Once My Pants Are On, I Make Gold Records

I’m not shooting for obscurity here, as is the wont of uber-hipsters. I like to enjoy a good beer with good people and good friends. Many of my friends are unknown to you, so I compiled a list of the famous with whom I’d like to have a cold one, or maybe even a delicious cocktail. Give me your opinion in return. Who would YOU like to end up with at a local watering hole?

Here’s my list, as of this very moment.

10. Zach Galifianakisalisailis. You know, that guy with the beard who played “Alan” in the movie The Hangover. Anyone with the clankers to sport a beard and a set of eyebrows like that in a town obsessed with everyone looking like slick hairless cats is, in my book, certifiably cool. He looks like he could give a rats’ ass what you think, and probably smells like a hobo, two traits I value highly in my drinking co-enablers.

9. Christopher Walken. This choice speaks for itself. I’m pretty sure he’d have nothing to do with me. Those are the kind of odds I’m looking for in a boon companion.

8. Dick Cheney. Because really, that’s as close to Satan as I care to dance. Must remind myself, “Don’t poke the bear. Don’t poke the bear, or he will jack a shotgun shell into your face.” This choice speaks to my inner adrenaline junkie.

7. Denis Leary. Maybe this is because I’m a sado-masochist, secretly knowing that at some time he’s gonna refer to me as “that pussy with the weird name.” And then I’ll buy the next round, because it’ll diffuse the tension in the room, as though it were my fault we were enjoying a drink together. Sounds awesome as hell.

6. Carmen Electra, circa 1999. Not for the reasons you’re thinking. No, it’s because in 1999, she was charged with battering Dennis Rodman. Think about it. She battered him. This is a not a woman to be trifled with, or she will batter you. Damn this would make for an awesome bar story: “Let me tell you about the day I made Dennis Rodman my bitch..”

5. Albert Einstein. Because I think behind the genius there lurks a dirty old bastard who could probably make me laugh till I choked. I don’t think I could ask for a better drinking buddy. And no one would believe me the next day at work.

4. Neil Young. The man seems pissed off. Intense. On the verge of a black-out rage at all times. I admire these qualities, especially in a drinking partner. I wouldn’t even bring up his music, which was described by Rolling Stone as “bludgeoning chords and a savant’s knack for transforming the most obvious music into something revelatory.” I’m no Rolling Stone, and that would sound stupid coming from me, even if I agree wholeheartedly.

3. Dean Martin. He was one cool cat. That’s all there is to it. One of my favorite quotes? “I’d hate to be a teetotaler. Imagine getting up in the morning and knowing that’s as good as you’re going to feel all day.” He made women swoon, and he’d make me take a little more pride in my appearance. Less flip-flops, more cuff links. Takes no shit. Fears nothing but the morning after. Demands three ice cubes per drink. That kind of thing.

2. Steve Watt. Now, I know most of you don’t know him, but I do, and you can too, if you read this post. Steve is famous to few, but special to me as a friend and mentor. And if I had the chance to enjoy one last beer on this planet, there’s a good chance Steve’s number would be getting the dial on my archaic cell phone. I miss my friend, and I raise my glass to him every chance I get. Here’s to you, amigo.

1. Henry Rollins. The former front man of Black Flag now carries the title of Resident Straight Talker for VanityFair online. Wow. If the tatts and rants don’t freak your noise out, the mad genius of his verbiage intimidates critics and fans alike. I’d just like a chance to throw back a cocktail and listen to him wax bad-ass on topics such as the USDA mess and Andrew Breitbart, describing him as such: “his deluded foaming is an interesting example of freedom of speech and its awesome power, it speaks volumes to its weight and the responsibility required to carry it. Some can hack it, some not so much.” I might check my shoot-from-the-ignorant-hip tendencies in his company. I think we can all agree that might be for the best.

"Hey, baby. Wanna party?"

