Half Past Awesome

You Get The Idea

It’s all shades of gray, really. Often-times folks from the coastal community ask me how in the world you could stand to live in the Ozarks, home of cousin-fornication and three teeth per capita. People in the Ozarks ask how could someone stand to live in California, home of such insane luminaries as San Fran Gran Nan Pelosi and 800 square foot homes that retail for $800,000. Both sides are correct, of course. And both are horribly mistaken.

I have no cousins here in the Midwest, so I suppose that option is out. I have all my teeth and an affordable mortgage on some acreage. I love the coast, and grew up living there, despite the cost of living and without bestowing voting rights on my goldfish. The humidity here sucks, the cost there sucks. The seafood there is fresh and plentiful and here people seem to have a concern for others beyond the bare narcissistic minimums. And they have Starbucks in both locations.

One place I don’t know if I could ever really adjust to is the desert locales through which I-40 rambles from here to there. NOTHING is out there. If dirt and lizards are your thing, you’ll not be disappointed, but I was struck how lonesome and desolate most of the communities are along the way. People who lived along the corridor displayed an affinity for gathering old buses, trailers, busted minutiae and detritus they could scatter around their dwellings. It seems like an awfully hardscrabble way to make it through life. No greenery, no trees, no rain, nothing but bitter dust and wind always, the wind. When population monitors screech like howler monkeys about the number of people on this planet, I often wonder if they’ve ever been out in New Mexico or Arizona and gazed into the desolation. I’m pretty sure Mars has better lawns.

I have several friends who love to travel to the desert. These are people who, in my opinion, need to be institutionalized. Brewing soup in my shorts while admiring rocks and far-off mesas seems catastrophic at best. I’ve come to love the wild swings in weather we have out here in Missouri, if for no other reason than they parallel the inconsistency with which I approach each day. To know that tomorrow’s forecast will be “hot, again. Hot and dry. Really, really, really hot and exceptionally dry, to be honest” is akin to a death sentence of monotony.

My hyper-caffeinated brain needs constant short-attention span stimulation, whereas the desert highways are a lesson in long sessions of isolated monotony. This might work if I was a Buddhist trying to calm my soul, but the fact remains that I function in a different shade of gray. So a trip across the high plains with me is a spectacle of watching me thrash around the cab of the car, mumbling and rambling and throwing items all over. Spazing my way across I-40, that’s how my family witnessed it.

We really should do this vacation thing more often.

Old Friends Picking Old Tunes

“CALIFORNIA WOULD BE A GREAT PLACE TO LIVE IF IT WEREN’T FOR THE CALIFORNIANS.“  -Dirtbag (a native of the S.F. Bay area and current resident of Washington State)

Top 10 Highlights From California

1. Best Truck Stop Name I Found - “Jesus Christ Is Lord Not A Swear Word Truck & Travel Plaza”
2. Best Aspect About Barbara’s Wedding - whole thing took less than five minutes. Seriously, we drove 1857 miles one way for that? I didn’t even get a chance to finish the cocktail I’d purchased to make it through the ceremony. Plus they walked down the aisle to punk. My family is classy like that.
3. Second Best Aspect Of Wedding – blood spatter on Nan’s tux vest at the reception as a result of some clown being paid a visit by Nan’s fists  “because he needed it”.
4. Best Moment In Cayucos – jamming with old friends in the Old Boradorri Garage (best place in town) and keeping it to ourselves. Good because it was like sharing old secrets, better because no one heard how awfully I sing and play guitar. Safe to say Rodrigo y Gabriela won’t be calling me to play for them in the near future.
5. Best Line (By Aunt Viper) – “Well, you’re not so fat this time.” (first line upon seeing me)
6. Second Best Line (By Aunt Viper) – “Boys, remember, I love you very much, all the time. Your father, not so much.” (to The Heathens)
7. Best Part Of Disneyland – hacking, coughing and looking like enough of a psychopath that most people avoided me. I’m not so down with crowds and crowding, so it all worked out. That, and the boys had a great time riding vomit inducing attractions while I drank coffee and glared at people.
8. Biggest Difference Between California & The Ozarks – try saying “hello” to someone walking down the beach and they look at you as though you’ve just suggested you have sex with cats recreationally. People there are too busy to be bothered with such trivialities, I suppose. You are there to be seen, not talked to.
9. Best Part Of Being Home – outside of family and friends? Had to be all the fresh fruits, vegetables and seafood. There’s nothing quite like homegrown, a fact lost on me growing up and now sorely missed.
10. Best Part Of The Trip - came home with a motorcycle and a new lease on idiocy. It’s great to be back. I’ve missed you guys. Promise to write more soon.

