Half Past Awesome

The Doctor Will See You Now

This past week a man was charged with performing illegal adult circumcisions in his home.

I repeat:

This past week a man was charged with performing illegal adult circumcisions in his home.

This is not a story I made up, nor is it one I found on Fair City News. This story is real, and it took place in Sparta, Michigan. And if you still don’t believe me, you can find a link to the news story here. Let’s take a moment to observe just how creepy this whole scenario really is.

According to local law enforcement, Thomas Huegel had “a makeshift operating room in his house”. Oh, okay, so this doesn’t sound weird at all. Continuing, the story indicates the amateur scalper would find his “patients” on sites such as Craigslist and Adam4Adam (which sounds suspiciously like a dude for dude kinda site. I should work for CSI with such sharp instincts). So far they have only been able to identify three “victims” but have ample evidence that there is a greater number of people who’ve been under Huegel’s knife.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?

And, more importantly, would you people be willing to sit down and talk with me for a minute? Because I’d really, really, really like to know your thought process as you entered into this whole bowl of creep sauce. When did you come to terms with the fact that you were considering a circumcision performed by an untrained and unlicensed individual?

Look, I’m not here to judge. Actually, that’s totally a lie -  if you’re one of this clown’s “victims” there’s a pretty good chance you deserve his cut-rate services. I’m just beyond shocked that somehow this seemed like ” a pretty good idea” to you or anyone. Even though “he quite often wore a doctor’s uniform that really left the impression he was a medical doctor” according to one Lt. Kevin Kelley, did it never occur to you that this was taking place IN A HOUSE? Who in their ever-loving mind thinks to look to Craigslist for medical procedures?

Don’t answer that if I know you and you’ve done this.

I wouldn’t want it to get, you know, weird.

Uli Wandering Ponderings

Next Time We Meet

Dear Moron,

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

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

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

Wait. What’s that?

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

You’re what’s wrong with this country.

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

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

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

Uli Tales of Misery, Wandering Ponderings

"This? Is my biblical pimp-hand"

There’s little that’s more frustrating than obstacles, especially the ones we lay out in front of ourselves. Think about it: how many opportunities have we squandered based on nothing more than a sense of insecurity? No, I’m not good enough for that job/girl/chance to win the lottery. We idle around in the harbors of our own minds, convinced that the seas are far too stormy for safe passage. We tie up to complacency and pretty soon you find yourself thinking that somehow life has short-changed you. And in the meantime, you are convinced that everyone else out there is hard-charging, getting ahead and chasing these wild dreams and aspirations – it’s the same theory that convinces you to change lanes in gridlocked traffic, just knowing the other lane is somehow screwing you over and moving faster.

I’m as guilty as the rest when it comes to toeing the line of opportunity. I almost joined the Air National Guard when offered an opportunity to go to navigator school – no go. I almost went to school out of state when I was accepted at a small university in Washington State. I almost wasn’t a career fireman here in Springburg when I was turned down after my first application; had someone not washed out of the background checks, I’d never have known this life, since I wasn’t ready to try again after initial rejection. It’s enough to make someone grind their teeth down to nubs when we ponder our almostabilities.

Motivational posters outside of nearly every cubicle farm declare the need to forge onward in the face of adversity, and I suppose these work for the same kind of people that are inspired by daily work cheers that you might encounter in a Sam’s Club or a timeshare sales company. Personally, I found this motivational technique to be ineffective beyond seventh grade, but that’s just the cynicism talking. I’m more interested in seeing how our flawed champions rebound….will Tiger emerge from the shadows of his rampant sexuality to rise to the top again? Can Jim Bakker revive his ability to shake down naive religious followers with the promise of salvation via “love gifts” and tearful sermons? What sort of chance does Milli Vanilli have of ever putting out another hit song?

So I find myself at the same precipice of yet another almostability, and it deals with what you’re reading right now. In a month, you and I are gonna have our first anniversary. I started Half Past Awesome 11 months ago as a way to both find out if I still had the chops to amuse through writing and to function as a creative outlet for my insanity-addled mindset. I now feel like I want to kick it up to the next step, submit some stuff to the print world or at the least, grow the readership of the site. And yet. Yet I seem reluctant to make the next move, because I don’t know what the next move IS. Plus, the abject terror of rejection lingers. The best part of the safe harbor of this site is that there is no boss, no money and little chance of rejecting myself too terribly often. Outside of the one reader/patron of Patton Alley Pub who delighted in telling me the site was “um… a little self-absorbed”, I’ve been very happy with the interactions you and I have had over the past year.

