Half Past Awesome

Black: Not As Slimming As I'd Hoped

In the ongoing soap opera known as Trying To Be Less Of A Fatass, I seem to encounter speed bumps on a semi-regular basis. One of the greatest obstacles is a slavery to habit. Sundays at the firehouse are a prime example; as opposed the rest of the work week where we eat at 11am and 5pm, Sundays are  reserved for a brunch that would make a sumo wrestlers heart skip a beat. Bacon, biscuits &  gravy, pancakes, scrambled eggs and fried potatoes are never strangers to the brunch table and I’ve been seduced by all of them. The scale confirms this less-than-ideal affair of the clogged arteries. And, as I try to make healthier choices, nothing sucks harder than eating turkey “bacon”, avoiding the potato pan and nuzzling up to a bowl of oatmeal.

As with all routines in our lives, habits dictate our patterns. Methheads on a bender will spend hours peeling back stolen electrical wire insulation to get at the precious copper that will fund their next hit; RoJo will dictate large portions of time to organizing his sock drawer so that all of the seams line up; The Heathens are devoted to waking up at 5am and making sure their parents are awake too, so that they can discuss their latest Transformer-inspired revelations. Creatures of habit, all. And one of my many habits is to consume food the way I did at age 18, when I had the metabolism of a hummingbird. Always the skinny kid, I ate without consequence until my mid-twenties, as did many of us.

Now would be the time in another setting where the writer would describe how his children inspired him to live better, how the radiating pains shooting down his left arm made him find religion or something like that. Well, those guys can suck it. I’m making the change towards healthier choices for one reason only: it sucks being a mid-thirties fat cliched caricature of yourself. You know it, I know it and since you’re not doing anything about it, I guess I’ll take responsibility for myself.

This came to a head at a local gas station/convenience store with a name I loathe (see my feelings here). I always pay at the pump, seeing no need to venture into the vipers den of M&M’s, 9682-ounce sodas and nasty looking hot dogs on rollers. But this time, I was forced into the situation: I needed to buy a days’ supply of cat food. Mortally embarrassing enough that you purchase cat food at a gas station, I’d be forced to enter a place where Monster Energy Cold Coffee drinks would beckon to me, those damn sirens on the rocks. I began to get a little clammy.

I headed in to the belly of the beast, confident I would not disappoint Ryan and all the other CrossFit fanatics by giving in to the deliciously sweet sights and smells of a highway convenience store. I grabbed the box of overpriced feline food (really? 4 bucks for a days supply? I swear those cats are so fu*#ing unappreciative of my efforts), and calmly strolled up to the counter. Goddddddd, I wanted to buy something, anything. The habit is strong and bred deep within me. I looked over some candy bars, kinds I don’t even like, with an instinct to impulsively purchase. Alcoholics don’t hang around bars, so what the hell was I doing here? Pork rinds were gazing at me longingly, and I found myself eyeballing the lottery tickets as though I might take up gambling today. What the hell is going on here?

Chaotically, I walked to the register and back into different aisles several times, just convinced that I needed something. The corners of my mouth started to water as I began to convince myself I really WAS hungry. After all, I hadn’t eaten in several hours, was working in the shop, c’mon, what’s wrong with a little pick-me-up? Damn, I’d make an ideal drug addict, I follow the script so well. My mouth began watering as a new concept entered my consciousness: beef jerky. My mouth is literally beginning to water at the corners, even as I write this, because beef jerky is so awesome. I found myself at the register, standing in a puddle of my own drool as I rolled the idea over in my mind. I had to excuse myself once again, to dash into the aisle that held my own version of manna. Aisle 3.

At this point, you expect me to tell you of my overwhelming mental strength, where the voice of Ryan is screaming in my head about “form” and not being fat and how I used this imagery to walk away from the sodium-laced death known as jerky. That would make a really cool finale to this story, and maybe it would inspire you in your own journey to better health.

That thought never even crossed my mind.

