Half Past Awesome

Tuff Gong

An enormous waste of time was undertaken tonight. I couldn’t place a classmate from high schools’ name, so out came the Cate School Class of 1992 yearbook. Three hours later, here we are, two cocktails and a torrent of memories to show for it. Besides the usual “holy-shit-was-I-really-that-skinny?” moments and the expected lament over wasted potential, the best part of tripping down old memories were the personal notes, scribed by schoolmates in the last week of my last year in high school, the last time in life when the future was a brilliant and bright unknown, and only people with really good genetics lived past the ripe old age of thirty.

1992 was pre-internet (basically), pre-digital camera and pre-cellphones (except in the case of  Miami Vice). The only trail of memories I have from my relationships back then are these inscriptions that recall stolen moments, inside jokes and the false promise of future camaraderie. The majority of quotes seem to focus on adventures we’d engaged in while in my 1977 green and beat to hell Toyota truck, lovingly named The Avocado. But I thought I’d share some direct quotes, ones to which you might be able to relate.

Typical, if not downright frequent themes:

• “You could’ve been my friend if you weren’t so violent”
• “I’m not one known to be a great yearbook signer. But for your sorry ass, I’ll give it a shot”
• “It’s too bad we weren’t in the same dorm this year. We could’ve tried to relive the days of “The Passion Pit”".
• “Ever since I ogled you, I had a burning desire to break your sternum.”
• “I will certainly never forget your creative insults & brutality, and in a sick and twisted way, will miss it.”
• “I’ll miss your burps, farts & absolute etiquette, you gentleman, you. No wonder Janie loves you. NOT. PISS OFF AND HAVE AN EXCELLENT YEAR.”
• “I will follow you wherever you go. Wherever you think you hear someone call your name or think you see someone dart behind a corner: it will be me and I will get you. I will miss you, Uli.”
• “High times to you, Uli.”

And then there were a couple that gave me pause, actually.

• “You don’t understand how much I missed you this year, you dork.”
• “I love hearing your stories and laughing at your jokes (except the sexist ones). Do you remember when we were sitting on the bench at Long House and I was upset about some guy? You probably don’t, but you totally changed my mind.”
• “Thick and thin for four years. Ups and downs. Female after female (for him maybe). Fight after fight, performance after performance, jam after jam, year after year, we’ve been there, together. Music is our bond, and a strong one at that. I’m my brother’s keeper, so whatever mess you get in, we’ll work it out.”
• “Damn, you’re a f–kin’ hilarious motherf–er!”

The one that has me up at 12:39am?

• “Keep jamming and please don’t cut yourself short.”

Wherever in this world you are, Matt Ray, I’m trying.

Eighteen years later, and eighteen years of selling, and cutting, myself short, the wisdom of your Jimi Hendrix-soaked scrawls has rung more true than ever.

In whatever new form it takes, it’s time to get back to jamming.

"Class Of '92 Valedictorian. You Don't Remember Me? So Help Me, I'm Gonna Smack You."

Last weekend I joined The Wife at her 20 yr. high school reunion. I knew one other attendee but was still forced to wear a name tag. At least I was given the option of writing my own name, so I made one up. The rest of the night I wore the label “Random Spouse”, and insisted that people call me by that. Because really, it saved people the embarrassment of pretending to remember me from Algebra, when in truth I’d never met these people in all my life. It was quite the ice breaker, and I was glad to have a starting point in meeting people. See, I don’t really like strangers, but once we’ve talked, we’re not strangers, we’re friends. So I made lots of friends that night. And I watched with detached amusement as all these former soul mates waltzed around awkward conversations involving hair loss, kids and just what in the hell happened over these last 20 years.

It was a night to enjoy, at least from my perspective.

How can an occurrence of just four years have such a stranglehold on the next twenty years? No matter how successful these people had become, no matter how far they’d moved away, when all parties were in the room, everyone fell back into the roles they remembered back then. You could tell who the popular folks were, just as you could tell who was geeky and awkward back in the day. Add some wrinkles and a belly or two, and nothing’s changed. I really loved listening to people’s stories about how they knew The Wife, where they’d been since graduating Kickapoo High in 1990 and how it felt to reconnect with those who’d been their whole realm of social connection way back when.

And it got me to thinking; in two short years I’ll be back in California, seeing my former classmates, doing the same klutzy dance of rekindling our connections. Facebook has been great as a medium by which to completely bullshit about where you are in life. I mean, no one is going to put as an update: “uggghhh. just don’t know how I’ll pay the water bill this month. Stupid real estate bubble!” No, you’re required to post things like “Another shitty day in paradise as I catch smooth lefts on Bali. THIS is living!” Or “Martha’s Vineyard ROCKS MY FACE OFF!” So, as an aside, don’t go believing my updates, as I’m apt to lie just to sound like my life is much more fabulous than its mundane reality. But in actuality, I’m starting to get really stoked to meet up with people with whom I’d lived for four years.

