Half Past Awesome

Shamelessly Lifted From Ineedcoffee.com

Today is A-shift on the fire department. That means nothing to you, and everything to me. Let me explain.

I work on an “A-B-C” shift schedule, meaning, as a B-shifter, I work 24 hours on duty, then have 48 hours of relative freedom. When I leave the station on the C shift morning, I’ve begun a two day sabbatical from civil service, one of the sweetest benefits of being a career fireman. But C shift is a day for catching up. You run home, throw down some Tylenol and coffee so that your kids’ voices don’t sound quite like angry wolverines mating, you kiss the spouse and take the honey-do list in hand, halfheartedly, with vague promises of productivity. You plug into your life and glare at the lawn to be mowed. If you’ve been up through the night on calls, you cat-nap in weird locations, like the shower.

And then comes A-shift. That’s the morning when you set a sort of mental concertina wire around your bed, informing your rowdy children that their very lives are at risk, should they wake you with revelations such as the genius of SpongeBob or their desire to eat. A-shift mornings are a sacred time for me. I spend time in worship of the coffee maker, I commune with the internet and I offer sacrifice to the gods of chaos. Apparently, and according to Exodus 31:15, desecration of the Sabbath was originally punishable by death, a stance I can enthusiastically embrace.

As we rattle on down the path towards 40, and eventual death, this time away from our commitments to being responsible becomes more precious with each day. I could care less about Carpe-ing any sort of Diem and am more concerned with capturing the false sense of achievement that comes in a steaming cup of coffee. I embrace artificial stimulation, much like the hippies embraced Jerry Garcia as their prophet, as the ideal way to symbolize my Sabbath. Once in a while I try and get all high on working out with the lunatics at CrossFit, but this usually leads to a false sense of fitness and embarrassing moments of thinking I can wear clothes I really shouldn’t (why, helloooo, shoulder hair!). No, it’s best to just accept that my church is that elusive and sacred time, from about 3:00am to 8:13am, in my own bed, when I don’t worry about the bells ringing for another call to another alleged emergency.

So today begins the true day of rest. I woke up in my own home with the hymns that are my children screeching at high decibels, the Nicene Creed in the form of cursing under my breath at the ungodly hour, the body and the blood taking the form of a Thomas English Muffin and a cup of hot mud. And, like church services for the faithful, it will seem over all too quickly for a heathen like me. Life in this adult world does not tolerate too much rest. There is much to be done before I resume life in the firehouse, and if I don’t give heed to this glorious, glorious A-shift Sabbath, I’ll be left spiritually, literally, un-caffeinated.

Uli Siren Songs the Heathens

The Writing Kind Of Groove

And I quote…..“This week for Take It and Blog Friday we’re asking you to drum your five most popular blog posts and share them with the rest of us. And because we don’t get a peek at your blog’s statistics, you get to decide what your most popular blog posts are: Maybe they get statistically the most hits, maybe they get the most comments, maybe you just like them and want to share them with the rest of the Springfield blogosphere. Whatever the case, we want to read your five most popular posts. Now, it would be good form if, instead of just posting a list of titles, you gave a little description of each one or explained why these posts are so popular.” -SGF BLOGS most recent mandate to its members.

Nothing I’ve written could ever be described as “so popular”. After all, I’m writing a blog; it’s not as though the pro scouts are banging down my door with offers to go up to the big leagues. That being said, here are the five posts that have gotten some decent feedback be it in person or in the form of little old ladies flipping me the bird at busy intersections. I hope they make you at least chuckle out loud…..cause we all know that no one is really “laughing out loud” or, for Gods’ sake “rolling on the floor, laughing (my) ass off.” That’s just weird.

5. A Love Letter To Santa Barbara. This was my very first blog post, and I was capturing the vile and bittersweet emotions I harbor towards my hometown on the coast. It’s hard to go home when you can’t afford it anymore, and I think more than one person can relate to this one. It took me 10 minutes to write it up and 2 hours to work up the nerve to hit the “publish” button. I was shaking like a dog shitting peach pits as I awaited any feedback at all. The first phone call came 5 minutes later.