Finally, box of cat food in one hand and bag of teriyaki beef jerky goodness in the other, I left the store, the checkout clerk shaking her head at the weird dude who obsessively went from aisle to counter and back 23 times, leaving large puddles of drool in his wake.

Beef jerky has protein in it, right?

We’re all good, then.

Uli Less Lardass "Ryan" the Sadist, CrossFit Craziness, RoJo, the Heathens, The Wife

Do you remember, when we were kids, that thirty years old was considered early-onset senior citizen status? Who wanted to live that long? Then, as a pre-teen, sixteen years old was as far ahead as you could plot. At sixteen, you started thinking that life really began and ended between the ages of 18-22. By 18, you were salivating at the thought of being 21 and no longer flirting with that underage drinking stigma that the filthy cops were forever slapping on “innocent” kids looking for fun.  By 21, you start looking forward to lower discounts on insurance when you hit 25. By 25 you don’t want to be “that guy” at college parties, and yet no one takes you seriously in terms of life experience. And when you hit 30, people start bringing Viagra and penis-barbell gag-gifts to your birthday parties.

What the hell happened?

Thirty five years has gone by, that’s what. In my continued struggle against a set of Johnathan Winters-style jowls and a Mr. Belvedere gut, I try and embrace different physical fitness activities, and said activities kick me square in the grapes. Look, I’m even calling them “physical fitness activities” as opposed to playing sports. Cripes, I’m getting old. As I sit here in my office, the hoodie pulled up tight against this wicked 69 degree temp indoors, I shudder a little at the thought. I have now switched from an offensive mode of aging into a defensive posture, whereby I’m forced to defend the 30’s much the way I’m forced to defend the music of the 80’s. This is how old men earn the title “crotchety”. It’s a little bit of a relief that it’s not just me, though. When describing to my mom this couple who were in their 70’s as “elderly”, there was an audible clearing of her throat, followed by what I can only imagine was an arched eyebrow (mind you this is on the phone) and an “Excuse me, young man? Old, you say?”

I didn’t even feel bad at this point telling her that, yes, society does tend to refer to people in that age bracket as “older”. Listen, I’m in my thirties and already The Wife’s teenage clients roll their eyes at the thought of someone my age being useful as anything more than a walking relic.

And that pain in my back that pops up at weird times? Like when I’m pulling up my turnout pants and boots to make a fire run? That one? It’s f—-ing debilitating and embarrassing as well.

It’s really just another reminder. Another reminder that the fight against going downhill is an uphill battle, one that requires twice as much effort, inhuman amounts of willpower (why CAN’T I eat two pounds of bacon and drink nine Guinnesses?) and a healthy dose of Ibuprofen.

A sense of humor helps, too.

Old People Rule. I should know….I’m one of them now.

Uli Less Lardass, Tales of Misery The Wife

"Ryan" getting deep into it

A few nights ago I experienced a first. While awaiting our turn “in the box” at the CrossFit gym, three guys who are varsity-caliber athletes were in a training evolution that mandated taking their shirts off and tossing heavy weights around as casually as I might flick away a sweaty towel. Of course, “Ryan” was a part of this group. It turns out that these boys are competing in CrossFit regional feats of manliness in St. Louis over the weekend (see here) and are shoveling in last minute workouts to fine tune their grunts and wheezes.

MEANWHILE, the working class mortals (the rest of us) were getting our warmups in before another session of torture, when, out of nowhere, I start hearing some cat-calls. And, no, it wasn’t callous dudes whistling at the women in the gym – rather, out of nowhere, a couple of the ladies were verbally swooning over these muscle-y he-men as they pounded out one lift after another. And, out of the corner of my eye, I caught the Wife, who was NOT there for a workout (but to pick up the boys), hanging around, just to, in her words, “check it all out”. Her version of “checking it all out” involves her jaw hanging slack with a little drool coming out of the corner while these taut bastards are hefting the iron.