That’s right: lived. I went to boarding school (“Hi, I’m John, I went to boarding school and developed an unhealthy love of Led Zepplin and Ramen Noodle soup”… “HI JOHN!”). It was by choice, it was co-ed and no, it wasn’t a punishment. Quite the opposite from where I was sitting – going away to school meant freedom for me. It was academically rigorous, to be sure, but I’ve proved that you can waste all that in one career move into civil service. But it was so much more than academics to me. It was (limited) independence, it was first loves, it was the introduction to hitchhiking (sorry, ma), it was the introduction to activities illicit in nature (again sorry, ma) off-campus in a ditch, it was learning to play bass and lacrosse and how to take a punch. Formative? That’s an understatement at best.

And I sucked at it.

I was terrible at high school. I wasn’t popular, I wasn’t athletic, I wasn’t a hit with the ladies, nor was I outstanding academically. Mostly, I was good at being pissed off. I carried an entitled chip on my shoulder, irked at the notion that I wouldn’t be joining my classmates in Aspen because I would be busy digging ditches or working in Cayucos’ only surf shop over break. That was really, really stupid on my part. I spent time actively torching bridges instead of finding ways to finance a ski trip (hello, prostitution? Duh.) Yeah, so I scowled and glared and was, in general, a fool. Isn’t that what high school is really all about? Acting like you’re much smarter than you are and pissing off anyone older than 28?

Nervously, I anticipate the opportunity to make an ass of myself once again in a couple of years. I hope everyone shows up. I hope the cool kids aren’t too cool to make an appearance, I hope the fantabulous folks can take a break from whipping their help in The Hamptons to take the Lear Jet out west. I hope that I can just spend time catching up with people who ignored me and who I ignored and we can discus kids, receding hair lines and first loves.

And I’ll be glad to go as just Uli as opposed to Random Spouse. I heard that guy was a real asshole at his wife’s reunion.

Old Friends Picking Old Tunes

“CALIFORNIA WOULD BE A GREAT PLACE TO LIVE IF IT WEREN’T FOR THE CALIFORNIANS.“  -Dirtbag (a native of the S.F. Bay area and current resident of Washington State)

Top 10 Highlights From California

1. Best Truck Stop Name I Found - “Jesus Christ Is Lord Not A Swear Word Truck & Travel Plaza”
2. Best Aspect About Barbara’s Wedding - whole thing took less than five minutes. Seriously, we drove 1857 miles one way for that? I didn’t even get a chance to finish the cocktail I’d purchased to make it through the ceremony. Plus they walked down the aisle to punk. My family is classy like that.
3. Second Best Aspect Of Wedding – blood spatter on Nan’s tux vest at the reception as a result of some clown being paid a visit by Nan’s fists  “because he needed it”.
4. Best Moment In Cayucos – jamming with old friends in the Old Boradorri Garage (best place in town) and keeping it to ourselves. Good because it was like sharing old secrets, better because no one heard how awfully I sing and play guitar. Safe to say Rodrigo y Gabriela won’t be calling me to play for them in the near future.
5. Best Line (By Aunt Viper) – “Well, you’re not so fat this time.” (first line upon seeing me)
6. Second Best Line (By Aunt Viper) – “Boys, remember, I love you very much, all the time. Your father, not so much.” (to The Heathens)
7. Best Part Of Disneyland – hacking, coughing and looking like enough of a psychopath that most people avoided me. I’m not so down with crowds and crowding, so it all worked out. That, and the boys had a great time riding vomit inducing attractions while I drank coffee and glared at people.
8. Biggest Difference Between California & The Ozarks – try saying “hello” to someone walking down the beach and they look at you as though you’ve just suggested you have sex with cats recreationally. People there are too busy to be bothered with such trivialities, I suppose. You are there to be seen, not talked to.
9. Best Part Of Being Home – outside of family and friends? Had to be all the fresh fruits, vegetables and seafood. There’s nothing quite like homegrown, a fact lost on me growing up and now sorely missed.
10. Best Part Of The Trip - came home with a motorcycle and a new lease on idiocy. It’s great to be back. I’ve missed you guys. Promise to write more soon.

Nan, Chewie, Oma, Amanda & Barbara

One week from today, the entire Missouri wing of our clan is rolling west to California, road tripping in what will surely be come to known as “I-can’t-believe-we-thought-that-was-a-good-idea fest 2010“. I’ve made the drive a handful of times, most notably in a newly purchased Peterbilt with the Outlaw Trucker (back when I had an excavating “interest”) and with SeaBass (on a trip to gather up the Lyin’ Dutchman’s abandoned possessions when he left the country, saying he wasn’t ever coming back. Two weeks later, he was back, but that’s another story).

