Half Past Awesome

The topic sent out by the Springfield Blogger’s Association for discussion was “Taking Time To Blog”; I guess we’re supposed to wax idiotic on the hows and whens of filling our sites with our ramblings. Half Past Awesome is, without a doubt, the number one consumer of my misfiring synapses in terms of idling away free moments. In order to come up with something humorous, I pore over miles of internet detritus and hours of wasted conversations around the firehouse. Since I’m a firm believer that truth is funnier than fiction, I try and limit my reality-bending to a bare minimum, and this takes a huge amount of my time. Once the idea has been hatched, the usual time frame from first sentence to final edit is anywhere from 20min. to an hour. Weird, right?

Given that writing is something I actually really, really like doing, I’m able to waste ridiculous amounts of time cranking out one worthless essay after another. The edit and unpublished section on my dashboard always has about a dozen screeds on it, waiting for the right moment to be dropped at the opportune moment. And truth be told, a good chunk of the time on an essay is spent perusing Google images for just the right pic to fit the essay. Except for today, as you can tell.

Having the attention span of a fly doesn’t help, either, but once in a while I’m able to snag one of the dozens of wild thoughts crashing around my head and get it down on virtual paper. And, once in a while, I hope it makes you laugh.

Uli Tales of Misery

People of the interwebs: check out this guys’ site if you’re a fan of The Onion-style infotainment and live in the Springfield area:

Fair City News

It’s written by Chad Harris, a friend I met through the local bloggers association and the dude is flat out hilarious (look him up on Facebook if you hang out there). He’s also let me guest post two articles that you may find entertaining. This first was written around the holidays and you can find it here. It deals with an informal poll taken at a local bar.

The second one was published today and concerns local politics and towns with the name of Springfield. Read it here.

Recently a reluctant-to-admit-Half Past Awesome reader came up to me in Patton Alley Pub, and after the usual pleasantries were exchanged she says, “well, I’ve been reading your site, and I hate to admit it, but you’re funny. But it’s just a little…….you know……”

“No, I said, “I don’t know. I need you to finish this statement. It’s what? Sucky? Too low-brow? Sophmoric? Too many pop culture references? Too snarky? Too negative?” (all statements that I’ve heard, mostly from other firemen).

“No, no, I mean, that’s all true, but no, your site is, you know…….kinda self absorbed.”

Wow. Ok, so there has been a distinct lack of Mother Teresa’s influence on the site, I guess.  I’m not really sure what a site devoted to my attempts to humor you should be absorbed with, and I asked her this question. Her response?

“You know, I don’t know. It’s just, you know kinda full of you.”

Gotcha. I’m beginning to think she’s lying, because the stories rarely end with me looking anything less than a total jackass, so I took the opportunity to squint my eyes, real Clint Eastwood-like, and ask in a disbelieving voice

“Huh? How many beers have you had J—-?”

I was then universally dismissed with the wave of the hand and an utterance of “whatever” while she rejoined her party on the other side of the bar. I headed back to the table of amigos and was devestated for a whole two minutes, until the next pint of Guinness came my way.

My point? I want you to consider, for a moment, that I am the sponge and I am the spilled juice and therefore I’m writing all of this as a means of absorbing myself. But mostly, I just want to make you laugh a little. Enjoy the reading.

Uli Tales of Misery

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

It’s time to kick -aught nine to the curb and usher in the new decade. We’ll probably start with the host of false promises known as  New Years’ Resolutions. I thought that for a different perspective, my resolutions would be things that I would NOT do 2010 to the best of my abilities. This post also marks the 100th installment of Half Past Awesome, and I’d like to thank those of you who take the time to read my insane rants; at the least, I hope I can amuse you from time to time. So here you have it, 20 things that I intend to not to do in ‘10. I’ll talk to you next year, amigos. Enjoy!

20 Things I Resolve To Not Do In 2010

I will not:

1.) Get any neck tattoos. While these may elevate your status in prison, they are somewhat off-putting and remind people on the outside not to trust you very much.

