Half Past Awesome

This is the time of year when, as it gets cold and icy, residents of this fair city begin to utilize emergency services on a more frequent basis. Old people slip and fall. Methamphetamine cooks move their labs indoors to get out of the elements, then proceed to catch the house on fire during their forays into illegal chemistry. If you are one of the folks that decides to dial 911 for an emergency, I thought I might offer you a primer. The following is a list you may want to consult before you make that call.

DONT’S

• If you are going to take the time to report a house fire from your cell phone as you’re driving down the road, don’t be be the drive-by caller who then disappears. Show some intestinal fortitude. When we show up at 2 am ready to work only to find out you’ve called in an extravagant Christmas light display as a fire, I want to put a face to it. And then I want to laugh at/choke you, just a little.
• When you have not had a bowel movement in three days, please don’t wait until 3:15 am until calling 911. I’m sure it was hurting in the middle of the day, and really? There’s not a whole lot the fire department can do for your situation. Know when to go. Like, after the first two days.
• In the same vein, don’t chance a trip to the toilet if you’re over 600 lbs. and no one else is in the house. Chances are you’ll get stuck, and while we’re happy to serve, I hate to think of you all alone there, wedged between a wall and the stool for hours until discovered by your landlady.
• Please don’t get all indignant if I’ve been to your house several times for the smell of smoke and ask you if you’ve been cooking again. I’m not insulting your cooking skills, I’m insulting your ignorance. Know the difference.
• Don’t ask for a light for your smoke after you’ve called us for “shortness of breath” while hooked up to oxygen. The answer will always and forever be no.
• If you threaten your Old Lady with burning her house down, don’t act all surprised when you’re arrested for the actual act. Consequences, my friend.
• When we’re arriving at a working house fire, don’t wave your arms in the street like a raving lunatic, shouting and acting as though you’re having a seizure. I got it. I’m going to the house that has flames coming out of it. That’s where I’m going.
• Don’t use your charcoal-fired grill as a means of heating your home. Bonfires on the living room floor rarely work out, either.
• If you or a relative calls us because you’re jacked up on meth, or drunk, or both…..don’t get all huffy when I ask if you’re speeding. Save that one for the cops. It’s not like you called just to spend time with me, so let’s just dispense with the niceties. Stop bullshitting everyone in the room – there really aren’t bugs crawling all over your eyeballs, you’re just high.

Do’s

• Do keep the battery in your smoke detector. It sounds pretty bad when you tell us, as smoke and flames are rolling out of your house, that you took the battery out because “it kept beeping and shit when I’m watching my COPS”.
• You do need to know that if I find your kid covered in fleas when we respond to your house, I’ll be calling the Division of Family Services immediately upon my return to the station. This will be after I’ve asked you about the flea bites and your response is “I dunno. Must be the chicken poxes or somethin’ “
• If you decide to give birth in a liquor store, you do need to understand that this will become a piece of fire station lore and gossip. And you do need to know we’ll be describing it in vivid detail.
• As well, if we find you tied up in some sort of kinky bondage play gone wrong, we’ll respect your privacy and never murmur a word of the details outside of the firehouse. But that sort of story?  You do know that it becomes currency like gold around the station dining table, right?
• Do put on clothes, if at all possible. And no, belly-baring tank tops were most likely not designed with you in mind.
• If you own a vicious, baby-killing pit bull, please do tell us about it before we go into whatever section of your “house” you keep it chained up in. I don’t care how sweet you think the dog is; it hates us and the feeling is mutual.
• Do carefully consider your weapons of choice when you embark on a mission of revenge. Two baseball bats? Okay, that’s reasonable. Two weedeaters? That’s just funny, and apparently hurts like hell.
• When we enter your domicile, do give consideration to the fact that I’m not a total idiot. When you say “sorry, I was just fixin’ to clean up” and I see years of cat shit and trash accumulated on the floor, you’re merely insulting my keen sense of observation. Besides, you called us for emergency response. We expect to see you at your worst, so just let it be. But clean the cat box, will ya?
• When you call 911 and we arrive to find your house engulfed in flames and there is one of the No New Taxes signs planted in your yard (*note – that sales tax was to fund your fire dept.*), know that we do, indeed, appreciate the irony. I hope you do too, you turdblossom.

