Half Past Awesome

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

I Can Relate. Really.

Dear Uli,

It has come to my attention that you posted an essay two days ago that was scathingly mean-spirited and caused not only hurt feelings, defensive outbursts and muttered threats, it also re-affirmed the label many have come to associate with your style of writing: condescending asshole.

So, as a response and defense of the people who you insisted could “kiss your ass”, your rational side will now argue the merits of those who you seek to defame and libel. Maybe you’ll learn a thing or two; maybe you’ll continue to be a jerk, but either way, you’re gonna sit down and listen to yourself.

People You Slandered On June 7th And Their Defense

1. Those who pretend their pets are children. Have you ever stopped to consider that maybe these folks just haven’t had the opportunity to have kids yet, or even ever, whether by the choice of regularly scheduled vasectomies or by a cruel twist of fate? You didn’t once address the empty nester (ie-your mother) who finds solace and comfort in partaking in one-sided conversations with his/her furry friends. Maybe cats like to be led on leashes throughout neighborhoods. Any way you cut it, you’re being an insensitive cad for looking down your nose at animals in costume. Get a life; better yet get yourself spayed and neutered.

2. Those who have children and act as though they are the first people to have ever had them. Don’t you remember the joy of The Heathens first sleeping through the night? Didn’t you claim that it was up there with the invention of the internal combustion engine and the polio vaccine? How quickly we forget. You’re a parent, too, you putz and can’t you just, for once, allow parents the world over to share in their triumphs? Share them with any and all? Ps- you just stopped wetting the bed at 34, and yet you crow on about it day and night. Classy.

3. People with fish on their cars. It is not just any old halibut, you know. It is the Ichthus, a sacred and historic symbol meaning “fish” in Greek. Commonly seen as IXOYE, or Iota, Chi, Theta, Upsilon and Sigma, it first gained popularity in the 1st and 2nd centuries A.D., not on the back of Chevy Tahoes, as you seem to suggest. This symbol denotes a believer in Christ, not a bad driver, and nowhere in the Old Testament is this addressed, as you claim. Christians in days of old had to convey their spiritual status in a non-verbal way to avoid persecution at the hands of the Romans; Christians today would probably enjoy beating you senseless with a fish, Greek or not.

4. The Kardashians. Or any reality-television family, really. There is no argument to be made here, except that you have no scientific proof that the Kardashian girls slept with the entire Oakland Raiders Special Teams. Not even a lurid video, which, coincidentally, is what it takes to make it as a reality “star” these days. So find that tape, already.

5. Talk radio hosts. Yeah, these guys are blowhard shills for those who think Dick Cheney is really a stand-up guy, one who only shoots people in the face if they really, really deserve it. But you, sir, are a communist for suggesting that independent rational thought is the domain of silly liberal whale snugglers. And you should be shot.

6. Part time workout ninjas. Okay, you really crossed the line here, you sniveling wimp, incapable of more than two pull-ups (and that’s with a good breeze). Although you tried to weasel out of accusing fellow CrossFitters of basing all conversation on military-like acronyms (WOD? CTB? KTB? XRZXRX? Who talks like this anyways?), you’ve pissed off a lot of peers who are capable of one fingered push-ups with 45 plates on their backs. They will have their revenge, and it will come in the form of a very public humiliation.

7. People who live in heaven and insist on shoving it down your throats. Let’s just face the facts here, you jealous scumbag. You’ve left living on both the Central Coast and the State of Alaska, and now you’ve got sour grapes. There’s no denying the fact that San Diego is beautiful, just as there’s no denying the fact that you married a Springfield local. So just get over yourself and take delight in all that the Ozarks has to offer. Shut up, already.

8. Those that make kids toy packaging. Simple solution: stop drinking and trying to open kids gifts. Your slander of the toy packaging engineers will not be tolerated much longer. As well, you have no proof that they are any kinkier than the vast majority of society, so stop the implications.

9. The Lyrical Jackass. What can I say to that? You’ve pissed him off and you deserve the shunning. Embrace it. Revel in the shame of a failed friendship.

10. The doctor who’s gonna be gloved up tomorrow. Well, “tomorrow” has come and gone, and since you didn’t ask for the finger exam and you didn’t press the issue, you didn’t get the sweep. So why did you insist on screaming? Quit being such a damned baby, you’re embarrassing yourself and the fire department as a whole.

