Half Past Awesome

Mississippi John Hurt: bluesman, fellow hater of humidity (I think)

“I believe I’ll get drunk, tear this barrel house down.”
—’Drunken Barrel House Blues’, Memphis Minnie.

Time to bitch about the summer. The mercury’s on the rise, and so’s my short temper with it. And the humidity. For the love of Satan’s breath, it’s humid already. That’s the problem with movies depicting scenes in the South, scenes in the desert, scenes in the Midwest: they never can replicate the scorching, syrupy mess that drips off your neck, running in rivulets down your leg hair, making your head hang with the weight of the whole hot and sticky affair.

People who say they just love this time of year should be shot. That includes several of my friends, so when the shooting goes down, I’ll make it an ankle shot, not a kill shot. These are the same people who generally work indoors for a living and consider the stroll from the air-conditioned comforts of the house to the air-conditioned comforts of the car “getting outside”. My own folks like to comment on how wonderful and green the area looks, especially considering that Coastal California is now turning a lovely shade of dead yellow and dead brown combined with just a hint of scrub-brush drab green. Green in pictures IS lovely, I suppose, but do you know what that takes? It takes steam and relentless sun, both of which are plentiful in the Ozarks. Which apparently is nothing, as compared to the South.

I once visited some friends in Mississippi in summer and came back with a whole new appreciation for the state of weather in Missouri. That region of the country is king when it comes to making sweat sauce soup. For the life of me I can’t figure out how one would work on a road crew down there without spending one’s evening’s with a revolver in your mouth, contemplating sweet release from asphalt and back sweat. But I also came back with a new appreciation of an art form that never held my interest: the blues.

The blues are a product of life in the South. The music has that lulling cadence, a result of expending all available effort to the  task of chewing the air before breathing it. It speaks of misery, heartbreak and unrequited passion that ends in gunplay. In short, the blues is complaint set to music, and I love it. It is driven by the sultry steam that is a constant companion of that part of the country. You can’t have the blues in New Mexico – I mean, sure, you’ve got the heat, the loneliness, desolation, all that but you’re missing two ingredients: sticky air and fried foods. Up North? Prairies and bitter cold seem like they’d make good fodder for the blues but they are a people far too practical to complain in that time signature (Chicago, of course being the major exception. Chicago is an entity in and of itself, but I know nothing about it, so I’m going to stop talking about it. Just pretend I know that of which I speak). And California? Forget it. When I go home and witness the beauty of the ocean, the irate drivers and self-absorbed fabulosity, it’s hard to picture taking them seriously with regards to cranking out blues tunes. They have no humidity, no fuel for the slow-pace of a music that moans and wails and not in a good way.

So now, as soon as it kicks past 80 degrees and I get all clammy and sticky from just sitting there, I know just the thing to commiserate with me. I want to bitch and moan, and the blues is, if nothing else, bitching and moaning to a soulful beat. So I’ll kick it onto B.B. King’s Bluesville on Sirius/XM radio and wipe the sweat from my brow as I contemplate another day of building random shit out there in the heat. Then, I’ll say “screw it”,  jump on the motorcycle, meet up with El Jefe and find a joint that’s selling some ribs and sweet tea. Because if I keep on complaining to the Wife about this weather, I’m the one that’s gonna be shot.

And that sounds like a song in the making.

Uli Motorcycle Dreamin', Tales of Misery El Jefe, The Wife

No Beer On Sunday Morning, But This? Totally Okay ANY Time Of Day

“If you want to see some sin, forget about Paris. Go to Kansas City.”
-Editor of the Omaha World-Herald, during the Prohibition Era

According to Wikipedia (the limit of my researching capabilities), Missouri has some of the most permissive alcohol laws in the United States, ranking right up there with Louisiana and Nevada. As well, our stoic neighbors to the west, Kansas and Oklahoma, are apparently far more rigid in their regulations regarding intoxicating drink. Goody gum drops for them. Missouri is allegedly known for its laissez-faire approach to alcohol throughout the Midwest, highlighted by the fact that it allows residents over 21 to make up to 100 gallons of any alcohol for personal use each year, without any further state limitation, state license, or state taxation. You’d think this would be my kinda place, and for the most part it is, with one glaring exception:

I CANNOT BUY BEER/WINE/SPIRITS BEFORE 9:AM ON A SUNDAY. AND IT SUCKS.

