Half Past Awesome

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

The Object Of My & Sean Penn's Ridicule

• Invade a small country and impose my ideology in a violent fashion.
• Release the catchy pop hit of the season, then spurn both Gwen Stefani and Lady Gaga when they hit on me
• Randomly quote authors I’ve never read in an authoritative tone while attending parties, all with a British accent.
• Supplement the family coffers by engaging in acts of prostitution with lonely older ladies who will find me “witty” and “charming” and “hygienic”.
• Book a gig on The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, then blow him away with my grasp on uninformed debate and useless pop culture.
• Enter a UFC fight. And win.
• Convince a co-worker to let me give him a tattoo using a guitar string and some printer ink.
• Conquer a horde of zombies in an abandoned manufacturing plant whose machinery is, oddly enough, running in a menacing fashion while the lights flicker on and off.
• Testify before the Supreme Court.
• Broker a peace deal in the Middle East. I don’t even care which countries are involved.
• Discover why some people actually take Sarah Palin seriously. Publish findings, win a Pulitzer.
• Field dress a goose I take down with my bare hands. In front of the kids.
• Single-handedly cure this country of its obsession with whiny teen vampires. There’s no reason that teenagerhood should last in perpetuity. That’s a long time to have acne and angst. Stupid vampires.
• Find the rest of the Russian spies who live amongst us. I’ll enlist Bill O’Reilly’s help in that endeavor.
• Send threatening letters to meteorologists who keep “screwing it up”.
• Hunt down Sean Penn and make him smile by cracking jokes about how Madonna is looking like piece of muscled rope..
• Cause a scene in a public setting. Without provocation.
• Make the bed.
• Submit a script for Family Guy with even more 80′s references.
• Wear a tee-shirt that says “Allah is All-Awesome” to the mall on a Sunday.
• Give piracy some serious consideration as my next career.
• Go out on the town with Billy Joel one night, get him laid so he can get back to writing decent music.
• Make the list in a local magazine that celebrates “Most Unmotivated Slackers In Our Area Code”.
• Develop a more bacon-flavored bacon.
• Beat up some paparazzi with umbrellas after a Red Bull-and-Marlboro fueled freakout with Britney Spears.
• Get in an argument with the dog. Lose, due to his unassailable logic.
• Expand lunch-making repertoire beyond grilled cheese and/or peanut butter and jelly.

Uli Wandering Ponderings

One Motivated MoFo

Foolishly, I’ve signed up for a 10k race with The Dirtbag, to be held in September in Portland, Oregon (read about it here). As I slide down the backside towards 40, it’s occurred to me that some sort of training is in order. Regimen details are boring, so I’ll spare you, but it began in earnest two days ago. It was a day I’ll remember for at least a week, since I think it’s the first time in recorded history that I’ve gone into major organ failure. And, along with my lungs throwing a rod, I felt my will to push the throttle diminishing with each slow revolution of the feet. More depressing than the lack of capability to run three miles without walking was the knowledge that last year I’d worked it on up to seven miles before a knee issue (compounded by sheer tonnage) sidelined my last attempt to train for a race.

Intimidation and fear of failure are powerful self-loathing tools, indeed.

What in THE HELL am I thinking? There’s a reason that the average lifespan of the American male in 1800 was 35 years; it’s the same reason there aren’t too many professional athletes my age. We’re physically ready to die, and building up a resistance to that is going to be an uphill fight from here on out. And most days, that stupid hill seems like more effort than it’s worth.

