merits of blasting through red lights. Unable to go full outlaw, I decide to obey the rules, but fume on the inside. Consider writing a very stern letter to City’s Traffic Engineering Department. Get more irate as I realize nothing will change. Damn you, bureaucracy. Damn you.

4:55 am – Slide in to parking lot of gym. Quick glance in mirror confirms suspicion that I look like a homicidal maniac. Pleased with self. Guzzle one last swig of coffee and tumble out of truck, tripping on non-existent obstacle in parking lot.

4:59 am - Shoot fellow CrossFit member curious look when he asks if I “am always this ‘up‘ this early?” Consider ramifications. New cycle of self doubt and self loathing begins.

4:59:30 am – Realize today’s workout consists of 2 mile run. Begin to experience chest pains upon realization.

5:00 am – Seizing (or seizure) of the day begins.

Yesterday, we began a series trying to bring you up to speed on the main characters of Half Past Awesome. Today, I give you Part 2: Where Are The Unsung & Unpaid Heroes Of My Crappy Little Production Now? Without further malarkey here we go:

Dirtbag Gettin' Dirty

The Dirtbag: The Sage of Southwest Washington continues to under-utilize his education, skills and ill-temper in most aspects of his professional life, thereby driving him to the brink of insanity. In response, he took up running and recently completed his first half marathon, all without using music or water or shoes manufactured after Y2K. He’s constantly on the move from job to job, spending what free time he has on his local city council, the grouchy voice of reason in a town with it’s fair share of grumps. And he’s gonna be more than irritated by the pic I’ve included of him; serves him right for getting to live in the Northwest, the silly bastard. Some posts with the Dirtbag can be found here, here and here.

"May I see some I.D?"

RoJo: He’s now the proud papa of a handsome lil’ dude, thereby adding THAT whole element to the enigma that is The Ro. He’s still operating as the long arm of the law in SoCal and busting the living crap outta speeders and other ne’er-do-wells. Although we don’t keep up as much as I’d like (parenting putting a major crimp in our collective road wanderings), I know he’s out there, lurking, posting random crap on Facebook and here on Half Past Awesome. Posts that involve this man (who The Lyin’ Dutchman truly believes has a “secret gay agenda” -despite being happily married – that he’s imposing on me) can be found here, here and here.

Taken, Ladies.

JoBoo: No longer living the single life, JoBoo is still assigned to Truck 2 and plays the role of silent and deadly guy on the crew. Until my motorcycle plans fully materialize, I get the feeling that he’s looking down his nose at me, an outsider trying to be part of his club. But that could just be my paranoia. JoBoo is not a member of the CrossFit Craziness, preferring instead to mock me at every turn and to place bets on which part of my body I’ll injure next. That’s one reason he makes such a good fireman – schadenfreude. There are a couple of posts with JoBoo here and here.

Big Hair & A Trucker's Vest = Good Times

Outlaw Trucker: The Outlaw, a perennial bad-ass of the fire department, is still riding on Engine 1, feared by his enemies, beloved by his crew. We went to a really killer concert in Fayetteville, Arkansas recently, and I’d write about it, but Outlaw and I hit the bottle a little early, and left long before the end of the show. Worst part? We woke up too late the next day, some Russian guy claiming to be Outlaw’s new best friend, and had no time to hit up a Cracker Barrel and ended up in a Hardee’s, eating even worse crap and making up stories of what it might have been like. Plus, the wives were willing to go along, so really, we consider that a win. Outlaw is featured here and here, if you want to catch some posts on the man.

So there you have it: brief descriptions of people you most likely don’t even know, but who are pivotal players in my insanity-addled life. Tomorrow, I’ll introduce you to some more characters such as “Ryan The Sadist”, “Hotwire”, “El Jefe” and “The Pimp & The Pirate”. Stay tuned, my friends, and in the meantime, get outside and enjoy some of this good stuff before it gets hotter than a kerosene cat in hell with gasoline drawers on.