Last night I hung up my firefighting gear for the foreseeable future. And by “foreseeable future” I mean “the next two weeks” since I have the attention span of a fly and two weeks into the future may as well be two decades. The family is heading out of Missouri, as mentioned in this post, the nerve-wracking, make-me-sweat-like-a-whore-in-church experience known as emceeing the Blogaronis is over, and Hotwire has been put in charge of maintaining the compound while we drive like mad bastards to my home state. All is good on the horizon.

Sometimes it feels like a royal pain in the a-double snakes to be a government employee – the bureaucracy, the constant cycle of loathing/admiration/hating/envy that the citizens feel towards public safety (pension problems, anyone?), the feeling of being a cog in a blue shirt, replaceable within about 5 minutes or less. The bureaucracy – yeah, I gotta mention that twice, and if you work in government service, you can appreciate this.

But on top of that, I feel really lucky. Lucky that I’ve found the career that makes sense to me. The fire service is loaded with all kinds of wayward issues, but really, what job isn’t? Anytime you have more than two employees, you have politics. Any time you answer to the citizens, there’s gonna be one old grouch out there who wants to kick you in the balls just because he got a speeding ticket once. So we accept where we’re at, but that doesn’t always translate into appreciating it.

Every third day I spend in the company of 5-7 others who endure my lies and copious bull. I drink ungodly amounts of coffee, I get to tinker with a three-quarter million dollar ladder truck and generally when people dial 911, they’re happy/relieved to see us arrive. Little kids never, ever fail to wave up at the truck, little old ladies always coo when we change their smoke detectors and our spouses are generally happy to get rid of us for one day out of three. When the economy is down, our business seems to pick up, not necessarily a good thing in terms of public safety, but it makes for interesting times. We operate on a level of maturity with one another that you may have last witnessed in sixth grade.

And still, we bitch about it.

For the next couple of weeks, I’ll hopefully sleep through the night. There will be no phantom alarms at 3am, no loudly lamenting the empty coffee pot, no staring off at the rest of the world going home at 5pm while we have a whole 14 more hours of gilded cage time. No staring at a giant truck knowing that there’s really several hours of checking it that need to get done. No arguing over what channel to watch. I’ll need to keep my mouth in check, since firehouse humor doesn’t necessarily translate smoothly outside the station. It won’t go well, and I’ll end up saying stuff I regret. The Pimp and The Pirate won’t be around to berate me, and tales of JoBoo’s adventures into Oklahoma will have to wait. I won’t think about funding issues, staffing issues, pension issues, rookie issues or the plain ol’ business of fighting fires.

The Heathens will spend time on the beach, time at Disneyland, and time on my nerves. The Wife will pass judgment on my driving skills and my brothers will point out how great it is to see us and how old I’m looking. The Lyin’ Dutchman will probably make some sort of appearance, trying to ambush Buns and me through a meeting that Bones will have unknowingly set up. I’ll spend an inordinate amount of time missing living on the coast. I’ll watch Barbara get married and lament losing time with my family. I’ll secretly wish for a return to a life that really never was. Hopefully The Author and I will have time to meet up and we can wax idiotic on classmates from twenty years ago.

And in two weeks? Putting on the turnouts and climbing on to Truck 2 will seem like a damn fine way to make a living. Even if the coffee pot is empty.

The Latest Member Of The Gang

Yesterday another step towards motorcycular freedom was achieved: I took the written exam for a license and am now the proud owner of a permit. It’s been a generation or two since I’ve had to take a driver’s test, and the first flaw in the previous sentence came at me all too quick; there is no more writing in tests administered by the State. No, it’s all computer-y and stuff, with touch screen answers and instant results, so of course I don’t trust it.

NONETHELESS.

I passed, much to the chagrin of high school and college professors who never thought I’d be able to pass any test in any form. The real tragedy of the whole situation is that there were several teens who were busy NOT passing this 25 question exam, despite there being available a manual which will tell you EXACTLY the kinds of questions you’ll encounter. Apparently I am NOT the epitome of lazy, since there were at least two people who couldn’t be bothered to read. And how hard were the questions, you ask? Let me cite several options that were available in my study manual.

