Half Past Awesome

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

*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.

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.

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.

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.