To paraphrase any number of lyrics of a solid 80′s tune: times/people/seasons change. If you look to the cast page of this site, you’ll see that I’ve not updated it in quite a while and maybe you’re wondering to yourself “who are all these people that this idiot keeps referencing? Why am I on this site anyways? Where are my pills?” If you find yourself in that situation, fear not; over the next couple of days we’ll give you an update as to what the stars of Half Past Awesome are up to, and then we’ll introduce a couple of new characters. Here we go:

Ruler Of The Roost

The Wife: she’s currently plotting my untimely demise. I urge each and every one of you to NOT believe the suicide note she’s gonna swear she’s found on my body. She’s also still running her salon out of the house, so I can’t get away with jack, especially if it involves a delivery that requires a signature. Despite the fact that she’s hacked off to no end about approaching an undisclosed age, she’s somehow still tolerating me. If you want a couple of random posts that focus on her, you can read them here, here and here. ps- you want a little known fact? She’s a sucker for Harry Hamlin in the original  “Clash Of The Titans” (circa 1981). NOW who’s the weird one?

Slugs and Boogers

The Heathens: they’re getting that much older and starting to utilize the question “why” in response to every request/demand made of them. Although it’s always wrong to ever shake a baby, they seem more than amused to be shaken as small kids. I’m pretty sure they’re gonna shake me when I’m old and frail, and guess what? I’ll have deserved it. Currently occupying the ages of 4 and 6, these boys have a serious attachment to all things Transformers, Star Wars and Mario Kart – thank you marketing departments of aforementioned icons, you’ve made them believe they can’t live without EACH AND EVERY ONE of your creations. Some posts with the boys can be found here, here and here.

The Jackass & Nachos In Happier Times

The Lyrical Jackass: I was recently and unceremoniously dumped by the Jackass in the manner of a couple of 14 year old girls – he “unfriended” me on Facebook. This should demonstrate the level of maturity on which we operate. Crazy is as crazy does, and his current relationship situation mandates a divorce of sorts from all things sarcastic & toxic in his life. Unfortunately, I happen to fill both roles quite well. I’m not 100% devastated at this point, though, since he and his current flame break up just about every other week . He’s still in Arkansas somewhere as the Propaganda Minister of some fire department and we wish him the best of luck. Well, I do, but he may well have crossed into dangerous turf by “unfriending” The Wife. She has the memory of a very pissed off elephant, whereas I forget just how I (no doubt) started this whole thing

Buns & His Woman

Buns: Little has changed for Son#2 (or #3, depending on how you counts all of The Lyin’ Dutchman’s progeny). After a few international forays, Buns has yet to find a nation willing to install him as a Benevolent Dictator, a fact that irks him to no end. Continuing in his career as a computer hardware pirate, he’s taken to recently wearing an eye patch and interjecting “ahoy, ye scurvy dogs” into all business transactions. Buns spends much of his free time trying to unhinge paradigms of the modern-day salesman.He has no plans to abdicate his title as Undisputed Tall Guy of Santa Barbara any time soon.

Bones, Right On Schedule

Bones: One of the advantages of being OCD is that you lead a life of consistency. Such is the case for the youngest of The Lyin’ Dutchman’s sons – as long as the routine is followed, no one has to get hurt, or worse, mumbled at under his breath. He continues to work as a photographer and photo editor for Couture Candy and has his own two avenues for his photography; one on JPGMag and another on his own site. More importantly, he continues to be a link between those of us who are considered “dead” and The Lyin’ Dutchman. His stories of times with our Dad, when you can drag them out of him, are the stuff of legend, both in the nature of the wild yarns being spun on one side and the ever so awkward reactions on our brothers side. One of my first posts was about Bones, and you can read it here.

That covers part one of our in-depth series. Tomorrow we’ll hit the other players, and introduce you to some fresh talent. You’re gonna love it. In the meantime, tip back a Guinness or three and enjoy all the idiocy the world has to offer. Pretty good chance you’ll see me there.