There may be a few out there thinking I’ve slammed into a new low, imbibing first thing in the morning, on a Sunday morning. And I’m not fundamentally opposed to the idea, but it rarely works out that way for me. Here’s the actuality of the situation: I’m a shift worker, and our 24-hour shift ends at 7am, after which on Sunday mornings, I like to hit the store, buy a paper, some coffee and various stuff to cook for the family that day. Two items which make some Sundays almost holy for me are bacon and Guinness. I make the bacon in the morning and enjoy the beer later on, as we’re smoking meats for dinner or working in the shop or sitting on our collective asses. No matter.

I’ve asked clerks if they think I’m planning on getting wasted in the parking lot before 9. I’ve indicated that I appreciate their concern for my moral well-being. I’ve begged them to tell me the difference between a man who would buy alcohol at 8:59 am (filthy sinner) and one who would purchase at 9:01 am (sounds like a nice guy!). All employees look at me with the same vapid stare, and say “state law, sir, I’m sorry.” And rarely do they want to debate the merits of the law. Younger clerks sometimes sheepishly apologize, as if to say “yeah, it’s stupid, but it’s the law, man.” Older employees often visibly cluck to themselves, mentally stowing away the incident for their next nighttime study group (“and oh my word, Irene, I can’t tell you! Some poor heathenistic soul actually came in today and tried to buy b-e-e-r before 9am! On the Lords’ Day! Tsk, tsk….what IS this world coming to?)

It’s not the clerks fault. And I’ve made plenty of emergency medical runs on people wasted at 7am, so I can understand, societally, that it’s inconvenient to deal with the intoxicated before your morning coffee sets in. I’ve been tanked before 9am on several occasions in my 20’s and the allure of it is now lost on my in my 30’s. Yes, I’m on board with the pragmatic problems that come with drinking before the Today Show is over. What irks me to no end is that some law-makers feel the need to regulate what time on which day of the week you can purchase a delicious six pack of Guinness. How did they pass that crap through legislative session?

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I have before you an amendment to the law with regards to liquor sales. My church has demanded that we restrict sales of beer until 9am on Sunday mornings. This is because we most certainly don’t want our parishioners to miss services with their faces down in the gutter. After church? No big deal, they can go about buying their devil-juice all they want, but I’m most adamant about this. NO buying liquor before church. THAT IS THE LAW.”

And thus it was so.

Missouri is known as the “Show Me State”. I wish to hell they would show me how this makes any sense at all.

Okay, it’s after 9 now, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got go BACK to the grocery store and commit some barley sin. It’s thirsty business, working up such outrage.

Uli Tales of Misery

Pruning The Dark Side

I’m really, really good at growing weeds. Like, maybe pro level. I give them everything they need. Free reign to take over the choicest areas of our property, unfettered access to the best sunlight and copious amounts of rainfall here in the middle of the country, where we receive rain by the week. I never bother their growth patterns and I rarely try to kill them or do ANYTHING except leave them to terrorize the place. I could have a show on HGTV, wherein they showcase me drinking beer around several locations on the compound, watching my weeds grow and marveling at their progress. I think many people could relate to this show and it would become a hit with every other lazy homeowner in rural America.

I decided recently that we’d tackle this situation with a raised bed garden. We’ve had gardens in the past, simple affairs that yielded us a nice little bounty of fruits and vegetables. But that wasn’t enough, you see. I am a man with tools. A man with the desire to over-engineer the construction of a sawhorse. A man with a desire to justify the purchase more tools by taking on projects that require more tools. A man with a hankering for bankruptcy at the hands of tool vendors, apparently. And thus it was determined that we would have a garden of Leviathan proportions, fenced in, trimmed out and enough to slap Martha Stewart in her proverbial face.

As an aside, I feel the need to slap Martha Stewart on a regular basis. She’s just so damn smug and condescending and comes across like a royal bitch. My mother and I got into it when I insisted that she should have gotten The Chair a few years ago for her financial transgressions. Mom sorta worships at the altar of Martha, so naturally, I want to chainsaw said altar into many pieces. Hello, therapeutic breakthrough, you just came outta nowhere.