It got me to thinking: what’s the measure of a good firefighter? Besides an ability to clean toilets without complaint, a tolerance for bureaucracy, and a deep and abiding love for irregular sleep patterns, I’ve boiled it down to one admirable trait: an ability to persevere when conditions are rapidly deteriorating around you.  Of course, this is the hallmark of not only good firefighters, but professionals of every stripe. And when it comes down to athletics, or finding love after your spouse dies in a cruise ship wreck, or being a quadriplegic dog trying to win the Iditarod, there’s no shortage of movies with stirring music that focus on the will of the winner. And despite having an iPod cranking out the very motivational Dropkick Murphys while I try and run three miles, there is no heroic soundtrack that pushes me through the pain. There is no Chariots Of Fire playing while I lithely high step like a gazelle around the gravel track; in fact the only thing comparable is that my full speed could be construed as the right cadence for the slow-mo scenes.

It was hot, it was sweaty and I’m pretty sure I sounded like a musk-ox in its death-throes as I drunkenly weaved around, lap after lap, getting more pissed by the meter. I wish I could’ve told you the moment when I gritted my teeth and dug deep into my well of endurance and sand and machismo, but it never happened. It was a wheezing painful experience from start to finish, one I never enjoyed. Aches were compounded with the acrid scent of shame as I was getting passed and lapped by the fit people, who no doubt felt pretty good about themselves as they floated by me. When I looked into my mental locker of tools to deal with difficult situations, all I came up with was blinding rage, an abundance of apathy and an unhealthy relationship with bourbon and bacon. Hardly the keys to a winning career in distance running. I leaned heavily on self-loathing and rage at the weather to sustain me that last 2.9 miles. Use what tools you own, I suppose. And in a grouchy, sweaty disjointed heap, I stumbled across mile 3 in what seemed like several hours.

And that was the on the first day. It’s gonna be a long couple of months.

Uli Less Lardass

The Smoker's Rights Champion

Tonight, the city council of Springberg will be meeting to consider a more all-encompassing smoking ban in public places. By “more all encompassing”, I mean one that isn’t riddled with enough loopholes to make RJ Reynolds blush with pride. And holy guacamole, it’s causing a firestorm of alleged controversy, at least on the message boards all populated with smokers named “anonymous redneck” or some other cute moniker.

What really kills me about smokers is the veil of freedom that they cloak themselves in: it smacks of wild hypocrisy. The same old chestnuts get trotted out each time, red herrings sliding down slippery slopes. You know these by now, don’t you?

• “it starts with smoking, then next thing you know, they’ll be banning water because it’s dangerous”
• “it’s all a liberal plot designed to take away my guns, my smokes and my right to be a Nazi”
• “they’ll be crying the blues when I, and all my freedom-loving friends, take our business elsewhere.”
• “why not regulate fast food too, you fascist pigs?”
• “this is yet another plot by Big Brother to eviscerate the American Spirit”
• “if the employees/patrons don’t like it when I smoke, they should just work/go ‘elsewhere’“

Full disclosure here: I don’t care if you smoke, I was raised in a household of smokers and I can’t stand it. I have my own disgusting habits that we can deal with on another day, but this isn’t about your personal habit. It’s more about your desire to thrust your habits on others and play the victim of an oppressive tyrannical mass. And who doesn’t want to root for a helpless victim?

And therein lies the crux of my argument: just be honest about your intentions.

It’s similar to when marijuana advocates claim to have a real interest in hemp as an alternative rope material. WHO CARES ABOUT ROPE? Stop insulting the rest of us by working yourself into an orgasm over rope – just say “hey, look, I just really want to smoke weed, and I want it to be legal.” THAT I can respect, if only for your ability to be honest about your intentions. Good for the advocates. Work your asses off to legalize it SO YOU CAN SMOKE IT ALL YOU WANT. Nobody gives a shit about rope, I promise.

So, it is my hope that the council gets with the program. They have an uphill battle, with Missouri always ranking as one of the smoking-est states in the nation and some of the lowest taxes on smokes anywhere. This along with other such distinctions as living in the county with the highest child abuse rates and winning the award for the most Meth-tastic state make for a glut of “freedom” fighters. Poor choices abound. When we bitch about Big Brother, what are we complaining about? Is it the fact that a social contract exists, the same one that mandates we all drive on one side of the road and we don’t go on coke-fueled murderous rampages?

