Half Past Awesome

Whenever you and I scroll through books, magazines or articles, inevitably there will be references to how one must cherish friendships or, in the words of the Lyin’ Dutchman “you must cherries and culture your relationships, son” (that is a direct quote from the bowels of insanity). Now, while we ALL pay lip service to the value of friendship, and we ALL have those relationships that stand the test of time, most of us can count on one hand the folks who’ve had a direct influence on who we are as adults. Parents? Sure. Grandparents? Why not. The amigo with whom we always went to Denny’s at 3am after a bender? Of course. And the list goes on: kind parents of a classmate, that evil Spanish teacher who threw very heavy dictionaries at your head while you tried to sleep in class (you know who you are), etc, etc.

But once in a while, we have someone in our life who defies conventional paradigms. The kind of person who challenges all your deeply held beliefs, challenges you to think for yourself, to not just regurgitate the party line. This person is dangerous, because he or she will be a radical departure from your upbringing, the kind of person your folks warned you about. Often times this guy or gal comes in the form of a college professor, a first boss, that dude down at the Food Co-Op who rails against fossil fuel consumption then roars off in his mandatory Volkswagen hippie-bus. For me, that person is Steve Watt.

Being from a small town, I knew Steve as a local builder and craftsman since I was a kid, but didn’t really get to know him well until my freshman year in college. This is a time in your life when you are genetically pre-disposed to pissing everyone off. You annoy your parents with your platitudes of wisdom, you irk your girlfriend with the constant humping of the leg, you enrage the neighbors with never-ending parties and 1am bonfires and you make an ass of yourself on a constant basis. The shame you bring on your family is palpable. Despite engaging in all of the aforementioned crappy behavior, Steve and his wife Joanie gave me the one thing that every single angst-ridden teen needs: affirmation that I was alright. Steve brought me into his group of aging guitar slingers and encouraged me artistically and philosophically to explore the world outside of my safe confines. He helped to ease the transition from short board wannabe surfer to a more mellow style of longboarding and fellowship with your friends in the ocean. His gift of melding artistic vision and wooden creations led to many hours of my watching and learning in his shop. And always, always, he and Joanie were there with a smile and a hug, fresh food, a cold beer and a willingness to listen. This in and of itself is amazing – I mean, who wants to listen to some punk ass kid who claims to have the patent on heartbreak? They did. In the process they gained my respect and admiration, and despite the years that have passed, they remain close to my heart.

I bring all of this up because I recently learned of Steve’s battle with prostate cancer. From what I’ve been told, the cancer was detected early and, thanks to the efforts of Joanie, their amazing daughters (one of whom is a pediatric ICU nurse – mad props Darcy!) and their support system of friends, things are looking as good as can be expected. We talked the other day, and it made me so happy to hear his voice again; I was suddenly eighteen, wanting to confess my devious deeds, seeking his counsel and approval. There he was, cheerful, upbeat, asking about life in the middle of the country while we conspiratorially whispered about the quirks of the hyper holy-rollers. And it dawned on me, only afterward, that maybe he gains as much from my friendship as I do his. I’ve looked up to Steve for almost 18 years now, never thought that maybe I brought him some semblance of friendship that gave him fulfillment as well. At best guess, I figured I just amused the guy. If there was anyone I’ve ever met who deserves a healing grace, who has the ability to whip this cancer while smiling all the while, it’s Steve.

I’m writing this now because I think that too often we wait until someone passes before we let them know just how important they’ve been. We heap praises on the dead, and it makes the family feel good, then we raise a glass to them down at the pub. But none of that benefits the person you intend to honor; for all I know they’re busy becoming worm food and have no time for such tribute. And there’s nothing like a good cancer scare to jar it all into perspective, if only a little. So Steve, I just wanted to say thanks. Thanks for being a good friend to a mouthy, cocky kid who didn’t feel deserving of any respect. Thanks for pushing me to explore the music, both literally and figuratively. Thanks for showing me what it means to be a stand up guy, one who doesn’t back down from his beliefs, even when it’s raining bullshit. You’ve been a greater influence than you’ll ever realize, and I’m honored to call you my friend.