From the far side of the group my buddy’s MOM Beth says “Hey, how can I concentrate with all this Man Candy happening?” This was answered by a bunch of agreement in the form of cackles and hoots by the ladies and none of which was noticed by the lifters; it went over like a turd in a punchbowl to the rest of us boys in the group.

“Sorry Beth, I’ll try to reign it in!” I shouted back at her, as though she were referring to my self-perceived manliness. This at least earned a chuckle from the rest of us emasculated-types. I feel a need to stick up for us, the muscle-challenged. The workout continued in earnest, with the guys focusing on strength and form and the ladies focusing on the bodies of the bad-asses working out behind us. Inspiration through envy I suppose.

After the class, I caught up with Beth as she was describing her feelings about either the workout or tax laws, I couldn’t really tell. Nonetheless, I apologized for distracting her with my distinct lack of muscles and excess body hair. I can’t help it if I toss manly pheromones out like so much candy at a parade. It’s not my fault. She just laughed at me, dismissively. She said to her conversational partner, “Oh yeah, this is Uli, you should read his stuff, it’s really funny.” Although thankful for the compliment, when I step into the gym, it’s all about making my body look less like melting wax and more like chiseled cheese.

It must be time to come to terms with reality.

So I looked her right in the eye, and I said, I says, “those boys may be Man-Candy, but I’m Intellectual Man-Candy, and you can’t find that in any old gym. Take a moment and drink it all in”. I then attempted to flex my giant hair as if to prove how big my brains are. It ended up looking more like I was suffering an aneurysm, which in turn led to more laughter.

I just can’t win.

Uli Less Lardass "Ryan" the Sadist, CrossFit Craziness, The Wife

As of late, there has been some concern with regards to my ongoing detente with the trainer at CrossFit known as “Ryan”. In an effort to further defame his character, I did a little research. It turns out that “Ryan” is not only a sadistic trainer by day, he is also an MMA fighter when the opportunity arises. A glance at YouTube shows one of his matches, one which I happened to attend long before I knew him. While he was down in the ring beating the holy bejeezus out of this guy (see here.…he’s the one in white shorts) I was up in the stands getting sloshed on overpriced donkey piss being passed off as beer. Perhaps this bit of information would have come in handy before I challenged him to a sumo-suit style match today (an example of which can be seen here). I need to determine which discipline in which I might be able to best this killer of men, because in the arena of physical prowess, I’ll be left in a big ol’ puddle of pummeled mess.

Time to take stock. I somehow doubt the city will allow me to hijack two fire department ladder trucks and issue a “race for glory” style test of manhood down the mean streets of Springfield. Nor could I ask him to deal with an unhinged meth-head wearing a chili-dog wrapper as a hat while claiming ownership of the dumpster behind the firehouse……these kinds of events don’t occur with enough consistency to hold his attention. Clearly, “Ryan” has the ability to crush me physically and he’s getting his masters degree in something, or so I’m told, thereby eradicating my ability to wipe the floor with him in a round of Celebrity Jeopardy. These are the kind of dilemmas that keep my cocktail tumbler full. My stress level was reaching red-line levels when I realized that the only dimension in which I could beat this man was in a bacon eating contest. As a child, I would eat raw bacon for sport. As an adult, I’ve been known to floss with bacon. When it comes to the fruit of the pig, few can match my ability to ingest such mass quantities of fried pork. I’m not proud of this fact. Also, there seems to be a very slim chance that frying bacon would be allowed at the gym, so again, another roadblock.

I can’t beat the man with wicked sarcasm and under-appreciated smart-assedness. No matter how many times I can dead-lift a broomstick, I won’t command his respect until somewhere near 300lbs. is on the bar. He’s not intimidated by my excessive body hair nor impressed by my ability to break a sweat just thinking about breaking a sweat.

And then it came to me in a flash of clairvoyance that can only come after several adult beverages……..what if I actually listened to “Ryan” and stopped trying engage him in this war of wills? What if it turns out that he’s not the devil incarnate but merely a man trying to better his fellow travelers through the regimen of physical fitness? How about enough bitching and on to lifting? Wouldn’t that be a better alternative than trying to undermine him as a trainer, a human, a person who cares about the physical well-being of his charges? Sweet Jews for Jesus, am I finally growing up?