I get to see the results of a lifetime of smoking when we go on our emphysema patients for the umpteenth time, hooked up to oxygen cannulas stained brown and demanding the right to smoke in the ambulance on the way to the hospital for “shortness of breath”. Unfortunately, their desire for personal freedom often costs the rest of us in terms of covering their medical bills.

I’m just hoping for some truth in advertising. Smokers should just say “yeah, it’s a vile habit and I want to continue to do it where I please.” Stop the spin. Stop wrapping yourself in the Constitution, playing the role of innocent victim.

You’d never get my vote, but you might get my respect for being honest.

Uli Wandering Ponderings

The True Fan.

World Cup knockout round time is upon us. Unlike 96% of residents in the Ozarks, I don’t hate soccer. I’m not threatened as a citizen by the international game, and this is heavily influenced by having The Lyin’ Dutchman as a father. My brothers and I grew up watching soccer on Telemundo, playing soccer in AYSO and watching the old man play in a league he insisted was “semi-pro” until a broken arm as a keeper turned him onto a new career path as a fanatic referee. There’s nothing quite like getting yellow AND red carded by your own father, who would only address me by number on the field.

But soccer as a sport was just one aspect of being the child of an immigrant. It wasn’t all-consuming, we (the offspring) weren’t obsessed with it, and really, we disappointed the old man greatly when we chose channels other than Telemundo. But soccer will always be the background noise that reminds me of my youth. I half expect Aunt Viper to come in every time I have World Cup on, screaming racial epithets, chain smoking with a fury.

With all that being said, I’m really only a fan every four years. Unlike my friend Erik, another son of a Dutchman, who can get away with wearing a jersey since he can name more than two players, I am lazily casual about it. And in no way whatsoever am I ashamed of it. I love the fact that teams from around the world are actually competing, unlike a “World Series” that should be re-named “United States Plus Some Canadian Teams Series”. I love watching fanatical fans who look to be on the verge of full scale rioting with each game. I love being a part time fan.

I feel that way about every sport. I become a fan of baseball in October, football in the fall (since it represents a change in seasons and the beginning of hot finger foods as “meals”), and hockey for about the first 67 games of the season and the Stanley Cup finals. I respect the devotion that some people have for “their” sport, slavishly following each aspect of “their” team, reveling in the minutiae and oblivious to any other sporting competitions. My short attention span mindset can’t do this, but I respect it, nonetheless.

This time every four years, I, too become a part time superfan. I cheer the goals of obscure countries as though I were a citizen of each. I share in the outrage of outrageous calls and I feign incredulity at the high drama that soccer players employ. I’ve found a couple of other firemen who are fans, too, and we talk about the games and highlights as though we actually know the intricacies of each team (“I mean, really, who expected that out of the South Korean keeper? After his atrocious play in group, no one is surprised”. Total bullshit statement, but we nod our heads, anyways).

So, here’s to the soccer fans out there. I’d like to see a little more drama than just the French team unravel-fest that played out earlier. More cars set on fire in the streets, more insane costume-wearing, less vuvuzela. Of course, I’d like to see my country go far in the competition, and I’ll go predictably nuts if they can beat Ghana in the knockout round. But really, I’m just happy they let me be a fan, even if only once every four years.

Uli Wandering Ponderings Aunt Viper, The Lyin' Dutchman

Smacking The Dirtbag

On September 12, 2010 two middle-aged heaping sacks of sluggishness will square off in Portland, Oregon for the Pints To Pasta 10k race. The Dirtbag and I are said heaping sacks of man-fat, and the event promises to be one in slow-motion, with me employing every dirty tactic I can come up with to sabotage my best friend. I’ll dump ExLax in his coffee, I’ll employ some kung-fu kicks to his throat at the starting line, I’ll get into his head by talking about how hot his wife is (he’s jealous and he hates it when I do this). He may be a man of honor and valor and Church and all that, but I’m a sneaky rat bastard. If I’m gonna fly all the way across the country, I’m gonna want to see blood.

