Half Past Awesome

Commence With The Invasion Of Hoth! / photo copyright © 2008 sean dreilinger

February is just a few days from being dead now; the epic and annual battle against the winter blues is in its final throes for the season, and there is no shortage of casualties on the battlefield. Speaking of which, when measured against the sentence our military folks are serving in that hell-hole of a desert theatre, it seems more than a little trite to bitch about the weather. I can’t help but notice, though, that right now, it’s not just me. It seems like most people I know are one more cold and cloudy day closer to dragging scissors across their wrists as a method of mundane entertainment.

Complaining about the weather, or, for that matter, fundamentalist religious folks, in the buckle of the Bible Belt is akin to moving to Utah and decrying the abundance of Mormons. Chances are the weather and the spiritually engaged were in their respective locations when we decided to inhabit their locales. They were here first, and if you don’t like it, then why don’t you move back to communist Russia, you son of a…..wait, I got sidetracked there for a moment. Where were we? Oh yeah…

February. Brown and cold, like this stale cup of coffee in front of me. I tell anyone who’ll listen how much I prefer the cold of winter to the Vietnam-like summers we get in Missouri; you can always put on more clothes when it’s cold, but in August, when you’re chewing the air and making body-sweat soup, society will only let you get so naked before they call the cops. It’s a real bummer, I tell you.

Missouri is the Show-Me-State, which sounds deliciously perverse until you realize what that means is that they’re a skeptical lot, prone to demanding evidence before they’ll accept anything, aforementioned spiritual endeavors notwithstanding. But really, the name should be changed to the “I Want Something Else State” or the “Short Attention Span State”. Whatever weather is coming up we get all giddy about, be it the tornadoes of Spring or the 3 inches of snow that may, or may not, hit us whenever. Then, when it gets here, the local news goes predictably apeshit over a serious fog pattern and immediately we’re irritated by it. Facebook and other outlets for us get clogged up with declarations of righteous fury over the climate and our eager anticipation for the NEXT season. We’re worse than spoiled kids on Christmas morning.

I’ve decided to join this particular Complain Train this time, though. This time of year always reminds me of the freezer-burnt section of the fridge. The meat is of indeterminate origin, but it’s brown and cold and icy, and even the dog turns his nose up at the prospect. Like the natives around here, I’m anxious to see the lawn green up, enjoy the mating rituals of the firefly and spend our evenings cowering in the hallway while another tornado rumbles through. We’ll enjoy lazy floats on swollen rivers, cheap beer and impulsive flashing being our entertainment, all while complaining about the heat and anticipating the fall colors and football.

But no one is looking forward to February; of this I am sure.

Springfield Firefighters At Work / (Photo courtesy of The SPRINGFIELD (MO) NEWS-LEADER )

The door had been kicked in and the telltale hose was snaking through the front door. Slushy, gray smoke was lazily belching out of the windows, the eaves, the siding; it was oozing from every orifice and, quite frankly, was scaring the living shit out of me. This was not how I’d pictured it in the academy, or on the half-dozen already-burnt-to-the-ground house fires I’d worked in Alaska. This was the dead of night. This was real. This was now. The muffled voices were screaming at me to get my rookie ass into the house. We weren’t going to be first in, but I was more than ready to soil myself at what lie ahead.

My first shift, my very first shift in the station and we catch a working house fire. What were the odds? Better than I’d banked on, I guess. I figured on easing into firehouse life, following my senior firemen around for a while, picking up on tricks of the trade. The only tricks I picked up that day were how to raise the flag and how to clean the toilets. To get toned out of bed in the middle of the night, slide the pole and head to working house fire was not scheduled in my mind. It’s a chaotic stew of emotions, excitement, fear, secret thrill and total terror as you walk up to the truck. The other four guys on Ladder Truck 1 were less than impressed with having their sleep interrupted and I was bouncing off the station walls.

Back to the front porch, pike pole in my hand and bug-eyed with adrenaline soaked panic.

If you want to ratchet up your panic levels, try having your senses stolen. I admire those who have persevered after losing their sight or their hearing or their minds. When asked by kids what it’s like to enter a house that’s on fire, I often tell them “think less ‘Backdraft’ and more along the lines of putting a black garbage bag over your head and making it several hundred degrees in there”.

