Half Past Awesome

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

Last night on my way into the hockey rink, I noticed a vanity license plate on a non-descript car in the parking lot. It said, simply, “JRS PLS“. Most logical folks would assume that these are the owners initials, and rightly so. Not being logical, I began running scenarios through my mind, like “do they mean JUNIORS, PLEASE? Do they hate senior citizens?” And I wondered what their initials stood for. Are their names “Jamiroquai Rufus Steinbeck” and “Penelope Lorena Sanchez“? Or am I just completely out of my mind with idiocy for dwelling on something so inconsequential?  The answer is definitely, maybe.

But sanity notwithstanding, it made me think about vanity plates as a concept. First off, I doubt anyone who has vanity plates ever refers to them as such, because it would make you sound, well, vain, if you peppered your cocktail party conversation with “I was down at the Department of Motor Vehicles today and ordered some vanity plates for my new Prius”. You are therefore announcing to the world that you are, yes, vain enough to display the word “TREHUGR” on your new hybrid. You are spending double digits to make this proclamation. So I like to imagine folks with vanity plates probably refer to them as “custom plates” or they try and bullshit their acquaintances with lines like “oh that? That’s mere coincidence that I, Alex Sheldon Smith, got a plate that said ‘ASS MAN‘”. And I’m fine with that, I really am. How a person chooses to spend their disposable income is an autonomous joy; some people choose to spend $50 on a bag of weed. And I would gladly piss away 50 bones in one evening at Patton Alley Pub just to enjoy good Guinness and good company. Therefore, I’m in no position to define what goes through the mind of the individual who feels the need to display a license plate on his ’72 Corvette that states that this is, indeed, a “72VETTE“. Other Corvette aficionados should be able to discern this fact without needing to be told by the State of Missouri plate, and quite frankly the rest of the populace isn’t going to waste too much time wondering “now just what year IS that iconic piece of automotive history? I won’t sleep until I have the answer. WAIT! There, on the plate……AHHHHHHHHHH, okay, just as I thought – it’s a ’72. I damn well suspected that all along, Edith, I really did.”

Which brings us to the next logical step when considering the importance of vanity plates in the collective scheme of things: The Lyin’ Dutchman. The Dutchman had/has a special place in his heart for vanity plates, but only one will do; it will read, boldly and simply, “GULJE“. I suspect this is for several reasons. The first is that he always wants the world to know he’s coming. This in and of itself is totally unnecessary, because my dad always has a flair for garish automobiles that could never be mistaken for anyone elses’ ride. From the screaming banana yellow Mustang (which resembled an infant’s full diaper in color) to the battleship grey Dodge Colt with the hand applied black “racing stripes” and corresponding numbers painted on the hood, there was never a doubt as to who owned the weirdest pile of car in the neighborhood. And if the make, model and custom paintwork did not alert you, there was comfort in knowing that he ALWAYS took the time to glue miniature figurines across the dashboard for his own amusement. Amusing, sure, to him, but fatally embarrassing when you arrived at school having to explain the Roadrunner and Wile E. Coyote chase scene taking place on the dash. Add to this some “custom” paintwork that he would apply to a spare tire cover on a beat up old Dodge Ram (usually it was the name he gave to the vehicle) and a Darth Vader mask that he would wear once in a while, and you begin to understand why my brothers and I preferred our bikes as a means of transportation.

Thus, our family had “GULJE” license plates in the old black and yellow colors of California, the blue and yellow ones, the white and red and other schematics that came out with each new vehicle purchase. By boldly pronouncing that “GULJE” was driving down the road, he was able to have a vehicular posse precede him, if you will. In fact, he was so enamored of the idea that he often referred to himself by his last name, and liked it when others did as well. That, or alternatively, “Mr. G“, which happened to ALSO be the name of his boat. So, conceivably, Mr. G could be driving Gulje to the lake so Gulje could take Mr. G out for a spin. It was a confusing time in which to grow up. This could also explain my love of random license plate numbers whose only purpose in life is to make it easier for the cops to expedite the ticket writing process. My last name is hard enough to pronounce, let alone explain and spell. So much so that it’s crossed my mind to take that old license plate off the shop wall and lug it around with me as a form of identification.

But, like clouds in my coffee, that would be pretty damn vain, wouldn’t it?

Uli Wandering Ponderings, West Coast shenanigans The Lyin' Dutchman

I’ve never had writer’s block before. That’s because I’ve never been a writer, unless you count the post-it note reminders I leave myself so that I remember where I live. But for the past several weeks, in this, the most beautiful and scenic time of year in the Ozarks, I’m completely stumped in terms of being able to describe anything, much less anything amusing. You’d think all the fall foliage, the cold and rainy days, the time spent home alone – you’d think I’d have inspiration pouring out of my pores like sweat. You’d be wrong.