This trip will be the first time I attempt 26 hours in a vehicle with The Wife and The Heathens.

Someone may die.

Neck-wringing will be determined to be the cause.

So here’s the plan: we leave at 3am, this way I can get at least 4-5 hours of solid, uninterrupted driving time. Time in which I get to pick the music (even if it is in ear buds), time where I can drive without constant “advice” from the passenger seat. Time without questions and pesky little voices declaring war on one another over Spongebob.

It’ll be the smoothest part of the trip, no doubt.

Chewie On What Shall Soon Be Mine

The reason we’re heading out there? Supposedly my brother Barbara is getting married, to a lovely girl named Amanda, and we’re going. I feel sorry for her, she seems so nice, and Barbara is such a, well, a Barbara. He’s actually extremely intelligent, but he doesn’t want anyone to know this, so he never displays this trait. He’s kind, but he’s my brother, so I refuse to acknowledge this fact, preferring instead to harangue him mercilessly online and to his face. I’m proud of him for becoming the man he has, but don’t tell him this, you’ll ruin our rapport. THIS is why I’m enduring a road trip with all the appeal of The Exodus.

But not really.

In an unusual alignment of the moons, it turns out my other brother Chewie is selling his motorcycle. To me.  What better way to get it back to Missouri from California than to be attending a wedding out there? Who better to buy a motorcycle from than my own brother? How perfect is it that he’s selling EXACTLY what I want? This logic is nearly flawless in my eyes. Not so much in The Wife’s or anyone who cares about “surviving”, but what do they know? This whole wedding affair is getting so many earmarks, I’m making politicians look like amateur pork-barrelers. The Wife has talked me into hauling the family down to Disneyland so that my boys can experience that whole hobnobshebob. Any objection I raise? “Motorcycle. You’re getting a motorcycle, so you just shut your face.” Can’t argue with that. In a little more than seven days, I’ll have my nasty, filthy hands on a bike. AFTER ALL THIS TIME! The road trips with El Jefe have already been plotted, I’ve already started a motorcycle gang, I’ve already pissed off my wife – this is just the natural progression of things.

I just gotta get the thing back here without choking the crap out of my family in the process. One week. ONE WEEK AND LIFE AS I KNOW IT CHANGES! YES! YES! YES! VICTORY IS ON THE HORIZON, BOYS!!

Barbara may feel the same way, although for different reasons, I suppose. Just give it a few years, a couple of kids and he too, will salivate at the thought of freedom on two wheels. Maybe he’ll give me a call, looking for a motorcycle.

That sounds like a road trip.

SORT of looks like Aunt Viper

The last couple of days spent on this trip went by in a seeming blur, no doubt influenced by a desire to return to the barn and seasoned with liberal amounts of imbibing. My visits with The Author and RoJo’s family were complimented by an unexpected visit to Aunt Viper. Aunt Viper is The Lyin’ Dutchman’s sister, and, much to her chagrin, she was given the moniker by none other than her own brother, my father. I believe the sentence went something like this: “I tell you what, Ool, that woman is a goddamn viper.” This is the way the crazy wing of the family relates to one another.

Aunt Viper and I haven’t spoken in nearly nine months, ever since The Lyin’ Dutchman’s latest flight into lunacy involved blaming my brothers and I for the implosion of his marriage. When told of such accusations, Aunt Viper had a classic response: “THIS IS WHAT WE DO! We hurt the ones we love when we hurt!” In my book, that’s called ridiculous and I told her as much. There was much yelling involved, and Aunt Viper ended the argument in her typical fashion; she told me to have no further contact with her ever again, seeing as how she now considered me dead to her. This was followed by a ritual slamming down of the phone from her end. Totally standard operating procedure.

I dropped in on her at her office and her first words when she saw me were “Well, well, well……look who’s back.” This was followed by several clucks and a small hug;  then, as she patted me these words of endearment came spilling from her mouth… “Christ, Ool, you’re getting fat.” Sigh. She then led me by the ear as I’d refused to got get some lunch “on her tab” across the street and marched me into a deli where she promptly demanded that a tri-tip sandwich be made. She is of the school that if someone doesn’t understand her thick-as-mud accent, then she should just shout her demands; her favorite target of such tirades is anyone of Mexican decent. No one raises her hackles so completely like the Latinos – she just can’t hate them enough. As I ate half of a sandwich, I asked her if she and her office-mates ate the same thing when they came here. She told me, no, they do not, because it’s too fattening. “Perfect for you, though, Ool. Tell me, are you curling your hair now? What the hell are you doing with your hair?” I informed her that no, this fat boy was indeed, NOT, curling his hair. She dismissed this as an outright lie and intimated that maybe her suspicions about my sexuality were more accurate than I’d care to admit. Despite my having a lovely wife, kids and a propensity for the opposite sex, Aunt Viper thinks most men are nothing more than closeted homosexuals. My opinion is that this is a line of defense she employs when people get too nosy about her spinster status. I tell her as much and she informs me that I have no idea what I’m talking about, as usual. Family.