Where were we? Oh yeah, the garden project. This project has been about two years in the making, since my lazy gene is highly dominant, especially over the productivity gene. I set the fence posts a while back and then went on to insist to The Wife that I could do no further since “they had to settle properly” (yes, I realize the utter bullshittiness of this statement). So the NEXT YEAR, I began to string the fence wire up, and I’m pretty good with the ten feet of progress I’ve made. We’ve secured some cinder block, which I hope to get set before the boys leave for college. I’ve got to carefully weigh my procrastination with the level of resentment She feels towards me….it’s a delicate, tightrope-walking line I tread, and is best left to a pro.

All that’s left is…..well….most of it. You see, I can appreciate weeds, since they’re willing to do all the work and I can claim credit for their aggressive behavior. This whole business of constructing Fort Knox for bell peppers is beginning to lose it’s appeal. I can justify no tool purchases in the foreseeable future (thank you, motorcycle. I love you. Endlessly) and growing season is here. The Wife is beginning to demand results. Pressure is on for health conscious organic foods for my family, dammit.

And all I really want to do is drink beer out in my field and watch the weeds bloom.

Uli Tales of Misery The Wife

Bobby-Joe, yer flannel's showing.

FORMER WHITE SUPREMACIST WON’T OPEN CLUB AFTER ALL.

This is a true, for real, fo’-sho’  headline in the local section of the online edition of our newspaper here in Springfield. Don’t believe me? Here’s the link. Just when you thought things were getting all crazy with Arizona and their immigration-law enforcement trainwreck, here in good ol’ Missouri we have ignorant morons trying to open up a nightclub while trying to assure town leaders, “no, really, it’s just a club. That’s all. No affiliations to idiocy. I promise.” ( I made that quote up, yes.) The town in question is Odessa, Mo, on the outskirts of Kansas City.

According to Google Maps, Odessa is located 159 miles northwest of my house and touts itself as “a community rich in history and inspired by the spirit of the Midwest. A family oriented city, providing its citizens and businesses with great services and opportunities” on its official website. I’ll give the city alderman this much: they successfully ran this ass-clown’s attempts to open a “social club” on the 65th anniversary of Hitler’s death into the dirt. I applaud them for this. And I wonder about Charles Juba.

Juba (I think it rhymes with rube-uh), was a “former self-proclaimed leader of the Aryan Nations”, and was attempting to recruit kids from area high schools to attend the opening of The Black Flag Club, the black flag representing, in his words “people who don’t surrender”. He has said he’s abandoned his racist and anti-Semitic past, but, you know, opening on the anniversary of Hitler’s suicide wasn’t exactly PR at its finest. Still, Juba has his defenders willing to come out in public to support him.  Said Monica Loges, who identified herself as a friend of Juba’s: “he’s got a past, yes, but who doesn’t?” Listen, lady, I’ve made plenty of crappy choices in my checkered past, but being the leader of a racist nation never even entered my mind as an option. My bad choices were mostly limited to personal self-destructive tendencies, not spouting, and worse, BELIEVING IN, that kind of bullshit.

And then? In the coup de grace that was supposed to make it all better? She states this: “he goes to church twice a week and is a fine family man.”

Oh. Well….my bad. That makes it all better. Church and family. How could you go wrong with such a winning combo? Again, kudos to the City Aldermen of Odessa for not swallowing the excuses; I applaud the citizens for showing up and angrily shouting his ass down. For once, I can back mob-rule. If that fool wants to practice his ignorance in the comfort of his own trailer, hell, that’s his business. But the last thing the Missouri, and the Midwest in general, needs, is to give license to ugly relics of our nations’ past like this to operate hives of hatred. Church or not, Juba, Odessa ain’t buying what you’re preaching.

Uli Tales of Misery

In one of our final installments of Cast Updates, I thought you should meet some of the latest players. This way, when random references are made in posts, you can put a face to the poor saps I mingle with on a semi-regular basis. Without further ado, I present four more cases for self-medication.

Mr. Double Dutch

Thunderchicken: also referred to as “Ryan The Sadist” in posts, Thunderclucker is a coach at the local CrossFit Springfield. He’s also an MMA fighter and some sort of former college football stud – all traits that lure me into talking trash to him whenever I get the chance. Thunderchicken spends an inordinate amount of time picking my brain for creative ideas, only to claim them as his own later. As soon as I figure out his Achilles Heel? I’m gonna use it to choke him out until he either declares me superior or at least acknowledges the guy who comes up with all of his brilliant ideas. In the meantime, I’m sure he’ll continue to screech at me in the gym, and I’ll be left to sob in my own pool of sweat. You can catch posts about him here, here and here.