4. 911 Cliff Notes. People seem to love stories about the fire service, and what may seem mundane and routine to firehouse life is often somewhat hilarious when taken into proper perspective. I always get more hits when it’s about station shenanigans, so there’s yet another reason I shouldn’t quit my day job.

3. Diary Of Insanity. I wrote this one as my love affair with CrossFit was in the honeymoon phase. Plus, it highlights the Short Attention Span Theatre that is my thought process. It firmly cemented my place as the least sane member of the cult. Now, who wants waffles?

2. 343 Reasons To Mourn. Once in a dog’s age there is a shred of seriousness in my writing. The events of September 11th will always be a somber bookmark in my career as a fireman. Perhaps because I was a wet-behind-the-ears rookie, it struck me in a way is rare in my life; few people in my eyes are actual heroes. These firefighters had to have known the odds were not good for them coming back out of those towers. That’s the kind of courage I’d never witnessed in my lifetime, especially in an era that worships celebrity above all.

1.) Smokers, Jokers and The Dog. This post was the result of my first effort of actually getting off my ass for an “assignment” that started out as a joke between myself and Chad Harris of Fair City News. I spent hours in line waiting for a shot at the hillbilly hero of Hawaii and his loud-mouthed, unhinged wife (upon whom I have a raging hate-crush). I met some really funny people and actually had more fun than I would have anticipated. As it turns out, the readers of Half Past Awesome are delighted to hear tales of me making an even more substantial ass of myself in public than usual. And you know what? For them, I’d do just about anything. Except spend time in Arkansas. That never ends well.

There you have it. If people keep coming back to the site, then I’ll consider that a twisted sliver of victory. I hope it keeps you amused in that five minute segment where you can’t remember the next website you’re supposed to be looking at….somewhere a little more respectable, no doubt.

Uli Take It & Blog Fridays

Once My Pants Are On, I Make Gold Records

I’m not shooting for obscurity here, as is the wont of uber-hipsters. I like to enjoy a good beer with good people and good friends. Many of my friends are unknown to you, so I compiled a list of the famous with whom I’d like to have a cold one, or maybe even a delicious cocktail. Give me your opinion in return. Who would YOU like to end up with at a local watering hole?

Here’s my list, as of this very moment.

10. Zach Galifianakisalisailis. You know, that guy with the beard who played “Alan” in the movie The Hangover. Anyone with the clankers to sport a beard and a set of eyebrows like that in a town obsessed with everyone looking like slick hairless cats is, in my book, certifiably cool. He looks like he could give a rats’ ass what you think, and probably smells like a hobo, two traits I value highly in my drinking co-enablers.

9. Christopher Walken. This choice speaks for itself. I’m pretty sure he’d have nothing to do with me. Those are the kind of odds I’m looking for in a boon companion.

8. Dick Cheney. Because really, that’s as close to Satan as I care to dance. Must remind myself, “Don’t poke the bear. Don’t poke the bear, or he will jack a shotgun shell into your face.” This choice speaks to my inner adrenaline junkie.

7. Denis Leary. Maybe this is because I’m a sado-masochist, secretly knowing that at some time he’s gonna refer to me as “that pussy with the weird name.” And then I’ll buy the next round, because it’ll diffuse the tension in the room, as though it were my fault we were enjoying a drink together. Sounds awesome as hell.

6. Carmen Electra, circa 1999. Not for the reasons you’re thinking. No, it’s because in 1999, she was charged with battering Dennis Rodman. Think about it. She battered him. This is a not a woman to be trifled with, or she will batter you. Damn this would make for an awesome bar story: “Let me tell you about the day I made Dennis Rodman my bitch..”

5. Albert Einstein. Because I think behind the genius there lurks a dirty old bastard who could probably make me laugh till I choked. I don’t think I could ask for a better drinking buddy. And no one would believe me the next day at work.

4. Neil Young. The man seems pissed off. Intense. On the verge of a black-out rage at all times. I admire these qualities, especially in a drinking partner. I wouldn’t even bring up his music, which was described by Rolling Stone as “bludgeoning chords and a savant’s knack for transforming the most obvious music into something revelatory.” I’m no Rolling Stone, and that would sound stupid coming from me, even if I agree wholeheartedly.