There you have it, you pretentious boob. Now, if only you’d listened to any one of your multiple personalities, perhaps you wouldn’t be so quick to generalize, stereotype and offend everyone around you. Maybe it is MY ass you should be kissing.

Always,

Uli

Uli Family DysFUNction CrossFit Craziness

Old Friends Picking Old Tunes

“CALIFORNIA WOULD BE A GREAT PLACE TO LIVE IF IT WEREN’T FOR THE CALIFORNIANS.“  -Dirtbag (a native of the S.F. Bay area and current resident of Washington State)

Top 10 Highlights From California

1. Best Truck Stop Name I Found - “Jesus Christ Is Lord Not A Swear Word Truck & Travel Plaza”
2. Best Aspect About Barbara’s Wedding - whole thing took less than five minutes. Seriously, we drove 1857 miles one way for that? I didn’t even get a chance to finish the cocktail I’d purchased to make it through the ceremony. Plus they walked down the aisle to punk. My family is classy like that.
3. Second Best Aspect Of Wedding – blood spatter on Nan’s tux vest at the reception as a result of some clown being paid a visit by Nan’s fists  “because he needed it”.
4. Best Moment In Cayucos – jamming with old friends in the Old Boradorri Garage (best place in town) and keeping it to ourselves. Good because it was like sharing old secrets, better because no one heard how awfully I sing and play guitar. Safe to say Rodrigo y Gabriela won’t be calling me to play for them in the near future.
5. Best Line (By Aunt Viper) – “Well, you’re not so fat this time.” (first line upon seeing me)
6. Second Best Line (By Aunt Viper) – “Boys, remember, I love you very much, all the time. Your father, not so much.” (to The Heathens)
7. Best Part Of Disneyland – hacking, coughing and looking like enough of a psychopath that most people avoided me. I’m not so down with crowds and crowding, so it all worked out. That, and the boys had a great time riding vomit inducing attractions while I drank coffee and glared at people.
8. Biggest Difference Between California & The Ozarks – try saying “hello” to someone walking down the beach and they look at you as though you’ve just suggested you have sex with cats recreationally. People there are too busy to be bothered with such trivialities, I suppose. You are there to be seen, not talked to.
9. Best Part Of Being Home – outside of family and friends? Had to be all the fresh fruits, vegetables and seafood. There’s nothing quite like homegrown, a fact lost on me growing up and now sorely missed.
10. Best Part Of The Trip - came home with a motorcycle and a new lease on idiocy. It’s great to be back. I’ve missed you guys. Promise to write more soon.

Uli Family DysFUNction, Motorcycle Dreamin', Travelblogue, West Coast shenanigans Aunt Viper, Dirtbag, the Heathens

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.

Uli Amigos, Family DysFUNction Bones, Buns, the Heathens, The Wife

"No, it really IS a Rolex...see?"

There is a scene in the 2004 remake of “Man On Fire” where the protagonist Creasy (Denzel Washington), while engaged a murderous spree of vengeance, is questioning a corrupt cop in Mexico. The cops’ name is Fuentes, and as part of a  vigorous interrogation of the filthy scum, Creasy has ominously placed a five minute time-bomb in Senor Fuentes’ rectal region. Fuentes is furiously bargaining for his life, trying to bribe his way into salvation, when the following conversation takes place:

Fuentes: A last wish, please, please. Please.
Creasy: Last wish? I wish……. you had more time.

You can well imagine what happens next.

I love that movie.

But, it is more than just a great scene where the flawed hero exacts revenge on someone worthy – it’s a universal wish we all have, especially as we grow older and the time span between years shrinks. Right now, this very moment, I’m cramming in our little conversation here while waiting for The Heathens to return home; then it’s a quick buzz to the CrossFit torture palace, off to the firehouse to cover a shift for three hours, then home at 11pm, up at 4am, back to gym, then another shift cover (48 straight with firefighters makes for some ADD-addled moments) and back to my own fire station. All this before Friday. This is not a complaint, however. Life is good, sometimes better than that, and I’m grateful for all the positive aspects we can experience.