Nah – that’s gotta be the rum talking. The plotting continues…….

Uli Less Lardass "Ryan" the Sadist, Add new tag, CrossFit Craziness

What is the measure of a man? This is a question that has eluded philosophers, teachers, coaches and the IRS for generations, and I think I’ve found the answer. It’s around 45 pounds. How can I say this with such certainty? Because that is the precise weight of a lifting bar. You know what I’m talking about, one of those contraptions that metal plates are affixed to and then lifted, hefted and tossed about the gym. As it so happens, these bars are extremely prolific, and I have yet to go to a gym that did not employ several of them as a means by which to intimidate and abuse paying customers. Not coincidentally, I think said bars are also a tool of the devil, although the science behind that theory is still a little shaky.

Yesterdays workout at the Springfield CrossFit gym involved lifting these bars in a movement known as a “clean”. I’d describe it to you, but that would be akin to me describing cold fusion principles: I’d just be making it up. Here’s the downside of all this business – outside of some lame attempts in the past to bench press and curl, I’ve never in my life lifted weights, so I lack what some call “proper form”. Roughly translated, what this means is that while all the other people are pushing around the iron and getting all pumped up, I’m having fits in the corner and risking some serious back injury while making all the noises I assume you’re supposed to make while lifting weights. I don’t know, I’m just faking it the whole time. I grunt and heave and sweat a lot, but really, nothing’s getting done.

Unfortunately for me, this does not go un-noticed by the sadists, aka trainers, here at CrossFit. In order to protect his identity, I’ll call the trainer from yesterday “Ryan”, since his real name sounds exactly like that, but with a “B”.  So anyways, “Ryan” didn’t waste much time in sending me to my own corner of the mat and make demands that I show him my “form” with regards to this “clean” lift. Using only the bar. What follows does not please him, and I am guessing that is because it resembles the mating dance of an irritated baboon. Face red, sweat running down my leg hair, I set the bar back down with a self satisfied look on my face while “Ryan” looks at me as though he just caught me making love to trash can. He’s incredulous. I’m good with it. And ne’er the two shall meet. He spends the next half hour keeping tabs of my form, taking enough time out of coaching others to yell at me “ULI! Again! No, I don’t care about your “feelings”! AGAIN!“ (or something to that effect). I tried to shake my fist at him, but by this time, I’ve no strength left. It looks more like some sort of limp-wristed wave, matching nicely with the drool leaking out of the corner of my mouth. He continued to glare at me as though seriously considering outfitting me with a helmet to wear. He seemed to take offense that I refused to “open my hips” for him during these lifts, and that’s just because I’m not that kind of guy. I’m no man-slut, no exceptions; just ask anyone. No, scratch that, just take my word for it.

I can see that this “Ryan” character is not going to buy any of my formless bullshit, so I try in earnest to do it right. Out of 743 attempts I get it right exactly three times. That’s a number I can live with. “Ryan” can’t. The war of wills is going to be an ongoing engagement – but I recently recieved vital information that shall give me an unmistakeable advantage. Apparently he harbors an unhealthy fear of lobsters. No idea why, but when I head into the gym tonight? You bet your ass I’ll be toting a couple of fresh cockroaches of the ocean, one under each arm, ready to again do battle. And this time I’ll be sure to use the proper form.

Uli Less Lardass "Ryan" the Sadist, Add new tag, CrossFit Craziness

So many insidious sitcoms and romantic comedies are based on the put-upon, far-too-hot-for-him wife and the bumbling/goofy/fat/incapable-of-communicating husband. As an hombre, I find this stereotype funny, reasonably accurate and at the same time far too formulaic. But then, how else can you keep someone amused for 23 minutes, if not by pointing out how inept the man is and how the woman is but one salvation away from saint status?