Everyone needs inspiration. Bones is inspired by cleanliness and germ-eradication. The Heathens are inspired by Transformers, The Dirtbag is inspired by architectural innovation, Fury The Landscaper is inspired by a Subway sandwich done right and I’d venture that RoJo is inspired by the recent birth of his son. Artists get inspiration from pastoral landscapes and runaway flights of fancy within the reaches of their imagination. Some folks on the northside are inspired by a good meth rush, which in turn inspires them to stay up all night and peel insulation off of copper wiring so they’ll have a way to fund their next inspiration. Our kids inspire us to be better parents, our spouses inspire us to get off of our asses and do something with the day, and I would argue that coffee can provide some of the greatest inspiration of all.

But, like all creative types, I need to constantly hit my mental “refresh” button in order to feed the flow of ideas that come spilling out of my mind. Often times, this comes in the form of the neighbors, Truck 2 antics at the fire station, The Heathens or the myriad folks who play supporting roles in the comedy that is my life. I believe with all I’ve got that you can find all the material you might need right in front of your nose, if only you take the time to open your eyes and see the ridiculosity for what it is. But.

But…..once in awhile a change of scenery is in order, if for no other reason than to throw your chaos into perspective and give you an appreciation for little things like, say, the Amish out on the state highway. Sometimes I achieve this with a trip to the Northwest to visit The Dirtbag, I’ve found it on a road trip to a music festival in Steamboat Springs, Co and it’s been had floating down a river on a lazy summer day with a motley crew of amigos. The common denominator is that travel is the impetus for my inspiration. I may not be as worldly as I’d hoped to be by this age, but in my limited travels, I find it to be a crack cocaine of sorts: I always want more and more, there’s always more to see, more to experience, more to drink in and enjoy.

The corollary benefit to me traveling around more is that it also provides much more material to write about, and thereby gives you moments of levity (in the form of this site) from time to time. The reason I bring this up? I am in deep negotiations with The Wife as to the purchase of a dual sport motorcycle, which would give me access to a whole new range of material and inspiration. You may argue that you can hit the road in your truck just as easily, and it would be hard to counter that, but there is something about traveling by bike to small town festivals, redneck jamborees and different little hamlets around here that really appeals to the wanderer in me. To take a dusty county backroad with an amigo or two just to witness all that is offered for my visual consumption would border on a spiritual experience for an old heathen. You know, like my own version of  Zen And the Art Of Motorcycle Maintenance kind of thing.

And while she may have safety statistics, economic limitations and virtual practicality on her side of the argument, I’ll be utilizing divine inspiration as the cornerstone of my reasons to buy a motorcycle. I am also going to be relying heavily on needing to keep posts on this site fresh and funny, that you the reader have high expectations of low humor and that in order to accomplish this, I’ll need two wheels, a motor and a weekend here or there. I can’t let you down, and I won’t.  It’s going to prove a tough fight, my friends, and her ability to be all “rational” and “level-headed” is going to work against me  in ways I can’t even anticipate. Although it shouldn’t be necessary, I’ll even resort to guerrilla tactics such as…..well, I can’t say here, because she’s been known to read this once in a while. But trust me, it’ll involve behavior I am not used to, such as reining in some of my erratic ways. Hopefully the result will be a newly found sense of inspiration and a 650cc motor.

After all, who can argue against Zen and small town tractor pulls?

It’s Monday morning here in the Ozarks, and I’m watching the parade of mad country commuters out my office window trying desperately to beat the clock and face their weekly obligations. Even from here up at the house, I can see the clenched knuckles on the steering wheels, the eyes set in steely resolution and the grim realities of the workweek etching their lines on foreheads. All this while they buzz by at 60 mph. Okay, I may be imagining it more than actually seeing it, only because I’ll be joining them tomorrow morning for a stint at the firehouse. Either way, it’s time to clock in and contribute more of what little time we have on here on Earth to The Man. Let’s lighten the mood a bit and assign the weekly LOTPG / KCTTT. Take a glance at the bottom for the Half Past Friday survey question, and send your answers to bluecayucos@gmail.com. In the meantime, I hope your week is getting better all the time

Lifting Of The Pint Glass

1.) The bartenders at Patton Alley Pub. No matter the time of year, the state of my day or the mental condition I’m mired in, the tap yankers at my favorite local watering hole always make me smile and keep the Guinness flowing, even when I am trying to convince them that it’s Jon Voight sitting next to me at the bar. Good people, here’s to you!