Uli Siren Songs, Tales of Misery

I know I told you last night that I’d be posting about how I regained my status as a man, and I will, but not today. Today, on the eighth anniversary of the September 11th attacks on our country, I’d like to stop and pay tribute. Most of us can well remember where we were and what we were doing during those tragic moments; it’s the JFK assassination denominator of my generation – “where were you when the attacks occurred / when JFK was shot?”

I was a rookie fireman on duty at Old Fire Station 1 when the terrorists began their murderous rampage. Of all the moments that day, I most clearly remember standing behind one of the beat up old recliners leaning forward to see and hear what was happening on our crappy old television. I remember watching the long lines of firefighters heading up into the buildings and thinking to myself  “what a hellacious scene to be walking into”. And, as the towers came crashing down, in that very moment, I remember vividly thinking “all those brothers just died. I just watched them die. Right there”. I was left hollow for a moment, followed by overwhelming sorrow; enough sorrow to feel the tears come down my cheeks, sad at the thought of so many virtual strangers dying right in front of the nations eyes.

I use the word virtual, because there is a common link to firefighters around the world forged in tradition and brotherhood. So, although I personally know none of the twelve thousand-plus members of the FDNY, there is an occupational bond there that is so subtle as to be almost unnoticed by the outside world; the loss of 343 in one day is emotionally staggering, even from thousands of miles away. It’s like you just lost an entire clan of cousins who you don’t really know all that well, you just know you’re related. The sadness was tinged by the knowledge that those guys must have known they were walking into a death trap of a situation. I wasn’t there – I can’t say WHAT they knew; but even if they were aware of the enormity of the situation and the inevitable results, I doubt that any of them would have turned around.

When you accept the responsibility of being a firefighter (or a cop, or a member of the armed forces), you always know what you’re signing up to do. You accept the prospect of dangerous potential, the standards that you’ll be held to, the very trust that is placed in you by the public. You accept these duties because deep down you WANT to help, you WANT to be the guy people turn to when it hits the fan, you WANT to feel the thrill of adrenaline as you kick the door in and the smoke pours out. But what you DON”T want is to die. Nobody but martyrs and freaky zealots seek death in any of our actions. Like the chance of getting hit walking through a crosswalk, you just assume that there’s always a random possibility that it may be your last run when the bells strike. If you dwell on it more than that, you’ll go mad with anxiety over something that has a good chance of never happening. And so another shift is logged in the books.

Except that it wasn’t for these guys, and it wasn’t for the rest of the firefighting world, either. That so many innocent people had to die in New York, Pennsylvania and the Pentagon that day is not lost on anyone. But when I cried with the rest of our nation that day, I was lamenting the lives of so many of the brotherhood snatched away from their families and loved ones. That’s 343 dads, brothers, cousins, and neighbors wiped out by an insane act of cowardice. All these years later it’s no less overwhelming to tally the losses in my head. The tears are long gone, the anger replaced with a sense of routine structure /chaos and another eight years worth of shifts to show for it. But I’ve never forgotten the sadness I felt as so many of my kind perished one fall morning. I have the utmost respect for those true heroes who died on September 11th and even more so for the brave souls who had to report to the FDNY firehouses for the next shift.

Eight years to the day, and here I am again in a fire station. The call load is normal for us here on Truck 2, the guys are busting each others chops over meals, and outside of a History Channel Sept.11th marathon, it’s no different than any other day at the firehouse. That’s as it should be – we all have jobs to do and lives to live. Just the same, today the specter of that day lingers in my mind, in our collective consciousness, and I hope it always does; we should never forget the loss of life nor the spectacular sacrifices made that day. So, if you think of it, take a moment to remember those we’ve lost; that much respect they deserve.

Uli Siren Songs

The funniest scenarios I run into at the fire department always involve a member of the lunatic fringe; one way or another we end up interacting with them in the role of Crazy and me as an amused bystander. This is not to say that the nutjobs don’t have their fair share of emergency response needs; it just makes my day all the better when they decide to call 911 and bring us into their world.

But once in awhile, a relatively normal member of society engages us and then the tables get turned. I end up being the one looking unhinged while they end up looking at me with one eyebrow cocked up high. And this is exactly how yesterday’s shift began.

We were out in the street behind the station rolling out some hose for a training evolution with our rookie when a kindly looking older gentleman shuffled on up to me and asked if he could bend my ear a moment. “Well, of course!” I told him, thinking that chatting with one of our denizens sure beats lugging around 5″ hose. He was toting a folding metal shopping cart, on his way down to the stinky supermarket on the corner, a cutoff sock around his wrist to keep his watch from rubbing a raw spot (I guess?) and enough ear hair to fashion a Dickie turtleneck thingy; immediately I liked this guy.

