Half Past Awesome

It was a teaching moment, to be sure. I was standing near the exit of a local Target with my boys and talking to a friend when a very large woman whirred up to us in her “Jazzy”-style motorized wheelchair and motioned me out of the way. No please, no thank you, nothing but a little angry gesture. It was rude. It was entitled. It was, sadly enough, nothing unusual these days.

Within a moment, as she was buzzing out the doors, a young store manager and a younger security guard sprinted from the registers to her side and yanked her up out of her chair. Everyone turned and stared, being as how running in a department store can usually mean one thing: trouble. As she walked, perfectly capably, under her own power towards an unseen office with someone at each side, Heathen #1 asked “Daddy, why are they leading her away?” My knee-jerk thought process wanted to reply “Because she’s a fat, rude, entitled p.o.s. who manipulates a faked handicap into a distraction for her larcenous behavior.” But good sense took over and I told the boy that she was being taken to the back because she tried to steal from the store. The girl from the coffee counter confirmed my suspicions and said that that was not the first time this woman has done this. Apparently, it’s something of a habit.

All this got me to thinking about what’s going on these days when it comes to my least favorite characteristic in a person: entitlement. From Joe Wilson’s outburst, to Kanye and Serena’s wacky antics, apparently civility has been replaced by tantrum-esque outbursts from all corners. According to an article I was reading on ABC News, “‘There is an increasing coarseness to American discourse,’ columnist George Will said. He blamed our impulsivity and rudeness on a ‘culture of entitlement‘ where we celebrate ‘emotional exhibitionism’ on football fields, cable television, and the Internet.” I see this everywhere, from the Garfield the Cat sweatshirts on nasty methhead moms proclaiming “You want attitude?” to some of our patients insisting that we’re interrupting them in the middle of a reality show on tv, when THEY are the ones who called 911 in the first place.  In other circles, these are the people talking loudly on their cell phones in restaurants, those who park in fire lanes in front of the grocery store and recline their airline seats into my knees EVERY. DAMN. TIME. In general, these are the people who behave like the line-cutters you remember from your early school days.

Who teaches this kind of behavior? Why is it tolerated? What parent in their right mind allows their kids to wear sweat pants with “Juicy” written on the butt? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE? I’m not advocating Puritanical behavior, but it sure would be nice if the person making my coffee didn’t roll their eyes at me the whole time, as though I am requesting major invasive surgery as opposed to a cup of  drip. I wish society would tolerate ME slapping that person and telling them to knock it off. On a related note I also wish I could choke people like Darth Vader did, just by making the choking motion in their general direction. THAT would be a righteous way to restore the balance of civility between mainstream society and me. At the very least I could make a significant impact on the apparent shoplifting epidemic at retail locations in the greater Springfield Metro area.

Until that time, I remain suspicious of people in motorized wheelchairs. But to be fair, I’m reasonably suspicious of everyone, especially anyone wearing Garfield sweatshirts.

For the last five months, I’ve endeavored to bring you glimpses of my convoluted thought process and the subsequent chaotic results. This is not an issue of happenstance; I had recently sold off my excavating business in order to spend some much needed time with my family and to pursue this whole writing experiment. With the construction market being what it was, and continues to be, the decision to sell was timely, and the rewards I’ve gained in terms of being home more often are worth more to me than I could have hoped. By focusing primarily on my fire department career and my fatherhood-like responsibilities, I’ve been able to devote the time and effort my family deserves. That’s great. And when no one is around, I hammer out some verbal missives and hope that it brings you some laughs.

Another aspect of life that’s changed is re-focusing on being healthier and slightly less inclined to clutch my chest one day and drop dead (this would absolutely occur in the most embarrassing location possible). To that end, I signed up for a, um, cycling class at the Downtown YMCA and took up some yoga and pilates, just for good measure. This provides my co-workers endless entertainment. To have gone from running heavy equipment and shooting excavation grades to signing up for a “yogalates” class and claiming to want to get home “so I can write” has led some to question my very status as a man.  By “some” I am also including “me”.