We made entry and immediately the assault on order was in full swing; garbled voices shouting incoherently, the loud drone of the positive pressure fan from the porch canceling out any audio comprehension. You’re in a strangers home, the unexpected guest, and you don’t know the layout, the reason for multiple full cat litter boxes that occupy the entryway. Less than gently, you’re being shoved by the guy behind you, everyone eager to get a piece of some unknown action. And so, scrambling over random broken appliances and, oddly enough, a motorcycle in the living room, the inky blackness of the home gives way to amber glow of the fire in the back room. The hose jockeys from Engine 2 are toiling away at choking and drowning the flames, less than happy to see Truckies enter their domain, each feeling possessive of the chaos, unwilling to share in the fight.

Fire has a funny way of behaving like mice and cockroaches do: when you see some, it’s indicative of a much larger, and unseen, problem. Fire thrives in hidden areas, in the walls, up in the attics and behind the siding. So as not to lose any more face, I immediately copy my co-workers from the Truck and viciously begin tearing into the walls with my pike pole, not really sure of my technique, but relieved to have a sense of purpose in this un-orchestrated dance of destruction. Apparently, I was swinging the tool as though I was chopping wood, much to the amusement of the boys, who took great pains to mock me, then to correct the actions; lath & plaster demand short choppy motions, not melodramatic swings that were, as a side note, hitting the milk jugs suspended from the ceiling. Later, it was found out that these gallon jugs were filled with gasoline as a tool in some strange arsonistic behavior.

The entire event of extinguishing the fire took place in a short time, a short time that seemed to take forever in my mind. More than a decade later, I’ve returned to that same district, only now I’m the driver of the former Truck 1 (now re-assigned as Truck 2), my fellow open cab-firemen having all promoted as well to positions as captains and fire marshals and rescue specialists. The captain I had then has since retired, and that house, the scene of my first fire, has long since been abandoned. That entire decade plus, though, has taken less time to pass before my eyes than it did to put out my first fire. I was nervous, young, desperate to make my bones with my new crew. No one wants to be labeled a slack-ass from the get-go; to be a smart-ass is one thing, and will be tolerated, but to be a sandbag on a fire is the most detrimental of reputations you can have in this business.

House fires still abound in our district, they still stink in the same ways and there are occasional times where the adrenaline can still be ratcheted up a few notches, such as when we hear that people are trapped inside the dwelling. But now it’s my turn to watch the rookies stumble to get the right tools off the truck, to be amused by watching their eyes get big as dinner plates through their masks, their gear clean and shiny and new. We’ll badger them about their Truck work and, if they’re pulling their weight, we’ll tease them mercilessly in the most juvenile of ways when they stand on the porch, wild-eyed at the thought of the chaos in front of them. If they’re sandbaggers, we often just ignore them around the station, knowing that all the humiliation in the world won’t mend their lazy bones; that’s something they’ll have to face on their own.

It’s the only business that I really know well. It’s immature interpersonal relationships and the messy science of mitigating emergencies. It’s the strange marriage of governmental bureaucracy and moments of crazy risk. People with whom we have nothing in common, calling us to give them a hand, and, standing among the smoke and meth-head’s meager possessions, it feels like home.

"Looky what I made"

I’m no grammarologist….the evidence is overwhelming. But now that people are communicating more than ever over social media sites and everyone broadcasts their opinions in 140 characters or less, I’m left to wonder if emphasis and emotion triumph over common sense. Of course, the answer is yes, but I have these lingering questions:

• Why do you type in all caps? In the distant past (2002) that was meant as a form of shouting. You did something stupid (broadcast pictures of your boss making out with the entire carpool) and the angry response came in the form of an all capital letter tirade. It usually included the words “YOU’RE FIRED!” Now, I think people are trying to show their excitement, but really, it just comes across as a screeching, desperate plea for Ritalin.

• Along the same lines, I wonder why you feel the need to utilize more than one exclamation point, when maybe even one was too many. I know you’re excited that you’re favorite band is coming to town, or there’s a tweetup going on down at the coffee shop, but using it all the time? Please!!!!!