Hotwire In Heat

Hotwire: here’s a man who you will find in the dark corners of the greater Springfield metroplex, making deals and getting people to owe him life-debts. Normally in the company of his best friend and business partner Taco, Hotwire is in the owner of an electrical company, but he’s never far away from his wide menagerie of toys and good times. One of the calmest people to roam the planet, he is, in my own words, painfully stable. That is, until you’re in his debt – then you owe, and he’s gonna collect. I try and crack his facade of mellowness on a daily basis. No such luck. He takes great joy in my fear of electricity, and torments me about it every chance he gets.

Tall, Dark & Hairy

El Jefe: A good friend for almost a decade now, El Jefe is a fellow firefighter in Springfield, driving Ladder Truck #3 as well as owning his own HVAC business. More importantly, he was the co-founder of the motorcycle gang I started, despite my not owning either a motorcycle nor the license to operate one. He’s also a fellow California ex-pat, us having grown up 25 miles apart. El Jefe is a rabid concert fan and can appreciate a wide range of music from Metallica to Flogging Molly; this is a founding principle of our as-of-yet-unnamed gang. As soon as I pick up the dual sport in a couple of weeks, I plan on us wreaking havoc on an unsuspecting public. At the very least, we’ll wreak some mild irritation on our wives.

Gar, me hearties. Gar.

Smoothed Out Pimp

The Pimp & The Pirate: One was Firefighter Of The Year. The other one is bald. One walks with a limp. The other one is the station captain at Firehouse #2. One rides a Harley and invented his own form of martial arts he calls “Crocker-ate” (Crocker being the town from which he hails). The other one screams at homeless people on a regular basis, yet will describe himself as “compassionate”. Any way you cut it, you can’t have one without the other at Station 2, and together they make up half of the Engine crew. They profess a jacked-up deep and abiding bromance for one another, spending an unhealthy amount of time together, both on-duty and off. Nobody else understands the chemistry these two have, yet both are convinced they’re going to the top of the department – together. They’d have it no other way.

Uli Amigos, Tales of Misery "Ryan" the Sadist

Morning Face

4:02 am – Alarm begins its relentless attack. Self-loathing is the first conscious thought. Smash the snooze.

4:07 am - Litany of excuses for NOT working out begin to stream into consciousness. Excuses make sense. Smash snooze.

4:12 am – The Wife shares her feelings: “Get your ass outta bed and get to the gym. I love you. Now, go.” Stumble around blindly. Smash toe on kids toy. Mumble curses under morning breath.

4:13 am – A glance into the mirror confirms it – God, I’m an ugly mofo first thing in the morning, and it ain’t gonna get any better throughout the day. Self-loathing begins to reach critical levels as I catch a whiff of my own breath.

4:16 am – Vigorous brushing, face splashing and cracking of joints do nothing to improve appearance. Shrug and accept lot in life, all the while pining for a wasted youth. Thoughts of coffee begin to dominate and overwhelm as I realize I really don’t care how I look.

4:17 am – Attack first pot of  coffee and begin mad dash for gym, but realize am walking out the door without shorts on. Stop for a moment to appreciate the enormity of consequences if I show up without pants. Hilarity? Restraining order?

4:20 am – First of the acceptance that this is really happening. No going back to bed. Vow to go to bed by 7pm tonight.

4:21 am – Gaze longingly at house, knowing that warm bed is 106′ away. Double check to make sure I’m wearing shorts.

4:22 am – Plug iPod into Toyota’s stereo. Decide to crank music to “11“ to punish those sleeping in the house.

4:22:30 am – Realize they can’t hear it in the house. Curse violently at steering wheel, take another shot of coffee.

4:25 am – Pull out of driveway, realize that I’m too old to headbang without getting a severe concussion. Seethe inwardly.

4:30 am – Pot #1 of coffee begins to kick in and I begin silently hoping for a deer to jump into my path, just to add some spice to my morning commute to the gym.

4:35 am – Why spice it up when I can swerve all over the road trying to find the perfect song to scream along with?

4:40 am – Realize I’m glad it’s dark out, so I can conduct full conversations with myself, complete with sweeping hand gestures, without other drivers staring at me. Congratulate myself on such stealth. Out loud.