3. Dean Martin. He was one cool cat. That’s all there is to it. One of my favorite quotes? “I’d hate to be a teetotaler. Imagine getting up in the morning and knowing that’s as good as you’re going to feel all day.” He made women swoon, and he’d make me take a little more pride in my appearance. Less flip-flops, more cuff links. Takes no shit. Fears nothing but the morning after. Demands three ice cubes per drink. That kind of thing.

2. Steve Watt. Now, I know most of you don’t know him, but I do, and you can too, if you read this post. Steve is famous to few, but special to me as a friend and mentor. And if I had the chance to enjoy one last beer on this planet, there’s a good chance Steve’s number would be getting the dial on my archaic cell phone. I miss my friend, and I raise my glass to him every chance I get. Here’s to you, amigo.

1. Henry Rollins. The former front man of Black Flag now carries the title of Resident Straight Talker for VanityFair online. Wow. If the tatts and rants don’t freak your noise out, the mad genius of his verbiage intimidates critics and fans alike. I’d just like a chance to throw back a cocktail and listen to him wax bad-ass on topics such as the USDA mess and Andrew Breitbart, describing him as such: “his deluded foaming is an interesting example of freedom of speech and its awesome power, it speaks volumes to its weight and the responsibility required to carry it. Some can hack it, some not so much.” I might check my shoot-from-the-ignorant-hip tendencies in his company. I think we can all agree that might be for the best.

Uli Wandering Ponderings

Pimpin', Pixar Style

Rotten Tomatoes, the online movie review site I often use to gauge the critical popularity of a movie, recently rated Toy Story 3 at 99% positive. I’ve never seen a movie rate that high, and I’ve yet to see a negative review of the final installment of Pixar’s uber-powerhouse. Consider this yet another notch in the rave review column.

Much like The Empire Strikes Back is often considered the best of the Star Wars series by it’s fans, Toy Story 3 might well be the best installment of Woody and Buzz’s adventures. Both films are also the darkest, each with the toughest themes of their respective outings. Toy Story 3 deals with the melancholy aspects of growing up and leaving behind your childhood memories, the importance of sticking together as a family and finding your purpose as the people around you mature and move on; The Empire Strikes back is mostly about finding out who your father is and losing a hand in the deal.

I was warned well in advance that the movie left grown men shedding tears, especially within the  last fifteen minutes. I wish I’d never been told that. Computer-generated toys, when combined with the right voice actors and juuuussttt the right soundtrack reduced me to shambles, trying to explain to the kids that “my allergies were really acting up in there.” It’s the loyalty of good friends who never give up on you, it’s the concept of facing irrelevance in this world, it’s all these grown up concepts in a kids movie that really got to me. I want a Buzz Lightyear in my life who constantly pulls my ass out of the fire. Who doesn’t want the undying loyalty of a friend like Woody? And the neurotic dinosaur Rex? We all have a friend like that, endearing in their idiotic innocence. From the Potato Heads and their alien children to Jessie & Bullseye and Slinky Dog, the mad geniuses at Pixar have captured perfectly all the people you’d want to move in to your own cul-de-sac, not to mention your toy box.

Probably the aspect that captured the dark and gripping heart of the movie best was the post-conveyor belt scene near the end. I don’t want to ruin this for those who haven’t seen the movie yet, so I won’t, but the seeming inevitability of the moment, and the courage with which these friends face the situation is gut-wrenching. When they grabbed each others pixelated hands in what seems to be a horrific demise, I couldn’t tell whose eyes were wider, mine or my boys . It’s a kids movie, so it turns out fine, but that moment, and you’ll know which one I’m referring to, is a throat squeezer.

To combat the constant roller coaster of heartbreak, the movie has several new noteworthy characters and enough not-so-subtle /witty adult banter to balance out the sad realization that this the finale in a masterful trio of films. Ken (of Barbie & Ken fame) and a classically trained hedgehog top the list of the best new additions, but it’s a Latin Buzz that really brought the obnoxious laughter out of my throat. He’s a romantic fool at his finest when he speaks Spanish, reviving the clueless Buzz that we met in the first installment of the series. His uncontrollable hip thrusting when he hears The Gipsy Kings later on? Wickedly priceless.