2.) Be featured on the A&E television show Hoarders. To avoid becoming one, I may have to set fire to my many random pieces of plywood and lumber that litter the shop. Nobody gets a birdhouse, but then, I don’t become one of those nutjobs. Bittersweet, I suppose.

3.) Let the hair on my back grow to any length. This is disgusting and requires only two words: consistent waxing. The pain is well worth the avoidance of the back sweater blues.

4.) Develop any sort of Ponzi schemes that might defraud hapless hedge fund managers. Those poor slobs have been through enough already, don’t you think? They deserve our deepest sympathy.

5.) Fall in love with Penelope Cruz. This is going to prove tougher as time goes by, but we must get over one another.

6.) Join a motorcycle gang. As tempting as it sounds, riding around all hopped up and psychotic, I don’t even own a motorcycle, so this should be an attainable goal. No promises on not wearing the leather vest, though.

7.) Ever, EVER, wear skinny jeans. This trend is stupid enough that I envision the next step will be wearing a wetsuit bottom around, and after that, just straight up tights. Way to go, Robin Hood wannabes.

8.) Be swayed by the hypnotic qualities of Dyson products. Whether it’s the vacuum ball or air-blade hand dryer, I must control the urge to fork out $1600 to dry my hands. But damn, their devices look so good, and when that Dyson guys pitches his inventions? His accent alone makes me want to purchase. But I won’t. Not this year.

9.) Mock Steven Seagal. This has become too easy, and he’s inches away from becoming a character on Reno 911, so I just gotta let them have it. Take care, Steven, I’ll miss haranguing you.

10.) Attempt a mustache. Previous mustaches I have worn always result in my looking like either a failed porn star or some sort of international sex predator, neither of which I can really feel comfortable sporting. No to the ’stache.

11.) Purchase Crocs. Not unless I need some fancy footwear while shopping down at “The Wal-Marts”.

12.) Take sides, nor participate in the Edward vs. Jacob conversation. You ladies are all either necrophiliacs or pedophiles, and it’s more than creepy. Ps- vampires and werewolves don’t really exist, so this whole debate makes as much sense as arguing about who’s hotter: Jessica Rabbit or Betty Boop?

13.) Purchase a Member’s Only jacket. I don’t think I need to give a reason here.

14.) Challenge The Lyin’ Dutchman to a cage fight. To the death. Much as I am tempted to lure him into the Octagon, there can only be one result of such a fight; the winner would have to take on Aunt Viper, and we know who wins in that scenario.

15.) Go to Arkansas for any reason – it never ends well. Just ask Hillary.

16.) Insist that Christopher Walken play the role of me, on the off-chance that an epic movie be made about my shenanigans and debauchery.

17.) Accept Sarah Palin’s invitation into her tour bus the next time she rolls into Springfield – she only wants one thing, the dirty little minx. I learned my lesson last time, and I won’t be treated like that again.

18.) Beat up young boys who wear make-up and iron their hair. This one will be tough to uphold, as those kids need a decent slapping and a mirror shoved into their face. When you wear more make-up than most girls and you spend more than 10 seconds on your hair, then your sexual ambiguity should meet the back of my hand.

19.) Walk away from everything I know in order to be a roadie for Mariah Carey. Despite her proclivity for wearing stiletto heels 24 hours a day (which shows dedication!), I suspect that she may be just a little high maintenance.  We’d have issues.

20.) Use the phrase “I’m going to sell you for parts” as a threat to my children when they misbehave. Some people in the Division of Family Services might want an explanation for that one, and I get the sense that they are institutionally devoid of any humor. It’s incredibly effective, but I’ll try my best to threaten to sell them as whole entities instead.