2.) Fred, from Decatur, Il. The name of the gent who bought my excavator, this guy lends credence to the concept of an honest deal sealed with a handshake. Despite a variety of sketchy potential scenarios, this guy was true to his word, and I lift my pint glass to him. (stay tuned for a future essay on the subject)

3.) The Wife. She has declared this “The Summer Of Jeena.” And so it has been. In every way possible. But, as I think about it, there are few more deserving of an entire season devoted to them, and she’s earned it. So while I’m in the shop, I’ll raise my glass to you as I slave away on as-yet un-named project for you.

Karate Chop To The Throat

1.) The Wife. It seems the nicer I am to her the saltier she is to me. I am confused and conflicted, so in my anger, I give her a Chop. Damn, it feels good. Then it hurts when she kicks me back…..real hard-like.

2.) The Holstein steer across the street. It keeps giving me the hairy eyeball, and just took a dump while chewing its cud and looking right at me. If I weren’t so damn lazy, I’d mosey across the road and give the ol’ chop socky to the throat. And I’d probably break my hand doing it, you smug bastard.

3.) People doing it out of context. C’mon, you know who you are. Nobody wants to read on Facebook that you’re leaving your wife. Least of all her. It’s supposed to be a fun social site, not a place where you air out ALL your dirty laundry. And if you insist on airing it out there, at least show pics. CHOP!

Half Past Friday Survey Question For July 31st.

Describe for the me the worst job you’ve ever held and why (I promise to keep names out). Major bonus points for an awesome firing or awkward workplace scenarios (caught-in-the-deep-freeze-with-the-boss’-wife kind of thing). Send your answers to bluecayucos@gmail.com before Thursday, I’ll rank ‘em and let you know the details on Friday. Props to Buns for coming up with this weeks’ question.

FINALLY!! I begged, cajoled, harassed and browbeat you into giving me the goods for the Half Past Friday survey, and although it took you two weeks, you came through like freakin’ rock stars! As I sit here, far down in this delicious box of red wine and ranking these answers, I am again reminded how lucky I am to be surrounded by the finest minds on the internet; at least, as compared to the folks who continually remind me I’ve won some sort of lottery in Kenya. So, here was your question:

As a result of your meteoric rise to the top of your game, a big screen biopic of your life is in the works. Fortunately for you, YOU get to choose who plays the title character. Tell me who would play the role of you in this movie and why.

And here’s where they stand after intense debate with none other than myself. I hope you have a weekend full of stories that are unfit for print. If that’s the case, give me a call. Oh yeah,  my responses are those in red; you already knew this, but I thought I would flog the dead horse.

Annnnnnnddddd away we go:

Number Ten
Ok, this is hard.  I’m confusing what movie star I want to be vs. who would play me.  My first thought was Demi Moore, not that I look like her but I hope to age as well as she has, plus she gets to have relations with Ashton Kutcher!  Anyway, I’ve been told I look like Minnie Driver, so she would be the one to play me minus the British accent.

Yeah, you can’t pick Demi just because you want to engage in “relations” with Ashton. But Minnie? She’s A-Ok. And the accent is super-foxy, so don’t lose it.

Number Nine
Here is my celebrity-as-me-in-the-best-movie-ever-made answer. Afraid that the wit you requested may not be present, but i actually came up with an answer that is so right, it would really be a shame if this movie doesn’t get made. Or–shudder to think it–some other actress played me. When I was 11 I broke my arm snowboarding. It was 1988 and “Heathers” and “Beetle Juice” were recently released. Because I had dark hair, was pale, and had a serious expression (I did have a broken arm after all), the doctor who took care of me remarked on my resemblance to Winona Ryder. He even went so far as to suggest that I get a black cast because Winona’s character in “Beetle Juice” wore all black. I settled on purple. No one else has ever mentioned that I look like any celebrity, ever.
Then this AmEx add came out: http://images.eonline.com/eol_images/Entire_Site/20080923/293.fey.amexad.092308.jpg
If she could ignore her recent wild career success, based on the look of her office, and her kid, and the expression on her face, she wouldn’t need to do any research to play me. She really wouldn’t need to act. Or change her hair. Or wear contacts… I just so happen to be watching “30 Rock” right now. It would be an honor if Tina took the role.

