Half Past Awesome

Good Times Had By All

I’m on the road currently. The ostensible reasons are to get out of Springfield, catch a great concert with my brother, recharge my batteries for another couple rounds in the firehouse and lastly, general tomfoolery. All still going to plan, too. I spent an evening at the local watering hole of my hometown, The Old Cayucos Tavern, catching up with people I’ve not seen in a dozen years or more. It’s always good to know that over time nothing too much changes, except that everyone seems to have kids and jail time under their belts to show for it. Someone is now a commercial fisherman in Alaska, some are working, some are fighting, many broken promises being argued about over the sound of a great band,  a band much better than the raucous trash that used to play there when I was a kid sneaking into the joint. All the small town drama is still in full swing, bikers and surfers and ranchers and truckers all living life in a jilted awkward dance set to the rhythm of life in a sleepy beach town.

And while it’s always good to check the ties that bind you to your youth, I’ve also spent time engaged in an act that I’ve neglected for far too long. This trip has been marked with miles on the road checking in with family, blood and otherwise. My mom’s sister, who I’ve not seen in twelve years, recently moved to California to be close to family, so I popped in unannounced, seeing if I could give her a heart attack by ambush visiting her. She’s a delightful and kind soul who spent her younger years getting arrested for protesting acts of animal cruelty, then proudly mailing me the newspaper clippings of her being led off after chaining herself to a mule diving platform. Now she’s toddling around an assisted care facility, walker at the ready, eyes still alive and vibrant with an independent spirit that I recognize.

I also pounded some Central Valley miles out to check in with my grandparents, something that is a bit of a ritual to me now. The parents of my stepfather are old-school farmers, no-nonsense people who raised a large family in Bakersfield and don’t suffer fools lightly. There’s no time for that when you’re carving a life out of the fertile desert floor, and yet despite their stern demeanor that I remember so well, there is an abundance of love in their hearts for family. Grandpa served in the military in WWII, and those years are the subject of our conversations, limited as they are. I’m just grateful, I suppose, not only for his service, but for their accepting me into the family when I was a confused kid, desperate for a place to fit in with my new family. In their nineties now, it’s with a melancholy heart that I realize our short visits won’t be going on too much longer;  in those moments, I’m trying to memorize all the details, never forgetting to let them know that I love them before I leave. I’m sure this verbal acknowledgment, while foreign to a generation of tough men and strong women, falls upon their ears and makes them smile, even if a little.

I also drove up to Cambria to visit my mom while she was at her quilting retreat, overlooking the Pacific Ocean, a half dozen ladies chirping about and creating beautiful pieces of art for loved ones. They were wearing their pink Springfield Fire Department tee shirts, purchased last year as a collective effort to contribute to raise money for breast cancer awareness. Mom no doubt coordinated the wardrobe for the day I’d visit, a sweet effort from a sweet woman, embarrassed as she is to have brought me into this world. She still refuses to believe I have a tattoo, a point she made to me and anyone else in earshot, and that’s okay, too. As she was explaining to me just how disgusting I would look as an old man with saggy ink, and I was telling her I had no plans on getting old, I had to smile. My mom & I, my earliest ally in this world, the one who has tolerated me from the get go, lecturing a 36 year old me on my behavior. I missed that. She was more than happy to point out my flaws, and I loved it.

Finally, I visited Steve and Joanie, old friends from way back in the day, surrogate parents to a younger, cockier me. I wrote about Steve quite a while back (read here) and, as ever, it was good to be in their embrace, to feel the genuine love that comes from people who you love you despite yourself. I miss them greatly, and as I walked through their house, marveling at Steve’s impeccable style and skill with woodwork, I felt at peace, at home. I got in some meals with my stepdad and uncle, mentally taking me back to a time when they were aggressive framers and builders, catching their coffee at Skippers in the morning fog before strapping on their toolbelts and creating homes of immaculate precision. RoJo and family came up for an afternoon, and to see his son growing up in his image is shocking, indeed. I couldn’t be a more proud psuedo-uncle.

So, that was the first two days. Two days of a mad rush, hoping to cram in time with those I need to recognize more often. Family. That’s the thing.

More Leg Than I'm Comfortable Showing

As I casually surveyed a collection of friends  around our age, I found out that most of them had no plans to leave their homes for New Year’s Eve. We all apparently have kids and no burning desire to get a DWI, so it makes sense, I suppose. But after several years of turning in around 10pm after enjoying a SpongeBob Marathon, The Wife & I took up the offer to celebrate the occasion with some friends and a bunch of strangers at a costume party.