I guess I just don’t want to let the opportunity to write at a higher level become another casualty of my own insecurities. An almostability.

Perhaps I’ll slide on down to Sam’s Club and see if I can muster up some courage after a rousing work-team cheer. Maybe they’re onto something.

Uli Wandering Ponderings

Motivation. Where do we find it? Some people say it has to come from within. I’d like to hit those people with a brick pillow. Of course, that’s just the jealousy talking, but I stand by that statement. Somewhat like hearing how my brothers et al are enduring “horrible” weather in Southern California when it drops to 50 degrees, I tend to discount motivational philosophy that comes from the fabulously successful; although this seems counter intuitive,  when you see people who are already wealthy talk about how motivated they are to earn more wealth, this just comes across as hoarding behavior to me.

I think we find motivation in the most unlikely of places.

• Observe the fellow on the highway off-ramp who glares at you with the intensity of a thousand white hot suns while holding out a can and demanding you help him. This guy has a 999% failure rate, rejected by the masses and dismissed by most as a lazy bum, but really, he is the penultimate salesman. If he can convince you to give him money and said money really is helping towards filling a mysteriously absent gas tank, he could easily sell ketchup popsicles to women in white gloves.

• The meteorologists here in the Midwest take a near-Biblical level beating every time they predict the next maelstrom of death and destruction. But yet, there they are, weather system after weather system, driven by unseen forces to work you into a lather over the coming apocalypse. They’re playing the odds, and they always get screwed by the house, and still, they keep plugging away with little more than a shrug of the shoulders each time the storm misses by just that much.

• I have a neighbor who is literally living in his shop with approximately 1.4 million 45 records. That’s not an exaggeration I’m employing here, that’s the real number by his own exhaustive count. I’ve seen it. Coupled with 13 jukeboxes (six of which are functional), Wild Bill spends his “free time” (of which there is no limit) sorting and organizing his albums and is the closest thing I know to a uber-rural millionaire. Yes, he eats expired food from vending machines and wears softball cleats as casual footwear, but he is motivated by the belief that there is intrinsic value in 45’s. He is also motivated to bang metal off of wood while sporting a butchers’ hard hat; as well he collects old election posters and empty pop cans , but that is beside the point.

• Year after year Eddie Murphy takes part in some sort of cinematic train wreck that we’re supposed to buy into due to it’s rating as “family friendly”. Gone are the days of “Raw” and “Trading Places” and instead we’re treated to “The Nutty Professor 7: Revenge Of The Flubber”. I think it all began with “Coming To America” or his foray into pop radio with “(My Girl Wants To) Party All The Time”, but nonetheless he has gone from being the funniest son of a gun in comedy to a guy who’s next step will be doing local ads for ambulance-chasing lawyers. And he’s still out there, churning out one flaming turd of a movie after another. One word: motivated.

• And for the last word in motivation? One need look no further than the zealots of this world. No matter their cause, be it proving that the President is a Kansas-born terrorist without a birth certificate or that dinosaurs are the creation of the liberal-media sponsored devil himself, few are as passionate and driven to launch out of bed each day as those residents of the lunatic fringe. We could all learn a lesson from the maniacal despots and nut-job conspiracy theorists of the world. And that lesson would be to never, ever give up, even in the face of logic and fact.

Something to think about the next time you’re not so inclined to do what needs to be done. Now go carpe the crap outta that diem.

Uli Wandering Ponderings

Hello, comrade.

In the past year, you’ve taken to writing to me, or more specifically, my site here, in order to establish some sort of relationship. For reasons unknown, all of your correspondence comes to the spam section of Half Past Awesome, but believe you me, I’m getting all of your letters. EVERY SINGLE ONE. While I’m so flattered that you want to be my digital pen-pal, there’s just one small hitch. I DON’T SPEAK RUSSIAN, YOU SOVIET CHOWDERHEAD!

Sorry, I shouldn’t have yelled like that. You’re just trying to talk to me about God Knows What, and here I am screeching at you because of my inability to embrace the silky Russian dialect. I regret to inform you, that while you’re being relegated to the spam filter of cyberspace, you’re in pretty shady company. Apparently there are several people with names with no vowels out there sending me messages about whitening my teeth and increasing my penis size. I’m not sure who DR.XRFlyWE&67@dentalisme.com is, but he seems a little less than genuine in his communiques. How am I to know if he really cares about my dental well being or he’s just saying that to anyone who dwells out here in cyberspace? I’m not putting him on the Christmas Card list this year, not until I see some more sincerity out of him, that much is certain.