So thanks once again to Chris Louzader for giving me the opportunity to enjoy such a wonderful movie, to cry like an idiot in front of my kids and to remember why those Pixar people are the very best of the genre.

Overall Movie Rating: SUPER SOLID A++

Uli Movie & Music Pontifications

I'm So Over Waldo

Chaos is absent right now. My kids are healthy and full of piss and vinegar. The Wife has a birthday of indeterminate origin tomorrow. Good and decent people came to our house tonight to celebrate the simple joys of a home cooked meal. It’s as hot as Satan’s trigger finger right now, pretty typical for July in the Ozarks.

I’m still horribly out of shape, and starting to get a little nervous about competing in a foot race in Portland, Oregon in September, as well I should be. My stepfather arrives from the beaches of  the Central Coast of California on Tuesday and I’ve no doubt he’ll find the state of my shop to be horrific and may well shake his head in disgust at his slack-ass son. The neighbor procured a new tractor, and I swear that he’s driving back and forth in front of our house as a means of showing off.

The fire service is what is was last week, last year and last career. It’s a mess of people in dire need of something, anything, and a call to 911 helps put their mind at ease. And we’ll be there to hold their hand and administer oxygen or put our their garage fire or pry them out of some sort of horrific car wreck. All very predictable, really.

We need a new roof on our house, but really, that’s nothing new. More urgently, I need to get on the road, see a new town, preferably somewhere where you don’t have to chew the air. The motorcycle repair job is about done, perhaps when El Jefe gets back from California we can hit the trails out of town.

I hope to get some work capitalizing on my inability to pay attention for more than a few minutes. My status as an international sex symbol seems to be secure, especially in light of Mel Gibson’s latest fall from grace. I’m thankful that we haven’t had a medical patient refer to me lately as a “fat Vince Gill”. We miss hanging out with my Brother Bones out in Santa Barbara, especially when conversations focus on Area 51 conspiracies. I hear the Lyrical Jackass got engaged, much to no one’s surprise.

Above all, I’m thankful for the relative quiet of the last month. Because I’m sure that my ever-present sidekick, inconsistent chaos, will make an appearance before long, and I’ll have to go into spin doctor mode, trying to explain my latest deviation from the accepted norms. And then I’ll be grateful for the return of my normalcy.

Hope all is well with you, amigos.

Uli Motorcycle Dreamin' Bones, El Jefe, the Heathens, The Wife

Coach G & ThunderChicken play firemen

Today’s workout at CrossFit Springfield consisted of a position called The Plank. It’s a basic push-up position, except your elbows are on the ground, and the goal is to maintain a rigid pose or something. Not too hard in theory, it is stupid-crazy to maintain for more than about 10 seconds. Eventually your knees sag, your ass begins to raise up in protest and you find yourself within tongues distance from the floor, stupidly debating ideas like what the floor might actually taste like. From what I understand, this exercise is supposed to work your abs. My fat gut begs to differ.

I thought I was really hitting it well. It felt like I was ramrod straight, what with all the burning and stuff I was feeling and the sore elbows. (Man…..out of context that last statement is really, really, well, you know….but it’s not, so stop thinking it.) Meanwhile, as I was hanging out in the plank position for a virtual lifetime, I hear screeched from one corner of the gym “ULI! DROP THAT BUTT! NOW! NOW!” That tone and timbre could only be produced by one person I know: ThunderChicken.

Yeah, we’re back to meeting up at his 5am classes. He’s positively thrilled that I am gracing his training once again, since I bring the kind of workout ethic that he likes to highlight as “What Not To Do”. The other morning, I actually finished the warmup run first. FIRST. In no way does that mean anything, since I usually finish the actual workouts last, but I’m in dire need to shed something like 37 pounds in the next three weeks (got that 10k and a hockey tournament). His response to my run? “What are YOU doing coming in first?” That’s the sort of motivational speech I like in a trainer. If I hadn’t been experiencing a mild cardiac episode, I mighta punched him, thereby breaking my knuckles across his jaw. That’s the kind of chemistry you just can’t fake.