Normally, and up until our 30′s, this would not be an attractive option. When gathering in large groups, people like to enjoy the company of others that they already know; hanging out with strangers leads to many a party you attended in younger days being categorized as “lame”. We sullenly stand around, the girls all looking as though they’d rather be anywhere else in the world but here, the boys glowering at those they don’t know, silently sizing up the others’ capacity for violence, should a fight spontaneously break out. The tension is not broken by the cheap beer, at least until there’s a common rallying point: the cops get called, someone breaks a bone, there’s a loud and emotional breakup taking place in the kitchen. Then we left before anyone took the time to get to know one another, always in search of that elusive party featured in most raunchy teen comedies, the party that never happened.

So what do we do?

We stick with our own, then we grow up and have kids and focus on the merits of letting The Wiggles into our daily lives. Pretty soon, it’s just easier to remain home and reminisce about parties which were, quite frankly, lame. As people barreling towards our forties, we now consider two pints of beer on a Wednesday night at home really cutting loose, which is a tragic waste of potential, not to mention the ability to purchase quality alcohol, finally.

When the people started to gather at this party, as expected, segregation of the various attendees ensued. This time, though, something was different, and I think it comes with age. Instead of  than being deterred by this, we chose to look at it through a different lens. Rather than rolling eyes and looking for an exit, we let the vodka swirl in our tumblers a little longer, we took tentative steps into the kitchen full of strangers, and the casual prediction was made that after another round or two, we’d all end up friends for life, if not the night.

And it pretty much went down, just like that. I’ve sworn to keep the details secret to protect the not-so-innocent, but it was fun behaving even more immaturely than usual.

THIS is one of the few joys of aging: wisdom borne of experience, of heartbreak and failure and, most importantly, patience. Wikipedia (the most trusted source of the lazy) defines panache as “a word of French origin that carries the connotation of a flamboyant manner and reckless courage”. By simply combining patience with some reckless attempts at courage and ridiculous costumes, we’re finally able to bridge that awkward stranger-gap that has characterized just about every party I’ve attended since my first bonfire on the beach in 1988. That’s all it took to take a casual party up to the next level of memorable.

That, and a decent vodka.

Tuff Gong

An enormous waste of time was undertaken tonight. I couldn’t place a classmate from high schools’ name, so out came the Cate School Class of 1992 yearbook. Three hours later, here we are, two cocktails and a torrent of memories to show for it. Besides the usual “holy-shit-was-I-really-that-skinny?” moments and the expected lament over wasted potential, the best part of tripping down old memories were the personal notes, scribed by schoolmates in the last week of my last year in high school, the last time in life when the future was a brilliant and bright unknown, and only people with really good genetics lived past the ripe old age of thirty.

1992 was pre-internet (basically), pre-digital camera and pre-cellphones (except in the case of  Miami Vice). The only trail of memories I have from my relationships back then are these inscriptions that recall stolen moments, inside jokes and the false promise of future camaraderie. The majority of quotes seem to focus on adventures we’d engaged in while in my 1977 green and beat to hell Toyota truck, lovingly named The Avocado. But I thought I’d share some direct quotes, ones to which you might be able to relate.

Typical, if not downright frequent themes:

• “You could’ve been my friend if you weren’t so violent”
• “I’m not one known to be a great yearbook signer. But for your sorry ass, I’ll give it a shot”
• “It’s too bad we weren’t in the same dorm this year. We could’ve tried to relive the days of “The Passion Pit”".
• “Ever since I ogled you, I had a burning desire to break your sternum.”
• “I will certainly never forget your creative insults & brutality, and in a sick and twisted way, will miss it.”
• “I’ll miss your burps, farts & absolute etiquette, you gentleman, you. No wonder Janie loves you. NOT. PISS OFF AND HAVE AN EXCELLENT YEAR.”
• “I will follow you wherever you go. Wherever you think you hear someone call your name or think you see someone dart behind a corner: it will be me and I will get you. I will miss you, Uli.”
• “High times to you, Uli.”

And then there were a couple that gave me pause, actually.

• “You don’t understand how much I missed you this year, you dork.”
• “I love hearing your stories and laughing at your jokes (except the sexist ones). Do you remember when we were sitting on the bench at Long House and I was upset about some guy? You probably don’t, but you totally changed my mind.”
• “Thick and thin for four years. Ups and downs. Female after female (for him maybe). Fight after fight, performance after performance, jam after jam, year after year, we’ve been there, together. Music is our bond, and a strong one at that. I’m my brother’s keeper, so whatever mess you get in, we’ll work it out.”
• “Damn, you’re a f–kin’ hilarious motherf–er!”

The one that has me up at 12:39am?

• “Keep jamming and please don’t cut yourself short.”

Wherever in this world you are, Matt Ray, I’m trying.

Eighteen years later, and eighteen years of selling, and cutting, myself short, the wisdom of your Jimi Hendrix-soaked scrawls has rung more true than ever.