No, he’s not like you my Bolshevik “моя родруга”, what with your fancy Cyrillic alphabet and lots of underlined words as you try and reach out to me here in the middle of America, desperate for international flavor here in the Ozarks. What’s your name? I can’t decipher it beyond a series of mismatched consonants and numbers. Is it Irina? Are you picturing us in coffee shops on opposite sides of the world, connecting over a series of philosophies and worldviews, becoming soul mates despite the miles and apparent language barrier? My little babushka, you do know I’m married, right? The Wife cannot ever find out about our forbidden exchanges. But you already know this don’t you? THAT must be why every entry is sent to my spam box. Oh, you’re a crafty little Russian fox, no? Wait. I just checked over in the mailbox, and there’s not ONE SINGLE MESSAGE, much less 14, waiting for me, from you. WHAT THE HELL, YOU TWO TIMING COSSACK TRAMP? ARE YOU SENDING MESSAGES TO OTHER GUYS TOO? YOU SIBERIAN SLUT!!

Again, a thousand apologies, I just thought that we really…….I dunno…..connected. I’m waiting here, patiently, my Irina. I’m holding out against hope that what you really want is to be my special friend, that beneath all of that Soviet-style psychobabble, you’re not trying to hawk homeopathic alternatives to Valium. I’d be devestated. Crushed. My hopes for a tawdry forbidden affair would go to my own private gulag.

I only have one question left for you to answer, my sweet little Muscovite. After your last message, I hastily looked up what you’d written to me…..and it turns out that  “Вы имеете большие сиськи” translates into “you have big boobs”. So I’m left with the burning question – how did you get a picture of me without a shirt on, you filthy bird?

Lovingly yours,

me

Uli Wandering Ponderings The Wife

“Dude, you’ve GOT to see Avatar! Best movie, ever! Make sure you see it in 3-D, dude, it’s sooooo much better that way!”

This is a statement a friend made to me recently. He took my raised eyebrow to mean I wanted to debate the merits of watching said new movie in 3-D versus 2-D. Nothing could’ve been further from reality, however. The odds of me seeing a science fiction flick in 3D on an IMAX screen in the near future are reasonably nil, a fact that baffled him. It was tantamount to missing The Resurrection as far as he was concerned, but then again, he has no kids. In all likelihood, I’ll see Avatar around the same time as I become a full fledged cocaine-cartel boss.

On the incredibly rare opportunity that I find three hours waiting to be pissed away, I find it hard to walk into a theater and plop down $13 dollars for a ticket $79.43 for popcorn and a small Sprite and sit still. Don’t get me wrong….I love the movies, and there is hardly a better guilty indulgence than to escape into a wild world of cinematic mindlessness. But I’m overwhelmed by the fact that three hours of my life will ebb into the abyss and I’ll have wasted time I could’ve spent on Facebook.

The actual truth is a few blocks down from that statement. The fact is that I’m a dad with two boys under the age of ten. If I’m going to waste a weeks’ pay on a cinematic experience, it better be one that they choose. I can’t see anything that can’t be purchased in toy form at a McDonalds. I cannot name the provinces of Iraq that my brothers served in, but I seem to know the Transformer characters by name, and have cursed their names in vain as I smashed them against a wall in an futile attempt to convert them. I’ve never given a second thought to how moronic it is that a robot would want to transform into a semi truck (I mean, really. What’s he gonna do in everyday life? Haul produce and lounge around in truck stops, only to have his driver seduce prostitutes on an hourly basis?) No, I gladly submit to the hell that is one million parts of Chinese plastic in an attempt to remain relevant in this household.

Those without children use me as an example of the pity they feel. They don’t know the depth of the unspoken, unconditional love that keeps me motivated to engage in thirty light-saber battles a day, always willing to lose for the cause. I wouldn’t do this for your kids, and you wouldn’t do it for mine, but something happens when you’re this invested. Hare-brained schemes like leaving it all to join a Bob Marley & The Wailers tribute band take a back seat, and you’ve become that guy. The one who gets mocked in a silent way when he leaves the party, stone cold sober and eager to catch the 763rd reading of “I Stink” before bed time.