Uli Tales of Misery, Wandering Ponderings Aunt Viper, the Heathens, The Lyin' Dutchman

*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

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 returned from the trip to California with a fresh lease on inspiration. Spending time with creative people has an infectious quality, and I felt a surge of wicked energy surging through my body as I arrived home. I later realized that that surge was just my crappy knee acting up after sitting on an airplane for several hours, but that’s neither here nor there. When observing The Author’s enclosed work-building I like to call the Kiosk of Chaos, when I saw him interact with writers and watched the exchange of ideas being bandied about, it made the whole concept of writing seem less solitary than it feels at times. As someone who thrives in social settings, I find it maddening that in order to come up with halfway funny essays, I essentially need to be alone. I’ll roll out to the shop, start about three different carpentry or welding projects and bounce some ideas off the cats, but mostly they just stare back and look as though the only thing keeping them from murdering me is a lack of opposable thumbs. They really are no help at all.

I come back into the office and think some more about what you and I might find humorous. I’ll waste time on Facebook. I’ll make the bed and another pot of coffee. All of these are solitary pursuits, despite the tank filled with disgusting mutant fish that sits next to my desk. So, in a nutshell, yeah, it was great to be able to go out of town and watch these folks in motion. I came home all spun up to write, and then, as I crossed the threshold into my office it hit me.

I could totally qualify for the show “Hoarders”.

This show, on A&E, examines the lives of compulsive hoarders and their disgusting environs, usually filled with all manners of detritus and pet waste. There are no pets in our house at the current time (save for the nuclear-blast-survivor-looking fish) and there is no human waste of which to speak in the office, so I’ve got that going for me. What on earth I need all those cardboard boxes for is a mystery (kindling for the shop stove). A knee brace (in case it hurts), old telephone books (good for target practice), a childs’ guitar (for when the mood strikes them as I’m playing), back issues of Classic Trains and Esquire (weird tastes, yes) and a half-full flask from a recent wedding all catch my eye as I enter. The Wife won’t even come in without good cause, and I don’t blame her. Maybe this is a subconscious way of keeping out intruders; they’ll be so baffled by the chaos, they’ll choose to loot other places in my home. Plus, they probably have all the cardboard boxes they could possibly use.

My sense of shame is usually defeated by laziness, though; I wait until I begin to step over things to get in here before I declare it a disaster scene, thereby qualifying for federal aid. I have yet to hear from the government as to their helping me in the cleaning up the disaster scene, and thus the cycle continues and next thing you know there’s an empty cough drop bag taking up residence on the floor, not three feet from a trash bin. When the disaster scene relief team (in the form of the National Guard) fails, again, to make an appearance, I briefly consider lighter fluid and a match as a means of office renewal. I could get over the loss of the mutant fish, but I don’t know if I could ever replace the apparently priceless hose clamp that’s decided to live on my desk for the past three months. It’s become a part of the family.

Uli Tales of Misery The Author, The Wife

This site is hitting the road. For the next week, I’ll be back in the arms of madness; I’m going home to California to observe that most holy of sacraments – my brother Buns is turning 30. Since he went and carelessly found a “relationship” in the time between my purchase of an airline ticket and the actual departure, I’m harboring no illusions beyond that of relegation to third wheel status. That’s okay, though, because I’ll use the opportunity to steal one of his vehicles and scatter around the state, visiting friends, sowing discontent and fomenting rebellion at every stop. For a change of pace, I thought I’d use Half Past Awesome as a rambling travelogue. I’ll keep pictures to a minimum, so as to protect the various characters and the unwilling. Wherever the truck stops is where I’m spending the night, and we’ll let it fly from there. What better place to start than the Springfield/Branson National Airport, Lube & Tune?

In all fairness, I love travel for the sole reason that it allows me to observe the mundane and insane and everything in between, all under the heading “people watching”. Springfield, Missouri is no different. In the past twenty minutes, I’ve watched an irate dad come unhinged on some poor soul on the other end of his phone call and three old farmers grousing about this new terminal, complaining about fresh food being served, whereas the restaurant at the old terminal was famous for food poisoning (“yeah, but you could at least smoke in there! What’s happening to this goddam place?!”).  Since this is a direct flight to L.A., I’m getting the chance to observe a grandmother in leather pants (not that hot) and a trio of Mexican dudes with enough gold around their necks to put Mr. T into a snit of envy. There’s the token guy in a Crocodile Dundee hat (seriously? We’re going to Los Angeles, not the outback) and twenty minutes before boarding, people are starting to line up dutifully, although nothing’s been announced. There is a mad rush to head into a flying aluminum tube and sit down, but it eludes me as to why you must mill like starving cattle. I found some hot coffee and a quiet corner of this place; until the aging hippie trying to pass his steamer trunk off as “carry on” gets his ponytail on the plane, I think I’ll just enjoy the view. See you in California.