4:43 am – Take too long staring at heavy equipment on highway lit up by floodlights. Road chaos, followed by road rage, followed by cursing of indeterminate origin.

4:44 am – Start alternating shots of coffee with hits off the water bottle. You know, cause I believe in hydration. Plus, too many coffee stains on t-shirt this early in the morning just adds to peoples perceptions of my mental stability.

4:46 am – Think to self: “screw what people think. I love coffee and I’ll wear some if I feel like it”. Kidneys begin to quiver in protest.

4:50 am – Wrap up conversation with self with a loud and violent debate over whether I’ll make it in time to 5am class.

4:53 am – Start up another round of yelling at traffic engineers for their idiotic placement of stop lights. Begin to mull over merits of blasting through red lights. Unable to go full outlaw, I decide to obey the rules, but fume on the inside. Consider writing a very stern letter to City’s Traffic Engineering Department. Get more irate as I realize nothing will change. Damn you, bureaucracy. Damn you.

4:55 am – Slide in to parking lot of gym. Quick glance in mirror confirms suspicion that I look like a homicidal maniac. Pleased with self. Guzzle one last swig of coffee and tumble out of truck, tripping on non-existent obstacle in parking lot.

4:59 am - Shoot fellow CrossFit member curious look when he asks if I “am always this ‘up‘ this early?” Consider ramifications. New cycle of self doubt and self loathing begins.

4:59:30 am – Realize today’s workout consists of 2 mile run. Begin to experience chest pains upon realization.

5:00 am – Seizing (or seizure) of the day begins.

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

He's got good taste in beer

There are certain things in this life that I would qualify as “extraordinarily heinous”. Smoker’s breath. Watching people spit their teeth out like Chiclets after a bad car wreck. Octo-Mom. Men wearing eyeliner. Those who would harm children. My ability to grow multiple chins just by looking at a pizza.

But there is a special place in my heart for the things that really, really make me cringe; near the top of this list is The Circus. Maybe it’s the way the animals always look pissed off and humiliated at being forced to stand on chairs. Maybe it’s the concept of paying $72 for a bag of cotton candy and a Coke. And I’m reasonably certain my disdain for the clowns has a major role in my loathing of the circus. I’m not scared of clowns in the traditional sense, I just sense that they’re one step closer to being predatory pedophiles when they don the makeup. They’re creepy, those silly bastards, and they oughta be banned.

So, of course, The Wife decided we’d be taking The Heathens to the circus when it came to town.

I swear, that woman hates me.

Funny, because at first she didn’t want to go any more than I did. Then, when our friends Matt & Melanie said they and their entourage were going, The Wife refused to be one-upped – we are going and we’re gonna have fun, dammit.

I swear, that woman is a fickle pickle.

Let me start by saying that my interpretation of the circus is that of a mid-winter version of going to the Ozark Empire Fair. No wait…..let me re-start by saying that here in Springfield, our circus is held indoors, at the Shriner’s Mosque. That’s right – take a moment to drink that in: a circus, with animals and all being held INdoors. A building that is approximately 285 years old and literally hosted Elvis many years ago and Willie Nelson a few months ago also houses a circus for one week a year. Elephants storm in and out of the main entrance, I kid you not. You can only imagine what it smells like on the final day of the circus inside this joint. That’s the day it was determined we would attend.

What you might not know about today’s circus is that it is primarily staffed by our friends south of the border. This makes ordering an Icee particularly vexing for Ozarkian rednecks, since speaking Spanish to them usually involves no more than ordering a “boo-rito, enchilah-der style”. My friend the Outlaw Trucker, who has a deep and abiding love of the Latina Gangster lifestyle, would be in heaven here; I’ve never seen so many super-sexed up teenagers as those who spiraled across the curtains, blond hairpieces whipping about, stripper heels kicking in tune to ultra-cheesy Euro-metal. Any way you cut it, these performers were damn talented, and I found their shows, if not like watching late night Telemundo, very entertaining….gotta give them props.

Of course, we were jammed into seats made around the turn of the LAST century, which made for some great people watching and really, really close interaction with those around us. Our posse of boys spent their time whacking people’s heads with $39 plastic swords that lit up.

I swear, those kids are so damn unappreciative.