He says to me “So…I know this isn’t on your agenda, but do you know of any way to get squirrels out of my attic? I mean those little bastards have really done a number on my insulation, the wiring, and God knows what else. What would you do, sir?” I have to say….I was taken slightly aback. I’ve never been consulted on pest control issues, and I was flattered he valued my opinion, which may stem from the fact that it looks like rodents have taken up residence in my hair. Nonetheless. After mulling over the idea for a nanosecond, I told him that he ought to call a pest control company, that I thought I saw a truck the other day that said “Critter Control” or something like that on it’s side, and that’d be a good place to begin. Apparently, this wasn’t the answer my new friend was looking for; he said, “No, my son-in-law, he’s got a pest control business, and I can’t call him.” I CAN’T CALL HIM. What in THE HELL? My friend began to look agitated and went on to list the multitude sins these squirrels had committed against his home. No further mention of the son-in-law.

At this point, the station captain is starting to look over at us and no doubt worrying that the man’s angry gesturing is a result of something I’ve said or done. Again, I am asked what I would do by my elderly inquisitor, and after yet another moment of mulling, I told him he could call the Animal Control and see if they could point him in the right direction. No. That was not what he was looking for, either. I’m beginning to guess that he wanted me to solve the problem as an agent of the Fire Department. As in “drive the ladder truck over to his house and engage in hostilities with the squatting squirrels”. The fact that he kept staring at my shoulders when he talked to me was starting to un-nerve me a little as well; what, you can’t look me in the eye as you dismiss every single bit of wisdom I am doling out here on the street?

So, having run out of reasonable options for dealing with his pests, I answered as best I could when he asked how the FD could help get rid of his squirrels. I looked him dead in the eye (which meant stooping a little) and saying “Sir, if you want us to flood the squirrels out, your house is going to have to catch on fire first.” I then gave him a smile to indicate that I was kidding around, that I wasn’t serious about him torching his own home. His eyes wandered up towards mine and then he said…..

“Well, would I get a free smoke detector if it did?”

Utterly priceless.

Uli Siren Songs

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?

Uli Amigos, Siren Songs, Tales of Misery, Wandering Ponderings Bones, Dirtbag, Fury The Landscaper, RoJo, the Heathens, The Wife

In order to mark my return to the firehouse after a few weeks off, I thought I’d go whole hog and work out before shift, too. This was a dumb decision. I go to stationary cycling classes (er, spin) regularly, ride to work once in a while, play some ice hockey and even go so far as to attend yoga/pilates classes once or twice a week (don’t laugh too hard till you try it. Burns like acid).  But if I really, truly want to get rid of the junk hanging off the waist, it’s got to be running, a sport I loathe with utter contempt. It’s hard on the knees, I sound like a gagging water buffalo when doing it and it looks as though I might be in the throes of a grand mal seizure when I attempt it. Nonetheless, it is the one tried and true method of getting rid of the Guinness and baconic residue.

So I gave in to my co-worker JoBoo’s demands and joined him in an attempt to “run” three miles before work. THREE MILES. Might as well have been the Battan Death March at that rate. I thought I might share my experiences as they related to what was cranking out of the ipod. The mileage/time sequence may be off, since I could barely jog, much less keep track, but you’ll get the idea.

Mile One-ish
Song: Nuthin’ But A G Thang by Dr. Dre
Turns out this is a good one for me to keep pace to. And by “pace” I mean it’s the kind of slow that you might commit a drive-by shooting to. Which is EXACTLY like the kind of crime I feel like committing within the first fifty feet of the run. Holy S#*t why in the world did I tell JoBoo I’d do this? This is stupid. I am already hurting. I want nothing more than to quit. My lungs agree that this is a good idea and demand I stop immediately. I don’t comply.

Mile 1.2-ish
Song: The Lightning Storm by Flogging Molly
The song title is what I am hoping against hope will happen right over my head at this very moment, thereby electrocuting me and making me forget the pain in my feet and inner chest cavity. As an interesting aside, I think a homeless guy just pushed a shopping cart right by us, we’re going so slow. JoBoo doesn’t look affected in the least by this torture, making my desire to stab him reach a feverish level. I want so badly to kill him, but don’t have the energy to complete the task.