You make a valid comparison, with solid reasoning. Of course, you are my pseudo-friends’ little sister, so I am inclined to say “EWWWW….”, because those ladies are ultra-smooth, but again, the whole “little sister” thing comes into play. I am confused, yes?

Number Eight
It may seem like an odd choice but….Michael Cera (From Superbad, Juno & Arrested Development).
In anticipation of your confusion:
1.) I know he’s a boy, but I’m cool with gender neutral casting.  Nothing I’ve done with my life couldn’t have been done by a boy.  It’s not like I’ve given birth.
2) Yes he is young, but I resolutely refuse to acknowledge that I am out of my twenties (creaky knees be damned!).
Why him then?  It’s simple. He somehow manages to make geeky, oddballs seem charming and appealing.
That is all.

That may be the creepiest answer I’ve gotten to date. And yet…..yet, it makes perfect sense. Color me impressed. Color me drunk, too.

Number Seven
I gotta go with Elizabeth Berkley.  After that stunning performance in Showgirls, what can’t she do?!  Or Anthony Hopkins.

Interesting that you would pick such polar extremes when it comes to showcasing your, um, talent. I know now that my initial analysis of you was RIGHT on the money, not just a byproduct of mixing up my medications.

Number Six
First of all, I cannot get past anyone doing a movie about ME, it makes me a little uncomfortable. However, the two choices (one might not be available) would be Kevin James (I’ve had people tell me I remind them of him), or Drew Carey (I used to have a flat top, when I had hair). They could probably interact with those residing on the north side with the same, shall we call it tact, that I do. And, Alan does refer to me as the chubby, attractive, bald guy.

I think you flatter yourself, sir. I know you.

Number Five
If I get to choose who plays me then I’ll choose Halle Berry. Nope, I’m neither hot nor black – but artistic license allows it. If I were being realistic it would be Renee Zellweger because she can pack on pounds for a movie role. Sigh.

I happen to think Renee is extremely hot, this is why you’ve made the list. That, and your firm grasp on your reality.

Number Four
My first thoughts turn to Clooney or Pitt, but alas while they come close to conveying my boyish good looks and rock like physique, they aren’t quite right.  To be convincing an actor would need the commanding voice of Vincent Price, the rugged good looks of Harrison Ford, the comedic timing of Fred Sanford, the dramatic flair of Charo, the lightly bronzed, beautiful skin of George Hamilton, and the robust physical stature of Dom DeLuise.  Who you ask yourself can possibly fill the impossible task at hand????……YES it can only be THE HOFF!!

I like all, and I mean ALL of the references. There is no reason to NOT include Charo, as she is one spicy jalapeno who commands my every passion. And the Hoff reference….it gets no better than this, people. No, it doesn’t.

Number Three
Sam Shepard would be the person playing my role in the big screen biopic of my life. For one, “The Right Stuff” hits all too close to home with my love and fascination with all things aviation, and him as Chuck Yeager was downright badass. If he could pull that role off perfectly as a hot-shot test pilot with nuts the size of a medicine ball, I’m in. We’d have to rewind back to 1982-ish, because he is gettin’ old these days!

Of course, to rewind to “1982-ish”, we’d have to go two years before you were brought dragging and screaming into this world. I don’t mean to split hairs, but……..wait, yes, yes I DO like to split hairs.