He's got good taste in beer

There are certain things in this life that I would qualify as “extraordinarily heinous”. Smoker’s breath. Watching people spit their teeth out like Chiclets after a bad car wreck. Octo-Mom. Men wearing eyeliner. Those who would harm children. My ability to grow multiple chins just by looking at a pizza.

But there is a special place in my heart for the things that really, really make me cringe; near the top of this list is The Circus. Maybe it’s the way the animals always look pissed off and humiliated at being forced to stand on chairs. Maybe it’s the concept of paying $72 for a bag of cotton candy and a Coke. And I’m reasonably certain my disdain for the clowns has a major role in my loathing of the circus. I’m not scared of clowns in the traditional sense, I just sense that they’re one step closer to being predatory pedophiles when they don the makeup. They’re creepy, those silly bastards, and they oughta be banned.

So, of course, The Wife decided we’d be taking The Heathens to the circus when it came to town.

I swear, that woman hates me.

Funny, because at first she didn’t want to go any more than I did. Then, when our friends Matt & Melanie said they and their entourage were going, The Wife refused to be one-upped – we are going and we’re gonna have fun, dammit.

I swear, that woman is a fickle pickle.

Let me start by saying that my interpretation of the circus is that of a mid-winter version of going to the Ozark Empire Fair. No wait…..let me re-start by saying that here in Springfield, our circus is held indoors, at the Shriner’s Mosque. That’s right – take a moment to drink that in: a circus, with animals and all being held INdoors. A building that is approximately 285 years old and literally hosted Elvis many years ago and Willie Nelson a few months ago also houses a circus for one week a year. Elephants storm in and out of the main entrance, I kid you not. You can only imagine what it smells like on the final day of the circus inside this joint. That’s the day it was determined we would attend.

What you might not know about today’s circus is that it is primarily staffed by our friends south of the border. This makes ordering an Icee particularly vexing for Ozarkian rednecks, since speaking Spanish to them usually involves no more than ordering a “boo-rito, enchilah-der style”. My friend the Outlaw Trucker, who has a deep and abiding love of the Latina Gangster lifestyle, would be in heaven here; I’ve never seen so many super-sexed up teenagers as those who spiraled across the curtains, blond hairpieces whipping about, stripper heels kicking in tune to ultra-cheesy Euro-metal. Any way you cut it, these performers were damn talented, and I found their shows, if not like watching late night Telemundo, very entertaining….gotta give them props.

Of course, we were jammed into seats made around the turn of the LAST century, which made for some great people watching and really, really close interaction with those around us. Our posse of boys spent their time whacking people’s heads with $39 plastic swords that lit up.

I swear, those kids are so damn unappreciative.

My favorite part? During the “Rage In The Cage”, whereby a shirtless Siegfried & Roy wannabe constantly runs around a ring pissing off half a dozen tigers, I spent the entire time rooting on the tigers. I feel for those poor bastards. Shamed and humiliated beasts (as evidenced by the pinned back ears, hissing, spitting and roaring), I would love for once to watch one swipe the bare-chested and leather bedecked trainer right in the ol’ head. I would cheer the shit out of that tiger. I would nominate him/her for a civic award. And I would pay for an attorney for the tiger if the circus tried to prosecute. It’s about time the tigers realized that the Rage In The Cage is basically defenseless, save for a stick. It’s time for them to revolt. THAT would be a show I’d happily pay to see.

No such luck.

I spent the rest of the time in a crowded mess of overpriced chaos, with the only highlight being watching the employees scramble for trash cans when an elephant decided to unleash a mighty torrent of urine while toting people around on its back. That gave an olfactory essence to the entire event which I cannot replicate with words. Motorcycles on high wires, roller skating on tables, jugglers who dropped flaming bowling pins – none of this compared to the pleasure I got from a  giant, tired and sad looking elephant declaring “The hell with this, I’m taking a piss right now”. A pachyderms way of shooting a middle finger to the whole situation.

Funny moments like that made me reconsider my vow to never return to the circus, even if I have to shovel out $57 for 6 ounces of popcorn.

After all, the tigers might need a lawyer.