Mile 2-something
Song:  Too Much Sex (Too Little Jesus) by The Drive By Truckers
This song is totally irrelevant to the situation at hand, but I like how lost the protagonist is in the tune (spiritually speaking), because I, too, feel lost. Lost in the sense that I lost a lung somewhere around a half mile ago, and this has forced the first “walking” foray of the trip so far. I vow to only walk 1/2 a block, but in reality I would jump onto the the bumper of a bus right now and hitch a ride back to the firehouse if I could.

Mile 2-and a something-ish
Song: Gold Digger by Kanye West
Since I don’t know if what I am doing technically qualifies as “running”, I assume I am experiencing a “shuffler’s high” right now, since I am having all sorts of mental revelations. It strikes me that this song has ABSOLUTELY no chance of becoming a reality in my life, since I am worth approximately nothing financially; this fact makes me grin like a lopsided baboon as I grunt my way up the street. Also, I almost fall on my face as I try and play Tetris with the brick patterns in the sidewalk, a slightly less funny fact. JoBoo is nowhere to be seen when this happens, and it’s too bad. Perhaps he would have died of an asthma attack laughing at me, which would serve him right.

Mile 3.000001
Song: Damn It Feels Good To Be A Gangsta by The Geto Boys
Why do I love this song in this moment? Perhaps it’s because of these lyrics:
“Real gangsta-a$$ ni##as don’t talk much/
All ya hear is the black from the gun blast/
And real gangsta-a$$ ni##as don’t run for s#*t/
cause real gangsta-a$$ ni##as can’t run fast”
I can relate on every level. I can’t talk, because I must save that energy for all of the gasping and dry heaving that is taking place at this juncture. There is no gun blast, but if someone shot me in this moment I would be in their debt for what was left of my eternity. And it is VERY true that I can’t run “for shit” nor “fast” because what I am doing is ridiculous and anything BUT running.

Mile 3.0009
Song: Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm by the Crash Test Dummies
The only good thing about this song and how it might relate is that I could no longer speak real words, and so the chorus made sense. And then I realized I don’t really like this song at all, and this is another reason I want to fall in front of the city bus that has just passed so close to my staggering corpse.

Mile 3.1
I die just a little bit in front of the firehouse, a casualty of ridiculous fitness. Time? 34 minutes and change. JoBoo laughs as I grasp at his barely sweating form mouthing “oxygen, please, for the love of God, oxygen!!” As soon as I regain consciousness, I vow to kill him.

Uli Less Lardass, Siren Songs JoBoo

Saturday night, and no better time for a conundrum. Normally I really enjoy a good argument with myself, because I always win. But this morning I had a “jump the shark” experience on my way home from the firehouse which has led me to this point. Let’s fill in some blanks: I normally stop at a drive thru coffee shop on the way home from work, because there’s a fair to middling chance that I’ve been up and down through the night running typically bogus calls. This is an aggravation, but lessened by the promise of wrapping my hands around four dollars of liquid heat and caffeine. From time to time the boys from different stations will meet-up post-shift, actually go inside and tell a few tall ones over a cup or three of mud, thereby pissing off the hipster baristas. Apparently, they would rather ignore other people wearing square eyeglasses and ironic trucker hats and avoid us like the plague. No big.

So, while whipping through the drive-thru at a high rate of speed, I order a drink for myself, and one for The Wife, because I need to keep her caffeinated lest we all suffer. I also happen to be on the phone with The Lyrical Jackass, who is telling me his latest feats of Lotharian prowess. As I am entranced by the tale he’s weaving, I absent-mindedly mumble my order into the squawk-box only to have LJ burst into laughter and yell “WHAT did you just order?” I told him grande something or other for Her. Only too late did I realize I had pronounced it not “grahn-dey” but “grand-day” coffee. As in “Gimme one of them thar grand-day coffees Sissy, I got me a mess o’ work waitin’ on me down at the Kwik Kash Payday Loan joint.” Oh, Lordy. What have I done? What HAVE I done?

To quote the Jackass, when the inbred Arkansas hillbilly has to correct my pronunciation of things, it’s time to ask the hard questions. What just happened? When did it begin happening? And more precisely, WHY, in the name of Dale Earnhardt, rest his soul, did it happen? Am I but a few steps away from considering fried chicken in brown gravy with cashews and onions “Chinese” food? Is it too late, or will I soon start considering Bass Pro to be some sort of Mecca and Jim Bakker a “pretty good guy” who just got a bum deal? These are, indeed, troubling times.