I just want to make those positive aspects last a little longer, take time to enjoy it all. Like a kid slowly pulling apart string cheese, as opposed to cramming it all down your throat, some things take time to be parsed, enjoyed, savored even. I like making a cup (or pot, or two pots) of coffee last two hours while shooting the breeze with a good friend. I enjoy the hassling that goes on between firemen after a union meeting, when we get a chance to flap our jaws with brothers from other stations. You can’t really buy that entertainment. When The Wife has a particularly engaging client down in the salon, I’ll happily idle away ridiculous amounts of time listening to their latest tales of woe and scandal.

Most would label this behavior “procrastination”. And by “most” I mean “my wife”. While this seems to make sense when you see the piles of work that need attention at our house, I might beg to differ. I enjoy these moments where we interact and bullshit and trade in on our mutually shared experiences. Yes, yes, we all have obligations like feeding our kids and not letting them become methamphetamine pushers, important little footnotes that we have as parents. I’m just hoping that we all get enough moments where the laughs come freely, the needs we have as social beasts are being met (with the exception of The Dirtbag and Bones, two people in my life who would enjoy most aspects of living in a cave) and we can just think “yeah, it’s all good.” Even in our darkest moments, none of us look to the dishes for consolation when a loved one is stricken with a disease – we turn to those we can embrace, those who support us, those we love. Those with whom we spend time.

Even a guy with a bomb up his ass knows this.

Uli Family DysFUNction CrossFit Craziness, the Heathens, The Wife

What The Pros Supposedly Rode.

I love lying to people, mostly my sons. If I was to be believed, Darth Vader built the Death Star on our 5 acres (right behind my shop), I used to be a Transformer until an accident at the power plant turned me into a human, I have a ninja on speed-dial on my phone who is ready 24/7 to fight crimes I encounter, I invented Legos one rainy Sunday and, coincidentally, I can both speak to and understand all animal life forms. These traits give me great credibility within the home, right up to the point where The Wife betrays me in favor of the truth. I curse her name when she does this. She has to, though, because I come by this capacity naturally, thanks to my father, The Lyin’ Dutchman. I grew up in a household where certain fabrications were spun out that we, his boys, were to take as gospel on pain of ostracization. An example, you say? Here are seven examples for you to consider:

• Pink Floyd , Supertramp and ABBA were Dutch bands (this is because my father is Dutch-Indonesian, hence, all things good in this world are, by default, Dutch. All bad things – well, those are usually Japanese, in his eyes)
• All major BMX stars purchase their bikes at Pep Boys Auto Parts, which is, coincidentally where my Huffy Thunder Road with the banana seat and get-your-ass-kicked fenders was bought.
• He invented the layout of the circuit board
• He got citizenship early from President Kennedy himself
• MIT was “a decent college”…..he’s a graduate, despite any sort of diploma or evidence of this education.
• He served as a tank commander in Korea ~ we’re not sure which country he was serving, none dared to ask.

…………..and most recently (as related by Bones, another of my five brothers):

• He invented the navigational strobe beacon found on aircraft as early as the 1940’s. Quite the achievement for someone under the age of ten.

Now, this might seem rude and crass to utilize this public forum to call out the old man for his fabrications, but I would argue to the contrary. If anything, they made growing up under his roof one constant adventure in fish tales. Yes, confusion reigned, especially when we dared to question the validity of his claims. A sad turn of events has led to the invention of the internet and search engines such as Google, thus making it easier to refute claims such as a long-referenced semi-professional soccer career (“stop being such a smart-ass. I was a pro. End of story.”) No, it was much simpler to weave a fabric of fabrication in the 70’s and 80’s, a fact not lost on me.

So now I’m faced with children who will have the ability to research my claims of leading a zombie army in the overthrow of a hostile military junta in South America way back when. But rather than being intimidated by technology spoiling my animated stories, I relish the challenge of  working around inconvenient truths. After all, part of the reason I became a father was to experience the thrill of lying to my kids in order to look cool. Some may label me a bullshit artist, but I prefer to go by “Dad”.

Uli Family DysFUNction Bones, the Heathens, The Lyin' Dutchman, The Wife

One night a year, I get to write this letter. It takes all of the usual ingredients of a normal post, alcohol, creative flogging and time spent staring at a wall, to name a few, but the whole process takes on a different meaning tonight. I try and shelve the cynicism. I leave the enemies list tucked into my pocket, ignore the normally-reliable cheap shots, and attempt to focus on this night of nights. I don’t get spiritual in the Christian sense but rather, I try and take the occasion to stroll across fond memories of the Christmases of my youth.