So he keeps howling that I need to drop my ass. He’s letting all kinds of shit slide with other people, the other 31 sufferers all coming up with ways to endure the pain. I’m cheating like mad, and he’s busting my chops with each infraction. The penalty for dropping a knee is a round of burpees, yet another sadistic exercise. I keep earning rounds and rounds of them, oblivious to his harassment.

Finally, he can’t take it. His screaming is going unheard. His pleas, unanswered. He grabs some weight plates and puts them on my backside area in an attempt to get me saggin’. I was having none of it. I fought the workout; I lost. And then it hit me as I fell to the floor yet again: the man is obsessed. Is it my copious capability to sweat? My ability to have my stomach drag the floor in a full push-up position? Was it the sweet odor of failure I was emitting with each collapse? My God, the man’s become a stalker. I should by all rights be creeped out, but honestly I’m a little flattered.

Deny it all he wants, he’s got man-crush issues. I can’t say I blame him. The only way I’m gonna break him of that is to punch him right in the face. And as soon as my knuckles are tough enough? I just may try it. But I better keep training in the running department, because I’m gonna need to be fast.

Uli Less Lardass "Ryan" the Sadist

Pretty Sure This Is A Huge Copyright Infringement

*We took the family to see Despicable Me the other night, courtesy of the lovely and talented Chris Louzader. This is my take on the film and in no way counts for anything beyond what you are paying to read this.*

Despicable Me is absolutely loaded with potential. Kinda like me. And, kinda like me, it never reaches it’s full capabilities. All the elements are there for a ripe harvest of hilarity, a touching story of heartbreaking warmth, all that business that’s made a few animated films true priceless gems. And, as an uninformed and non-credentialed critic, I liked it. It was “cute”. It was “adorable”. But so is my grandmother. And if she ever hears me call her that, there will be a beating in my future.

But was the movie a full-bore love affair for me? No.

There was so much that was reasonably likable about it, though. Steve Carell belts out an impressive accent, and the illustrators managed to capture what I think his face might be contorting like in the studio. But, somewhat like his character on The Office, he absolutely needs foils to make his humor work. Awkward, party of one, wouldn’t be near as funny, and his title character in Despicable Me, Gru, is sorely missing mo’better banter with either his mother, his scientist sidekick or his adopted kids. All of these characters are underutilized. And his nemesis Vector? That dude falls as flat as a pancake in Kansas. He was annoying enough that you found yourself really, really hoping that Gru would actually kill him. Of course, that might make kids cry, but they would probably agree with me.

In fact, the best dynamic in the whole movie exists between Gru and the very best part of the movie – his legion of Minions. Minions don’t really speak, they mumble and chatter and they perform semi-human acts that are funny in the same way it’s funny when your kids carry on debates about ideas they don’t even understand, like health insurance legislation. (I’m not pretending to understand it, I just like to get angry about it). I loved these guys. Gru clearly loved them too. Who wouldn’t want an army of loyal little yellow guys carrying out all your heavy lifting and getting themselves in to rascally conundrums? I think they carried the movie, and they made a s0-so story funny enough for me to choke up on over-buttered popcorn a time or two.

Would I see it again? In a theater? Well if The Heathens wanted to, sure. But then, I’ve also been talked into situations far shadier by virtue of being their dad. I endured years and years of The Wiggles and Thomas The Tank Engine and now some sort of obsession with battle-bot/transforming/Lego/Ben10AlienForce/weird Japanese anime mash-ups, so I’m easily impressed by very little. This movie has much more than very little; I’m just not gonna beat some kindergartner silly for the best seat at the next showing.

I hate to undersell this show, but when you’re up against the Toy Story and Cars-esque powerhouses, the bar has been set really high. As a conspicuous consumer, I DEMAND oxygen-depriving fits of laughter, mind blowing animation and gut-wrenching storylines with each new release. This attitude, like my wasted potential in life, is pretty shameful. In fact, it’s downright despicable.

Enjoy the movie. I did.

Overall Score: Solid B

Uli Movie & Music Pontifications the Heathens

The Original Huff-Daddy

Last night we got a call at the firehouse from our dispatch center. They wanted to let us know that a high-speed pursuit had recently ended, right in front of our station. Normally, I shake my fist at rubber-neckers, but when you have a situation in your front yard, that merits some observation.