As I worry the Maker’s Mark out of my evening cocktail here on the front porch and the fireflies do their visual fornication-invitation dance all around me, I thought it prudent to list the pros and cons of life here in these Ozarks. I kept the list short, as mandated by my attention span.

Pros

1. Cheap housing. And I don’t just mean the vinyl siding, either. I bought my first home for the price of a decent luxury car, a fact my family in California considers a minor miracle. That may well be because it is common fact that on the West Coast, one must be willing to shell out darn near a million bones to purchase a 900 square foot crack den in a decidedly shady neighborhood.
2. Seasons. We have two weeks of awesome weather in the spring (minus the tornadoes), six months of unbearable heat and humidity followed by two weeks of incredibly idyllic fall colors, wrapped up with five  more months of winter weather with winds icy enough to freeze bone marrow, little snow and A LOT of ice and slush. Seasons.
3. The folks. With the exception of those who’ve made my List, the people of the Ozarks tend to be genuine, real folks. They work hard, they seem to care for their neighbors (there are exceptions, of course. Like when you got a good meth deal about to be busted by that no-good nosy neighbor. I’ve heard that one on a call. True story. Almost like Scooby-Doo), and will do things out of sheer sense of good will that would baffle residents of the coasts.
4. Bacon. Still a food group out here.

Cons

1. No ocean. No mountains. I mean real mountains. It is decidedly difficult to come out to the middle of the middle of the middle without much to see above 1000′ except for blue skies. We ARE, however, tidal wave free for the last six million years. Go us!
2. Holy Rolling. It’s infectious and apparently gets in the blood. This past three months alone, I’ve had more than a few people trying to save my soul and recruit me for Jesus Christ Supercenter Of The Ozarks (aka Six Flags Over Jesus). It would seem that my chaotic lifestyle presents something of a challenge to which they are drawn, in a rescue-me-kinda way. Plus, when I say that the only difference between a cult and religion is about 1000 years, that gets ‘em all stirred up. Damn me. Straight to hell, apparently.
3. Just the Good Ol’ Boys. Whether we’re talking city politics (police and fire pension, anyone?), neighbors who utilize the N-word with an alarming frequency (try explaining THAT ignorance to your six year old) or the fact that some would consider the ONE billboard in town that’s in Spanish to be a herald of the Mexican invasion, it gets old. We need to grow out of 1956, folks.
4. Meth. It is a problem, and apparently we can’t make enough of it out here. I mean, besides the whole losing teeth thing, there are some heinous consequences to the whole lifestyle. I know; we see ‘em more than just occasionally.

It’s a hell of a thing, multiple choice.

Uli Siren Songs, Tales of Misery, Wandering Ponderings The Wife

Around 2:30 this morning,  a single car detached garage decided to catch on fire. The hows and the whys are the kinds of questions our fearless Fire Marshals are paid to answer; I am paid to keep the situation from escalating from “fire” to “raging inferno”. Along with Engine Co.2, the boys from Ladder Truck 2 LOVE a good house fire. Hell, that’s half the reason we want to work on the north side of Springburg. The other half is dealing with the mad-dog antics that many of our esteemed clientele engage in on a regular basis. I’m talking about our urban outdoorsmen who pass out in the alleys, brawl each other with the drunken vigor of fighting sloths and light their shopping carts on fire on a regular basis. It is in this kind of environment that we found ourselves facing a bread-and-butter burner.

We roll up and immediately hop out of the Truck to help the Engine boys put the liquid refreshment on the blazing garage. Not too big a thing, really. As we were working around the structure, I noticed that the garage wasn’t exactly being used as a place to store vehicles, but rather, to store the homeless in their off time. All the trappings necessary for a life on the streets were being consumed by fire as evidenced by the piss-stained couch going up in the center of it all. There was a random bale of hay, cardboard tables, endless alcoholic beverage containers, enough makeshift ashtrays filled up to have put one of the Marlboro Man’s kids through college and the ubiquitous nasty mattress, all turning to glowing embers before our eyes.