• Boosters. Back in English 101 you would’ve qualified for a public caning had you not cited sources when you were directly quoting someone else. And I mean a direct boost, not a familiar/common saying (Yeah, you, Copper). So why is it now no big deal to steal the wit of someone on Twitter and make it your Facebook status without even some gratuitous quote marks? To make matters worse, when people comment on “your” funny take, you’re not even saying that you lifted it….you’re silently taking credit. Dirty pool, that’s what that is. And guess what? When we meet up in person, and it’s obvious from the vanilla banter that those status updates were not of your own creation? It totally comes across.

• Why don’t you go see a doctor? You’re clearly almost dead; your past 16 updates have focused on your migraine/flu symptoms/ingrown toenail. I get it, we all get it….you need some sympathy and, in the words of my father “a reeeeeal swift kick in de ass.” Save the details of your hypochondria for a blog post, which is clearly a better medium for laying out all the gory details of your latest sore throat. I should know, I do it all the time.

• When you post pictures of your meal, you’re committing the social media equivalent of saying “I have nothing to say. So here, look at my food, why don’t you?” By now, it’s patently obvious that every single person on the internet is a better cook than I, so for the love of Cap’n Crunch stop showing me your braised ribs in duck reduction sauce, or I’m going to start posting pictures of my various, award winning toast creations.  I realize there’s no question here, but it seemed like the right place to lodge the complaint.

• Why must you lambaste your obnoxious teen publicly? I realize, there’s no shortage of material out there that he/she is providing you to give reason for pulling out your hair/drinking at 9 am./taking up a prescription medication abuse hobby, but give the kid just a little break. Remember when we were teens? When our parents lectured us on the evils of drink with a glass of Chardonnay in hand, which only drove us into the arms of Pabst Blue Ribbon? Yeah, it’s still the same. So cut the kid some slack, because believe me, when you bitch about him/her online, they’ve not only read it, they’re busy ordering your credit rating destroyed by all their way-smarter-than-us-technologically friends. And subscribing to porn in your name.

• And lastly, how does re-posting religious proclamations/love for a nurse/appreciation for your nanny as your status make any sense? In the same manner that using a cartoon character as your profile picture won’t stop child abuse/cattle rustling/mesothelioma, your status update is YOURS, treat it as such, and not as a tool of guilty peer pressure. Trust me, no one thinks you’re FOR a bad cause if you don’t hop on the train, unless, of course, we’re dealing with zombies – that’s a game changer.

ps- I still love you, but I’ll completely understand if you recognize yourself in any of these situations and promptly unfriend, unfollow, or simply send a piece of hate mail in all caps with lots of exclamation points.

Just Like That. But Different (Getty Images)

So, in four words, I’m kinda laid up. Nothing bad or critical, nor, much to her chagrin, fatal. Unless, of course, you count aging and stupidity as fatal; if that’s the case, I’m guilty of both and on a collision course with death. Not a glorious cocaine-and-hooker-laden death like Charlie Sheen, more like with the headlines “Man Bends Over To Pick Up Penny And Drops Dead.”

Like all cataclysmic events in the universe, this one came crawling into the room, unnoticed until it was too late. Here’s how I want the history books to record this event of epic proportions: “as Uli was attempting to smash a world record by deadlifting 978lbs. without even warming up, he suffered a neurological anomaly which resulted in a severely crippling injury. Women the world over proceeded to hurl themselves off of cliffs and in front of speeding trains to escape the wrenching agony brought about by his downfall. He’s expected to make a full recovery in three days and will be once again smashing records and breaking hearts.”

The truth is more like this here: “I bent over to pick up a measly 65lbs. worth of weight at CrossFit, and by the x- number of reps, something went “twannnngg”, and I was done. I’ve since been shattered to a whimpering, whiny pile of puny-ass, reduced to looking for Oreo crumbs on the corner of kitchen floor, where I’ve been since Thursday.”

I’ve spent the remainder of the time, when not at the chiropractor or chewing on Ibuprofen like they were Skittles, trying to defend the tragedy within. “I swear, it was really no big deal, I have no idea what the issue was, normally I can bench press school buses” I mumble and attempt pass off, though no one is buying it. There’s also no cache in lame, completely improbable scenarios, either. “Yeah, I turned around to catch an errant dust mote, and BOOM! I was on the floor.”