Taking care of a spouse on the mend doesn’t exactly lend itself to amusing scenarios. I’ve even been poring over the stupid and trashy magazine sites, in search of celebrities to irritate me with their antics. No such luck. The best I can come up with is that I nearly backhanded an old lady today in line at the coffee shop when she decided to cut in front of me only to try and pay for an $0.84 cup of joe with a check. WITH A CHECK. The barista waited until the entire check writing process took place and then informed the woman that there was a minimum of $5.00 that needed to be purchased in order to use a check. The process continued. Normally, this would dictate an incredulous freak out on my part, or, at the least, an offer to pony up a buck so I could get Mrs. McScrooge out of my way. But I was hacked that she cut me off and wouldn’t have given her a dollar any time in this life (this is based on principle, now). And in reality, I was just too damn down and too damn lazy to pitch some sarcasm her way. WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?

Hockey season has begun, both professionally and in the rec league – the place where I take a weekly beating by punk ass college kids and old men alike. And when the St. Louis Blues are playing on the television, I usually get all peppy and jittery and stoked to witness the poetic, chaotic circus that is hockey. I’m really glad that I’ve finally found a sport that holds my attention longer than 34 seconds, but even my beloved Blues aren’t doing the trick. Of course, the fact that we haven’t won one game yet in our rec league may be an enabler of my funk.

The Heathens are healthy, The Wife is healing and I’m fortunate enough to have a job that allows me to take family medical leave in order to care for them, so all in all I have no chair on which to stand and shout about just how bad life can get. But to lose the muse? Ever since starting this blog back in the spring, there has been an ample supply of material from which to draw; in fact, there are about five posts waiting in the wings in various stages of completion, and I can’t seem to get off my creative ass to give them the touch they need. Sending out half hearted attempts isn’t an option either.

You know what I think I need to snap out of this? A road trip, probably to the Northwest. That, or an epiphany as to how to make it in the world of writing. Or, a new MIG welder. So either I’ve got to hit the pavement, have a revelation or discover untold thousands in credit down at the welding supply shop. That shouldn’t be too hard, I’d guess. But it sounds like a problem to tackle on, say, Wednesday. There’s hockey on tonight.

Uli Tales of Misery, Wandering Ponderings

As I was scanning the news on Google this morning, I came across a headline (read: here) that immediately made the vein in my forehead surge in anger and swell in disbelief. In its entirety, the story’s caption was thus:

Heidi Klum Probably Won’t Have More Kids

Well, praise Allah and The Flying Spaghetti Monster, we can all rest easy tonight knowing that she probably won’t have more kids. Guess what People Magazine? I probably will wash my hands the next time I go to the bathroom. I am probably going to drink another pot of coffee. I probably won’t go on a murderous rampage in a Target any time soon. I am maddeningly underwhelmed by your journalistic “integrity” People Magazine. The supermodel / scholar of the obvious then went on to say (in reference to the number of kids she has):  

“It’s a lot!” Klum, 36, told PEOPLE last month. “The noise factor around our table is unbelievable. There’s so much going on … My husband sit and look at each other and say, ‘Soon there will be No. 4 at the table. It will be even noisier!’ ”

I understand that she is German and since English is her second language she deserves some leeway. In fact, she is not the issue at all. An apparently successful businesswoman, model, television personality and child bearer, she’s rather accomplished, even in the area of acute observation of the noises kids make. What is so ludicrous is that a magazine not only ran the headline and story, it seems to think that this is obvious need-to-know vital information. This is somewhat like the parents that post blogs about what a miracle it is that Baby Grace has learned to use a toilet; I have yet to meet a kid that never learned to use one at some point. Sure, it’s moment of pride for mom and dad, but throughout millennia, kids have figured out how to take a dump into a receptacle. Parents the world over have decided that four children are “probably enough mouths to feed”. I fail to understand the significance of this article.

Who really cares? Is there some sort of butterfly effect taking place whereby the Duggar family won’t add a 25th child upon hearing that Heidi is “probably” done with the whole thing? Will some kid not turn to a life of drugs and crime when he finds out her uterus is closed for business? Does the whole thing qualify as “entertainment”, “news” or “random crap we fill a magazine up with since we don’t want to engage anyone on a level beyond celebrity uncertainty”? This is why I cannot tolerate reality television. Somehow, celebrity status means that the mundane details of your life are now considered newsworthy grist for the mill. I know that everyone has curiosities about the famous (what color underwear was Elvis wearing when he took that ominous death-poop?) and there are times when I give thought as to whether Willie Nelson is more of a “Nacho Cheese” or “Cool Ranch” Doritos kind of guy, but those aren’t the kinds of questions you devote print to, are they?