I was scanning the sleazier tabloid sites on the net this morning, trolling for the latest celebrity downfalls. This is more than just a notorious waste of time I could be spending raising my children; it’s adding to my repertoire of talking smack about those who society elevates to the highest levels based on their ability to look good on camera, or act scandalously or party for a living.  I love to shake my fist at my fellow man when they go on-screen and weep for people to “just be nice to Lindsay Lohan, because she’s soooooooo talented, and she doesn’t deserve this.” Au contraire, my idiotic friend – if you sign up to party for a living (and occasionally “act”), then you gotta realize there’s gonna be consequences to careening down the road while wasted. Consequences seem to be something that both 4 year olds and many celebrities don’t seem to grasp. I’m equally amused by people who consider stars’ takes on aging and having children as groundbreaking gospel. It’s as though either they’re the first to go through with it, or we should be amazed that THEY AGE AND HAVE CHILDREN, JUST LIKE YOU AND ME.

And as I sat here, chuckling at the latest groundbreaking statements of genius made by Hollywood, I came to a realization: I need to have an “inside source” to justify all my bad behavior/romantic entanglements/rehab shenanigans. As I wiped the Cheeto stains off my fingers onto my coffee stained undershirt and glanced in the mirror to take in all the grandeur, it hit me that said inside source could also help in spinning my image.

Think about it.

Name your favorite movie star/athlete/musician/politician/professional bass fisherman.

And then think of the last time they engaged in behavior that was either marginal at best or made some other decision that had far reaching negative consequences (I’m thinking Tom Selleck turning down the role of “Indiana Jones”- kinda bad). There is always a source that is willing to pipe up and say “No, really. Jessica Simpson really did look really happy with (insert pro athlete/sleazebag musician here). This has the look of a couple that’s gonna last”.

And somewhere, someone is believing it.

Therein lies the beauty. People want to believe the hype. EVERYONE wants to believe their elevated idols are incapable of acting like immature morons who are famous for being famous, or as is the current moniker, “aspirational celebrities”.

I’m looking for someone to convince The Wife that when I neglect household chores or the lawn grows to Amazonian proportions that I’m “really, really excited for the next step. And he’s getting really into yoga, which is so spiritual of him (me).” By having my own “inside source”, I’ll be able to afford all kinds of atrocious behavior, and getting paid to show up at parties will be the next logical career move.

So, I’m hiring. If interested, we’ll set up a primary meeting in which you’ll be asked to demonstrate feats of moral flexibility and your credentials as a certified Spin Doctor. I conduct most of my interviews in a bar, and you’ll be expected to pick up the tab. Expect fierce competition, because from what I hear, Lindsay may be looking for work in the near future.

What I Might Look Like On The Road

There’s an old saying that goes something like “once you’ve left the farm for Paris, can you ever really go back to the farm?” Substitute any small town raising for “the farm” and any experience outside of your home zip code for “Paris” and I think that that statement has more accuracy than many of us are comfortable with. There will always be stories of athletes who made it big and then came home to settle down and raise a family. There will always be movies made that show the protagonist to be a fool for running off to New York, when all she was looking for was back home in Lot 35-A and the single wide that’s parked there. Any that’s just fine for movies and people who feel the strong tug of their roots pulling them back home. But it’s different for those of us with wanderlust.

I like to claim how much I’d love to return home, but I’m perpetually full of crap, too. I returned home after spending some time living in Alaska, only to realize how cramped my literal single-wide home on the coast felt after experiencing the wide open spaces of the North Slope. Now home is a state of flight from hillbillies and humidity, but I have no idea why I think elsewhere is devoid of the same kinds of problems, albeit in different flavors.

When I confess to The Wife how awesome it would be to live the life of a successful musician, she looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. She then says “Really? At your age? You like the thought of being on the road all the time, waking up in a new city, away from all this?” as she sweeps her hand in a grand gesture, not realizing she’s pointed out a sink full of dirty dishes and a kitchen full of wild monkey-children. And the answer is yes. Always, yes. I need to be careful where and when to exhibit enthusiasm about how much I like the concept. I love the life my family gives me, to be sure, but I also like the idea of going to a different city each day. I fantasize about life on a tour bus, smashing guitars against my band members heads as a form of recreation, having amphitheaters full of drunken women shrieking our names, all that.