No.

There was nothing but trying to lift some light weight without responsibly warming up, first.

It’s called getting old.

The chiropractor had a fun and fancy name for whatever the hell my lumbar action is up to, but really, it’s just being old and out of shape.

And as I lay there on the kitchen floor, casting about glances for errant food that may have fallen from the counters, I’m forced to confront this new reality. In the age of the druids, I’d be considered a very senior citizen with one foot in the grave and a rune-script headstone declaring “he lived a long 36 years.”

Hours later with some muscle relaxers on board thanks to the mysterious Brown Sugar, I’ve curled up into a fetal ball on TOP of the kitchen counter, ready to take on the world.

As long as the world weighs less than 65lbs.

Let's not force the issue / copyright, some Italian guy on Flickr

It must be time to lay out another essay: there were 99 comments in the spam filter, almost all of which were either in Russian or advertising porn and cut-rate Cialis. I’d hate to disappoint my perverted Soviet core support group, so I thought I’d write up a little something. How about 5 things I’ve learned this week? Sound good, comrades?

1. I learned of a heretofore unused new term for “hangover” that has been employed by my father: vertigo. It’s much more socially acceptable to use that term when you’re staggering around the next morning, growling for coffee and babbling incoherently. I shouldn’t be surprised, really; he has an awesome laundry list of other claims (read them here!)
2. Pull-ups when you’re as weak as I am can only be accomplished through what looks to others like a genuine and total seizure, complete with grunts and spastic slobbering. Which is why, after one or two, I collapse into a heap and actually have a seizure.
3. There’s nothing that can make a motor mouth like me speechless like witnessing my 1st grade son kiss his girlfriend in the school hallway. In front of parents and teachers. And me. There is no escaping that moment, and the accompanying mix of emotions: pride, fury, respect and a desire to slap them both. That was a fun car ride home.
4. Offering up your writing to various outlets is a great way to learn the many versions of the word “no” that are out there. It’s also a great self-esteem check valve.
5. Yelling at cats doesn’t phase them in the least. If anything, it makes them shoot a leg up into the air and lick their genitals in front of you. I could take a lesson from their self-assured obliviousness.

From The Dirty Churros Archives....

Tomorrow, I’ll be undergoing some sort of exploratory procedure. The details are somewhat murky, but the long and the short of it is that some people who practice this sort of thing will be trying to discover why I can’t hardly eat a solitary slice of apple without having a near death choking experience. Since it gets really, really old to constantly be clutching your throat at restaurants while your eyes shoot off in different directions, I’m on board with this whole thing. But since I’ll be under the influence of drugs the names of which I cannot pronounce, I immediately assume there’s a chance I’m gonna die, violently maybe. That being the case, I thought I’d update my will, the last copy of which was printed on a cocktail napkin one night in the throes of a rum bender and an argument over the origins of the M.A.S.H. theme song.

So here goes nothing, literally.

I, Uli, being of unsound, unstable mind and broken body do leave my entire estate to the following people in the event of my untimely demise in a bizarre industrial mishap or some equally chaotic end.