Uli Tales of Misery, Travelblogue, West Coast shenanigans

Is the nature of man really that competitive? If we use the holiday season as a barometer of our desire to slap the snot out of the Joneses, then I think the answer is an undeniable “hells yes”. Leading the charge in this water-boarding of festive cheer are all of the radio stations who deem it necessary to begin their holiday rotations the day after Halloween. I am not sure who the marketing genius is that decided that sixty days of the same five songs is far superior to thirty days of said music, but whoever he or she is, they deserve to be slapped in the face. Sort of like how it was at sixteen, when every other sentence to your girlfriend was “I love you”, the heavy handed tactics of bombarding us with the same rotation for two months results in the diminishment of the sentiment. Your first girlfriend, and I, are sick of hearing it over and over, and pretty soon the Pavlovian response to hearing “White Christmas” for the 784th time is to choke the living daylights out of someone (and then break up with you). And don’t give me any of this “Scrooge” business – I really like the holidays, I swear I do, but there is such a thing as saturation overload – it’s tawdry and cheap. About the only thing I cannot abide this time of year is eggnog, and that is a result of an experiment gone horribly awry when I was about five years old; the details are unimportant, just suffice to say that eggnog is not a good substitute for milk on your breakfast cereal.

The mindset that follows sixty days of Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer in your ears is one that celebrates “Black Friday”. This is a shopping phenomenon that The Wife, along with millions of others, really gets into; it appeals to me about as much as kicking puppies for sport. Despite the ability to save the same amount of money by looking for deals online, there is some sort of joy to be found in getting up at three a.m. just for the opportunity to catch pneumonia and then promptly elbow some woman to death over the last Tickle-Me-Elmo doll. Over Thanksgiving dinner at the in-laws, I heard some ladies discussing strategy and “product-location” as though they were preparing to initiate a hostile takeover of a third world nation. They would assemble in a line three miles long, disperse throughout the stores and meet back up in the checkout lines for a few hours of gloating over their conquests like Viking warriors with lattes. This sounds like a lovely time, indeed. I’ve never been one for getting whipped into a frenzy over pricing, so this experience is one which I think I’ll avoid, if for no other reason than to keep from murdering other shoppers in a looting extravaganza.

One aspect I can’t avoid, however, is hanging the lights for Christmas. I enjoy the way homes look at night, all lit up; it’s as though whatever else is wrong around the globe, a home warmly decorated with colored bulbs on the exterior indicates that all is right in your corner of the world, your home is happy and you are, in fact, NOT a tax cheat or some other public nuisance. But, much like the music and the shopping mobs, there is an intense, unspoken pressure to get your house lit up. Some may claim taking advantage of remaining good weather, others may boldly proclaim they “just want to get all that shit over with”, but I think the truth is lurking elsewhere in the shadows. I think, again, that there’s a competitive edge to getting your domicile adorned with exterior lighting. I do like how each persons home can serve as a creative expression for their inner holiday artist; that part I really like, but it’s the subtle hints that really frost my cocktail tumbler. The unspoken insinuation that your neighbor is maybe just a bit more of an embodiment of holiday cheer because they had their lawn Santas up on November 1st. They hauled their pre-lit fake tree down from the attic sometime in October, and because of that, you suck. In a way, I feel sorry for Thanksgiving, because soon it will be known merely as pre-Christmas dinner. We don’t do this with other holidays – there’s no pressure to give your wife a Valentines day gift in January, nor do we dress in spooky costumes in August, demanding free candy from our neighbors. So why do I feel as though hanging my Christmas light on November 29th makes me late for the party? When did we inherit the cultural mores of The Whos of Whoville? Is there a marketing department of a faceless institution that I can blame for this, shake my fist at and mumble about the decline of Western civilization?