So I sat back and watched with a smug laugh as Ray Romano (Everybody Loves Raymond) threaded the line between being “adorable” and “a horses ass” in the eyes of his wife. I thought Seth Rogen (Knocked Up) played the lovable relationship ignoramus very well as he learned to deal with a woman he impregnated after a one night stand. But these buffoon-like caricatures were merely an exaggeration of the notion of the clueless male, right?

Turns out once again, truth can be more idiotic than fiction. I am living proof of this. I wanted to write the tale down, so that as it gets embellished over the years, I’ll have something to point at as a way of keeping the story from growing too fantastic. It went down like this: if you’ve been reading these posts at all, you know that recently I became a member of the local Cross Fit Gym here in Springfield. I did this for several reasons, but primarily to keep from achieving a weight that is greater than the scale is able to produce. I’d like to be around for the kids, too. The Wife is joining the same gym this Saturday and is harboring great fear as to what the trainers are going to make her endure, and with good reason. Those trainers are sadistic health enthusiasts with a drive bordering on zealotry, and a knack for producing results. So, as I limp home from each session, I report to The Wife, giving her the details of the torture while moaning all the while. She’s flat out terrified, a fact I don’t help by pointing out to her that the gym is filled with like-minded youth, getting all fit and looking far too good.

I was excited to tell her yesterday, then, that I’d met a very nice lady working out there, around our age, who was interested in getting a new hair stylist. I piped up that my wife, soon to join this entourage of pain, is a stylist always happy to meet a new client. The Wife was pleased with this effort. And it was only in the summation of the story that I committed the ultimate faux-pas and made a statement that will follow me to my grave. When asked about this new acquaintance, I gave a brief description and ended it with….“she’s very attractive, an attractive older person”. TO BE CLEAR – I MEANT THIS IN TERMS OF THE NORMAL “YOUNGER SET” THAT IS AT THE GYM. When quizzed as to just how old this older person was, I said…..

“oh, you know, late thirties, maybe forty.”

This was not my finest hour.

The veritable shit-storm that followed, both in the house and online (thanks, Facebook status update followers! Glad to know just what an idiot I am!), has only served to further diminish whatever dignity I once held. There is no backpedaling from this one. There is no excuse. There is only one option, and that is to go down with the ship, which is not a problem for me, since I seem to step in it more and more these days. I’d like to think that our lives are reasonably more intricate and complex than a sitcom could successfully portray, but I’d just be wrong about that, too. And, unfortunately for her, it seems I never learn.

Uli Less Lardass, Tales of Misery CrossFit Craziness, The Wife

Here we go again. Another New Year’s and another set of broken promises lie before me. I’ve already listed my set of what not to dos (read here), but the truth is that some changes need to be enacted, post haste. The reason is that my descent into middle age lard-assedness has been given an unfair advantage by my sheer laziness and unwillingness to make decent food and exercise choices. How many of us have sat and watched some mixed martial arts fight, football game, jai-alai tournament and thought, “hell yeah, I could probably do that. I know for sure I coulda ten years ago.” I love the little lies we tell ourselves as we order another round of cheese fries (ranch dressing on the side, garcon). The truth is that left to my own devices, I will comply with the overwhelming demands of the convenient, delicious fat-food cartels and before long TLC will be doing a special about how a crane is required to move my bed to the local obesity clinic. Well, maybe not that bad, but it’ll be damn close.

I’ve been going to cycling classes at the local Y, still play hockey and once in awhile I go to a Pilates class, if for no other reason than to hear myself grunt and pop. And, while I’ve enjoyed limited results, the truth is that the scale is giving the middle finger to these attempts. After torquing my knee attempting to train for a half marathon, I began to appreciate what my body was screaming at me: “YO, fatass, I can’t take this abuse anymore, so I’m compressing your knee to the point of pain. Take that, asshole, and lay off the special #7 at the Peking House, for the love of Christ!”