The smell of brakes permeated the superheated, sticky, nasty, humid air and in the middle of it all were three cop cars surrounding a slightly dented Toyota Prius in our parking lot. Everyone was sweating and there was a howling mad woman cuffed on the ground, shrieking as though she was going through an exorcism. She angrily screamed at anyone while stringing together a list of colorful adjectives that would make a sailor awkward. I loved it.

The cops were standing there, debating their cop-like debates they have amongst themselves when I walked up to them and asked them how their evening was going. This was a tense moment that could’ve gone either way, since we firemen enjoy a precarious relationship with our brothers in blue, probably stemming from their raging jealousy of us. We like to tell jokes like “what do cops and firefighters have in common? They both want to be firefighters.” They respond with loving terms of endearment like “F- you, you f-ing lazy firemen”. Then we all have a good laugh, and they go back to being resented my most of the community while little old ladies and children continue to love us.

But I digress.

The police officers in question could see I was the designated smart-ass of the group, so they came up good-naturedly and gave me the low-down. It helped that I offered them a soda first, as a gesture of our benevolence as firefighters. One of them approached us and said “don’t underestimate those damn Priuses. We’ve been chasing her all around the Northside for a while now. Those little things can move!” I’ve edited that statement, but you get the gist. Apparently, the driver was hopped up from huffing paint and went on a little Tour de North Springfield at high speeds. I’m just glad no one got hurt as a result of her impersonation of an urban TrashCar racer, but it got me to thinking.

Here was this half-baked crazy lady, hauling ass and slinging rubber around Northtown, eluding the long arm of the law while piloting a Toyota Prius, a car that’s better known for making the statement that you’re a sensitive environmentalist rather than a crazy outlaw paint snorter. There’s the old saying that goes something like “it’s the crappy carpenter who blames his tools.” I’ve been known to make a pitch for buying more shop tools by telling The Wife that I can go no further with my labors of love until I buy some better tools, and more of them. Rarely does this marketing technique work in my favor, and I end up blaming the poor quality of my creations on lacking the this and the that, which would make the end results that much better.

Our little speed demon didn’t need a Big Block Oldsmobile 400 cubic inch engine, capable of delivering 360 horsepower and 440 foot-lbs of torque to hold her own against our local police cruisers. She did it in a car with the same engine used to power sewing machines and boat trolling motors. She used what she had to get her job done. And, while it came to an abrupt end in front of our firehouse with relatively little fanfare, it impressed me nonetheless.

Obviously, I need to spend some more time on working with the tools I have, rather than trying to bankrupt my family by purchasing more of  what I don’t really need. As I survey the chaos that is my shop, I’m really pretty good with that which I have. I have more than enough paint in the supply cabinet, and I’m relieved for a moment that I don’t live on Springfield’s Northside. Because when that lady makes bail? She’s gonna be looking for more fuel for her next high speed rally. The Prius can only take her so far.

Uli Siren Songs The Wife

"Hey, baby. Wanna party?"

I was scanning the sleazier tabloid sites on the net this morning, trolling for the latest celebrity downfalls. This is more than just a notorious waste of time I could be spending raising my children; it’s adding to my repertoire of talking smack about those who society elevates to the highest levels based on their ability to look good on camera, or act scandalously or party for a living.  I love to shake my fist at my fellow man when they go on-screen and weep for people to “just be nice to Lindsay Lohan, because she’s soooooooo talented, and she doesn’t deserve this.” Au contraire, my idiotic friend – if you sign up to party for a living (and occasionally “act”), then you gotta realize there’s gonna be consequences to careening down the road while wasted. Consequences seem to be something that both 4 year olds and many celebrities don’t seem to grasp. I’m equally amused by people who consider stars’ takes on aging and having children as groundbreaking gospel. It’s as though either they’re the first to go through with it, or we should be amazed that THEY AGE AND HAVE CHILDREN, JUST LIKE YOU AND ME.

And as I sat here, chuckling at the latest groundbreaking statements of genius made by Hollywood, I came to a realization: I need to have an “inside source” to justify all my bad behavior/romantic entanglements/rehab shenanigans. As I wiped the Cheeto stains off my fingers onto my coffee stained undershirt and glanced in the mirror to take in all the grandeur, it hit me that said inside source could also help in spinning my image.