Mostly the concept of being on the road, snorting Tabasco sauce through hollowed out guitar necks and destroying hotel rooms, appeals to my sense of picking up new oddities, studying the customs of local bergs and hamlets without ever having to commit to living in each location for extended periods. I want to see so many more cities and countries than I already have, and really what better way than by getting paid for rocking out stadiums and wearing skin-tight leather pants? That’s right…..there IS no better way. A nomadic life, however, is not conducive to a retirement-earning career with a fire department or a wife that is willing to tolerate long absences in the name of “checking shit out”.

So, for now, I’ll lean against the fencepost that is Missouri, humidity rolling off of me by the gallon and dream about my own kind of Paris. Not one that I’ve been to, but one that I’ve yet to see. That’s the beauty of wanderlust: you always think you’re on the farm and you’ve never been to Paris. Whatever happens, I hope that my sense of wanderlust is never sated, because then? Life might just get boring.

The Object Of My & Sean Penn's Ridicule

• Invade a small country and impose my ideology in a violent fashion.
• Release the catchy pop hit of the season, then spurn both Gwen Stefani and Lady Gaga when they hit on me
• Randomly quote authors I’ve never read in an authoritative tone while attending parties, all with a British accent.
• Supplement the family coffers by engaging in acts of prostitution with lonely older ladies who will find me “witty” and “charming” and “hygienic”.
• Book a gig on The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, then blow him away with my grasp on uninformed debate and useless pop culture.
• Enter a UFC fight. And win.
• Convince a co-worker to let me give him a tattoo using a guitar string and some printer ink.
• Conquer a horde of zombies in an abandoned manufacturing plant whose machinery is, oddly enough, running in a menacing fashion while the lights flicker on and off.
• Testify before the Supreme Court.
• Broker a peace deal in the Middle East. I don’t even care which countries are involved.
• Discover why some people actually take Sarah Palin seriously. Publish findings, win a Pulitzer.
• Field dress a goose I take down with my bare hands. In front of the kids.
• Single-handedly cure this country of its obsession with whiny teen vampires. There’s no reason that teenagerhood should last in perpetuity. That’s a long time to have acne and angst. Stupid vampires.
• Find the rest of the Russian spies who live amongst us. I’ll enlist Bill O’Reilly’s help in that endeavor.
• Send threatening letters to meteorologists who keep “screwing it up”.
• Hunt down Sean Penn and make him smile by cracking jokes about how Madonna is looking like piece of muscled rope..
• Cause a scene in a public setting. Without provocation.
• Make the bed.
• Submit a script for Family Guy with even more 80’s references.
• Wear a tee-shirt that says “Allah is All-Awesome” to the mall on a Sunday.
• Give piracy some serious consideration as my next career.
• Go out on the town with Billy Joel one night, get him laid so he can get back to writing decent music.
• Make the list in a local magazine that celebrates “Most Unmotivated Slackers In Our Area Code”.
• Develop a more bacon-flavored bacon.
• Beat up some paparazzi with umbrellas after a Red Bull-and-Marlboro fueled freakout with Britney Spears.
• Get in an argument with the dog. Lose, due to his unassailable logic.
• Expand lunch-making repertoire beyond grilled cheese and/or peanut butter and jelly.

The Smoker's Rights Champion

Tonight, the city council of Springberg will be meeting to consider a more all-encompassing smoking ban in public places. By “more all encompassing”, I mean one that isn’t riddled with enough loopholes to make RJ Reynolds blush with pride. And holy guacamole, it’s causing a firestorm of alleged controversy, at least on the message boards all populated with smokers named “anonymous redneck” or some other cute moniker.

What really kills me about smokers is the veil of freedom that they cloak themselves in: it smacks of wild hypocrisy. The same old chestnuts get trotted out each time, red herrings sliding down slippery slopes. You know these by now, don’t you?