He Who Shall Be Known As Duane

It all started out rather innocently. Okay, it wasn’t innocent at all, but instead, the continuation of a firehouse joke that isn’t even that funny. Sometimes, when I’m in control of the tv remote in the day room, I’ll make the boys watch religious programming (ie- Jim Bakker, the Fleecer of Missouri) or, when bored with that, shows like A&E’s Dog The Bounty Hunter. I’m thoroughly amused by the ridiculous style of these clowns as they tear all over Hawaii and Colorado, intimidating their bail jumpers with cans of Mace and trash talk. After a capture, you can count on what I call “the Jesus talk”, then a proffered Marlboro Red and some sage advice before being turned in. The main players of the show are who make it so funny, what with their mullets, bicep feathers and badges that look like they were picked up in the Claw Machine of a Wal Mart. It’s a train wreck I can’t turn away from; recently, I’ve fallen in love with Beth (Dog’s wife) and it’s not because she’s insane, top heavy and has a penchant for wearing clothes the colors of the American flag. No, I love her because as she scatters to and fro, screaming at perps, she does it while in high heels. And you should know how I feel about that.

So imagine, if you will, my sheer delight when I found out that Dog and his posse would be making an appearance here in Springberg. Apparently, in between moments of kicking ass and taking names around the Big Island, he’s taken the time to “write” a book, and is on a book tour. Never mind the reason, I had to be a witness to this spectacle. There was a fairly good chance I’d recognize many of his fans from my experiences tending to all their woes here on the Northside; it’s a fact that his fan base is very, very solid on our side of town, judging by the unwillingness of many people to turn it off while their cousin/sister/mom is having “the big one” on the couch beside them.

I talked Chad Harris of FairCity News into joining me, figuring if nothing else, we’d get some supreme people watching in; I arrived an hour early, figuring that was plenty of time to get some coffee and meet some people. I was dead wrong. An employee of Borders told me that she’d had people camped out there since the night previous for a chance to touch The Dog. When I finally got some joe and a copy of the book, I must’ve been about the 549th person in line. It was a sight to behold. The smell of stale cigarettes hung lazily in the air, the mullets were plentiful, the teeth not as much, and the gravely voiced chatter of hundreds of super fans prevailed. And then, terror.

A voice came over the store p.a. system to inform us that the tour bus was stuck in traffic and would be two hours late. The collective chatter turned up a notch in volume, with several colorful declarations of incredulity by the crowd. I was hoping for a full-scale riot, but sadly, nothing that violent materialized. Several people went outside to smoke multiple unfiltered cigarettes in frustration. Some dispatched family members to the nearest McDonald’s to grab some sustenance for the long haul wait. I took the chance to meet folks standing around me in line, and discovered some really funny people like Dan, who swore he was only there because his young daughters are uber-fans and Elizabeth who was definitely in the Duane-zone. Some people took the opportunity to dress their infant children up as tarts, some wore the bail bond company tee-shirts of their employers and many looked as though they had active warrants, but were willing to risk it to meet the supposed “greatest bounty hunter of all time”, according to his book.

The Messiah of Bounty Hunting arrives

And four and half hours later? The bus arrived and the crowd broke into shear pandelerium. A three toothed lady shouted his arrival to the crowd while clutching a McD’s bag and had an almost immediate raspy breakdown, she was so overwhelmed. After his Ed Hardy-cloaked advance man surveyed the crowd, The Dog made us wait another twenty minutes before exiting his bus, preceded by the lovely Beth. People went certifiably nuts. THIS was the moment they’d been waiting for, disciples for whom the Messiah had arrived. IT. WAS. GLORIOUS. I had to snap a pic of his arrival. Take a moment to drink in the fingerless gloves, the badge, and the hair. My God, the hair.

No matter. I waited with my new friends in line as we compared notes as to what we’d say to the King when we finally got to the front of the line. What were other people saying? Were they lionizing this lion of fashion? What do you say to a guy who wears eagle feathers in his hair and on his biceps? Does it even matter what you say? Do you offer him a smoke and some advice about Jesus?