Dirt work was never a passion for me, though, not like writing is, and so it’s not as though I’m missing it that much. Sure, I miss my beloved Peterbilts and the excavator was a pretty damn cool machine to own. But I don’t miss the homeowners whining and chasing money down and getting back to the shop at weird hours and, worst of all, my oldest asking me why I’m never home. I miss hanging out with all my contractor friends and looking over a freshly graded site and knowing the job was done right. No matter how great it is to indulge the writing and get in better shape and all, I was missing working with my hands and smelling like diesel and dirt. I need that connection; to work with my hands, to shoot the bull with friends, to build something other than essays on the internet. I also need a way to pay for the ever elusive motorcycle.

And so a simple request from a co-worker was the genesis for my return to manhood. He asked if I have a welder, and the answer is yes, of course. He then asked if I could weld up a new receiver on his lawn mower trailer; I hate to say no, and he’s a friend, and I thought “what the hell, why not?” Within a few days his trailer was in my shop, the Outlaw Trucker was onsite to supervise and drink breakfast PBR’s and I was back. Back to building something. Back to creating. Back to choking on fumes and smelling of grime. In short, I was happy, and I’d found my religion again. I could take on small welding gigs, have Outlaw co-fabricate, and who knows? At the very least I’d have new material to write about, if nothing else. As for payment, I’ve decided to throw out a coffee can, and whatever folks feel the work is worth, that is what they should throw in. Coffee and beer are also accepted forms of currency. I threw the word around the firehouse wires and have had more work already materialize outta thin air. It turns out quite a few people need just a little help mending metal. I’m glad to have some side work / motorcycle money and the company all my friends bring to the shop. We drink strong mud and barley sodas, discuss the state of affairs, cuss the ignorant and praise the worthy. All in all, a pretty good way to spend some time. The re-MANonization process has begun, and I’m all for it…..as long as it doesn’t interfere with spin class.

Me & The Outlaw Trucker - Steamboat '09

Holiday on a  Monday – few things in life are as cherished to the same degree as a mandated holiday on the nastiest day of the week. And yes, I realize that many of us out there still have to pay homage to the grind, despite the holiday; so before you complain too much about unions and organized labor (yeah, you, Dirtbag!), it’s only a matter of time before the shift calendar mandates my working the next holiday.  I thought I’d run the ol’ Mud Labor-Day style: kicked back, a little late and full of relaxation. Now, I’m off to hydrate with a Guinness and I leave you with the winners and losers for the week. Have a good one, my friends

RAISING OF THE PINT GLASS

1. The Outlaw Trucker. I signed on for a small welding job this week, and it was Outlaw who came to my shop and supervised my actions over a frosty PBR or three. At eight in the morning. The Outlaw can weld like nobody’s business, so when he offers to impart some of his knowledge in the arena of fusing metals, you best listen. I raise my early morning pint glass to you, sir, and thank you for all the help.

2. Firefighters Local 152. This is Labor Day weekend, and I salute my fellow laborers in the Local for all of their efforts to put forth professional service, even when it seems some citizens and politicians feel the need to kick us in the teeth for a mess they created. Tough times are here, but you guys are consummate pros. A pint for the fir na tine, barkeep.

3. Dr. Ellen Ratcliff, DVM. When one of the fighting felines from the compound came home looking as though she’d tangled with an rabid wolverine, our first call was to Ellen. She’s working on the holiday, which sucks, but there’s none better to entrust with the care of one of our brawlers. Thanks, doc, I raise this cold and bold Guinness to you.

KARATE CHOP TO THE THROAT

1. Quack Docs on the internet. The Wife is in a blind rage because her mom keeps believing the utter horse squeeze that comes off of the lines, passing itself off as “medical advice”. It’s easy to spot these shysters for who they are, but then, I’m a fan of the human condition and generally trust nobody; d-bags who claim you need to rub three stones on your gut to cure cancer are as loony as Obama “Birthers” and the Black Helicopter Believers. A karate chop to you…..you’re no better than my Nigerian Prince friends who are so eager to send me my well deserved fortune. Thwack!

2. Poop Slingers. When the family went to a park today, The Heathens went on a mission to find things according to color. Something red, something orange, etc. etc. Very creative planning by The Wife. Well, when Heathen 2 was looking for something brown, guess what he pointed to – yes……a  heaping, steamy pile of dog shit left lying on the ground. If you’re gonna bring your hound to a public park, clean up after it, you thoughtless morons. Chop to your throats, you turd tossers.