Just as the nozzle man was making his entry, I heard this weird high pitched cackle. What the bejeezus? I turned around to find a crazy-eyed wild man sitting on top of a doghouse, wearing a shirt as a kilt, and little else. I start to holler at him, through my air mask, so of course, we look like a pair of idiots yelling at each other. At least the news cameras were out on the street. When I got near enough to him to yank my mask and ask what in THE HELL he was doing, he just kept giggling and informed me that “I better get in there and get Granny.” WHAT? IS THERE SOMEONE IN THERE MISTER? “Yeah, Granny went in there to look for Elvis and say goodbye to God.” AGAIN, WHAT? AS IN WHAT THE F–K ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? The two firefighters continued to toss water at the situation and I informed them that there might be someone else in there. Great.

The boys knocked down the fire in short order and I drug kilt-dude out to the street and had him repeat his story to the head honchos on-scene, because this? is totally unbelievable if you didn’t witness it. He continued to rant and rave like a lunatic about Granny (who was across the street, by the way. On the sidewalk. In a lawn chair. At 2:30am) and Elvis,  then shuffled down the street until the cops caught up with him and hauled him off to the pokey (where, I was told, he ripped off his kilt/shirt combo at the booking desk and basked in his nude glory; that’ll make him most popular in lockup). By this time, we were waiting on the Marshal to arrive and do his thing, so we took the time to check over the scene, and let me tell you one thing: this place is going on the Top 15 list of nastiest residences in our entire town.

Picture this: cobwebs hanging from ceiling to about 5ft. high on the walls, all colored brown from dirt and wayward cigarette smoke. A toilet falling through the floor with water running in it continually. Five gallon buckets throughout the house in case you didn’t feel like making the trip to aforementioned leaning stool of nastiness (a well utilized option, I might add). Several years worth of cigarette butts crammed into every available container strewn about. Rotting food scattered to every corner of the joint. Computer screens and monitors in various locations with a wireless router sitting on an overturned shopping cart in the erstwhile “living” room. Trash up to your knees throughout smelling like, well, old decaying trash. The smell. Oh, the smell. God, for the smell. I’d rather take up residence in the burned out garage than try to live in this environment.

And you want to know what was in the middle of all of this nasty, filth ridden squalor? A working smoke detector. Despite living in conditions that could be likened to a 900 square foot dumpster, these folks had the sense of mind to at LEAST have a smoke alarm in their sweet abode. When you compare that to the number of people I see on my side of town not wearing (and not making their kids wear) seat belts, it almost lends some sanity to the situation. Never mind that Granny’s son was screaming at her rudely about how if someone didn’t let him back in the house he was gonna “whip (my) d–k out and take a big giant piss right here, right now” (true statement). Never mind that we were secretly hoping the police would drop a taser shot on him for being such a turd as to yell at his Granny, calling her EVERY rude name I can think of, none of which I can print. I can only hope they eventually arrest him, if for nothing more than being a disrespectful asshole; no one should talk to their granny like that.

Certainly not one savvy enough to have both a functioning smoke detector and a relationship with Elvis.

Uli Siren Songs, Tales of Misery

This past week saw a couple MORE folks I know getting laid off from their jobs. That sucks. Guys who were eligible to retire from the fire department have been jumping like rats off of the Titanic, worried what sort of shenanigans our politicians may try to attempt; these can be troubling times, indeed. There does, however, remain a perverse juxtaposition for a good many of the people facing an uncertain future: new opportunities. While I wouldn’t want to inflict the chaos of no income upon my family, the side of me that thrives on inconsistency looks upon these chances with a little envy. Of course, I also think that it would be great to live in an old caboose, so you have to take my mental capacity into account. That being said, I give you the weeks Raising Of The Pint Glass / Karate Chop To The Throat as well as the survey question for the Half Past Friday survey. Remember to send your wittiness to bluecayucos@gmail.com and check back in for the rankings. Till then, here’s to new horizons for all.

Raising Of The Pint Glass

1.) Old School Tradition. Recently, a battalion chief for our department had his “official” retirement party here at Station 2. Great. Cake, punch, some war stories, take care, have a good life. But then he went on to throw a shindig down at Springfield Brewing Co. a few weeks later. AND HE BOUGHT THE BEER. Nothing gets firefighters together like the prospect of free beer. I raise my glass to him for showing the class. Good luck, Chief!

2.) Alan Best. That is the real name of the character I call Nan, who happens to be my brother, and who also set a WORLD RECORD for his weight class in the bench press. 675lbs. is nothing to sneeze at. I salute you and your freaky muscles, brother. Congrats!