• “it starts with smoking, then next thing you know, they’ll be banning water because it’s dangerous”
• “it’s all a liberal plot designed to take away my guns, my smokes and my right to be a Nazi”
• “they’ll be crying the blues when I, and all my freedom-loving friends, take our business elsewhere.”
• “why not regulate fast food too, you fascist pigs?”
• “this is yet another plot by Big Brother to eviscerate the American Spirit”
• “if the employees/patrons don’t like it when I smoke, they should just work/go ‘elsewhere’“

Full disclosure here: I don’t care if you smoke, I was raised in a household of smokers and I can’t stand it. I have my own disgusting habits that we can deal with on another day, but this isn’t about your personal habit. It’s more about your desire to thrust your habits on others and play the victim of an oppressive tyrannical mass. And who doesn’t want to root for a helpless victim?

And therein lies the crux of my argument: just be honest about your intentions.

It’s similar to when marijuana advocates claim to have a real interest in hemp as an alternative rope material. WHO CARES ABOUT ROPE? Stop insulting the rest of us by working yourself into an orgasm over rope – just say “hey, look, I just really want to smoke weed, and I want it to be legal.” THAT I can respect, if only for your ability to be honest about your intentions. Good for the advocates. Work your asses off to legalize it SO YOU CAN SMOKE IT ALL YOU WANT. Nobody gives a shit about rope, I promise.

So, it is my hope that the council gets with the program. They have an uphill battle, with Missouri always ranking as one of the smoking-est states in the nation and some of the lowest taxes on smokes anywhere. This along with other such distinctions as living in the county with the highest child abuse rates and winning the award for the most Meth-tastic state make for a glut of “freedom” fighters. Poor choices abound. When we bitch about Big Brother, what are we complaining about? Is it the fact that a social contract exists, the same one that mandates we all drive on one side of the road and we don’t go on coke-fueled murderous rampages?

I get to see the results of a lifetime of smoking when we go on our emphysema patients for the umpteenth time, hooked up to oxygen cannulas stained brown and demanding the right to smoke in the ambulance on the way to the hospital for “shortness of breath”. Unfortunately, their desire for personal freedom often costs the rest of us in terms of covering their medical bills.

I’m just hoping for some truth in advertising. Smokers should just say “yeah, it’s a vile habit and I want to continue to do it where I please.” Stop the spin. Stop wrapping yourself in the Constitution, playing the role of innocent victim.

You’d never get my vote, but you might get my respect for being honest.

The True Fan.

World Cup knockout round time is upon us. Unlike 96% of residents in the Ozarks, I don’t hate soccer. I’m not threatened as a citizen by the international game, and this is heavily influenced by having The Lyin’ Dutchman as a father. My brothers and I grew up watching soccer on Telemundo, playing soccer in AYSO and watching the old man play in a league he insisted was “semi-pro” until a broken arm as a keeper turned him onto a new career path as a fanatic referee. There’s nothing quite like getting yellow AND red carded by your own father, who would only address me by number on the field.

But soccer as a sport was just one aspect of being the child of an immigrant. It wasn’t all-consuming, we (the offspring) weren’t obsessed with it, and really, we disappointed the old man greatly when we chose channels other than Telemundo. But soccer will always be the background noise that reminds me of my youth. I half expect Aunt Viper to come in every time I have World Cup on, screaming racial epithets, chain smoking with a fury.

With all that being said, I’m really only a fan every four years. Unlike my friend Erik, another son of a Dutchman, who can get away with wearing a jersey since he can name more than two players, I am lazily casual about it. And in no way whatsoever am I ashamed of it. I love the fact that teams from around the world are actually competing, unlike a “World Series” that should be re-named “United States Plus Some Canadian Teams Series”. I love watching fanatical fans who look to be on the verge of full scale rioting with each game. I love being a part time fan.