3. Weird Girl in Saturn. I pulled up at the aforementioned park with the family and you were just sitting there in your car. Not on the phone. No music. Just darting your eyes back and forth as though some script were being teleprompted onto your front windshield. It was creepy, and even the vague hotness accented by the nose ring couldn’t overcome the heebie-jeebies you were exuding. What made it weirder? An hour later, you were still there, lost in your world. Maybe someone just broke your heart, and that’s a damn shame, but there’s no need for you to skeeze out in a public parking area. You set off my creep-o-meter. And I am overcome with the urge to pre-emptively chop you in the throat.

The era of the bailout has enshrouded our mindset as of late. In a last, desperate gasp, personal accountability has finally croaked, and we are now rewarding unethical and downright greedy behavior by pledging financial aid to institutions that should have, by all rights, gone under. It’s kind of hard to feel sorry for a baron in the Hamptons being forced to rethink his purchase of a small third world nation until he gets the taxpayer-funded bonus he “worked” so hard to get. But it’s a sight easier to feel empathy for folks watching the pensions they’ve worked a lifetime to fund go up in smoke. I should know; I’m in a job where the citizens may well decide to justify bad behavior with worse behavior (I lost my pension, and you should, too!), and frankly, this puts me in a bit of a funk. Half-truths and mis-information abound, and police officers and firefighters’ retirements are at the mercy of some extremely agitated citizens.

In light of these cheery prospects, I’ve decided to hold my own version of  the Cash for Clunkers program. I am gonna call it “Cash For My Worthless Crap”. Seeing as how The Wife is dedicated to curtailing my dreams of purchasing a motorbike due to logic, safety and finances, I need to tackle these hurdles head on. Being logical has never meant much to me, so that’s out the window. I’ll argue for the ridiculous, just for the sake of arguing; she knows this, and once I start waving my arms around and making noises like a highly irritated baboon, she knows it’s useless to resist: I’ve won. Safety? that is going to be a bit tougher. Last night I threw out this philosophical question: “If you’re so convinced I am going to end up maimed and/or dead on a bike, do you think they should outlaw motorcycles completely?” She paused momentarily and then made some inflammatory rhetoric about me wanting to orphan my boys and leave her widowed, followed up with “I hope you can sleep well at night, on your motorcycle.” (The Outlaw Trucker pointed out to me that this wasn’t going to be necessary: I just needed a bedroll to sleep alongside the bike. TAKE THAT!)

So we’re left with the financial aspect of this whole she-bang. I can’t rightly justify taking out a loan to buy a sure-fire deathtrap when the citizens of our fine city may well decide that a fully-functioning fire department is really more of an “extravagance”. I might well be looking at a career change involving hanging out on freeway off-ramps and claiming (on a piece of cardboard) to be “out of gas” to every passerby. Yeah. She’s got me there. And, as I’ve recently gotten out of the excavating business, I still have a shop full of tools I can’t REALLY use recreationally (chain binders, anyone?). I am also in possession of 19 years of my childhood, er, treasures that might just be my ticket out of four wheel living. I’ve bought and sold stuff on sites like E-Bay and Craigslist before; in fact, it’s how I sold all of the excavating equipment. But those monies were dedicated to paying down business debt and throwing my middle finger to the credit institutions. As I look at a box full of Briar toy horses (never played with, by the way) here in my office and think about just how many shovels I own (what, am I equipping an ARMY of shovelers here?……wait a sec, there’s an idea…..) maybe I can pull off  a little cabbage collection on the side. In fact, if I look at the opposite scenario, I’d be hard pressed to find anyone who hasn’t complained about being “Nickle and Dimed” to death. So, that’s it, then…..I’ll nickle and dime myself on up. A dollar here, a sawbuck there, and I’ll be one-tenth on my way to having enough cash to purchase that elusive motorcycle.

With that kind of thinking, I’ll be running the Treasury Department before long. FROM THE SEAT OF MY MOTORCYCLE.

Everyone needs inspiration. Bones is inspired by cleanliness and germ-eradication. The Heathens are inspired by Transformers, The Dirtbag is inspired by architectural innovation, Fury The Landscaper is inspired by a Subway sandwich done right and I’d venture that RoJo is inspired by the recent birth of his son. Artists get inspiration from pastoral landscapes and runaway flights of fancy within the reaches of their imagination. Some folks on the northside are inspired by a good meth rush, which in turn inspires them to stay up all night and peel insulation off of copper wiring so they’ll have a way to fund their next inspiration. Our kids inspire us to be better parents, our spouses inspire us to get off of our asses and do something with the day, and I would argue that coffee can provide some of the greatest inspiration of all.