All of this is probably why I insist on resisting the lure of the fake Christmas tree. Sure, it may be easier, and it may look (artificially) more perfect, but there is an intrinsic aspect of Christmas that comes with a real tree. Much like having a home with a brick front and vinyl siding on three sides, there are those for whom a fake tree is a cheap concession they’re willing to indulge because it looks good from afar. As a kid, my mom took me to the the neighborhood barber shop that served as a de facto tree lot in December, and I remember all the scents and the sounds of the electric chainsaws and the way the overhead strings of white bulbs gave it all a surreal feel. It was as though this was NOT the asphalt parking lot of a low-cost clip joint, but a magical place where the democratic process of selecting a tree was undertaken. When I lived in Alaska, there was a group of us that went out into the woods and found our own trees and cut them down, a ceremony that involved lots of drinking, good times and impromptu snowball fights. Anymore, it seems as though you would give the selection of a simulated tree no more thought than as an addition to your shopping list at Wal-Mart: milk, bread, diapers, some PVC pipe, and……oh yeah, a Christmas tree. And now, as an adult, father and avowed contrarian, I insist on dragging my kids to a swimming pool sales establishment parking lot, one where Cub Scouts are selling trees to fund their ascension up the Boy Scout chain of accomplishment. The trees aren’t necessarily the prettiest nor the cheapest, but they’re real, and this is one of the few times in their childhood where our kids will have a say in interior decor, so it’s a bit of a rite of passage.

Before long, I think that those who we labeled as “crazy” for keeping their lights up year round will be hailed as visionaries of the future. Black Friday will be preceded by “Purple Thursday” and “Sea-Foam Green Wednesday”. The day after Christmas will be advertised with loud radio voices proclaiming “ONLY 364 days to get your loved one the diamonds they so richly deserve!! And now here’s Bing Crosby with his rendition of Jingle Bells!” People looking for a haircut or a swimming pool installation will have to negotiate pine trees in the parking lot year round. Candy cane manufacturers will experience unheard-of  endless demand and you’ll get the opportunity to get a picture with Santa while he is water skiing in July. And you’ll probably find me in the month of May, trying to choke down some eggnog in a last-ditch effort to get into the season.

Uli Tales of Misery, Wandering Ponderings The Wife

I like the noise of democracy.   ~ James Buchanan

This past week I worked at a polling station, endorsing the passage of a sales tax here in our city that would provide funding for a badly underfunded pension system; it would also allow for monies to be freed up in order to begin filling massive holes the police and fire departments have in terms of manpower. A sticky, thorny situation, asking for the passage of a tax in these times, especially in an area of Missouri conservative enough to deem air conditioning in school classrooms a “fancy-pants luxury”. The long and short of it was that the naysayers lost, and the tax passed. I am glad for this, because it tells me that there are still people out there who care enough about local public safety to consider actually paying for it; this runs contrary to many places where entitlement is the rule of law (didn’t we discuss this?) But I digress.

One of the best parts of working the polls? Working a ten hour shift there is like a guarantee that SOMEone will have an episode in your presence. Jim and I booked our slot down at one of the libraries and let the good times roll. Here are a couple of characters worthy of mention.

1.) The Ghost Of Jerry Garcia
This cat was what we refer to on the northside as an “Urban Outdoorsman”, but is known on the southside as “homeless”. He looked like a toothless version of Jerry Garcia, stringy skullet style hair and the odor of old food and urine. He continued to berate us for a cigarette (neither of us smoke), demand of us the bus schedule (we kept telling him it seemed to come around every 20 minutes) and push us into buying his watch for some “lunch money”. Despite pointing out that neither of us needed watches, he remained undaunted in his quest to sell us his watch, even using yelling as a sales technique at one point. He also took the time to show us a couple of pictures that he had of himself in nothing but a diaper. As an adult. His explanation? Some kids offered to “put him on the internet” if he agreed to have his picture taken. One thing I love about the homeless – they never fail to be amused at their own stories, and are more than willing to laugh at appropriate moments, thereby alleviating us of the responsibility; this is critical, because we couldn’t understand more than every seventh word he uttered. So we all had a good laugh, checked the time on our corresponding watches and made sure to get him on the next bus, a process that took several hours due to his frequent need to take a piss and subsequently pass out behind the bushes every so often.