Motivated by The Wife’s recent purging of our refrigerator of all that is not raw, green and/or disgusting, I decided to jump on her bandwagon. We signed up for a Biggest Loser competition going on here locally (in which I intend to take home the entire pot of prize money, even if I have to adopt a temporary meth habit), and I signed up at the local Cross-Fit gym, where the motivational theme seems to be centered around puking. Several other firemen are working out there and have seen some awesome results, results that will benefit us in our everyday work environment. As was put to us so eloquently in the introductory course… “when in life are you going to be required push a metal bar off of your chest?” However, when you get up off of a toilet, you’re basically doing a squat, and there’s a lot of that sort of thing going down in this gym. I like this concept, because in my twisted mind, I’ll claim a workout every time I get off the can.

So, we’ll see. The goal here is to chuck somwhere between 40 and 50 clunkers off this tired body, and in the meantime derail the heart attack that awaits. Adios, deep fried Chinese food, we might meet again once in awhile, but I doubt it. Bacon….it’s over, I’m seeing someone else, and her name is “chicken”. She’s not near as tasty and naughty as you are, but the ugly truth is, you never cared for me anyways – you just wanted me for my gut. Guinness and coffee, I’m keeping you on the team, but you’re getting a lot less playing time; you have to understand, it’s for the greater good. To the rest of my body, I deeply apologize for what I’m about to put you through…..just know that it’s gonna hurt me a whole lot more than it will you.

Uli Less Lardass The Wife

*The following actually occurred the other day as I was changing in the Y.M.C.A. locker room. I thought it would make for a great short skit because it’s so fantastically nuts. It’s all true, except at the end where I beat the man to death with a shoe; it was just where I wanted to take it.*

Enter men’s locker room. We have a teenage employee who is trying to run a vacuum over the carpeted portions, clearly unamused by this aspect of his job. He is wearing a sweater of some sort that may, or may not, advertise a local Christian-based university. This is unclear.

In front of our intrepid employee sits a patron of the gym. Think Jon Lovitz but with much, much taller hair and about 250 pounds heavier. He is addressing the employee, who we shall call “David”, and in a state of undress. “Goliath”, as we’ll know him, is lecturing him on the evils of Los Angeles and the virtues of spending each moment of your life in praise of Jesus.

Off to the side we find Uli trying to find his lung that he is sure he lost in a cardio class a few minutes earlier. This is the conversation he catches:

Goliath: Yeah, you don’t ever want to go to L.A., man. Nothing but drinking and drugs. It’s all I did before I was saved and spent my whole life in service to Jesus. You know Jesus, right, man?

David: Yeah, I do. We go to church (anxiously gripping the handle of the vacuum. Upset at Goliath’s naked-ness)

Goliath: When were you born, man?

David: Um, 1990.

Goliath: Yeah, I quit the drugs and drinking when you were one year old. 1991. And now not a minute goes by where I don’t serve Jesus. I got out of L.A. at the right time, and Jesus told me to come here. It’s awesome, man. You can’t afford L.A., either. It’s like $400/month for an apartment

Uli: (in his mind) – What are you serving Jesus? Lunch? And since when did an apartment in L.A. cost $400? Are we talking in Watts? Are you just lying?

David: That…….that’s great. I, um, need to get back to work.

Goliath: You need to have a good Bible study at least three times a week. Are you doing this? How many time a week do you have organized Bible study?

David: Uh, we meet, like once or..

Goliath: No, man, you need to meet at least three times a week. You need to be a spiritual warrior, man. I’m telling you, I can tell, you’re a fighter for Christ, just like me. Three times a week, that’s what it takes.

David: Ok. Sure, whatever, man

Uli: (in his mind) C’mon, David, just tell this fat, obnoxious ass that you don’t take Biblical orders from a naked obese lunatic. Do it, David.

Goliath: You don’t study three times a week, in a group, dude, you’ll end up like I was, out in L.A. with the wrong people, doing dumb things. You don’t want to do that. Jesus wants more for you.