But, like all creative types, I need to constantly hit my mental “refresh” button in order to feed the flow of ideas that come spilling out of my mind. Often times, this comes in the form of the neighbors, Truck 2 antics at the fire station, The Heathens or the myriad folks who play supporting roles in the comedy that is my life. I believe with all I’ve got that you can find all the material you might need right in front of your nose, if only you take the time to open your eyes and see the ridiculosity for what it is. But.

But…..once in awhile a change of scenery is in order, if for no other reason than to throw your chaos into perspective and give you an appreciation for little things like, say, the Amish out on the state highway. Sometimes I achieve this with a trip to the Northwest to visit The Dirtbag, I’ve found it on a road trip to a music festival in Steamboat Springs, Co and it’s been had floating down a river on a lazy summer day with a motley crew of amigos. The common denominator is that travel is the impetus for my inspiration. I may not be as worldly as I’d hoped to be by this age, but in my limited travels, I find it to be a crack cocaine of sorts: I always want more and more, there’s always more to see, more to experience, more to drink in and enjoy.

The corollary benefit to me traveling around more is that it also provides much more material to write about, and thereby gives you moments of levity (in the form of this site) from time to time. The reason I bring this up? I am in deep negotiations with The Wife as to the purchase of a dual sport motorcycle, which would give me access to a whole new range of material and inspiration. You may argue that you can hit the road in your truck just as easily, and it would be hard to counter that, but there is something about traveling by bike to small town festivals, redneck jamborees and different little hamlets around here that really appeals to the wanderer in me. To take a dusty county backroad with an amigo or two just to witness all that is offered for my visual consumption would border on a spiritual experience for an old heathen. You know, like my own version of  Zen And the Art Of Motorcycle Maintenance kind of thing.

And while she may have safety statistics, economic limitations and virtual practicality on her side of the argument, I’ll be utilizing divine inspiration as the cornerstone of my reasons to buy a motorcycle. I am also going to be relying heavily on needing to keep posts on this site fresh and funny, that you the reader have high expectations of low humor and that in order to accomplish this, I’ll need two wheels, a motor and a weekend here or there. I can’t let you down, and I won’t.  It’s going to prove a tough fight, my friends, and her ability to be all “rational” and “level-headed” is going to work against me  in ways I can’t even anticipate. Although it shouldn’t be necessary, I’ll even resort to guerrilla tactics such as…..well, I can’t say here, because she’s been known to read this once in a while. But trust me, it’ll involve behavior I am not used to, such as reining in some of my erratic ways. Hopefully the result will be a newly found sense of inspiration and a 650cc motor.

After all, who can argue against Zen and small town tractor pulls?

Being a fan of the human condition, my radar for bizarre behavior operates on high alert most of the time. One aspect that always grabs my attention? Culture clashes. I am not talking about a cannibal in a room full of vegans kind of thing, more like certain behaviors that seem to make sense to locals, but seem weird-o-riffic to a transplant such as myself. This area of the country offers several opportunities to observe these customs, from folks’ obsession with fried chicken in cashew sauce (white meat only….dark meat is always rumored to have come from neighborhood cats), to having homes in the “country French” style (not to be confused with “French country” style which is also a favorite and TOTALLY different), to one of my all-time favorites: dining out as competitive sport.

When I first moved here, I found it really and truly odd that people would tolerate waiting two hours on a cold or hot sidewalk just to eat at one of the 79,651 restaurants our town seems to offer. This takes place every weekend, and we’re not talking about only fancy, swanky joints either. A national barbecue chain rolls into town and we’ll gladly sit knee deep in peanut shells in the waiting area just for the opportunity to dive into a baked potato with 3,800 calories of meat and dairy on top (that’s one of two side orders, just to let you know). In fact, going out any time from Thursday to Sunday is an exercise in sheer madness, unless Taco Bell sounds like the kind of cuisine you were thinking about. After nine years, however, it somehow became enmeshed in my system that weekends were meant for these feats of endurance, where we could all jam our elbows into one another in waiting areas, proclaiming to the world how nice it was “to just get out of the house” (a sentiment clearly shared by, like, 99.9% of the metro population as well). The Wife, being a native, accepts this as a part of her civic obligation to Springfield, and insists that we participate on a regular basis.