2.) Christian Vigilantes
A couple of older dudes came by our area to talk about the pension issue, and then assured us that due to our profession, no matter the outcome of the vote, our lives in the after world were a sure thing. I asked him if he actually knew any firemen, because that might cause him to re-evaluate his position; of course they may have been damning us for an eternity at this point. I smelled it first, but Jim wasn’t as quick to sense a theological trap, and he was left to be the point man in the conversation. They then went on to insist that the resurrection of Jesus was the most undisputed, scientific, undeniable fact of existence. There were some terms thrown about that made no sense, talking about radiological testing and lots of talk of bloodshed. It was creepier than your common conversion session. They then made us promise we’d read the Book of John, immediately. And since they hadn’t cast their votes yet, I just nodded like a cult follower, eyes as big as saucers, throwing in the occasional “you got that right, sister!” and “can I get a witness?” They then asked if we’d like them to kick over the sign that the opposition had put up next to ours. We politely told them we couldn’t condone that kind of thing, but we weren’t there to police their behavior. So the shorter chubby one walked up to the sign as they headed to the lot after voting and sort of kicked it. Sort of. He more like tripped over it and stumbled and created a scene. I shouted out “Praise Jesus” (okay, I muttered it) while he picked himself off the lot and demanded his buddy ride in the back of the car. They peeled out of the parking lot like they’d just knocked over a liquor store instead of a plastic sign. Jim looked at me and asked “Did that really just happen?”
Yes James, it did. And it was awesome.

3.) The Ultimate Pessimist
The only thing we’d say to people heading into the polls was “Good morning” or “Doin’ all right?” There were no pleas, nor any entreaties to vote one way or another. We were there only to answer any questions folks might have about the pension and to put a face on this huge issue. Most folks would at least give us a “good morning” in return, or if a no voter (I’m guessing) pretend they didn’t hear us and take an obsessive interest in the ground near their feet. But one man, a nastily grouchy looking sort, said “good morning” at first and then saw who we were and took the time to stop, point at us and say “NO. Not a good morning”. And then he shuffled off to electorally shake his fist at us.  I turned and said “Think of the power we wield, James. We just converted the entire aspect of this morning merely by wearing a shirt. Think of what we could do by lunch.”

4.) The Recyclers
At some point in the day, a couple of ladies came out of the library with the backpack on wheels- kind of contraption I took it to be used for the transportation of reading material. They weren’t poorly dressed, nor did they have the air of desperate people; they were merely passing some time waiting for the next bus, and I thought nothing of it. There was one of those sand filled ashtrays near us (fanTAStic!) and once in a while a library patron / voter would throw their cancer stick into the sand receptacle as they entered the building – everyone on board so far? Yeah, well these ladies would wait for just such an occurrence and then saunter on up, looking us dead in the eye, as though they wanted to talk. But this was arrogance on my part to think they wanted anything to do with a couple of poll workers; no, they would stop at the ashtray, pick through the butts and either begin to smoke one, or already having one in their mouth, place them into the pockets of their sweat pants. Each time this happened? I gagged just a little and excitedly jabbed Jim with an elbow and said “Dude. They just did it. Again!”, to which Jim would nonchalantly reply “I wonder if they’re single” or “Man, that’s really ecologically responsible, how they don’t waste ANYthing.”
Which is precisely why I picked working with Jim.

And precisely why, when called upon again to represent the local firefighters at a polling place, my first pick will be to work at the library. I love the democratic process.

Uli Tales of Misery