Our special "moment"

All of these hypotheticals were for naught, because soon, ever so soon, we were blessed with the visage of Beth, making her way up and down the aisles, meeting and greeting her legions of fans. To my utter dismay, she was not wearing heels nor was her hair built up near enough for my liking. My disappointment was quickly quelled when she high-fived me – the chemistry was obvious to all present and our eyes locked for an eternity. We both knew in that very moment that we were destined for one another and no Dogs nor Wifes could stand in the way of the intertwining of our souls. At least that’s how it seemed to me. She also took the chance to chew Chad’s ass out for his using the family image without getting paid. THIS? Is when I laughed in his face and told him not to get in the way of me & Beth. In fact we took a pic to commemorate the moment, and we’re seriously considering using it for the wedding invites.

The rest of the event was a haze of wrinkled skin and tattoos for me.

What else can compare when love is in the air?

And yes, I have the signed book. It may well be the best afternoon I’ve wasted in an entire month.

Thanks for the memories, Sweet Beth. And thanks to that canine husband of yours for bringing you to the event that you and I will never forget.

Somehow a chicken drinking beer seemed right

Sometimes those closest to us make choices that, at the very least, are hard to understand. When they do, it’s never easy to shake the funk that follows. I recently found myself in such a funk.

And here’s where the beauty of the fire station kicks in: your co-workers are forced to spend 24 hours with you, and as such, we all become de-facto therapists for one another, unwilling to leave any stone unturned in our search to humiliate each other. JoBoo and I were soaking up the last of the suns’ rays yesterday evening out in the engine bay, keeping an eye on the barbecue grill as the flames were licking the walls of the firehouse, each of us wondering who would get up first and deal with it. We were discussing such issues, waiting for dinner and lazily noodling out ideas for improving our lot in life. As I sat there unloading my burdens on him, it struck me that what we really needed was a good house fire.

Now, let me be clear: I do not wish for someone’s home to burn down. It’s just a given fact that fires are going to happen, and if they’re inevitable, I’d just as soon they happen on my shift in our district. There’s nothing like a good worker to remind you why you signed up for this gig, why you spend a third of your life away from home, subjecting yourself to the whims and fantastic bureaucracy of local government.

When we finally sat down to eat, The Wife decided to make an appearance, coffee and kids in hand, knowing I could use a little uplifting. The boys were climbing all over the ladder truck when the tones struck for a house fire. This part was cool, since my boys aren’t at the station too often anymore, and what can beat tearing out of the firehouse, lights blazing and siren wailing – especially if you’re six. What I didn’t know was that she decided to follow the howl of the wind-up sirens and the column of smoke in the sky to the scene. And, as we rolled up and got to work, heavy smoke pouring out of the basement windows, The Heathens got to witness just what it is I do when I leave every third day. Chaos, smoke, flames and a cacophony of noises and smells and sights. After we had the initial attack set up and I was tooling around the pump panel, I finally noticed my family standing behind me. The look on their faces was enough to make all the other bullshit seem pretty irrelevant; I was never more stoked to be their dad than in that moment. No matter what my job on the fire ground was, I was part of something big in their eyes, and, when you realize how important you are as a parent to them, it’s pretty humbling. Heathen 1 came up to me, hugged my leg and said “Daddy, please be careful”. No worries, son…. I’ve got half a dozen jackass co-workers who keep me in line, even when I can’t. When we sat down to dinner at 9:15 pm, I realized that all things considered, this life is pretty damn fantastic.

I considered that victory #1 in my defeat of the funk.

Victory #2 came tonight.