3.) Heathen #1. My oldest turned six years old yesterday, an event marked with an ungodly amount of Transformers toys, crack-dealer amounts of sugar and general mayhem. I am so proud of my little man; he’s a testament to great parenting….by his mother. I figure it is my job to teach him how to eat dirt, drink diesel and stay out of trouble. And when he’s old enough, I’ll take him down to my favorite watering hole and buy him a beer, so I can raise my glass to him.

Karate Chop To The Throat

1.) Work. I can’t quite justify retiring at 35, but that’s mostly because I would have to live under a bridge for the remainder of my days. I should have earned it the old fashioned way – inheritance style. That way, I could indulge the slacker lifestyle. Having worked up to this point in several knuckle-busting trades, I think I am qualified to appreciate laying back for a living.

2.) Hipster coffee server dude down at the place near the square. Look, I can see the disdain in your eyes when we walk in after shift at 7am and order up plain old coffee and begin our intense bull sessions. Your square eyeglasses and hipster-induced 70’s retro ad tee shirt just add to the fact that you look like a condescending ass. We may be just a bunch of aging blue collar bastards swilling your joe, but guess what? It provides you the means to get your faux-hawk styled and a new pair of fitted woman’s jeans, so quit giving me the hairy eyeball, or I will chop you to the throat.

3.) Bad Timing. I got it. Wish I didn’t, and I can’t shake it.

Half Past Friday Survey Question For July 17th

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. Make it original and make ‘em funny. Email your answers to bluecayucos@gmail.com.   Tune in Friday for the results.

Uli Monday's Mud, Siren Songs Nan, the Heathens

Well, it would seem that the spam industry has managed to avoid these perilous financial times. How? How do they thrive? I was busy posing this question to the fish in the aquarium this morning, and it sent me into something of a tangent, followed by eight cups of coffee and a case of the shakes. I’ve read books on “permission marketing”, studied different methods of closing sales, even went on a few tirades against the car dealership guerrilla-scream-style ad pitching, and have come to the same conclusion each time: if you want to move a product or service, there is a segment of the population that will tolerate the invasion of their time, space and dignity. The rest of us just get vaguely annoyed by this reality; I secretly pray for dudes in purple robes and Nikes to take the salesmen with them on their next trip on a comet’s tail.

In the meantime, I can always change channels on the tube. I can judiciously avoid people in white shirts, black pants and skinny ties riding bicycles (I know Mormons on a mission, I do), and I can keep watching for comet sightings, but the one thing my spam filter on the computer seems intent on saving for my viewing pleasure is a fine selection of “people” who are interested in selling me “replica” watches. My mother, bless her heart, has a phobia about being punctual, and I’m beginning to wonder if it is a genetically inherited trait. As a kid, I could always count on being A MINIMUM of ten minutes late to whatever event required arrival in Mom’s burgundy Peugeot (not to mention the kind of ass-whipping riding in one of these cars invited). My Mom, to be fair, is an incredibly busy woman, and there was no problem that she couldn’t tackle with a Tab cola in one hand, a Virginia Slim 100 cigarette in the other and chewing on some gum. But she just might be a little late in tackling said problem, s’all.

As this whole “earning a living” thing and “parenting” thing have entered my life, I realize that I am running behind a lot as well. I chalk it up to training for the life of a superstar. Who wants to be the first at a party? Not Sean Connery, and not me. The only time I demand to be early is when going to a movie or a concert; it drives The Wife nuts that I am perfectly content to sit in a theater bar and get sloshed two hours before Alison Krauss even gets off her bus. And if I miss the previews of a movie, I might just skip that showing all together….it makes no sense, I know. In all other aspects, I get there when I can (exception #3: the firehouse, or responding to a call, in case you’re keeping track). And somehow, the spam hustlers know this. I don’t even get your typical ads for male enhancement, nobody is trying to sell me off-brand hair plugs and I only OCCASIONALLY get the message from my Nigerian prince buddy that I am in line to get, like, six million dollars if only I wire him two thousand. But the Replica Watch people, they know. They know me, apparently. Because even though I have no intention of ever clicking on their site, even though I’ve not purchased a watch since 2006 (not even a replica…it was the real deal. Real Swiss Army, that is), day after day, they are lurking in my inbox, ready to sell me that which I apparently need.