Why bring this up?

Because along with being a sneaky rat bastard, I am also highly unmotivated. So unmotivated, I might try and weasel out of this commitment with sleazy tactics, like faking a pregnancy. I figure if I declare it publicly, I’ll have no choice but to enter or else face additional ridicule by you. And that won’t stand.

So, the training has begun in earnest. And by earnest, I mean I ran a mile today on a completely unrelated note. The crazy unhinged leader of CrossFit Springfield decided that a good way to end up the workout was to run 1.2 miles in conditions that rival the surface of the sun. With humidity. After getting tossed around the gym like a two-dollar hooker on dollar day, I stumbled outside, plugged in some kill-your-landlord Celticskapunk and began the plod.

It could have gone worse. No death, no near-death, and only mild heat stroke. If sweating truly is liquid fat leaving the body, then I should be looking a little less John Candy and a little more Jean-Claude Van Damme in no time. It’s as though gallons of Guinness and several hogs’ worth of bacon came cascading out today, even if the scale refuses to acknowledge it. 1.2 miles is a bit off from a 10k, but it’s all about baby steps.

And when the baby-steps mutate into awkward teenage lumbering? I’m coming after you, Dirtbag.

It’ll be ugly, it’ll be chaotic and it’ll be embarrassing on my part. But it’ll be ON!

Heart attack to follow.

Uli Amigos, Less Lardass CrossFit Craziness, Dirtbag

A lot of us have multiple fathers. Baby-daddies, step-dads, sperm donors, fathers, papas, sirs and the like. I have had two in my life and each had a hand in who I’ve become as person. And for the first 29 years of my life, I couldn’t appreciate what it took to be a father, so Father’s Day meant little more to me than a chance to bestow some hand-made piece of junk gift and a hug or two. Then I became a father, and the game changed, considerably.

To have a child of your own blood has an impact the likes of which cannot be paralleled. The bond remains, tested though it may be by either party, throughout the years, and I took a vow to never take that bond with my own boys lightly. When you hold your child for the first time and realize that THIS is the person for whom you’ll sacrifice your own life, for whom you’re willing to do hard time in prison, you can’t ever go back. You can’t un-know the emotion, and it builds from the moment it’s forged. Each of our children is a biologically bonded and inextricably linked by unconditional love and a selfless desire to watch them grow up healthy and strong, able to take on this world’s challenges.

This is the love of a father, and having experienced it, I can now appreciate it what it takes for a stepfather.

There is no blood bond. That child will always be the son/daughter of someone else. They’ll look like their father, and you’ll always be reminded of that each time you look at them. And yet, for a lucky few of us, we’re still loved unconditionally.

I am a lucky step son.

When I was 4, he came into our lives, a bearded carpenter with a quick laugh and an ability to make my mom smile, something that had been stolen from her over the previous few years. He wanted me to jump in the truck and go to the job-site with him. He showed me his life, he (tried to) teach me his skills, he took a genuine interest in me and he showed me unconditional love. Every boy needs that from a father.  He stepped in, he stepped up, and I’ll never have the words to express to him how much that meant to me, still means to me.

32 years have passed and he’s still the man I consider dad. We’ve had difficult times, to be sure. There’s not a soul out there who can outwork him and I’m fundamentally lazy, so you can imagine the friction that smoldered into a full-bore furnace during the teen years. Today, at 66, he can still drive me into the dirt with his work ethic, and one of my biggest fears is letting him down. He’s old-school enough that we don’t discuss such things as “emotions” or “validation” or any number of institutions he considers “communist propaganda reserved for hippies”. And that’s ok. I can always get him to visit us here in Missouri with the promise of an upcoming project that I’d be sure to screw up if he’s not here to build it right. I need to come up with a new project soon, because I miss him.