I remember my mom reading “Twas the Night Before Christmas” to me, the large, dog eared copy of the book the same one her father had read to her. I remember tucking in for a brutal Santa Barbara night, where the temps might hit 50 degrees, our obnoxious family feline, Fat Cat, running her motor on my shoulder until I dropped off into slumber land. I remember scrambling out of that bed to find what I’d been left by the mysterious St. Nick, who was always kind enough to leave me a couple of Clementine oranges in my stocking, along with a candy cane or two.

Christmas was a big deal around our house. My mother decorated like Martha Stewart when Martha Stewart was still running a catering business from her basement. We had the typical parties, punctuated by distant strangers pinching my cheeks while simultaneously blowing cigarette smoke everywhere; the kind of parties where I snuck off to try and make time with the Episcopal priest’s daughter, caring not that she was six years older than me. There was mistletoe….there was a chance. When scorned, I could always turn to listening to my new Beastie Boys tape, using it as a background for the sketches I’d draw of such deep topics as motorcycles and WWII-era bombers.

Before long I was loathing Christmas get-togethers, responding to forced interactions by showing up with a lumberjacks’ beard, a vest and a rebellious streak of alcohol permeating from my pores. There are few things in life as cynical as a teenagers jaded outlook on such urbane topics as “family” and “ugly sweaters”. I wanted out of there, wanted to jump in the ocean, wanted to head back to the hills, wanted to be anywhere but there. I’m sure my stance as an ingrate was noticed, and yet surprisingly I was allowed to continue to attend these functions, scowl in place. That’s the role of family, I guess – to tolerate you even when you’re going through that horrific phase, knowing it all.

Years later, I find myself longing for that embrace of family. They’re all in California, and I’m out here in Missouri where there is approximately a three percent chance of having a white Christmas. I’ve just finished reading the boys “Twas the Night Before Christmas” from a copy of the book from my childhood. We’ve started our own new traditions, including watching “National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation” several times, we leave a plate of carrots and cookies out for Santa and The Wife bakes like a woman possessed all day so that I’ll have something nice to take to the firehouse on Christmas Day. We’ll get up at 4:00am so that the kids can tear through their presents before I head out to work. I wish, though, that we were gathering at the familial home on 18th Street in Cayucos, California with family members numbering in the thirties, the teens looking sullen and put out, the kids running around like maniacs with their newly acquired toys, the elders just happy to be in the company of those they love.

When I take out the Clementine orange from my stocking tomorrow morning, I’ll be thinking of that family while forging new traditions with my family here in this house. It helps immensly that on the back of my handmade stocking, sewn so many years ago are my mom’s initials. Some traditions are meant to be kept alive, and I intend to keep it that way.

Merry Christmas, my friends. May your memories be forged in the happiness and joy that comes from those who love you the most.

Uli Family DysFUNction the Heathens, The Wife

Two firsts for me on this trip home:

1.) I rode a scooter all around town. I felt supremely emasculated on the thing, but I’m not so ashamed that I’d deny how fun it was. Even in the rain.

2.) I took said scooter up into hills of Santa Barbara and went to my childhood home site, the home having been a victim of the Jesusita Fire earlier this spring. (Picture on the right was taken near our old place)

I was interested in seeing what the effect was of seeing my own home site as nothing more than an empty lot. Having been in the fire service for more than a decade, I wondered even if it could jack me up, or would it just be another former home? I did a couple loops around the old hood, tracing old trails to and from our house. When the scooter finally wheezed it up the last hill to the house, it was a curious and new emotion. I wasn’t distraught or “left with a hole in my soul” or any such silliness. It had been almost twenty years since I’d last set foot on the property, since the subsequent owners of the place liked their privacy enforced by a gate. And like a slide show, different scenarios from my childhood played out over the old foundation. It seemed so much smaller, the entire property, not to mention the footprint of the actual house. In my memory the place was huge, a fortress on a hill, a fortress with lots of wood floors and encapsulated in Lincoln Towncar-sized windows. Now the size of the driveway was no more remarkable than the size of the mailbox: spectacularly average. The Christmas tree we planted in the early 80’s was one of a few left on the property, and while I smiled at the memory, I felt no urge to throw my arms around it and weep like a distraught lunatic.