TRUE OPTIONS IN STUDY GUIDE MANUAL

1.) Usually, a good way to handle tailgaters is to: b.) Use your horn and make obscene gestures
2.) Making eye contact with other drivers: c.) Is not worth the effort it takes.
3.) When it starts to rain it is usually best to: a.) Increase your speed.
4.) If you are chased by a dog: a.) kick it away.
5.) If you wait one hour per drink for the alcohol to be eliminated from your body before riding: d.) You cannot be arrested for drinking and riding.

These were actual study guide questions and potential answers, I kid you not. The smartass in me wanted to answer with those options, but since I’m not ready to be an Outlaw Biker just yet, I thought I oughta answer with what they, The State, wanted. When the computer told me I’d passed, I raised a fist in the air as though I’d just won the Mensa World Cup, answering spatial physics questions. It would’ve felt the same.

I made my way back to the examiner, who, with her hair piled high and pinned in several locations, quizzed me on street signs. I answered them….mostly. Apparently the triangle shape on top of the people crossing the road? Yeah that means they’re crossing near a school, an answer I guessed at, then triumphantly fist pumped again when I got it right. She then sent me to the second floor to complete the bureaucratic process, which involved a hideous picture in laminate and more waiting around with nervous teenagers and one old guy who smelled like a dumpster and cussed in a quiet tone the whole time.

Time came to settle up with The State of Missouri for all of this effort. I’d brought the check book and 13 forms of I.D., remembering well my experiences with the California DMV which have been scientifically proven to take years off of a persons life. As she handed me a pen, arching her eyebrows at me (didn’t care for numerous fist pumps, I guess), she gave me the grand total for this whole extravaganza:

$3.50

Seriously. Three whole mothertruckin’ dollars and four bits. How could I possibly have wasted two State employees’ time, a half hour and a laminated I.D. card only to have it cost me less than a megaventiquad frappamochachinnissimo? And we wonder why government runs in the red. I was beyond incredulous, and made mention of such to the administrator as I wrote a check for $3.50. She assured me “No, honey, that’s just for the permit. When you take your driving test, your license will run you $10 for three years.”

Oh. My bad.

As I took the time to celebrate with one obligatory Guinness at Patton Alley Pub (conveniently located two blocks from the State Office), I pondered the enormity of just how little it costs us to be licensed. It blew my mind. No matter, I was now one step closer. I paid my tab and headed home.

The bill?

$4.50. Plus tip.

Raisin and Porter Synthesizing Human Data

Ever walk into the room to have a canine look at you, size you up with a tilt of the head and see it thinking “y’know, I came from outerspace and I could end you at any given moment”? Welcome to my world.

Pugs are the breed of dog my wife and I invested in several years ago due to their big dog personality in a little dog package, crumpled face, frog eyes, curled tail and kid-friendly reputation. Little did we realize that the breed actually was not of ancient Chinese origin popularized by Europeans favoring “much in little”, rather they were an alien breed sent to Earth to monitor human civilization one household at a time.

That’s absurd you say? Allow me to present evidence A. Pugs are not well equipped to live on our watery planet as they suffer from a variety of health issues, including overheating, obesity, pharyngeal reflex and two fatal conditions which are granulomatous meningoencephalitis and hemivertebrae. What other dog has these issues? None. They are smart enough to lull their owners into considering them to be quiet and docile, or vivacious and teasing—depending on their owner’s mood—while they collect evidence for their superior alien race located deep in an unknown galaxy several millions of light years away.

I have often confronted our pugs Raisin and Porter as to their intentions here on Earth, but they simply deflect the question with puggy cuteness and loving temperament. I’m certain they will consume me in their own time, once I’ve provided enough information for their scientific fact finding mission.

Our dogs also possess hypersonic speeds. When agitated or teased, I tend to test them from time to time, they run circles around the house with great velocity. At this time they are barely visible and I can only assume that they are showing me their superior power and strength as a warning not to push them too far.

The result I expect to achieve one day is to agitate the little alien beast so that their head splits off and the little green alien controlling their canine bodies steps out and says, “let’s just give us a bone and quit the games, right?”

Still think I’m wrong? Check out the pug’s teeth and hang onto your human canines. A pug tooth is the best indicator that life exists outside of our planet. The molar teeth are so irregular I believe that they are used primarily as a map of their home galaxy vs. crushing dog food or anything else they find in the yard to consume to fuel their out-of-this-world alien vessel covered in shedding fur.

So keep this in mind all ye soon to be dog owners. Why did the movie Men In Black feature a pug as a main alien character? Because it is true. Google it. Make your family canine selection carefully and use measured judgment when taking home your new “best friend”.