I feel that way about every sport. I become a fan of baseball in October, football in the fall (since it represents a change in seasons and the beginning of hot finger foods as “meals”), and hockey for about the first 67 games of the season and the Stanley Cup finals. I respect the devotion that some people have for “their” sport, slavishly following each aspect of “their” team, reveling in the minutiae and oblivious to any other sporting competitions. My short attention span mindset can’t do this, but I respect it, nonetheless.

This time every four years, I, too become a part time superfan. I cheer the goals of obscure countries as though I were a citizen of each. I share in the outrage of outrageous calls and I feign incredulity at the high drama that soccer players employ. I’ve found a couple of other firemen who are fans, too, and we talk about the games and highlights as though we actually know the intricacies of each team (“I mean, really, who expected that out of the South Korean keeper? After his atrocious play in group, no one is surprised”. Total bullshit statement, but we nod our heads, anyways).

So, here’s to the soccer fans out there. I’d like to see a little more drama than just the French team unravel-fest that played out earlier. More cars set on fire in the streets, more insane costume-wearing, less vuvuzela. Of course, I’d like to see my country go far in the competition, and I’ll go predictably nuts if they can beat Ghana in the knockout round. But really, I’m just happy they let me be a fan, even if only once every four years.

Busted

I’m sitting here, right now, in this very moment, at a Panera Bread Co. coffeehouse staring at another firefighter. I noticed him when he tossed a crumpled napkin in my face and recklessly close to my coffee. I was wasting time on the computer, waiting for something funny to wander into my mindset, something that would make a good post. Something ironic. Something to which I could offer a scathing review. A tale of amusement from the firehouse.

But never, ever, in the presence of a fireman. Not in a hundred years.

And here, in this unlikely corner of an unlikely strip mall, my worlds collided when he called out:

“Whatcha doing? Are you bloggggggging, Uli?”

Deep sigh on my part.

Shit.

I write out ideas, and have noodled out a post in the station on occasion, but those turdblossoms at firehouse #2 are used to my dropping in the ear buds and tuning them out for protracted periods. They’ve become closet fans, never outright admitting they read any of this, but quick to point out if there was some sort of error in my last post. It pains them to give any credit, and this is a trait of a good fireman, so I understand completely.

But I keep the whole enterprise away from view of most of the department, because to advertise you have a blog to firemen is akin to advertising that you watch High School Musical or like vampire “literature”, or scrapbook as a hobby. It just isn’t done. Firefighters relate to one another through the time-honored mediums of insult and shit-talking one another. You can’t tell your best friend how much he means to you, but you can walk up to him in the engine bay and open-handed slap him in the face and he’ll get the idea. It is a world of bizarre tradition and ritual where you must constantly assert your heterosexuality through the act of grabbing ass with other men. It makes no sense to outsiders and is the bane of the Human Resources department, who would just as soon interact with sock puppets as opposed to firefighters. They really, really don’t want to go into a firehouse, because we’re the dirty inbreds of city employment, and it’s best to just call 911 if you really want to see us.

So yeah, blogging is kind of a dirty word. I don’t blog. I post essays. I write stories. I waste copious amounts of time trying to think of something funny to say, but I don’t ever blog for the love of Clint Eastwood and all things manly.

Here I sat and here I was, busted as sin.

This was a fulcrum moment.

To deny is your first instinct. But this particular fireman can smell weakness three miles away, and drops the “bullshit” flag as fast as anyone in the department. And he lives to torture. You say you’re homophobic? Prepare for an onslaught of nudity in your face, in your locker, in the bunkroom. Don’t have money to pay for a meal at the station? That’s fine, he’ll let you eat….if you eat some cockroaches first. But there are two things that distinguish him: you can’t bullshit a bullshitter if you want his respect, and if you’re ever trapped in a burning building he’s the one you want crawling in to get you. Like a junkyard pitbull, he never lets go, he never gives up, and it makes him one hell of a fireman. It also makes him drive co-workers to tears of humiliation and shame. My lucky day, indeed.