Most of the property was wandered with filling in memories that I’d stored away, which is a better alternative than to be morose over the ghost of a house. Something then caught my eye as I was mentally recreating my former bathroom’s location. I stood up from where I’d been squatting (what the hell? I don’t remember the imaginary toilet facing east. Weird) and saw the faint red outlines of string lines for setting up the stud-walls where mom’s old closet was. Since I knew my stepdad had built the additions to the home, I knew they had to be the actual lines set up by the man who’d raised me. And despite the passage of all the time, the hideous outdoor landscaping undertaken by subsequent owners and eventual firestorm destruction, there was the hallmark of a master craftsman that had endured it all. I still have a good relationship with my step father and can talk to him whenever the mood strikes, but nothing on the lot spoke to me like the hidden traces of a carpenters’ marks, precise and perfect in his signature work ethic. It was a familiar face and made me smile.

I hope the next people who choose to build on the site have it done by such a carpenter. It made for a solid childhood home, even if not exactly fire proof.

Uli Family DysFUNction, Travelblogue, Wandering Ponderings, West Coast shenanigans

Men. We have a fascination with things mechanical, engineered or crafted. It could be a 1959 small window Peterbilt with a small cam Cummins engine married to a 5×4 transmission or it could be a meticulously executed 3 on 1 rush in hockey; however you look at it, we love it when a plan comes together, to paraphrase  John “Hannibal” Smith of A-Team infamy. As a corollary, we love the associated detritus that comes with an appreciation of craftsmanship. For many woodworkers, the acquisition and collection of the tools is as meaningful as any sort of project they’ll ever turn out. A man will show off his shop to a new friend long before he’ll ever invite him into the house, and this is because the shop is where your tools and equipment live. Even as boys, it wasn’t what we’d DO with the Star Wars figures; it was that we HAD them. This is the sort of mindset that allowed us as a nation to purchase Alaska for $0.019 per acre from the Russians in 1867. We didn’t NEED the great state of Alaska, we just thought it’d look good in the garage.

I am such a man. Always have been. The Wife has expressed concerns that this will evolve into a hoarding situation. Even as as a kid, though, I was fascinated by gear. In the salad days of my attempts at Little League, this became abundantly clear. If you were horrible at baseball, and I was, you either played in the outfield, to be left alone with your thoughts and Matchbox cars, or you played catcher. Being as how I had already constructed my own catchers gear from a pasta strainer, an old pillow and some PVC pipe, this was a score of epic proportions. You mean to say I could actually wear all that gear, for real? Never mind that I’d turn my head with each pitch and the ball would fly right by me. Never mind that I was terrified of getting clobbered in the head with the bat (and with good reason); I wanted to wear that shit on the car ride home from practice. The best part about BMX racing? Trying to do well enough that someone would sponsor your “leathers”, or racing pants, and a cool helmet. The worst part? I sucked at that too, so that meant I wore a motorcycle style and weight helmet, a rugby shirt and Levi jeans,  and thereby came across as a slow Charlie Brown bobblehead figure. I didn’t care, I was wearing GEAR, and it was awesome.

The years rolled by, and I wanted more equipment. I became a certified SCUBA diver and harbored thoughts of becoming an underwater welder. I learned how to weld and spent more time thinking about different welding helmet styles than metallurgy. I thrilled at running the biggest dozer in the quarry’s fleet, because it was an emblem of mechanical engineering asserting itself over piles of dirt. I played lacrosse in high school, in part because it was the closest thing we had to hockey out there, and I’d always wanted to play hockey in part because of the enormous amount of cool gear players got to wear. Now I lug and curse my hockey bag and wonder, as I open it up and the stench wafts upwards, if I should have stuck with soccer. Soccer seems to give off less of a malevolent odor.

Being a firefighter simply enables this love of accoutrements. We ride around on a mobile toolbox, carrying enough hydraulic, pneumatic and hand operated tools to break into most of your finer establishments. We have the firehouse engine bays, which is sort of like acquiring your own shop without any of the mechanic’s training. And to top it off, we wander into burning structures wearing more gear and equipment than I could have believed possible as a strainer wearing kid with a hyperactive imagination. Between the bunker gear, air pack, helmet and tools, we’re sauntering around in something like 60 pounds of personal protection and implements of destruction. And as I continue to age at ferocious pace, the feeling of awe at such cool junk has been replaced by aches, sores and future hernias.