The whole thing is kind of triggering my paranoia switches. If they know I am chronically behind out there on the so-called Internet, what else do they know? I bet “they” know all kinds of things about me, which I’d rather keep to myself; only you and I know how much I loathe the concepts of Mega-Churches, McMansions and Maniacal Fearmongers. If this knowledge gets made known to “them”, I will have to triple the defenses against the Jim Bakkers, the strip-mall developers and the weird old dudes who call into talk radio blathering about the end times being signaled by the election of Obama. And who in the world has time for that?

I’m late as it is.

Uli Family DysFUNction, Siren Songs, Wandering Ponderings The Wife

This weeks Half Past Friday survey was a glance into what I have loosely titled The Hall of Shame.  The Hall consists of those whom you find attractive, but would be loathe to admit to in polite company. I threw out all the results that were either to contrary to the title (“Courtney Cox or David Hasselhoff“; who DOESN’T love The Hoff?) or just plain too vanilla (“my married co-worker”.……pffft, that’s minor league). No, I set the bar high (or low, depending on your view) and you didn’t disappoint. I did find a bit more response from the female half of readers, and I chalk this up to fact that most guys have little to no shame, and would admit being attracted to a fence post if there was enough liquor involved. So I delved a little deeper and posed the question around the firehouse, which will ALWAYS take the disgusting factor up a few notches. Most responses were not fit to print, although two made it into the list this week. Turns out firemen find beauty in many forms; this is likely the result of being penned up with 6-8 other men for long stretches. Wow. It sounds more and more like prison life every time I write it out in actual words. But I digress. Without further ado or prison references I present you with your own Hall of Shame in your words:

10. “The early 80’s, looks like she’s been on crack, Blondie always was a turn on for me.” (I believe my inbred amigo from college is referring to Deborah Harry here, but as he speaks almost EXACTLY as he writes, this sentence cracks me up. God, I miss that guy.)

9.  “Courtney Love…..hands down no question. She’s busted, run-through and a little crazy at times. Right up my alley. A+” (This was NOT from the Lyrical Jackass, surprisingly enough, but the responder ranked due to his truly capturing the spirit of the Hall of Shame. Well played.)

8. “Dennis Rodman….big, black, beautiful, bad boy, basketball player” (Funny, her husband is none of these things….wait, maybe that’s the point)

7. “My secret desire would definitely be Jack Nicholson. There’s just something to his attitude towards the things he does. I’m betting he’s very intellect (wtf? love, me). Who knows? I’m also attracted to the sunglasses. There is mystery hiding behind those. I would make myself like basketball just to be sitting next to him.” (okay, so this has stalker potential of, like 10.7 . I think I love this woman)

6. “Ok, I know this is going to make you think less of me…but Drew Carey is my secret crush! That man just does it for me!” (Is it the suit? The glasses? The excessive sweating that no doubt takes place while tying his shoes? Is it because he loves Ohio? Are you crazy?)

5. “The Amish.” (I like this: succinct, disgusting, gross generalization of an entire worshipping class, this has ALL the hallmarks of someone I would consider a friend….even if it is conditional)

4. “Steve Buscemi. I have no reasonable explanation” (Despite his phenomenal dental work, I was amazed to get this answer from several respondents, two of whom were high school classmates. Shameful, people. I love it)

3. “Cloris Leachman” (The fireman who answered this is so pathetically ashamed of his secret lust for her, that he called me AFTER I posed the question, so as not to reveal his perversions to a table full of coffee swilling, judgemental co-workers. Fool. I am going to expose him at the first opportunity)

2. “Willem Dafoe in Boondock Saints”

- this is worth taking a time out and noting, because this was the response of another fireMAN at our station. I told him, that I wanted to know his REAL secret shameful lust-object and he repeated the answer. The table came close to snorting coffee out their noses collectively, and he held his position, unlike the coward of response number 3. I told him, “but dude, you’re married”. He said that he was aware of his marital status, and that until I’d seen the movie for myself I was in no place to judge him. THIS is what makes station life awesome.

1. “A carny; like right there AT THE FAIR, behind a ride or something” (this was the response from a few years back from one of The Wife’s co-workers when I first stumbled upon the idea of a Hall of Shame. And she was serious as a heart attack in her answer. It made her hotter than ever in my eyes, and is the reason it holds the number one slot. We are a freaky lot out here in Missouri, of this I am sure.)

So there’s your top ten for the week. Mine? Oh yeah……a young Bette Midler. I am now going to wash the nauseous feeling out of my throat with gasoline and coffee…..I’ll talk to you soon!

Uli Half Past Friday, Siren Songs The Wife