The folks at CrossFit Springfield decided to host a social night with everyone toting in side dishes while a man named Jay smoked enough meat for a small army to consume in the snowing sleet-rain-crap we call weather in Missouri. It was nice enough to not have people see me in all my sweaty, nasty glory for once, but rather, showered, shaved and slightly less stinky. But, and this is important, it got my pitiful ass out of the house and surrounded by folks who are upbeat, positive and generally in a same mental reference in terms of getting slightly less fat. There was a copious amount of beer flowing, families mingling and, in the middle of it all, “Ryan” The Sadist, holding court and telling tall tales. A couple of other firemen were there as well, and, as ever, we gravitated to one another and immediately began regaling one another with bullshit and laughter. As each Guinness was cracked and another plate of delicious food was passed around, I could feel the mood lifting. These? These are the moments when we’re glad to have the friendships we do, and I’d be well served to remember these facts. Whether shooting the bull with JoBoo behind the rigs while sunning like lazy cats or in a group of one hundred, those moments we get when we’re in the company of good people? Yeah, that’s good stuff, and moments we need to treasure.

I might lose sight of that fact from time to time, but I hope you know this: I’m a grateful mo-fo for all that you bring to the table.

Thanks, amigos.

The Real Reason For The Season

Year round, but never more frequently than now, I have a secret lust for an accent. There’s nothing inherently intriguing about American speech, minus the fascination I have with the Bostonian brogue. I used to like southern twang until I discovered that often it’s symbolic of illiterate trash (not always though….you can’t go wrong with the sweet lilting murmur of a Mississippi belle.) Californian accents are often mocked and mistaken as the language of the stoned slacker. The upper Midwest harbors the clipped and amusing speech of Norse descent that reminds me of gelled fish, polka and hot casserole dishes. And Sarah Palin’s is complete bullshit. I’ve lived in Wasilla and hers is the weirdest mix of North Dakotan-Western Canadian I’ve ever heard.

When I was younger and obsessed with the Rastafarian culture and music, I thought that there was little more impressive than island patois. British accents, varied as they are distinguishable, always make someone seem smarter (unless you happen to be Madonna; ps- you’re from MICHIGAN). Italian and Spanish accents have the undeniable quality that the speaker is trying to get in your pants. Russians and Germans sound harsh and foreboding…. as though your misery is their end goal. Many middle eastern dialects sound as though you’re getting screamed at and moments away from a violent confrontation. (As an addendum, don’t go and get your panties all bunched up over the thought that I’m generalizing here, or, Allah forbid, stereotyping. I’m not. Okay, I am. Either way, you’re already offended, so what’s the point?)

But nothing has the appeal of the Irish (and Scottish) brogue. To me, they speak of a peoples forged in hardship and adversity; people with a deep and abiding love of beer. No matter the topic, when someone talks to me in a Celtic tone, I instantly feel a working-class bond with that person, even if they’re philanthropic socialites who hang in The Hamptons. Weird, yes. Maybe it’s because we’re working in a blue collar environment. Maybe it’s my love of Guinness. Maybe it’s the tradition (in other cities) of the Irish in the fire service. Maybe it’s because I find the lead singer of the band Garbage alluring.

Any way you look at it, there’s an inherently bad-ass quality to their language. And there’s nothing less alluring than people trying to emulate it, especially those who are terrible at accents. So my promise to you is that I won’t attempt one in your company. Never was this point better driven home than while in Kansas City last weekend to attend a Flogging Molly concert with my amigo Owings (which was fortunate enough to have as an mc THE brewmaster of Guinness. What a gig THAT guy has). While standing in line to get into the theatre, we witnessed some skinny-jeaned poseur trying to impress his date with an Irish accent that sounded like a bad imitation of the Lucky Charms cartoon character; it really was that awful.  And he wasn’t quoting something, he was talking as though that were his everyday voice. Maybe they met on the internet. Maybe she was deaf. Maybe I shouldn’t be so judgmental.

It would likely be best to leave the accents to those who own them. That, and people like RoJo, a redhead with the last name “Kelly”. I think he qualifies to fake it if necessary. All I can legitimately claim as linguistically inherited is the insane Dutch-Indonesian hybrid ranting accent of The Lyin’ Dutchman and Aunt Viper.

Oy vey.

Don't sass this man. Just don't.