In whatever new form it takes, it’s time to get back to jamming.

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.

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.

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

Dirtbag Gettin' Dirty

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

"May I see some I.D?"

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

Taken, Ladies.

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

Big Hair & A Trucker's Vest = Good Times

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

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

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

Ruler Of The Roost

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

Slugs and Boogers

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

The Jackass & Nachos In Happier Times

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

Buns & His Woman

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

Bones, Right On Schedule

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

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

Somehow a chicken drinking beer seemed right

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

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

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

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

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

Victory #2 came tonight.

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

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

Thanks, amigos.

Note – this essay will make no sense to you whatsoever if you don’t use the social media site known to the world as “Facebook” and known to me as “The Book Of Faces”. If you don’t participate, then kindly return to whatever it was you were doing before stumbling across this site. Thank you.

For a while now, I’ve been wasting colossal amounts of time on Facebook, catching up with people I see on a regular basis, those I haven’t seen in thirty years and everyone in between. Much like karaoke has done for justifying the tone deaf singing in public, Facebook has allowed for behavior that should never see the light of day. I’m not talking about men in their fifties becoming collective fans of titillating groups with names like “Boobies” or “Girls Who Put Out On The First Date”; I’m more disturbed by how many people make themselves look like complete ignoramuses with their status updates and replies to other peoples status. In service to the greater good, I’ve compiled a short checklist to determine if you are, indeed, a Facebook Dirtbag. Are you one of these people? If so, you need to change your ways, post haste, my friend.

• The Cryptic Status-Updater. This person thinks they’re dangling a real gem in front of cyberspace with updates such as “no one knows pain like this” or “why do people insist on playing games?” In truth, they’re just a modern-day incarnation of the goth-teen who proclaimed that no one except Morrissey or Robert Smith of The Cure understood their inner torment. Yeah, we got your pain, we just don’t paint our faces white and scribble the anarchy sign all over our notebooks. Either elaborate on what’s causing you this supposed suffering or keep it to your damn self. I, and the rest of the world, aren’t interested in solving your romantic riddles, and your martyrdom isn’t helping your image as a Dirtbag.
• The Excessively Long Poster. When the “see more” option comes up on your status update (not replies), you are getting too long winded. Tell me your dog died, and that’s enough. I don’t need his eulogy as a status update. So wrap it up, there, Wordy McWordleson, get off of Facebook and go dwell on your anguish.
• The Lord Of The Obvious. I know there was an earthquake in Haiti. Everyone does. And while it sucks, and it’s charitable of you to donate $10 via text, merely writing “Haiti “ isn’t helping anyone at all, and it doesn’t make you a more compassionate person.
• The  Fabulous Smarmy Putz. So you woke up to yet another beautiful morning of four feet of fresh powder in Aspen? Did Jimmy Buffett come sing at your birthday party thrown on Diddy’s yacht off the coast of Antigua? Are you trying to decide what dress to wear to the Golden Globes, because, dammit, you will NOT be seen in the same thing that tramp Tina Fey is wearing? WHAT THE F**K ARE YOU TRYING TO COMPENSATE FOR? I CAN’T HELP YOU, AND I’M NOT IMPRESSED, SO KNOCK IT THE HELL OFF!! By the way, no one else is impressed, either, because we remember you when you used to walk to the chalkboard with a boner/training bra showing.
• I’m A Fan Of/Like EVERYthing! While it’s imperative that you become a fan of Half Past Awesome in order to maintain elite status in your local community, when you become a fan of “Hitting The Delete Button Three Times And Then The Space Bar And Then Remembering Where You Put Your Car Keys On Mondays”, I tend to think you are also a fan of such mind-blowing entities as “Television” and “Not Dying” and “The Color Blue”. As well, “liking” things such as updates that say “I almost died on the commute home today” makes me question your overall sanity. Again – cool to be a fan of “ShitMyDadSays” on Twitter, not cool to “like” the update “I’m thinking of ending it all today”.
• The Slayer of Spelling. This person can’t be bothered with the other two letters in the word “you” and they just utilize “u”. And if you’re over thirteen? This is totally unacceptable. I just picture some moronic twit writing “u r hott” when you speak like this on The Book Of Faces. OMG! ROFL! LOL! LMFAO!!(by the way, unless you really are rolling on the floor laughing, you’re just lying to me, and that pisses me off, too.)
• The All-Business Pimp. Look, I understand you’re trying to get your business either off the ground or expanded, but really? Is the only thing you have to offer the world your shade-tree mechanic skills, selling transmission repairs at deep discount? Listen, we’re already friends, and if I need cut-rate tax preparation, chances are I’m gonna use you anyways. So enough with the sales pitch, let me know something interesting about YOU, not your mobile cat-washing services. To be perfectly honest, you’re starting to look a little sleazy.
• The Evangelist. While living here in the Bible belt does lend itself to a plethora of folks in the business of salvation via social media proselytizing, there seems to be no limit to the lines people cross in the name of their faith. I realize you hate homosexuality/Obama/abortion/rock & roll music, but for the love of Christ, this is supposed to be a fun place to hang out. While shaking your fist at those who have a faith other than yours makes for a compelling Bible study group topic, you just come across as a member of a lunatic fringe when your entire resume of status updates is comprised of your devotion to messianic fervor. And yes, I know lightning will strike me down soon for saying this.