And so, after ten years of working alongside him, through several threats and wrestling matches and insults and terror, I realized I’d been had. I could try and insist I was looking at something respectable, like porn, in a public place, but he’d seen it in my face. He caught me dead to rights, as though he’d walked in on me with knitting needles in hand and doilies in my lap.

“I KNEW IT! You’re writing your little bloggy thingy aren’t you, you filthy little bastard?”

As I shrugged my shoulders and threw back the last of the 54th cup of bottomless coffee, I went with the only tactic I could employ:

“Well, I won’t tell anyone you caught me in a coffee shop. Your secret’s safe, dude.”

To which his wife piped up:

“Oh, we love this place. They have the best desserts. We come here all the time.”

Check and mate.

Johnny says.....

1. Those who pretend their pets are children

These people are seriously off their rocker, although they are the first to insist that they are just “normal parents”. Oh yeah? Does your dachshund have teething issues that keep you up at all hours? Do you have to buy $36,000 worth of diapers for your cat? (and if you do, then I stand by my sanity statement). No. Feed the little bastards, show them some love and teach them not to crap in the house, and basically you’re set up as a pet “parent”. And dressing them up at Halloween only makes you seem a little creepy, although sometimes it comes off as very funny. You’re confusing the term “parent” with “owner”.

2. Those who have children and act as though they are the first people to have ever had them.

Segueing from my first topic, I just love it to no end when a new parent thinks anyone else in the whole world (outside of immediate family) cares when their kid takes their first dump, or sleeps through the night or “graduates” from pre-school. These are not parental breakthroughs, people. And if your kid is truly and honestly the smartest individual ever to walk the face of the earth, no other parent really wants to hear how their own kid is shamefully second-rate. So do your little Mensa dance in your own house, and let every other parent in the world think THEIR kid is the smartest one in the tri-state area.

3. People with fish on their cars.

Worst drivers ever, and usually with the road manners of a rabid wolverine. I don’t think Jesus would condone you cutting someone off and flying the bird as a symbol of victory. You wanna wear the badge of your faith on your vehicle? Then act as if Jesus really is your co-pilot, not whoever that is your chatting on your cell phone with at this very moment. The Old Testament is very clear about this.

4. The Kardashians. Or any reality-television family, really.

You people do NOTHING, and yet command an enviable salary for said skill. Somehow, it was decided to publicize every mundane moment of the lives of these people and declare that they are stars. Then, when they make a statement like “I’m just fat” or “I slept with the entire special teams division of the Oakland Raiders”, it is somehow worth print, discussion and television air time. And I hate myself even more for mentioning you here. Damn you, dark headed beautiful idiots.

5. Talk radio hosts

I’ve listened to talk radio on and off since I was eighteen, mostly because there’s really nothing worth listening to in the middle of the day, and I used to find the dialogue intriguing, if not prone to whipping me up into a political lather. Now, as I get older and a little more mellow, I realize that these chowderheads do nothing but fire people up into a frenzy and offer nothing of real value to the conversation. The ability to politicize every single event and cater to your worst fears of an impending threat of communism (Vietnam, anyone?) now just come across as whiny, pathetic attempts to profit from your ire. The BP oil fiasco is no more the fault of Obama than Katrina was the fault of Bush, and yet, there they are, assigning blame and working us into a tizzy.

6. Part time workout ninjas

You work out? That’s great. You really badass and want the world to know it? Um, ok, that’s a little much for me to admire (outside of sites dedicated to the workout. Like Crossfit. I’m talking about in social settings, so don’t jump my ass over this, Thunderchicken). I think it’s commendable that folks are out there who are genuinely improving their physical and mental well-being; I just don’t need to know the details of how much you lifted after your dentist appointment and how much you “owned” this or that. Ok, I get it. Flex your muscles, be proud, whatever, but I’ve noticed that the most fit among us rarely have to advertise it. And I count myself among the most unfit.