Tomorrow marks the last fire department shift of Scott Routh. After twenty years of time given to the City of Springfield, Mr. Routh will calmly attend his punch-and-cake send off party at the firehouse, walk out of the station for the last time, get in his car, start it and, in all likelihood, leave out with a middle finger extended to all his work colleagues. And, just like that, someone else in a blue shirt will fill his slot, the square-toothed cogs of bureaucratic service set in perpetual motion. But in its own way, his departure will be significant; Scott stands for all the old-salts in the department, grouchy, mean and just plain cantankerous.  AND THAT’S EXACTLY AS IT SHOULD BE.

The fire service is filled with young bucks trying to mark hydrants with acts of derring-do and swagger; false senses of invincibility are the norm, and there’s only one thing keeping these boys & girls in line: the Irritated Veteran. As easy as it would be to write these old hands off as bitter and jaded, I think we’re better served by taking the time to glean from them what a career in firefighting has taught them. Scott hired on when firemen were still riding the tailboards of the engines. He arrived before there were women on the department, before people wore breathing apparatus into every fire, back when firemen still smoked at the kitchen table. He’s seen some things, and he deserves respect for putting in his time.

But what I’ll miss most about Scott is not his short fuse, nor his fondness for being left alone, no. One icy night on the northwest side we had a house fire that was stubbornly refusing to be extinguished in a reasonable amount of time. At this point in his career, Routh had transitioned to driving the Air Van, a support rig that provides lighting, works on breathing air systems and general scene support. It was a perfect move for a man who sweats details, and he filled the role admirably. Meanwhile, at 2am on a crappy house fire on a crappy night, I was standing by to stand by, waiting for the next orders from the Decision Makers and muttering to myself about the whole scenario. Out of nowhere, Scott ambled up with a cup of hot coffee, knowing that I need the joe as much as I need oxygen to survive. This gesture, small in it’s act, was enormous in it’s meaning. You’re not gonna get an “atta boy” out of him; he’ll never offer up useless words of false praise aka “blowing sunshine up your ass”, because that’s not his style. He has no problem cussing you for idiocy, but that’s modus operandi for the fire service.

After a decade on the department, I finally earned a cup of coffee.

This means more than any letters in a file, more than anything a local politician, who’s support is dictated by election cycles, could offer. This is Scott’s way of saying “hey, Smartass, you’re all right.”

And, as firefighters, the grudging acceptance and respect from a co-worker is a currency unto itself, one we value highly.

So, as you leave our company, Mr. Routh, I’d like to wish you the best of luck out there in the real world. I hear it’s an odd thing, sleeping through the night all the time, not wearing blue every third day and finally having permission to grow out some facial hair. Make sure you stop by Station 2 at some point and let us know what it’s like.

We’ll have a cup of coffee ready for you.

Living the Dream in Missouri

Spring is busy trying to spring. Last night marked the beginning of the season with our first tornado-watch/panic-fest that local meteorologists seem to drool over. We had thunderboomers, lightning and the sounds of frogs looking to get their freak on permeating the night air. Stupid wild onions have started to rise up from what I loosely term my “lawn”. My slut of a cat Skunk is out on the prowl, looking for some strange tom to knock her up, thus prompting The Wife and I to look at one another in a fit of laziness and say “we really oughta take care of that.”

But the sure sign that the seasons are on the move? The endless rumbles of Harleys motoring up and down the two-lane state highway in front of the house. From Thursday through Sunday, lawyers in leathers, the old, the young, nasty scumbuckets and yuppies alike tool their Hogs up and down the roads,enjoying that wild, carefree sensation of bugs smacking them in the face at sixty miles an hour.

I’m so jealous, I just can’t stand it.

And, in a series of maneuvers I’ve been keeping from you guys, the day is almost here. It turns out one of my five brothers, Chewie, is trying to sell his dual-sport bike in order to drum up some cabbage. I love dual sports. He’s letting it go dirt cheap. I love dirt and I love cheap. The bike is out on the West Coast. I’m going to the West Coast in April to attend yet another brothers’ wedding (the brother we call Barbara). This is a divine sign, if ever there was one. There was only one obstacle left, and she was somewhat significant.