Someday, I’ll be able to join in on discussions about the impact of the latest Hollywood blockbuster on pop culture, but, by then, I probably just won’t care. In the meantime, I’ll still build Lego spacestations and create forts of blankets and pillows to stave off attacks from the Imperial Mom. I can only hope they might want to catch Transformers 12 with me down at the cineplex in a couple of years; at least I’ll know all the characters’ names.

Uli Wandering Ponderings Barbara, Chewie, Nan, the Heathens

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

Two days post holiday indulgence and my head is pounding to an unfamiliar drummer. It’s not alcohol induced, and I’ve had the cursory pot of coffee this morning; I’m beginning to suspect radon poisoning or maybe arsenic. I can’t decide which malady is striking me at this time, but I’m pretty sure it’s happening.

It’s 27 degrees out in the yard, The Heathens and I systematically euthanized the Christmas tree and I’ve spent some downtime with my collapsible back scratcher that was left in my stocking, so all should be on the up and up, but it’s not. It feels as though the boys are playing Dance Dance Revolution on my brain stem. I even got after some housework to try and shake this rattling sensation, but to no avail. Has it just been one of those kinds of years, where the sudden onset of a brainache is the consequence of twelve months of foolish behavior? Very possible.

We stand at the precipice of a new year, you and I. We’re going to have lots of choices to make in 2010, and in this, my 99th post, I declare that I’ll choose to have more Ibuprofen on hand. That should dovetail nicely with my other choice – the one in which I improve my relationship with Guinness. I might not follow through on the resolutions that sound so good on paper (ie. really, really trying to get some work as a writer, running a half-marathon, solving world hunger), but I’m pretty sure that if I set the threshold low enough, I can achieve just about anything. In the meantime, I think I might head on down to Patton Alley Pub and grab a pint of the dark stuff in an attempt to silence the jackhammering in my mind.

Uli Wandering Ponderings the Heathens

Two firsts for me on this trip home:

1.) I rode a scooter all around town. I felt supremely emasculated on the thing, but I’m not so ashamed that I’d deny how fun it was. Even in the rain.

2.) I took said scooter up into hills of Santa Barbara and went to my childhood home site, the home having been a victim of the Jesusita Fire earlier this spring. (Picture on the right was taken near our old place)

I was interested in seeing what the effect was of seeing my own home site as nothing more than an empty lot. Having been in the fire service for more than a decade, I wondered even if it could jack me up, or would it just be another former home? I did a couple loops around the old hood, tracing old trails to and from our house. When the scooter finally wheezed it up the last hill to the house, it was a curious and new emotion. I wasn’t distraught or “left with a hole in my soul” or any such silliness. It had been almost twenty years since I’d last set foot on the property, since the subsequent owners of the place liked their privacy enforced by a gate. And like a slide show, different scenarios from my childhood played out over the old foundation. It seemed so much smaller, the entire property, not to mention the footprint of the actual house. In my memory the place was huge, a fortress on a hill, a fortress with lots of wood floors and encapsulated in Lincoln Towncar-sized windows. Now the size of the driveway was no more remarkable than the size of the mailbox: spectacularly average. The Christmas tree we planted in the early 80’s was one of a few left on the property, and while I smiled at the memory, I felt no urge to throw my arms around it and weep like a distraught lunatic.

Most of the property was wandered with filling in memories that I’d stored away, which is a better alternative than to be morose over the ghost of a house. Something then caught my eye as I was mentally recreating my former bathroom’s location. I stood up from where I’d been squatting (what the hell? I don’t remember the imaginary toilet facing east. Weird) and saw the faint red outlines of string lines for setting up the stud-walls where mom’s old closet was. Since I knew my stepdad had built the additions to the home, I knew they had to be the actual lines set up by the man who’d raised me. And despite the passage of all the time, the hideous outdoor landscaping undertaken by subsequent owners and eventual firestorm destruction, there was the hallmark of a master craftsman that had endured it all. I still have a good relationship with my step father and can talk to him whenever the mood strikes, but nothing on the lot spoke to me like the hidden traces of a carpenters’ marks, precise and perfect in his signature work ethic. It was a familiar face and made me smile.

I hope the next people who choose to build on the site have it done by such a carpenter. It made for a solid childhood home, even if not exactly fire proof.

Uli Family DysFUNction, Travelblogue, Wandering Ponderings, 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