My favorite part? During the “Rage In The Cage”, whereby a shirtless Siegfried & Roy wannabe constantly runs around a ring pissing off half a dozen tigers, I spent the entire time rooting on the tigers. I feel for those poor bastards. Shamed and humiliated beasts (as evidenced by the pinned back ears, hissing, spitting and roaring), I would love for once to watch one swipe the bare-chested and leather bedecked trainer right in the ol’ head. I would cheer the shit out of that tiger. I would nominate him/her for a civic award. And I would pay for an attorney for the tiger if the circus tried to prosecute. It’s about time the tigers realized that the Rage In The Cage is basically defenseless, save for a stick. It’s time for them to revolt. THAT would be a show I’d happily pay to see.

No such luck.

I spent the rest of the time in a crowded mess of overpriced chaos, with the only highlight being watching the employees scramble for trash cans when an elephant decided to unleash a mighty torrent of urine while toting people around on its back. That gave an olfactory essence to the entire event which I cannot replicate with words. Motorcycles on high wires, roller skating on tables, jugglers who dropped flaming bowling pins – none of this compared to the pleasure I got from a  giant, tired and sad looking elephant declaring “The hell with this, I’m taking a piss right now”. A pachyderms way of shooting a middle finger to the whole situation.

Funny moments like that made me reconsider my vow to never return to the circus, even if I have to shovel out $57 for 6 ounces of popcorn.

After all, the tigers might need a lawyer.

Uli Tales of Misery Outlaw Trucker, the Heathens, The Wife

He Who Shall Be Known As Duane

It all started out rather innocently. Okay, it wasn’t innocent at all, but instead, the continuation of a firehouse joke that isn’t even that funny. Sometimes, when I’m in control of the tv remote in the day room, I’ll make the boys watch religious programming (ie- Jim Bakker, the Fleecer of Missouri) or, when bored with that, shows like A&E’s Dog The Bounty Hunter. I’m thoroughly amused by the ridiculous style of these clowns as they tear all over Hawaii and Colorado, intimidating their bail jumpers with cans of Mace and trash talk. After a capture, you can count on what I call “the Jesus talk”, then a proffered Marlboro Red and some sage advice before being turned in. The main players of the show are who make it so funny, what with their mullets, bicep feathers and badges that look like they were picked up in the Claw Machine of a Wal Mart. It’s a train wreck I can’t turn away from; recently, I’ve fallen in love with Beth (Dog’s wife) and it’s not because she’s insane, top heavy and has a penchant for wearing clothes the colors of the American flag. No, I love her because as she scatters to and fro, screaming at perps, she does it while in high heels. And you should know how I feel about that.

So imagine, if you will, my sheer delight when I found out that Dog and his posse would be making an appearance here in Springberg. Apparently, in between moments of kicking ass and taking names around the Big Island, he’s taken the time to “write” a book, and is on a book tour. Never mind the reason, I had to be a witness to this spectacle. There was a fairly good chance I’d recognize many of his fans from my experiences tending to all their woes here on the Northside; it’s a fact that his fan base is very, very solid on our side of town, judging by the unwillingness of many people to turn it off while their cousin/sister/mom is having “the big one” on the couch beside them.

I talked Chad Harris of FairCity News into joining me, figuring if nothing else, we’d get some supreme people watching in; I arrived an hour early, figuring that was plenty of time to get some coffee and meet some people. I was dead wrong. An employee of Borders told me that she’d had people camped out there since the night previous for a chance to touch The Dog. When I finally got some joe and a copy of the book, I must’ve been about the 549th person in line. It was a sight to behold. The smell of stale cigarettes hung lazily in the air, the mullets were plentiful, the teeth not as much, and the gravely voiced chatter of hundreds of super fans prevailed. And then, terror.

A voice came over the store p.a. system to inform us that the tour bus was stuck in traffic and would be two hours late. The collective chatter turned up a notch in volume, with several colorful declarations of incredulity by the crowd. I was hoping for a full-scale riot, but sadly, nothing that violent materialized. Several people went outside to smoke multiple unfiltered cigarettes in frustration. Some dispatched family members to the nearest McDonald’s to grab some sustenance for the long haul wait. I took the chance to meet folks standing around me in line, and discovered some really funny people like Dan, who swore he was only there because his young daughters are uber-fans and Elizabeth who was definitely in the Duane-zone. Some people took the opportunity to dress their infant children up as tarts, some wore the bail bond company tee-shirts of their employers and many looked as though they had active warrants, but were willing to risk it to meet the supposed “greatest bounty hunter of all time”, according to his book.