David: Yeah, I know, so can I just, uh get to where you are and….. (pointing to the vacuum)

Goliath: Sure, sure, sure. I just want to look out for my brother, man (as he scoots away, tugging up his tighty-whitey style underwear). I just am always happy to talk to people who get it, man. I mean, really get it. Jesus is the only way, and too many people don’t love him enough to announce it, ya know?

Uli: (in his mind) Like, announcing it in the nude in a men’s locker room, you ridiculous jagaloon? Let the man do his work. I can see his uncomfortable shame from here.

David: Well, it’s been really nice talking but I gotta get back to work (leaves the vacuum where it sits and heads out of the locker room)

Goliath: Okay, brother, just know Jesus is there for you. So am I! Don’t go to L.A.! God bless!

We see David just outside the locker room, worrying the corner off of a towel as he contemplates his next move. Should he risk retrieving his abandoned vacuum cleaner? How long does Goliath intend to stay in a state of undress? Should he just quit his job?

Cut back into the locker room where we find Uli beating Goliath to death with a shower slipper, demanding to know where he can find an apartment in the Los Angeles area for $400 a month.

Fade To Black.

Uli Less Lardass, Tales of Misery

Every year, around this time of year, pundits ’round the world remind us to be thankful of the simple things in our lives. That’s great. It soothes the guilt of conspicuous consumption and makes us feel a little holier-than-ourselves for at least a week or two. So I’m thinking of writing something that has no connection whatsoever to such profound emotion; I thought I’d fire off a list of five things I’m asking Santa for this Christmas, and they’re in no particular order.

1. The Ability to Choke Pat Sajak From Long Distances. I find him condescending and arrogant, and for some reason I’d love to be able to make the sign and ol’ Pat would start clutching his throat, no matter where he was in the world. That sort of power would make me very, very happy, and I’m not sure why.
2. A Fully Funded Gulfstream V Aircraft. That’s right….I said fully funded. It’s no miracle in and of itself to be able to wiggle through the financing process of jet ownership; it’s the maintenance, operating costs and other assorted minutiae that would make owning such a fine bird a bummer. It does me no good to have one parked in my shop if I can’t afford to fly up Minnesota for gelled fish eyeballs at a moment’s notice.
3. An Hour With Those In Life Who’ve Wronged Me, Ever. If my mortal enemies, nemesis’s (nemesii?), and sworn foe cannot be reasoned with in an hour, it will probably never happen. So, in the spirit of the season, I’d like to spend an hour with each of them to try and see through our differences. That, or inflict great bodily harm. This should take approximately three years, by my calculations.
4. The Motorcycle. We’ve talked about this in several posts. The Wife won’t ever let me get one, but I doubt she could deny you, Santa. So get on it fat man, let’s make this happen. Speaking of which………
5. My Metabolism, Circa 1991. Today, I ate chili and am, literally, chewing on Tums as I write this post. I gained three pounds from the Tums alone. I long for the days when I could order every single thing from a Taco Bell without irony. Essentially, this must be how Alec Baldwin feels. I was watching him in “The Hunt For Red October” and then later that week on “30 Rock”, and instead of laughing at his comedic presence, I was empathizing with what is no doubt his crippling sense of self-loathing. No wonder he screamed at his daughter. He probably couldn’t fit into his pants that morning. Right there with you, Alec.

Uli Less Lardass, Motorcycle Dreamin' The Wife

SORT of looks like Aunt Viper

The last couple of days spent on this trip went by in a seeming blur, no doubt influenced by a desire to return to the barn and seasoned with liberal amounts of imbibing. My visits with The Author and RoJo’s family were complimented by an unexpected visit to Aunt Viper. Aunt Viper is The Lyin’ Dutchman’s sister, and, much to her chagrin, she was given the moniker by none other than her own brother, my father. I believe the sentence went something like this: “I tell you what, Ool, that woman is a goddamn viper.” This is the way the crazy wing of the family relates to one another.