Chad Harris is the founder and editor of Fair City News, a satirical look at local happenings here in Springfield, Mo. He’s also nominated for three “Blogaronis” by The Springfield Bloggers Association, including “Blog Of The Year“.  As if he didn’t have enough on his plate, he’s a founder and member of The Improvadors, a comedy troupe entertaining the unsuspecting public on a regular basis. He is one funny sonofagun, a title I just made up.

Nan, Chewie, Oma, Amanda & Barbara

One week from today, the entire Missouri wing of our clan is rolling west to California, road tripping in what will surely be come to known as “I-can’t-believe-we-thought-that-was-a-good-idea fest 2010“. I’ve made the drive a handful of times, most notably in a newly purchased Peterbilt with the Outlaw Trucker (back when I had an excavating “interest”) and with SeaBass (on a trip to gather up the Lyin’ Dutchman’s abandoned possessions when he left the country, saying he wasn’t ever coming back. Two weeks later, he was back, but that’s another story).

This trip will be the first time I attempt 26 hours in a vehicle with The Wife and The Heathens.

Someone may die.

Neck-wringing will be determined to be the cause.

So here’s the plan: we leave at 3am, this way I can get at least 4-5 hours of solid, uninterrupted driving time. Time in which I get to pick the music (even if it is in ear buds), time where I can drive without constant “advice” from the passenger seat. Time without questions and pesky little voices declaring war on one another over Spongebob.

It’ll be the smoothest part of the trip, no doubt.

Chewie On What Shall Soon Be Mine

The reason we’re heading out there? Supposedly my brother Barbara is getting married, to a lovely girl named Amanda, and we’re going. I feel sorry for her, she seems so nice, and Barbara is such a, well, a Barbara. He’s actually extremely intelligent, but he doesn’t want anyone to know this, so he never displays this trait. He’s kind, but he’s my brother, so I refuse to acknowledge this fact, preferring instead to harangue him mercilessly online and to his face. I’m proud of him for becoming the man he has, but don’t tell him this, you’ll ruin our rapport. THIS is why I’m enduring a road trip with all the appeal of The Exodus.

But not really.

In an unusual alignment of the moons, it turns out my other brother Chewie is selling his motorcycle. To me.  What better way to get it back to Missouri from California than to be attending a wedding out there? Who better to buy a motorcycle from than my own brother? How perfect is it that he’s selling EXACTLY what I want? This logic is nearly flawless in my eyes. Not so much in The Wife’s or anyone who cares about “surviving”, but what do they know? This whole wedding affair is getting so many earmarks, I’m making politicians look like amateur pork-barrelers. The Wife has talked me into hauling the family down to Disneyland so that my boys can experience that whole hobnobshebob. Any objection I raise? “Motorcycle. You’re getting a motorcycle, so you just shut your face.” Can’t argue with that. In a little more than seven days, I’ll have my nasty, filthy hands on a bike. AFTER ALL THIS TIME! The road trips with El Jefe have already been plotted, I’ve already started a motorcycle gang, I’ve already pissed off my wife – this is just the natural progression of things.

I just gotta get the thing back here without choking the crap out of my family in the process. One week. ONE WEEK AND LIFE AS I KNOW IT CHANGES! YES! YES! YES! VICTORY IS ON THE HORIZON, BOYS!!

Barbara may feel the same way, although for different reasons, I suppose. Just give it a few years, a couple of kids and he too, will salivate at the thought of freedom on two wheels. Maybe he’ll give me a call, looking for a motorcycle.

That sounds like a road trip.

Abs To Envy

The other day, I saw a tee shirt on a fellow member of CrossFit that boldly stated

“Run Faster Than A Lifter, Lift More Than A Runner” (or something to that effect).

I kinda liked it, in that it seemed to cover several disciplines with one cutting remark. The only problem with sporting one of several types of tee shirts and shorts and other paraphernalia offered in the CrossFit world is my own personal hangup:

It never pays to boast or threaten when you can’t follow through yourself.

Since I can’t, at this juncture, run faster than lifters and I can’t lift more than a second grader, to wear a shirt declaring these attributes seems to be the acme of posing. And I just can’t tolerate posing or posers (poseurs? It seems like posing to spell it like that. I dunno).