Apparently, for a large portion of our population, you do. And what used to be the realm of information that was featured in magazines targeted for 12 year old girls (Tiger Beat?) is now comfortably at home in media designed for people who will sooner than later qualify for membership in the AARP. I’m not a high-brow intellectual by any stretch of the imagination, but I’m more than a little embarrassed for us as a society that we place value on the sexploits of Paris Hilton and whatever her flavor of the month is. Reading articles on economic principle and health care reform just don’t hold anyone’s attention the same way a lurid description of David Letterman’s sex dens can. I wonder when we’ll come to our collective senses and just say, “you know, there’s no reason in this world why I care about the carnal happenings of the children of has-been pop stars”?

In the meantime, your life and mine will continue unabated. We’ll make the good and bad choices, come unhinged on our own children, fight the battle of the bulge, bitch about the weather and local politicians and get on with our own versions of normalcy. And I’ll continue to lay awake deep into the night, wondering if there’s any chance Heidi Klum will have more children. Probably not.

Uli Wandering Ponderings

I am trying something completely new here. I am going to attempt to build an entire essay around the picture you see to the right. I have no idea what to write about except for the fact that this fly lookin’ terrorist has apparently decided to let it all hang out. The man opted to camp in a tent while Stateside…..on Donald Trumps property. He was introduced to the General Assembly as the “king of kings”. He went on to ramble for an hour and a half about various topics unrelated to anything real or pertinent. Apparently he touched his beret several times (sort of in a “duck, duck, goose kind of way) during the rambling “speech” and fake-tore up a copy of the UN charter or some such thing.  Oh Gaddafi, you’re such a card. And, as such,  I thought I’d list all the reasons this picture alone shows the world why you, not Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, are the ultimate bad boy of  the Middle East.

1.) Snazzy Hair. Not too many people can pull of this look, at least not since the Jheri Curl of the 80′s disappeared from our national conscience. That just-woke-up-from-shagging-virgins look will become all the rage on the streets of Lybia. What’s not to trust about this homeless-inspired ‘do?

2.) Awesome Goatee-Like Thing. Dude, the Velcro appearance of your facial hair lends credence to the fact that you don’t take no mess. Perfectly, um, trimmed and yet reeking of the “I don’t give a shit” kind of vibe. I think Keanu Reeves tried this look in one, if not all, of his movies, but it didn’t work for him. It works for you, oh Exalted Pooh-bah, and I’m sure several minions had to die before you found the one who could perfectly trim the ‘stache.

3.) The Eyes. These are the eyes of a man who has been either a.) hating (with an unparalleled passion) Jewish people all his life or b.) violently raped by a goat at some point in his career. Either way, the haunting evil that comes out of those orbs of black onyx is, frankly, scaring the bejeezus out of me as I write this.

4.) The Clothing. That lame poser, Ahma-whats-his-name, insists on wearing nothing but boring gray suits and little attention to style when he goes about his business of instituting widespread fundamentalist terror. You, on the other hand are prone to bold and unconventional forays in fashion, be they the standard military outfit (but with panache!) or wild looking robes that you swish about when you take the stage.

5.) A Face Only A Mother Could Love. While most of your terrorist-types cover up their mugs when going on television, you proudly display what looks to be the results of a nasty fight with a rabid hyena. Wrinkles, sags, bags, pockmarks, you wear them with pride, as though daring your enemies to make a disparaging remark about your mug. Grotesque and usually framed by glasses that appear to have been stolen from the swag bag of an awards show, you look like the kind of guy who regularly scraps with fighting chickens “just to keep your edge”.

6.) The Attitude. After forty years of being in charge, you’ve ceased to give a crap what the rest of the world thinks about you. You’ve let yourself go, you’re unrepentant about your role in the Lockerbie bombing, and you don’t expect to have to wait when it comes to dining at your corner Applebees. You come across as a little pissed that no one HAS killed you yet, thereby delaying your rendezvous with the Vestal Virgins and cementing your status as “Most Glorious And Exalted Martyr.” Patience, oh insane one. I am sure that Trump put a bounty on your head the moment he found out that you were hosting a Bedouin Sexy Party at his place without inviting him. But then again, you don’t care.

To sum it up, you one crazy mo-fo, Muammar. I think the planet would be better off without you on it, but while you’re around, I give you props for keepin’ it real, Lybian style. My hope is that when it’s time for you to check out of this world (I know, I know, it can’t come soon enough for you), you do it with the same bold flavor that you bring to your wardrobe.

Uli Wandering Ponderings