Now I catch my boys wearing ninja masks to dinner and hockey helmets to the bath tub, as though this is the most normal course of action any young man can take. To them it is, for they are my boys. They love having a wide array of light sabers to choose from, even if they have no intention of going on an intergalactic assassination spree any time soon. I’ve seen them wear welding helmets while simulating flight on the riding mower; if I bring my fire gear home, they pounce like pimps who’ve stumbled across George Clinton’s wardrobe. No backyard battle is complete without them ending up in tool belts and yet somehow shirtless. While their mom might mutter and shake her head in confusion, I couldn’t be happier, for these boys, they get it. We don’t all outgrow our childhood dreams – we just get better at concealing them under layers of supposed “maturity”. It’s really a shame, because that which afforded you such wild tangents of the imagination as a child gets you labeled later in life by your spouse as a “potential hoarder”. So you grow up a bit, quit using cordless drills as laser-shooter-blasters and begin to laud the intended purpose of the tools that make our mechanical society function. You claim to appreciate the intrinsic and aesthetic qualities of tools and shops and safety gear, those things that make our lives that much better. And when no is looking, you grab a pasta strainer and see if the boys need another player.

Uli Family DysFUNction the Heathens, The Wife

A sinus rhythm is defined one way as the normal regular rhythm of the heart as generated by the sinus node. This is what you want to see in a patient when an EKG is performed- five healthy waves in a single heartbeat. But like each beat of the heart, life happens in these up and down waves that define our interactions with others.

I thought about this while I was enduring the cardiac event known as “training run” today. Currently at the end of week three in a twelve week cycle of sado-masochism, I’m attempting my first half marathon in December. Back story -the event is for St. Jude’s Childrens Research Hospital in Memphis, and I committed to it for a couple of reasons; on October 18 of 2007, the beautiful daughter of a coworker of mine passed away at three years old, the victim of a brain tumor. St. Jude’s was instrumental in helping the family, and I’ve been impressed with this organization since I first learned of it. Secondly, if I am gonna do more than just TALK about being in better heart health, there’s nothing like setting a seemingly impossible goal to guilt me into running.

While experiencing undoubtedly abnormal rhythms, my mind was wandering all over the place, focusing on the peaks and valleys that happen to us at this age. The craziness knows no limits: one classmate of mine is in jail for allegedly murdering his wife in the heat of a bitter custody battle, we have folks with marriages on the rocks or ending, The Lyin’ Dutchman has ostracized each and every member of his family (except Bones), The Wife broke one ankle and sprained the other two days ago just walking down our driveway; hell, I even went nuts to a minor degree this past spring, sold off the excavating business, lost my mind and took up yoga. On the plus side, Heathen #1 is rocking kindergarten, this site has been a fulfilling outlet for my creative impulses, RoJo welcomed a baby boy into this world, Lyrical Jackass is back with an old crazy flame, Dirtbag is busy building out in the northwest, JoBoo just got him a new Harley and my first tattoo is on the horizon.

And so it goes. These various waves in our lives give it spice, meaning, passion and heartbreak. When compared to asystole (also known as “flatline”), sinus rhythm is not such a bad option, even with all the valleys. Living a flat line life would be boring, repetitive, secure to the point of mad doldrums. I’m not advocating abandoning family nor commitments, but rather, learning to accept the valleys as just another point in my life’s rhythm. Caring for a temporarily crippled wife? That’s not too bad, especially when taken in the context of having a person in my life who is willing to even be seen with me. Mile 5 of the training run today? Well, there was nothing good to say about that one, save for that it’s about 4.75 miles further than I’ve run in nearly a decade.  As the knees were snapping, the sweat pouring down like a monsoon, and the feet protesting with each stumbled step, it actually brought a smile to my face. My shuffle might embarrass the hell out of me if I ever were to witness it, but least I’m out there, and not flat-lining here on the couch. I’ll never be a runner’s runner – I know this. To survive this thirteen mile race without congestive heart failure will be nothing short of a medical miracle. But I’ll take the unknown inconsistencies of this run, this life, over the alternatives any day.

Uli Family DysFUNction, Less Lardass, Tales of Misery Bones, Dirtbag, JoBoo, RoJo, the Heathens, The Lyin' Dutchman, The Wife