Number Two
It is important for the actresses to be able to connect with their character so I chose woman that can empathize with the chapters in my life.  With that in mind, I cast Lindsay Lohan as a young version of myself.  Not only did the early Lohan physically resemble me with her red hair and freckled face;  we were both sweet and innocent in our youth.  Seems Lindsay went a little further off the deep end than I care to go so I think she needs to step off the set when she hits her late teens.  Marcia Cross from Desperate Housewives seems an appropriate choice for my early married years; the pursuit of perfection drives her character to kill her husband.  I kid I kid.  Before I get to the point of actually killing B—, Marcia takes a bow and Mae West enters the scene.  Like West, I am constantly being censored (by the hubs).  A writer and singer known for her quick quips, Mae could ask for a cup of coffee and someone would look for a double meaning.  Too bad she is dead….finally someone who could hang with me.

Plus, by having all those personalities, that would dovetail nicely with your multiples. But Lindsay? Knowing her now? Not so much…….

Number One
OK, so of course I would want Brad Pitt in full Oceans 11-12-13 costume design to play me. I’d be cool, smart, and too slick for all of society’s rules. Yes, the heart of my Uber-man complex is this delusion of grandeur.The hard fact of the matter is I am nothing like my distorted grandiose self-image. The accurate actor portrayal of my character should be handled by Nick Nolte in 48Hours. Reasonably unhinged with a poor wardrobe and a crappy ride.

Bravo to you, sir, for recognizing. And, when your name comes up, that mug shot of Nolte HAS been known to cross my mind. It’s why you’re my friend.

Last night marked a return to the ice after a three month self-imposed hiatus. What with The Heathens in full sports swing during the hottest months of summer (brilliant), it seemed parentally prudent to take a season off from the men’s rec hockey league, give the old blades a rest. By spending some time at the gym and riding my bike to work occasionally, I’d hoped to keep in enough cardio shape to prevent a stroke from happening upon my return. It was a big mistake.

The fire department has a loosely organized team of fools who’ve decided “yeah, hockey, that sounds like a good idea.” So most of us, for the first time, decided to learn to skate, spend an ungodly amount on gear and form a team. That was about six years ago, and each season, the group grows by one or two guys until we’ve finally gotten enough to field an actual team. It’s been a blast, no doubt, complete with locker room antics and smells, road trips to tournaments and age inappropriate behavior. We may be trying to re-create our squandered youth or maybe it’s the idea of chasing other people around with a stick that appeals to the little boy in each of us. It matters not what our motivation seems to be, but the consequences of choosing ice hockey at an age when most professionals are retiring has provided more than bruised egos and bodies. It’s been the source of guffaws for every spouse or random soul who’s been down to the ice park on a Sunday night.

I wish I could accurately describe the pain that surged through my beaten down corpse after one measely game. You ever see one of those unfortunate armadillos that is laying toes up on the highway with parts scattered all over? I would wager it felt a little something like how that thing looks. Pre-game, we all laced up in the locker room and gave each other the expected razzing over creaky joints and achy bones, while the hockey rookies looked around nervously, as though maybe this decision to play a game that involves this much safety equipment was a pretty stupid one. We stumbled out onto the ice to the capacity crowd of, I counted, fifteen spectators. And two brutal hours later, we limp-skated off, the five remaining die-hard fans laughing themselves into asthma attacks. It’s hard to sell hockey in bass fishing and turkey killing country. My own wife won’t even waste her time going to the rink, insisting “it’s cold in there.” How can I argue with that?

As for me, I think the reason I like hockey so much is that it embodies much of the same code of conduct as the firehouse. You got guys that you would never trust with your daughter but that you intrinsically trust with your own safety; the rink provides an environment in which people who have no other common denominator get together to enjoy the harassment and shenanigans that hockey provides. We cajole and congratulate with equal enthusiasm, we sit around and complain about one another; it’s as close to the kitchen table in a firehouse as I can find. I may suck at hockey, but I am damn good at drinking beer, a common post-game decompression strategy that we employ frequently. And despite the fact that we all look like a pack of escaped mental patients having meth fits out on the ice, there is nowhere else I can have that much fun while dancing that close to a cardiac event, save for a good house fire.

I think the bruises are worth it.

Here’s a random one: can we be nostalgic for a time that we never knew?