But for now, I just want to say thanks. Thanks to the man who makes my mom happy, because she deserves it. Thanks to the man that inspired me to be a worthy dad, one who can give to his children what he’d received as a young boy: a father’s love.

Thank you Robert.

Happy Father’s Day from a grateful son.

Uli Family DysFUNction

Busted

I’m sitting here, right now, in this very moment, at a Panera Bread Co. coffeehouse staring at another firefighter. I noticed him when he tossed a crumpled napkin in my face and recklessly close to my coffee. I was wasting time on the computer, waiting for something funny to wander into my mindset, something that would make a good post. Something ironic. Something to which I could offer a scathing review. A tale of amusement from the firehouse.

But never, ever, in the presence of a fireman. Not in a hundred years.

And here, in this unlikely corner of an unlikely strip mall, my worlds collided when he called out:

“Whatcha doing? Are you bloggggggging, Uli?”

Deep sigh on my part.

Shit.

I write out ideas, and have noodled out a post in the station on occasion, but those turdblossoms at firehouse #2 are used to my dropping in the ear buds and tuning them out for protracted periods. They’ve become closet fans, never outright admitting they read any of this, but quick to point out if there was some sort of error in my last post. It pains them to give any credit, and this is a trait of a good fireman, so I understand completely.

But I keep the whole enterprise away from view of most of the department, because to advertise you have a blog to firemen is akin to advertising that you watch High School Musical or like vampire “literature”, or scrapbook as a hobby. It just isn’t done. Firefighters relate to one another through the time-honored mediums of insult and shit-talking one another. You can’t tell your best friend how much he means to you, but you can walk up to him in the engine bay and open-handed slap him in the face and he’ll get the idea. It is a world of bizarre tradition and ritual where you must constantly assert your heterosexuality through the act of grabbing ass with other men. It makes no sense to outsiders and is the bane of the Human Resources department, who would just as soon interact with sock puppets as opposed to firefighters. They really, really don’t want to go into a firehouse, because we’re the dirty inbreds of city employment, and it’s best to just call 911 if you really want to see us.

So yeah, blogging is kind of a dirty word. I don’t blog. I post essays. I write stories. I waste copious amounts of time trying to think of something funny to say, but I don’t ever blog for the love of Clint Eastwood and all things manly.

Here I sat and here I was, busted as sin.

This was a fulcrum moment.

To deny is your first instinct. But this particular fireman can smell weakness three miles away, and drops the “bullshit” flag as fast as anyone in the department. And he lives to torture. You say you’re homophobic? Prepare for an onslaught of nudity in your face, in your locker, in the bunkroom. Don’t have money to pay for a meal at the station? That’s fine, he’ll let you eat….if you eat some cockroaches first. But there are two things that distinguish him: you can’t bullshit a bullshitter if you want his respect, and if you’re ever trapped in a burning building he’s the one you want crawling in to get you. Like a junkyard pitbull, he never lets go, he never gives up, and it makes him one hell of a fireman. It also makes him drive co-workers to tears of humiliation and shame. My lucky day, indeed.

And so, after ten years of working alongside him, through several threats and wrestling matches and insults and terror, I realized I’d been had. I could try and insist I was looking at something respectable, like porn, in a public place, but he’d seen it in my face. He caught me dead to rights, as though he’d walked in on me with knitting needles in hand and doilies in my lap.

“I KNEW IT! You’re writing your little bloggy thingy aren’t you, you filthy little bastard?”

As I shrugged my shoulders and threw back the last of the 54th cup of bottomless coffee, I went with the only tactic I could employ:

“Well, I won’t tell anyone you caught me in a coffee shop. Your secret’s safe, dude.”

To which his wife piped up:

“Oh, we love this place. They have the best desserts. We come here all the time.”

Check and mate.

Uli Siren Songs, Wandering Ponderings