7. People who live in heaven and insist on shoving it down your throats

Guess what? San Diego is apparently heaven on earth. I know this because most people I know who live there and are on Facebook insist on posting photos of sunsets there and declaring how they’ve somehow staked a claim on paradise. Look, I’m not a fool: I realize how nice it is to live in Hawaii/The Hamptons/NYC, and I realize you’ve figured out how to afford it, and that’s just ducky. Just know that for someone living in Tucumcari, New Mexico, the 726th photo from your condo showing the waves breaking at sunset may be just the trigger for him/her to begin a homicidal rampage. Don’t be a d-bag….chuckle amongst yourselves at cocktail parties about how “the other half” lives and leave the rest of us alone.

8. Those that make kids toy packaging

Just how much theft of toys is happening in stores that their designers require parents to have a mechanical engineering degree to liberate the crappy plastic gift from its crappy plastic packaging? I have to use a Leatherman tool, tin snips and my oxy-acetylene torch rig during the holidays just to hasten the process. There is enough sealed plastic and twist ties to make me believe that there are some kinky mofo’s in charge of packaging. Creepy bastards.

9. The Lyrical Jackass

He knows why.

10. The doctor who’s gonna be gloved up tomorrow

As part of the Fire Department HazMat physical I’m taking in the morning, I get the ol’ exploratory sweep. There’s nothing pleasant about that for anyone involved, but there will be screaming. I’m getting all clammy and my knees are sweating just thinking about it.

I'd Totally Whip This Dude

Like most people I know, I lack discipline. And patience. And skills.

None of these attributes help when you find yourself in that situation where you really, really wish you could drop a bomb of utter bad-assedness in a completely surprising way. Here’s an example: you’re leaving a restaurant with a bunch of friends, having just enjoyed a fine meal, great conversation, what have you. As you cross the parking lot, some filthy sleazebag walks up with a knife/gun/machete in his hands, a wild look in his eyes and immediately demands that you hand over all your wallets. Unbeknownst to your friends, you’ve been quietly practicing various forms of martial-arts in your limited free time, and with little more than a sigh and rolling of your eyes, you completely incapacitate the bastard in three moves; you then act like it was no more than pushing a crosswalk signal button. Your friends stare in complete disbelief as the would-be mugger moans with multiple fractures and a crushed spleen, and there you are, nonchalant as a cup of black coffee, and you calmly state “….and you were saying?”

Who DOESN’T want that capability?

But, as stated earlier, I’m too fundamentally lazy to master a martial art in my spare time. I would be utterly incapable of keeping my mouth shut if I had reached master-level status of any sort of kick-ass skills. I’d threaten anyone who looked at me wrong, be they little old ladies walking with a stoop or my own children. These threats would be my undoing because, really, who goes around threatening their children with throat chops and shin kicks? People who get reported to the authorities, that’s who.

Nonetheless, I’d like to be able to quote the Bible in Hebrew, Aramaic & Greek, so that when arguing with someone about the sin of Harry Potter or those crazy people who find love with someone of the same sex, I could trounce their ass with informed debate. I wish I knew enough about Middle Eastern cultures that it made sense to me when shiites and sunnis go at it like maniacs. I’d like to be able to open a conversation with “so I was machining the new flywheel on my lathe when…..”. When hostage negotiations begin, I’d like to receive a call from The Mayor as the last, best hope. When the St. Louis Blues Hockey Club makes a pitch for me to play starting defense next season, I’d like to be able to politely decline, citing the rigors of life on the road and my responsibilities as a parent. I’d like my opinions to be the source of debate on talk radio, with hosts crying and screaming at the thought of logical, rational thought taking over partisan bullshit. I’d like to go to some random holiday party, find an unused piano lolling about in the living room and strike up a rendition of Piano Man that gets the party-goers into some sort of karaoke-frenzy.

All of the aforementioned attributes would have to be the result of years of study and an exercise in mastery of skill sets. I have no such capabilities nor time to devote to mastery beyond the characters in Transformers, if only so that I can keep up with the conversations of The Heathens. One must know his Transformers, and so I do. That, and random pop culture trivia minutiae that allows me to compete from the firehouse on such shows as “Celebrity Jeopardy” (“this day comes after Thursday and before Saturday”) and Cash Cab (“in what city is The Statue of Liberty?”).