1. To my children, The Heathens, I leave the bulk of my substantial debt. This seems to be trend of our national leaders, and I’m nothing, if not a patriot. I would encourage them to utilize this situation to learn how to speak multiple languages and enjoy the concept of living abroad, preferably in the company of women of ill-repute.
2. To The Wife, I leave my 5 hockey sticks and my entire metric wrench collection. I never did trust her to use the standard size with the proper amount of respect. Also, I leave to her my collection of dirty and clean laundry, unwashed dishes and vast assortment of paper clips I’ve been hoarding over the last year.
3. To The Dirtbag, I leave my beloved dual-sport motorcycle. I should warn you, it’s not paid off yet, so rip the plate off and head south of the border when you come pick it up. As well, you’ll have access to my motorcycle gang of two, The Dirty Churros, and my friendship with El Jefe, but odds are you two won’t get along. Think of this as a team-building exercise, and my last gift to you.
4. To my shop cats, I bequeath my air compressor and all the associated pneumatic tools. I think it would be awesome if they figured out how to use them to terrorize the feline world. Best of luck, gatos.
5. To ThunderChicken, I leave my vast stash of frozen bacon. Lord knows, you look like you could use some, man. That staying fit stuff might kill you yet….in fact it may be why you’re now reading MY last will.
6. To my brothers, Bones, Buns, Chewie, Nan, and Barbara, I leave you nothing, because you’ve spent your lives making mine miserable, and this is what you deserve. Fine, the five of you can split my sweet collection of old red shop rags. No fighting.
7. To RoJo, I leave all of the books and magazines I’ve been quietly stealing from you since I was 18. Don’t hold a grudge.
8. To The Outlaw Trucker, I leave all the scrap metal in my shop. Weld me something beautiful, preferably a statue of me stabbing a savage, attacking wild beast in the eyes. Use your imagination.
9. To The City of Springfield Fire Department, I leave that tube of toothpaste that’s in my locker, and that itchy, nasty wool blanket I was issued in rookie school and made to swear I’d return in 25 years. Most lower mammals wouldn’t use that thing to nest in, by the way.
10. To my friend The Author, I leave my glorious, luminous and entirely non-grey head of hair and magnificent pelt of manly chest hair. You’re welcome.
11. Finally, to my beloved canine MoJay the psycho-killer boxer, I bequeath all of our domestic garbage receptacles since you’ve spent the last year knocking them over and rooting through them at every chance. Go on, help yourself to old banana peels and coffee grounds. I hope you gag on an old guitar string, you obnoxious bastard. I love you so much.

There you have it. I expect this will to be faithfully executed, but let’s be honest here: most of you are gonna come over, loot all of my worldly possessions and then burn my house to the ground, pissing on the flames as you pour out your malt liquor over the ashes. I’m good with that, too.

Winter's Bone-Chilling Cold (AP Photo/Kiichiro Sato)

This past weekend an old high school friend I call The Author paid me a visit from out in sunny Southern Cali all the way to the snowy center of the continent. Ostensibly, we were looking over some information that may have led to a collaborative project between us; realistically we were catching up and enjoying the company as one only can with a friend with whom you have a couple of decades of history. As to the writing project, we’ll talk about that later, but suffice it to say that I really look up to this guy; what he’s done in the creative community, projects from novels to screenplays and roles in his life as varied as mountaineer to independent producer. Just the chance to collaborate with him is worth at least a six pack of Guinness on the open market.

He took off last night, back to the land of the fit and fabulous, back to his grind of creative output. And here I sit in front of my seemingly vanilla laptop (not a Mac), staring at the same old news sites I use to come up with inane tales of stupid observation (hello, Daily Mail) and there’s an overwhelming melancholy to the whole bit.

I think it’s being surrounded by the creative energy of someone else that inspires such impetus for me to create. That’s why observing my kids create art, ninja battles and other products from their fertile imaginations provides me with such intrinsic happiness. It’s why I root for the artists striving to break out, such as Nathan Maulorico of Unknown Films or Sarah Bliss Rasul, who does amazing work in several types of media. I want to see their creative talents rewarded, because they’ve been given a gift, one that I hope provides them with the ability to dedicate their lives to it.

Because if they can do it, I’m inspired to believe that I can as well.

The downside is when I’m apart from other weird, creative types, I get into a funk. It feels like the world is transpiring all around me, as though there’s this tremendous wave of artistic flow happening just outside Missouri’s borders. It’s the same feeling I used to get when waking up from an afternoon nap as a kid: something just happened out there, and I missed it. Let’s face it – the fire service is just that…. a service, and a valuable one at that. Really, though, it’s the application of science to disaster. Preparedness, training, conditioning, paperwork, all these are hallmarks of a successful career in the fire department. While it’s necessary to keep the lights on with a job like this, for which I’m grateful, I pin a lot of happiness on the ability to create while off-duty.

And when I find myself in a melancholy jag, watching a friend’s plane take off from our gray and white world out here in the Great State of Ranch Dressing? I look to the boys, my very own Heathens, and take comfort and inspiration from their very own creations. Ninja battles and Legos never looked so good.