Half Past Awesome

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

I’ve decided I need to join a cult. After reading about how the Church Of Scientology is having conniption fits over the actions of some internet trolls (read here), I was left feeling like a spiritual Switzerland, with no dog in the fight. Sure, the guys who are attacking the Scientologists are nothing more than a coterie of jerkwads and the Church Of Science Fiction is little more than a pyramid sham with Tom Cruise as their unofficial spokesman. Sure, we have churches here in the Ozarks that want a copy of your W-2 for tithing purposes, just as we have plenty of nice, humble little places of worship all over, available in the denomination of your choosing. But these options are just not fringe enough for me these days.

You ever notice the fiery passion that cultists have? The wild eyes, the insane zealotry, the madcap desire for worldwide evangelicism of their faith? The fact that theirs is always the “chosen” religion, that their leader is the one who has been called to guide us heathens out of the abyss of mankind? And that most of those same cult leaders will demand at some point that their followers kill themselves? You never hear about a former cult leader now living a normal life and employed at a car title loan establishment. Hell no, when these guys call it quits, it often times involves a hail of gunfire or a raging inferno. At a bare minimum, grape Kool Aid and/or a subway system plot is involved.

I envy their conviction. Yes, yes, I understand that envy is one of the Deadly Sins and all that, but when it comes to cult life, I’m sure that these become more like flexible parameters than steadfast rules. Sort of like the whole plural marriage concept, or the assertion that Jesus would vote Republican, there are certain spiritual speculations that cult leaders find themselves uniquely able to justify and propagate. I can’t even declare the way The Wife’s customers drive on my lawn a sin, so I could use a dose of evangelical charisma if there’s a chance of making it into an off-brand religion.

The Wife has a friend, and I’m going to call her “Consuela” to protect her anonymity here, who is also feeling a spiritual void. She has tried 97% of the churches in the area with little satisfaction and was left feeling like there’s something wrong with her being a 35 year old divorcee. Consuela, in her quest for fulfillment has recently attended a mega church in the area affectionately known as both “Six Flags Over Jesus” and “The Jesus Christ Supercenter” and left there more than once crying. She reportedly cried because she felt worse about herself after the services; a couple of dates with other single parishioners ended with them telling her she wasn’t “Christian enough”. Ouch. I told her that in order to get churchy enough for those boys, all she really needed was to join me in my quest for a cult. And thus we were two.

All that Consuela and I are lacking is the kind of wingnut religious movement that will satisfy my spiritual needs, and those needs are as follows:

1. That our brand of religion is a zero-sum game. If I’m gonna move to some forsaken hell-hole like New Guyana or Los Angeles, then I want assurances that THIS is the team that wins. WE win. And everyone else loses. Sorry Jews, Muslims, Buddhists and Scientologists; we win and you burn.

2. Harems. They were, apparently, quite popular in the Old Testament times;  if they were ok with The Big Man way back when, then I see no reason why there shouldn’t be a return of that venerable institution.

3. Spaceship rides. Most of your higher-grade cults promise you at least one ride to the cosmos on either the tail of a comet or some other groovy form of space travel. Of course, this usually only occurs after the suicide, so there are some sticking points we might need to iron out.

Buns as cult leader?

I think those needs are reasonably basic, and as long as we can find a charismatic lunatic in oversize Coke-bottle glasses to lead us, I’d venture that we’d make damn good cult followers. Now, if you’ll pardon me, I need to troll through several late night cable tv channels that are offering spiritual salvation in the form of big hair, big jewelry and big promises. And if you don’t hear from me, chances are that Consuela and I have found the cult of our dreams. At the very least, I hope the Kool Aid tastes good.

`

Although most of your major religions would frown upon the idea, nurturing some well-placed hatred in your heart can be healthy. If you know where to focus your laser beam of unlove, you shield the innocent from being unintentional recipients of your rage. At least, that’s the theory I came up with this morning. So here are some examples of people it’s okay to love a little less:

• Nazis - it’s never, ever cool to be a member of such a pack of idiots. The slim red suspenders, the shaved heads, the raging hatred and what else? Oh yeah, the whole outlook on Jewish folk, Catholics, African-Americans, pretty much anyone who doesn’t have translucent skin and an affinity for crappy punk music. So feel free to hate these morons as much as you like.
• Suburban Gangsters – these are the kids slouching around with a “pimp-limp” and a ball cap with a straight-edge brim that is cocked to the side just a little. Although they pick up most of their gangsta-style ways from MTV’s programming, there’s a good chance their parents will give them their first car which, ironically, looks NOTHING like what you’d roll around in the hood with. Hard to be gangster in Jetta, yo.
• Sean Hannity – this guy is so sleazy, he makes used car salesmen feel “uncomfortably pressured”. While pounding his gavel of morality, I have a nagging suspicion there’s a scandal out there waiting to explode. Something that may involve an illegal-immigrants-on-Oxycontin-sex slave cartel. But that’s just a hunch.
• People who wear sunglasses that make them look like insects. This is patently ridiculous.
• Folks in skinny jeans. As suggested by Buns – and here’s his quote:  “Guys wearing skinny jeans.  This should never, ever, under any circumstances, be a choice for a guy to throw on in the morning.  It looks like you stuffed your peri-pubescent ass into your sister’s ballet leotard on your way to the next Gap photoshoot.  Even girls…really…you’re not doing yourself a favor here.  Skinny jeans are just f—ing stupid on all of humanity.”
• Every driver on the road BUT you. They suck and you know it.
• Rabid zealots- doesn’t matter the faith, diet or fad; they’re gonna try their best to convert you. Get OUT of my face, before I lose control and my lack of muscle is rendered meaningless by my sheer fury. This is how folks get hurt, you know.

Who do YOU dislike?

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

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

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

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

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

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