I’m just waiting for the day I get called to compete on Non-Celebrity Jeopardy and get the opportunity to showcase my ability to recall worthless facts about bands from the 80’s. How I’m gonna showcase my hidden martial-arts skills while on the set is still up for debate.

The Dirtbag & Me, Circa 2030

In 5 days it’s officially over. By over, I mean my youth. May 15th is the day that I hit 36, and from there it’s a hop, skip and a shuffle to assisted living. Yesterday I heard Pearl Jam being played on the classic rock station; if that’s not a sign from The Flying Spaghetti Monster that the springtime of my life is past, then I just don’t know what is.

By 36, Jesus of Nazareth had been dead for something like three years. Bob Marley wouldn’t live to see 37 (ps- 29 nine years ago tomorrow!). Princess Diana and Marylin Monroe both checked out at age 36. Eric “Eazy-E” Wright of NWA infamy had been dead for 5 years by the time he would’ve hit 3-6. Even Mozart only made it to 35. And I’ve got one year left if I want to beat van Gogh to the graveyard.

Hardly my contemporaries, I grant you that much.

Still.

The incoming Prime Minister of Great Britain is only 43.  At age 36, Benjamin Franklin invented the Franklin Stove and Robert Jarvik invented a pneumatically powered heart.

I managed to remember to take the trash out to the street tonight.

WHAT. THE. HELL. HAPPENED?

And from this statement, I follow it up with this theory: the last time the world really was your oyster was at your high school graduation. Seriously. Think about it.

Set aside how the Class of ‘92 was THE best class EVER!! and all that other bilge that you endured at your graduation about how your high school would never see the likes of a class like this again. And think about this: never again in your life will you be afforded any opportunity like this. You can really do whatever it is you want, and people will applaud you for “following your own path”. You want to be an astronaut? Get your ass in gear and brush up on your physics in college, next thing you know, you’re guzzling Tang in lunar orbit. You wanna get stoned all day long and live under the pier? People will admire you for “finding yourself” before you dedicate your life to living in dumpsters. There really are no limits.

Take your 30’s: you’re expected to do your job, and do it competently. No one looks at a 32 year old machinist and says “hey look at Bobby. Can you believe it? Only 32 and he shows up to work every single day!” And Bobby silently seethes each night as he cracks open an Old Milwaukee, wondering how in the hell he ended up making cylinder heads for a living. I can’t just up and tell my family tomorrow “I think I shall be a mathematician, starting around lunchtime.” They would verbally lynch me and tell me to get my ass into the firehouse and back on the ladder truck. My path is set, to a certain degree, and so is yours.

B.B. King is universally hailed as the King of The Blues, and I’m 67% sure he plotted that course much earlier than 36. And while his music has more and more appeal to me every day, his path is one that never occurred for me to take, except for a short period of time in high school. My stepdad pointed out to me “yeah, I can see you like playing music; so did I. And so do thousands of starving musicians. Keep studying.” And I listened. And I’m not starving, so there’s that. But I abandoned my nutty ideals and wayfaring dreams somewhere along the way. So did most people I know.

Now lofty flights of fancy like owning a tugboat with The Dirtbag and plying the mighty Columbia River are little more than front porch mumblings into my cocktail tumbler. And I look at the Heathens playing in the yard and envy them not the pain they’ll endure at life’s hands, but rather, the opportunities they’ll be given as they approach double digits. I see it as my job to help them embrace their dreams and encourage their risk-taking. Heathen #1 told me the other day he wants to be a volcano scientist, and I was stoked. I told him that was the coolest thing I’d ever heard, and I’m sure when he changes his mind next week, I’ll like that idea too. I might be hitting middle age, but I refuse to let my enthusiasm for their dreams be dimmed by my crotchety outlook on other aspects of this life. That, now, is my job.

Of course, Julia Child began cooking at 36.

I think I’ll start looking on Craigslist for a good deal on a tugboat.