So imagine, if you will, the four of us out for lunch today at the Fuddruckers after some hiking at the Nature Center. All is going well, with Heathen #2 attempting to eat his macaroni and cheese like one might drain the last of the cereal out of the bowl (tipped up and going everywhere). I notice the crowds start to build near the drink station and in the ordering line. I mention as much to my better half, and she leans in, all conspiratorially, cocks up an eyebrow, and says “well, ya know, you GOTTA beat the church crowd. And we just did.” She then nods her head in a self-satisfied way, as though this indicates our consumptive prowess. I looked around. Of course, she was right. It would seem that the only logical thing to do after congregating in a house of worship would be to congregate in a house of pancakes. She then asked me “I guess you never had to worry about this in California, did you?” No, I didn’t. Ever. I am sure that all of the hot spots out there are packed on weekend evenings, but that’s where you’d mostly find singles and young couples, not spiritually inclined families in their finest khakis and polo shirts. It just wasn’t something we grew up doing. Most families were eating at home or in the homes of their friends. The adults would stand around after church on the lawn in front, eating cheap donuts, drinking cheaper coffee and smoking Virginia Slims during “social hour”, but that about covered the churchy-social obligations. We never went out to eat with our fellow congregants; for one thing,  Mom had to haul ass back home so she could prepare “dinner”. For 2pm (I never understood that). Even as a kid, I was busy inventing various diseases to get me out of going to church half the time, so why would I enjoy going out with those people afterward?

Back to today. We ended up discussing the pros and cons of eating out as a ritual for awhile, me advocating eating at home more often, as long as I didn’t have to be a part of the cooking process, she telling me I am ridiculous. Before long, I sensed trouble on the horizon. How? From the back seat of the car, still covered in ketchup residue, Heathen #1 pipes up “that was good, but can we go to Taco Bell tomorrow?”

Game, set and match.

One of the pluses of social networking sites such as Facebook has been the ability to reconnect me with folks I haven’t seen nor heard from in a good decade or so. Take Stefan Paszke, for example. Stefan and I were the best of buddies as little kids. Stefan was a huge BMX bike racing guy, so naturally, I wanted to be into BMX.  He was an only child, and thus the recipient of an only child’s attention; of course this meant I spent time trying to figure out how to kill my brothers so I TOO could reap the rewards. As time rolled along, we grew up, grew apart and aside from sporadic sightings I’d hear about from time to time, he vanished into the big bad world.

And then I stumbled across Facebook, and we found one another (it wasn’t too hard, after all, two dudes with names such as ours? Didn’t we just cover this topic?) Guess what? After all these years, Stefan is still in the cycling game, as an owner of Bespoke Cycles in San Fransisco, and it looks like an awesome shop; remembering his fastidious attention to detail, this looks like the kind of place where the serious cyclist drops in for serious craftsmanship. And while it’s been really gratifying to catch up with him, other social re-connections have also brought up the uglier, darker side of such sites: my raging envy and the sucker I am at falling for well crafted self-promotion.

Nobody ever heads to a social gathering such as a cocktail party and responds to the usual “how are you?” with: “actually, Charles, I’m glad you brought that up, because I am REALLY worried about paying the utility bill this month.” We always respond with “GREAT! It’s all smooth sailing, Chuck! How about you?” And so our little charade of well being continues, with no one knowing exactly where the truth falls. This is how it should be; beyond small talk, are we truly interested in the sordid details of one’s financial health or impending marital implosion? If I am, then it’s most likely in a trainwreck/Nascar pileup observational way – pure morbid voyeurism. Nothing to be proud of, I admit it.

So why is it then, when I read the profiles and updates of an old acquaintance on Facebook, do I find myself nervously chuckling in righteous amusement at what appears to be socially hip bragging?  “So-and-so just got back from the Hamptons, and in between planning his next trip to St. Tropez and Paris built a eco-sustainable bio-dome for a homeless man on the Santa Monica Pier.” Well, of COURSE they’re gonna say that. We ALL do. I never update with: “Uli can’t seem to find his missing box of 3/16th” E6010 welding rod”. Nobody cares about that. But somehow, I always fall for the updates, and then I get all weird and envious of the roads that others have taken. I, too, want to travel the world in search of the best surf spots, to “hop across the pond” just to watch Manchester United take on some no-account footballers. I think it would be awesome to the nth degree to travel with my friend Juli, all across these United States, promoting Leatherman multi-tools. SHE GETS PAID TO TALK ABOUT TOOLS. FOR REAL. Of course, I don’t know what the hell ELSE is happening in her life, so it would be dumb of me to covet hers, much less the life of anyone else.