So there you have it. If you don’t fall into any of these eight catagories, by all means, continue to post on a regular basis. If you do, please take the time to carefully consider your approach to this wide open cyberspace – there’s no need to be a d-bag if you can help it. And in case you’re wondering, yes, I am a Dirtbag of monumental proportions. How do I know? My wife takes every opportunity to point this fact out on Facebook, and it is therefore internet Gospel. Lord, help me.

It’s back. It’s happening and you guys are making it happen: The Half Past Friday survey. This past week, I asked you to submit your best Halloween costumes with pics being a bonus, and, once again, you didn’t disappoint. I had a host of impressive costume submissions, ranging from a fully functioning bong to proctologist to my personal favorite – Jonathan Quail Higgins III from Magnum P.I.

The fact that you gave me so many cool ideas and several sweet images made it all the harder, but I finally pared it down to the top five images and my associated commentary. You people rock, and I’m grateful to have such twisted minds as friends and readers of the site.

5.) Speedy Gonzalez. Note the perfect stance, the appropriate huarache sandals, the white pants……….Sal’s got it going on, and I applaud his ability to capture my favorite smart ass rodent so perfectly. You know what this makes me want to do? Punch some jerk gringo in the face, steal his cheese and then perhaps liberate a large village of oppressed compadres. All while traversing territory at a speed worthy of my name.

4.) PBR delivery man. Question: who doesn’t want their Pabst Blue Ribbon delivered to their doorstop by a handsome lad of five years with highwater pants and a hand truck that is taller than him? Now, RoJo will tell you that at one time (around 10 years prior to this picture) PBR was considered a premium label. “Hogwash”, I say; it has always been and will always be the beer of choice for river floaters in their 20′s, shop dwellers at my house and college kids looking to drink something that is as “ironic” as their $65 tee shirts. What makes this shot even better is that the said deliveryman is now a California Highway Patrol officer who would love nothing better than to pull over and arrest underage beer distributors. This one goes into the permanent file for coercion purposes later on.

3.) Janet Reno. From the files of photos I’ve swiped from friends, this little gem was destined to make a reappearance on the site at the suggestion of the model in question. Few can pull off the Janet look, including Janet herself. In my imagination she had very, very bad breath, which is fitting because The Lyrical Jackass is known for smelling as though a cat went to the bathroom in his mouth. He also exhibits many of her same dance moves, stances on Homeland Security and bizzare man-crush on Bill Clinton. Weird fact: he actually already owned those earrings and necklace and only had to borrow the black dress because his “was at the cleaners”. Another Arkansas wonder to behold.

2.) White Trash Wonder Woman aka PBR Girl. Have I made it too obvious to you that when not consuming Guinness or Pacifico, my go-to junk beer is PBR? And while RoJo’s attempt was made in earnest, I find that PBR Girl may be taking something of a mocking stance as she traversed the mean streets of Portland, OR. dressed as my dream date. Kick ass shirt, sexy boots, some sort of mylar/pleather skirt and the attitude that says “after this trick-or-treat bull, let’s finish off this sixer and get us some tatts involving skulls, roses and Mom.” Kurt is one lucky man to have harnessed this incredibly saucy welfare hero; I can only hope he doesn’t piss her off and she grinds that hand rolled smoke out in his eye. Best of luck.

annnnnnnnnnnddddddddd here he-she is

1.) Little Bo Nasty. This is disturbing on so many levels. One, a male captain on the fire department is wearing lipstick. Two, I’m not even sure this picture was taken at Halloween, it may have been for that parade he participates in every year. Now he might try and justify it to you by saying his daughter was wearing the same outfit that year, and that’s great and all, but…….I mean, wow. The red wrapping paper on the shoes really ties the whole thing together. I know that firemen as a rule like ratchet the crazy up a notch, but this one took the cake. And for any of you guys out there looking for a date, just let me know and I’ll hook you up with this tranny-tastic dude. I am so damn disturbed by the images he sent, I’ve run out of bleach flushing my eyeballs, and yet I cannot turn away. So cheers, Eric, you’re number one. And no, I will not kiss you.