Aunt Viper and I haven’t spoken in nearly nine months, ever since The Lyin’ Dutchman’s latest flight into lunacy involved blaming my brothers and I for the implosion of his marriage. When told of such accusations, Aunt Viper had a classic response: “THIS IS WHAT WE DO! We hurt the ones we love when we hurt!” In my book, that’s called ridiculous and I told her as much. There was much yelling involved, and Aunt Viper ended the argument in her typical fashion; she told me to have no further contact with her ever again, seeing as how she now considered me dead to her. This was followed by a ritual slamming down of the phone from her end. Totally standard operating procedure.

I dropped in on her at her office and her first words when she saw me were “Well, well, well……look who’s back.” This was followed by several clucks and a small hug;  then, as she patted me these words of endearment came spilling from her mouth… “Christ, Ool, you’re getting fat.” Sigh. She then led me by the ear as I’d refused to got get some lunch “on her tab” across the street and marched me into a deli where she promptly demanded that a tri-tip sandwich be made. She is of the school that if someone doesn’t understand her thick-as-mud accent, then she should just shout her demands; her favorite target of such tirades is anyone of Mexican decent. No one raises her hackles so completely like the Latinos – she just can’t hate them enough. As I ate half of a sandwich, I asked her if she and her office-mates ate the same thing when they came here. She told me, no, they do not, because it’s too fattening. “Perfect for you, though, Ool. Tell me, are you curling your hair now? What the hell are you doing with your hair?” I informed her that no, this fat boy was indeed, NOT, curling his hair. She dismissed this as an outright lie and intimated that maybe her suspicions about my sexuality were more accurate than I’d care to admit. Despite my having a lovely wife, kids and a propensity for the opposite sex, Aunt Viper thinks most men are nothing more than closeted homosexuals. My opinion is that this is a line of defense she employs when people get too nosy about her spinster status. I tell her as much and she informs me that I have no idea what I’m talking about, as usual. Family.

I arrived this morning at o’dark thirty at LAX to head home (Thanks to RoJo and Amy for their hospitality!) and was greeted by the most hostile ticket agent in the L.A. Basin. When I came up to her counter and said “Good morning, how are ya?”, she just stared at me and slowly picked up the p.a. loudspeaker, angrily announcing “Ladies and gentlemen, when you come up to the ticket counter, you must have your I.D. ready, this will make the process go much more smoothly.” Turns out my I.D. was in my other hand, but I was too busy trying to be all friendly for her liking. I then slapped the plastic card on her counter and made some remark about how some folks just aren’t morning people. She responded by seating me at the back of the plane near a toilet. Score one for the asshole airline employee.

I then met the same customer service etiquette when dealing with the T.S.A. of L.A. They don’t want to be told “Hello!” They want I.D. and they want nothing more. In an ironic twist, there was someone sitting in my seat, and when we compared boarding passes, we were both assigned seat 31D. This counter agent was nothing, if not relentless. I then noticed the guy occupying my seat had, as his name on the pass, my exact name. It then occurred to me that perhaps my sadistic counter agent fell a little in love with me, and was surly as a response to her magnetic attraction to me. She couldn’t get me off her mind, so she kept typing Ulrich Gulje on her computer and assigning groups of people to sit on my lap. I could see that our relationship was going to be tumultuous from the start. In other words, a typical Los Angeles love affair, where mutual hatred was the primary attraction. Score one for the hopeless romantic.

As the plane descended from its cruising altitude and we dipped below the cloud line, I recognized the December hinterlands of the Ozarks coming into view. If California is, in the words of my Rogersville neighbor “the land of fruits and nuts”, then Missouri is the section of the freezer that is in desperate need of a defrosting. People are iced over, there’s no snow to speak of, and there’s a pretty good chance there’s freezer burn on our asses.

The family unit was waiting at the curb, both Heathens eager to tell on one another and pretend they missed me. The Wife seemed glad to see me, and in that moment, I knew that I’d have to end my dangerous relationship with the ticket agent. I don’t think she’d fit in too well here in the freezer section.

Uli Less Lardass, Travelblogue, West Coast shenanigans Aunt Viper, RoJo, The Author, the Heathens, The Lyin' Dutchman, The Wife