I would argue that this is a completely possible scenario, one that I am guilty of engaging in from time to time. I have enough books on steam locomotives to warrant engagement of the Dewey decimal system; one of the post-firefighter scenarios playing out in my mind involves moving to Scranton, Pennsylvania in order to work at Steamtown and hang out with dudes that are like, 50 years older than me. Like every other obsession that’s possessed my psyche from time to time (wanna be a firefighter? Sounds AWESOME!), I am sure that the reality would lose it’s luster after a relatively short period of time. Case in point? Said fixation on becoming a career firefighter morphing into the phenomenon known as “The Grind“. Sure, riding the rigs is great, and I love the lifestyle, but the reality is, it truly is just a job, one that demands the same kind of sacrifices as any other. Maybe it would be best to leave the steam fascination just that: a quest for something I never truly will realize, because the truth will inevitably be annoying as sand in the shorts. As I read in a selection from my own loco-nerd library: “The only people nostalgic for steam engines are those who never had to operate one for a living”. Well put, disgruntled railroad guy. Doesn’t mean I can’t still wonder, though.

That train of thought led to my next sub-question: if I am nostalgic about a time I never lived in, is this just a function of getting older? My conversations with The Dirtbag as of late center on career choices we’ve made, and I hear him often lamenting aspects of his former career as The Dark Overlord of The Night Shift at a poultry processing plant. Apparently, screaming at minimum wage chicken pluckers in the wee hours of the morning brought him a Zen-like sense of inner peace. In truth, I think he misses the financial security more than the cigarette-in-each-hand, five-pots-of-coffee, never-see-the-sun lifestyle. But it would be a close race either way. RoJo speaks often of his summers running a laser leveling tractor on his family’s tomato farm, as though whiling away his nights in the cab of a John Deere on the Sacramento Delta was much preferable to issuing moving violations to California drivers. I knew him then, though, and our actions were looked upon as a means to getting somewhere “better”. It’s as though we’re never satisfied: when younger, we’re dreaming of our future; when older, we’re longing for the adventures of our youth.

Here’s where I gotta give the Lyrical Jackass credit. He is one of the few people I know who has been able to live in the moment, every moment. This equates to someone grabbing life by the cajones and savoring each slice of life like your it was your last. Of course, the downside of this is that he has little past anywhere. He’s constantly on the run from one psychotic girlfriend to the next, switches jobs at intervals normally reserved for oil changes, and hardly slows down long enough for the dust to hit the furniture. He claims to WANT to “settle down”, but I think that the pandelerium dictating his life is as unpredictable and unrelenting as the tide; he’ll go wherever the next woman chases him. The chaos is what binds us, I guess, but I just happen to be a mite less unpredictable (The Wife makes sure of this).

Truth is, I’ll never play in the NHL, I’ll never fly an F-14 Tomcat off of a carrier, and I doubt that the Drive By Truckers are going to give me the call to play bass on their next tour. It’s best to focus on the myriad other things that are going on in the here and now. Little things, like, say, parenting The Heathens. Making a good pot of coffee. Being a husband that The Wife is a little less embarassed to be seen with in public. Being a friend worth having. That sort of thing. And, in the late hours, when no one else is looking, I’ll keep looking for steam engineer jobs. It never hurts to live in the past a little.

***WARNING: THIS TOPIC WILL, ONCE AGAIN, OFFEND THE SISSIES AMONG US. SO, JUST MOVE ALONG IF YOU’RE GONNA BE A PRUDE ***

Tonight The Wife attended a “Passion Party”. Apparently, the purpose of these little get togethers is for women to huddle around sofas, drink cosmos, and then participate in some erotic multi-level marketing. There would seem to be a wide variety of, er, bedroom enhancers for sale; supposedly, in this setting, it makes for great fun to purchase things that most women wouldn’t want to be caught dead buying in broad daylight. This points out a glaring chasm in gender relations: when I told the Lyrical Jackass where The Wife was, his first question was “How come guys don’t do that kind of thing?” My response to him was that, while women enjoy embarking on potentially embarrassing tasks as a group, most guys prefer a solo approach. That would explain why women love to go to the bathroom together; it’s also why dudes prefer to do their “adult shopping” while wearing a trench coat, black socks,sock garters, black shoes, a fedora and a pair of Ray Bans (ALONE!) Men want to look like an ass to no one other than the person they’re trying to woo. Women think it is hilarious, evidently, to buy whips and chains in semi-crowded settings.