Think about it.

Name your favorite movie star/athlete/musician/politician/professional bass fisherman.

And then think of the last time they engaged in behavior that was either marginal at best or made some other decision that had far reaching negative consequences (I’m thinking Tom Selleck turning down the role of “Indiana Jones”- kinda bad). There is always a source that is willing to pipe up and say “No, really. Jessica Simpson really did look really happy with (insert pro athlete/sleazebag musician here). This has the look of a couple that’s gonna last”.

And somewhere, someone is believing it.

Therein lies the beauty. People want to believe the hype. EVERYONE wants to believe their elevated idols are incapable of acting like immature morons who are famous for being famous, or as is the current moniker, “aspirational celebrities”.

I’m looking for someone to convince The Wife that when I neglect household chores or the lawn grows to Amazonian proportions that I’m “really, really excited for the next step. And he’s getting really into yoga, which is so spiritual of him (me).” By having my own “inside source”, I’ll be able to afford all kinds of atrocious behavior, and getting paid to show up at parties will be the next logical career move.

So, I’m hiring. If interested, we’ll set up a primary meeting in which you’ll be asked to demonstrate feats of moral flexibility and your credentials as a certified Spin Doctor. I conduct most of my interviews in a bar, and you’ll be expected to pick up the tab. Expect fierce competition, because from what I hear, Lindsay may be looking for work in the near future.

Uli Wandering Ponderings The Wife

What I Might Look Like On The Road

There’s an old saying that goes something like “once you’ve left the farm for Paris, can you ever really go back to the farm?” Substitute any small town raising for “the farm” and any experience outside of your home zip code for “Paris” and I think that that statement has more accuracy than many of us are comfortable with. There will always be stories of athletes who made it big and then came home to settle down and raise a family. There will always be movies made that show the protagonist to be a fool for running off to New York, when all she was looking for was back home in Lot 35-A and the single wide that’s parked there. Anyways, that’s just fine for movies and people who feel the strong tug of their roots pulling them back home. But it’s different for those of us with wanderlust.

I like to claim how much I’d love to return home, but I’m perpetually full of crap, too. I returned home after spending some time living in Alaska, only to realize how cramped my literal single-wide home on the coast felt after experiencing the wide open spaces of the North Slope. Now home is a state of flight from hillbillies and humidity, but I have no idea why I think elsewhere is devoid of the same kinds of problems, albeit in different flavors.

When I confess to The Wife how awesome it would be to live the life of a successful musician, she looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. She then says “Really? At your age? You like the thought of being on the road all the time, waking up in a new city, away from all this?” as she sweeps her hand in a grand gesture, not realizing she’s pointed out a sink full of dirty dishes and a kitchen full of wild monkey-children. And the answer is yes. Always, yes. I need to be careful where and when to exhibit enthusiasm about how much I like the concept. I love the life my family gives me, to be sure, but I also like the idea of going to a different city each day. I fantasize about life on a tour bus, smashing guitars against my band members heads as a form of recreation, having amphitheaters full of drunken women shrieking our names, all that.

Mostly the concept of being on the road, snorting Tabasco sauce through hollowed out guitar necks and destroying hotel rooms, appeals to my sense of picking up new oddities, studying the customs of local bergs and hamlets without ever having to commit to living in each location for extended periods. I want to see so many more cities and countries than I already have, and really what better way than by getting paid for rocking out stadiums and wearing skin-tight leather pants? That’s right…..there IS no better way. A nomadic life, however, is not conducive to a retirement-earning career with a fire department or a wife that is willing to tolerate long absences in the name of “checking shit out”.

So, for now, I’ll lean against the fencepost that is Missouri, humidity rolling off of me by the gallon and dream about my own kind of Paris. Not one that I’ve been to, but one that I’ve yet to see. That’s the beauty of wanderlust: you always think you’re on the farm and you’ve never been to Paris. Whatever happens, I hope that my sense of wanderlust is never sated, because then? Life might just get boring.

Uli Wandering Ponderings The Wife