The Messiah of Bounty Hunting arrives

And four and half hours later? The bus arrived and the crowd broke into shear pandelerium. A three toothed lady shouted his arrival to the crowd while clutching a McD’s bag and had an almost immediate raspy breakdown, she was so overwhelmed. After his Ed Hardy-cloaked advance man surveyed the crowd, The Dog made us wait another twenty minutes before exiting his bus, preceded by the lovely Beth. People went certifiably nuts. THIS was the moment they’d been waiting for, disciples for whom the Messiah had arrived. IT. WAS. GLORIOUS. I had to snap a pic of his arrival. Take a moment to drink in the fingerless gloves, the badge, and the hair. My God, the hair.

No matter. I waited with my new friends in line as we compared notes as to what we’d say to the King when we finally got to the front of the line. What were other people saying? Were they lionizing this lion of fashion? What do you say to a guy who wears eagle feathers in his hair and on his biceps? Does it even matter what you say? Do you offer him a smoke and some advice about Jesus?

Our special "moment"

All of these hypotheticals were for naught, because soon, ever so soon, we were blessed with the visage of Beth, making her way up and down the aisles, meeting and greeting her legions of fans. To my utter dismay, she was not wearing heels nor was her hair built up near enough for my liking. My disappointment was quickly quelled when she high-fived me – the chemistry was obvious to all present and our eyes locked for an eternity. We both knew in that very moment that we were destined for one another and no Dogs nor Wifes could stand in the way of the intertwining of our souls. At least that’s how it seemed to me. She also took the chance to chew Chad’s ass out for his using the family image without getting paid. THIS? Is when I laughed in his face and told him not to get in the way of me & Beth. In fact we took a pic to commemorate the moment, and we’re seriously considering using it for the wedding invites.

The rest of the event was a haze of wrinkled skin and tattoos for me.

What else can compare when love is in the air?

And yes, I have the signed book. It may well be the best afternoon I’ve wasted in an entire month.

Thanks for the memories, Sweet Beth. And thanks to that canine husband of yours for bringing you to the event that you and I will never forget.

Uli Siren Songs, Tales of Misery Fair City News

Next Time We Meet

Dear Moron,

Yeah, you. In the gold Mercury Topaz. The one that cut me off in the nearly-empty parking lot of a nasty West side Subway sandwich joint last night. There was just you and I looking to enter the place when you felt the need to punch it and swipe a spot near the front door. No big deal. I can park in front of the shady check cashing place, I’m not scared. Then, from behind your emo-boy wispy hair your little bug eyes popped out when you saw I was going to enter Subway, maybe before you could! Horror! You jumped out and sprinted like you were being chased by The Heat in order to make sure you got to the door first. I really don’t care. No, it’s all good. I had time.

But then, when you flung open the door and waltzed inside, skinny pants clinging tight like a tick to your chicken legs you got smug. You, with the whole whipping strands of hair around like a triumphant ice dancer, you couldn’t be bothered to at least hold the door, say “excuse me” or look me in the face; you went too far you little snot-faced bastard. I don’t give a crap if you had to put your Dungeons & Dragons game on hold so you could bolt from your mothers basement and grab some eats, YOU DID NOT WIN. STOP LOOKING SO RIGHTEOUS, DUMBASS!!

I was tired from a workout and just looking to grab some dinner on the way to the fire station. I’m too old to engage in spinning tires in a parking lot – not even a busted ass Topaz being run into the red line is tempting. Just order your meal and get out of my way, clown.

Wait. What’s that?

You want to order six sandwiches so you and your pubescent little friends can pretend you’re wizards and merlins well into the night while watching Highlander six times in a row? You want to hear what all the possible menu options are from the irritated minimum wage slave with a mustard-laden knife in his hands? I hope he slices you with it. You, sir, are a grade-A turd. I could take you to the State Fair and win blue ribbons for your prize-turd status. And I know you heard me when I expressed my disbelief at your inability to read a menu.

You’re what’s wrong with this country.

I hope a level 19 Taco Supreme Imperial Warlock beat the bejeezus out of you that night back in Mother’s basement.

Me? I was the one too lazy to follow through with my plans to torch the Topaz.  I had to settle for glaring and muttering and a cold sandwich.

Unlike revenge, it wasn’t a dish best served cold.

Uli Tales of Misery, Wandering Ponderings

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