But I digress. Some people are so immersed in singularity of purpose, everyone else looks like pikers. Take, for example, another brother of mine who goes by “Nan” around here. Here is a video of him squatting 1000lbs. or more (look for it around minute 4); this is a kid that was a rail thin teen survivor of cancer who, after completing several turns in the sands of Iraq for the Marine Corps, came back and began efforts to become insanely strong. Granted he looks like a tick and his thighs make pretty music when he walks, but the mofo is freak-strong. I might be able to out-run him but that’s cause he may well have a cardiac event beyond 20 yards. On the other hand, both Dirtbag and RoJo are committed runners, but I doubt I could outlift them. This is because Dirtbag is strong and fueled by rage, while RoJo is short, angry and a cop, thereby giving him unlimited potential to get pissed off and lift a lot of weight in a short amount of time. There’s no way I could outrun either of them, not unless I knee-capped them first.

This brings me into the class of people who like to loudly profess, “Well, I’m a jack of all trades and master of none”, as though that were something to be proud of. That’s like saying you don’t always wash your hands after using the toilet, but you usually get your underwear back up over your shins before you leave the bathroom. Great.

And so the struggle continues. I go to CrossFit most days, have what looks to be multiple seizures as I struggle through the workouts, and there have been some small gains. I’ve learned how to badger Thunderchicken without him turning on me and crushing me like a grape. I’ve learned how to properly lift for the first time in my life, even if it involves using PVC pipe instead of weighted bars. I run (let’s be honest here, I jog) up to 2 miles for different workouts, and have yet to have a major stroke – plus my two mile time is under 45 minutes, so there’s that. Best of all for the first time in many years, I’m not completely embarrassed to look in the mirror. I should be, but I’m not.

You probably won’t catch me in a trash-talking CrossFit tee shirt just yet, though.

I should probably be able to do more than two pullups first.

In one of our final installments of Cast Updates, I thought you should meet some of the latest players. This way, when random references are made in posts, you can put a face to the poor saps I mingle with on a semi-regular basis. Without further ado, I present four more cases for self-medication.

Mr. Double Dutch

Thunderchicken: also referred to as “Ryan The Sadist” in posts, Thunderclucker is a coach at the local CrossFit Springfield. He’s also an MMA fighter and some sort of former college football stud – all traits that lure me into talking trash to him whenever I get the chance. Thunderchicken spends an inordinate amount of time picking my brain for creative ideas, only to claim them as his own later. As soon as I figure out his Achilles Heel? I’m gonna use it to choke him out until he either declares me superior or at least acknowledges the guy who comes up with all of his brilliant ideas. In the meantime, I’m sure he’ll continue to screech at me in the gym, and I’ll be left to sob in my own pool of sweat. You can catch posts about him here, here and here.

Hotwire In Heat

Hotwire: here’s a man who you will find in the dark corners of the greater Springfield metroplex, making deals and getting people to owe him life-debts. Normally in the company of his best friend and business partner Taco, Hotwire is in the owner of an electrical company, but he’s never far away from his wide menagerie of toys and good times. One of the calmest people to roam the planet, he is, in my own words, painfully stable. That is, until you’re in his debt – then you owe, and he’s gonna collect. I try and crack his facade of mellowness on a daily basis. No such luck. He takes great joy in my fear of electricity, and torments me about it every chance he gets.

Tall, Dark & Hairy

El Jefe: A good friend for almost a decade now, El Jefe is a fellow firefighter in Springfield, driving Ladder Truck #3 as well as owning his own HVAC business. More importantly, he was the co-founder of the motorcycle gang I started, despite my not owning either a motorcycle nor the license to operate one. He’s also a fellow California ex-pat, us having grown up 25 miles apart. El Jefe is a rabid concert fan and can appreciate a wide range of music from Metallica to Flogging Molly; this is a founding principle of our as-of-yet-unnamed gang. As soon as I pick up the dual sport in a couple of weeks, I plan on us wreaking havoc on an unsuspecting public. At the very least, we’ll wreak some mild irritation on our wives.

Gar, me hearties. Gar.

Smoothed Out Pimp

The Pimp & The Pirate: One was Firefighter Of The Year. The other one is bald. One walks with a limp. The other one is the station captain at Firehouse #2. One rides a Harley and invented his own form of martial arts he calls “Crocker-ate” (Crocker being the town from which he hails). The other one screams at homeless people on a regular basis, yet will describe himself as “compassionate”. Any way you cut it, you can’t have one without the other at Station 2, and together they make up half of the Engine crew. They profess a jacked-up deep and abiding bromance for one another, spending an unhealthy amount of time together, both on-duty and off. Nobody else understands the chemistry these two have, yet both are convinced they’re going to the top of the department – together. They’d have it no other way.