This revelation to LJ led to another tangent of conversation with Buns later on, in which I inadvertently stumbled on a stroke of marketing genius. Being as how The Compound is also the site of The Wife’s hair salon, there is no shortage of female-centric magazines that I find littering the place. I am not ashamed to admit that I have read more than my share of this pulp crap, and my general opinion of it is that, AT BEST, it sends mixed messages. Chief among these is that women should be happy and content with the bodies they’ve had bestowed upon them; this is followed up with miles of dieting advice, pictures of anorexic looking waifs and supermoms who manage to juggle six kids, yoga, volunteer work at a violence prevention center, a fulfilling career and no television in their homes. They never show a picture of the husband; he probably looks as though laying his head on some railroad tracks might be a welcome diversion.

ANYHOW, one other element that strikes me as ludicrous (and hence my stroke of genius), is that the covers of all these rags often shout to the reader How To Keep Your Man Interested, How To Spice It Up In The Sack, Ten Tricks To Blow His Mind, Three Things You Learn At Tantra Camp, whatever. And, apparently, this sells magazines, a fact I find amazing. While some of the more sensitive type guys will always appreciate attention to detail when it comes to massage oil selection, most of us could care less what moves Christina Aguilera can teach you to sustain new heights of intimacy behind closed doors. Wanna know the one thing you could put on every single magazine cover every single month, that would guarantee to “keep him interested”? Just Do It.

There. I said it. Steal Nike’s slogan from the last couple of decades, print it on every cover, follow the instructions, and most guys, most of the time, will do any single thing you want done. Shutters need painting? Wear some high heels, a come hither look in your eyes and little else, and that poor slob will give himself a heart attack splashing up paint like the fate of the free world is riding on him. Need the oil changed? Casually mention that you were considering taking it down to the dealer to have such a simple task done, while wearing nothing more than a smile after a shower, and all of the sudden he’s juggling 10W-30 and a filter in some bizarre attempt to establish alpha status. Works every time.

As men, we’re relatively simple creatures. We thrive on competition, owning tools, a good cup of coffee and a turn in the sack on occassion, although not necessarily in that order. There is no need to complicate the issue. Romance isn’t dead, ladies; it just needs to get laid once in awhile.

The 4th of July can conjure up memories for many of us that are similar in nature: parades, bbq’s, Uncle Joe passing out on the lawn by 10am. Whatever our shared stories, one aspect that I am guilty of overlooking is that of the sacrifice many of our fellow citizens, family and friends have made over the years to ensure our continued security in this country. No matter your political proclivities, the folks in our military deserve our appreciation for hanging it all out there. In the rare case of sarcasm being shelved for the moment, I’d like to thank my family and friends who’ve given of their time and more in the armed services: Davis, Alan & Matthew Best (damn good brothers), Kris Tate, Jeff Elliott, David Cook, Brian Davis, Curtis Cantrell, Scott Deckard, Jeff Owings, Dave Schmidt, Dusty Schmidt, Brad Benton, Todd Williams, Randy Fischer, JB Lilley, Jeff McKenzie, Jim Anderson, Lenny Marcotte (veteran of the Guam Wars), Glenn Kimberlin, Jamie Frieze, Mike Kennedy and the myriad others I’ve no doubt missed. These guys all took time out of their lives, and, for their own reasons, helped to keep us all a little safer. I hope they and all the other veterans of our armed forces (and those currently serving) are spending time with THEIR friends and family. As well, whatever socio-political mess we’re in around the world, hopefully our troops are staying as safe as possible; in my opinion, they’ve contributed a WHOLE LOT more to our society than any celebrity, despite what People magazine would have you think. If you can, take the time to buy a beer (or whatever their choice of beverage) for someone who has or is serving and tell ‘em thanks. Now go and blow up some fireworks and enjoy yourselves, amigos!