In the end, I’m really stoked to find out what my old friends are up to these days, where the winds scattered them across this globe. If anyone would have told me a dozen years ago I’d be a full time firefighter here in the middle of the country, I’d have considered that person high, and would’ve told them as much. This just happens to be the road I wound up on, due to myriad choices and circumstances. And while we’re all raising families, conquering the world of leisure in tropical locales, working as novelists or maybe just toiling away as civil servants, these experiences are fun to share through the world of modern day digital gossip pages. I suppose I need to embark on yet another adventure before long, so I can have fresh material to embellish for the internet. Maybe said adventure needs to start at a San Francisco bike shop and a visit to an old friend.

Once in a great while I have a scandalous desire to wander from my commitment. I long to feel the strange caress of another, to stray just a bit with a sweet alternative. To ride the high of forbidden intimacy while escaping the bonds to which I’ve become accustomed; to soar to new heights of manic passion bordering on a nirvana-like state of mind and body. I am, of course, talking about cheating on coffee.

I love coffee, much in the way a junkie loves heroin -  if by love you mean “hopelessly, aimlessly and madly addicted”. That describes my relationship with the bean to a tee, and I am so deeply embedded with the stuff that there’s a pretty good shot that I would rather shave my face with a rusty spoon than go without the joe. And yet. Yet, like all relationships, there comes a time when speedbumps pop up on the superhighway of hopped up jitters. When the dog days of summer get here (like, this past week, thank you very much Satan) it becomes a slightly less appealing to throw steaming hot mud down the pipe – but only slightly. As of late, I’ve tried alternatives (Java Monster, iced McCrap from the golden arches, and, most infamously, The Chinese Rocket Fuel incident). Frankly, little compares to the real deal, and this presents a bit of situation.  Regular soda just rots teeth and encourages horizontal expansion of the belt. Not good. I long for that close tango that I do with coffee daily, wherein it scalds my tongue and then rewards me with an ability to perform like a tweaker on a binge. Glorious, gorgeous nectar of the bean, I wonder what can compare? That got me to thinking about the alternatives and then in a divine moment of recall, an old idea finally hit me.

A long, long time ago (somewhere in the early eighties, I believe), we used to frequent a 7-11 convenience store in Santa Barbara when we’d wander around on our BMX bikes. In the time before energy drinks or even the awesome Jolt Cola, we’d look for ways to achieve the ultimate forbidden rush. I can’t remember who stumbled across this idea, but it was revolutionary for it’s time: The Suicide. The idea was to take a hit from each of the soda flavors in your cup, thereby creating the ultimate (and ultimately nasty) concoction. It was the beverage equivalent to theater hopping (another pastime of young idiotic turks like us). You got a little of this, a little of that, something that tasted like carbonated printer ink and you’d earned enough chops to strut like a Bantam rooster.

According to The Wife, there were signs in the roller rink back in the day, just above the soda dispenser that said “No Suicides”. Apparently this phenomenon wasn’t limited to the West Coast, and the fact that it was in a roller rink just further proves that this was not a mild happening. The Suicide. Part of me wants to stroll into my local Kum & Go and glare like a badass at the attendant while, in a macho way, I haphazardly toss various flavors of carbonated delight into a 440z. Styrofoam cup. The moment after I paid for this fine medley of caffeine, I’d take a sip, never letting my eyes lose their lock on the no doubt incredulous clown behind the register. And then I’d probably puke it out all over myself and the counter and lose the coveted macho status I was hoping to acquire. Damn.

Maybe Suicide isn’t the answer. I no longer ride a BMX bike. Too many years have passed since I considered Pop Tarts a reasonable breakfast. Despite all of my immature antics, the fact remains that I’m getting older at an alarming rate; blistering the inside of my mouth with a shot of hot java may well be as close to living like a maniac as I can get. I just can’t get past the fact that I considered stepping out on my beloved mud. One can only hope the coffee maker will still be there on the counter in the morning, when I beg for forgiveness and a cup of scalding love.

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

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

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

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

Pros

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

Cons

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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