The Wife.

She can conjure up tears on command when the subject is brought up. She likes to talk about such uplifting possibilities as “orphaning your children”, “making your wife a widow” and “maiming your face”. She also tossed around fun phrases like “a cold day in hell when you get a motorcycle” and “maybe you can live on your motorcycle, cause you won’t be living here”. I looked at these as minor setbacks. I tried quoting a co-worker named Lenny, using his brilliant defense of purchasing a bike against her will, “what is she gonna do, take away your birthday?” When I used this argument she suggested exactly where Lenny and I could stick it. Time to re-think strategy.

Loving affection didn’t work; she was immediately suspicious I was “up to something”. Putting my foot down and insisting that I’d do what I want only resulted in her laughing at me and pointing, like you would at the clown with his pants unzipped (yes, that clown is often me). Sulking and pouting only resulted in me joining the Heathens in the corner, left to mutter to ourselves about running away. And then, one night when she was excitedly screeching at me about housework, or money woes or something else (selective listening is an essential trait acquired through years of marriage), it hit me: DISHES.

She hates the dishes. With the intensity of a thousand boiling suns, people, I’m serious. Now, to be fair, The Wife is a phenomenal cook, handles laundry like she’s running a dry-cleaning business from our laundry room and basically keeps our house from looking like a crack den, so it’s understandable that she chooses to unleash the hate on the dishes. I can live with that. And, when I’m feeling relatively mentally stable, I do them with an alarming frequency. Unfortunately for her I’m rarely stable. But for a motorcycle, I could fake it. And, for several months, the ruse has been in play.

I declared victory three weeks ago. I found a banner that said “Mission Accomplished” on eBay for a good price (used once on a large ship!) and purchased it.

Come April, this fool is getting him a motorcycle. Today, I dropped into her salon and smugly declared to The Wife that I’d been faking stability and the dishes for months in order to gain approval for a bike.

“You haven’t been fooling anyone. You’ve never been stable” she deadpanned.

I tried to saunter out of there like I knew that. I won. Every aspect of our marriage is a competition, I kid you not. And then she dropped the bomb on me.

“Oh, and by the way? I said you could buy one, I never said you could ride it.”

The Doctor Will See You Now

This past week a man was charged with performing illegal adult circumcisions in his home.

I repeat:

This past week a man was charged with performing illegal adult circumcisions in his home.

This is not a story I made up, nor is it one I found on Fair City News. This story is real, and it took place in Sparta, Michigan. And if you still don’t believe me, you can find a link to the news story here. Let’s take a moment to observe just how creepy this whole scenario really is.

According to local law enforcement, Thomas Huegel had “a makeshift operating room in his house”. Oh, okay, so this doesn’t sound weird at all. Continuing, the story indicates the amateur scalper would find his “patients” on sites such as Craigslist and Adam4Adam (which sounds suspiciously like a dude for dude kinda site. I should work for CSI with such sharp instincts). So far they have only been able to identify three “victims” but have ample evidence that there is a greater number of people who’ve been under Huegel’s knife.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?

And, more importantly, would you people be willing to sit down and talk with me for a minute? Because I’d really, really, really like to know your thought process as you entered into this whole bowl of creep sauce. When did you come to terms with the fact that you were considering a circumcision performed by an untrained and unlicensed individual?

Look, I’m not here to judge. Actually, that’s totally a lie -  if you’re one of this clown’s “victims” there’s a pretty good chance you deserve his cut-rate services. I’m just beyond shocked that somehow this seemed like ” a pretty good idea” to you or anyone. Even though “he quite often wore a doctor’s uniform that really left the impression he was a medical doctor” according to one Lt. Kevin Kelley, did it never occur to you that this was taking place IN A HOUSE? Who in their ever-loving mind thinks to look to Craigslist for medical procedures?

Don’t answer that if I know you and you’ve done this.

I wouldn’t want it to get, you know, weird.