I arrived this morning at o’dark thirty at LAX to head home (Thanks to RoJo and Amy for their hospitality!) and was greeted by the most hostile ticket agent in the L.A. Basin. When I came up to her counter and said “Good morning, how are ya?”, she just stared at me and slowly picked up the p.a. loudspeaker, angrily announcing “Ladies and gentlemen, when you come up to the ticket counter, you must have your I.D. ready, this will make the process go much more smoothly.” Turns out my I.D. was in my other hand, but I was too busy trying to be all friendly for her liking. I then slapped the plastic card on her counter and made some remark about how some folks just aren’t morning people. She responded by seating me at the back of the plane near a toilet. Score one for the asshole airline employee.

I then met the same customer service etiquette when dealing with the T.S.A. of L.A. They don’t want to be told “Hello!” They want I.D. and they want nothing more. In an ironic twist, there was someone sitting in my seat, and when we compared boarding passes, we were both assigned seat 31D. This counter agent was nothing, if not relentless. I then noticed the guy occupying my seat had, as his name on the pass, my exact name. It then occurred to me that perhaps my sadistic counter agent fell a little in love with me, and was surly as a response to her magnetic attraction to me. She couldn’t get me off her mind, so she kept typing Ulrich Gulje on her computer and assigning groups of people to sit on my lap. I could see that our relationship was going to be tumultuous from the start. In other words, a typical Los Angeles love affair, where mutual hatred was the primary attraction. Score one for the hopeless romantic.

As the plane descended from its cruising altitude and we dipped below the cloud line, I recognized the December hinterlands of the Ozarks coming into view. If California is, in the words of my Rogersville neighbor “the land of fruits and nuts”, then Missouri is the section of the freezer that is in desperate need of a defrosting. People are iced over, there’s no snow to speak of, and there’s a pretty good chance there’s freezer burn on our asses.

The family unit was waiting at the curb, both Heathens eager to tell on one another and pretend they missed me. The Wife seemed glad to see me, and in that moment, I knew that I’d have to end my dangerous relationship with the ticket agent. I don’t think she’d fit in too well here in the freezer section.

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.

And then there was Los Angeles. Traditionally, I hate Los Angeles. I was raised to notice that the City of Angels has a bit of an issue when it comes to smog, crowds, traffic and a certain preponderance of assholes. L.A. is home to gang violence and pretentious boobs. Nothing good, save The Dodgers and Gwen Stefani, can come of such a hell hole of a town and in all the years of my youth, L.A. was to be avoided like the plague.

Fast forward twenty years and I’m riding in a Honda Element to Century City so that my friend, The Author, can make his latest pitch to the bigwigs; he and a partner have a concept for a television series. He’s got an appointment with the chain of command and I’ve been invited as a means of distraction on the drive from Santa Barbara. I’m more than happy to oblige. We cruise the 101 Southbound as he reveals the gist of his series, me trying to piece together all myriad factors, feeling rather the idiot.

When we get to the location where The Author is to meet his partner, they convene and promptly abandon me in a mall food court. Back in Springfield, Mo., I would find this to be a rather enjoyable experience – a couple of Buffalo wings later and I would spend the balance of time passing judgment on shoppers. But here, the options from the food court all came on actual china, with real silverware (not plastic, not sporks) and people treated the whole scene as though it were an official meal. I’m used to listening to kids screaming about their corn dogs’ deficiencies, not watching people dressed in nice clothes sipping on overpriced ramen noodles.  There is a gaggle of moms at a cluster of tables near me, and I pass the time listening to them declare the discovery of websites as though they were engaged in recreational atom splitting ~ “YES!! Diapers.com……I JUST found it the other day, and dahlings, I don’t know HOW I made without them to this point”. I choked on a noodle.

Before I got the opportunity to eavesdrop on the real housewives of Hollywood, though, I was struck by an overwhelming sentiment. I am a nasty, fat pud of an individual. While I may feel in relatively decent shape in good ol’ Missouri, within three minutes you feel like a Biggest Loser contestant in Los Angeles. And, truly, it sucks. The only way to combat said feelings of massive crappiness is to drink copious amounts of cocktails; if there’s a better booster of self-image, I’ve yet to discover it.

Maybe one hundred hours pass (or, more likely, two), and I’m out of my mind with people watching. What is The Author doing? How is his pitch going? Why did he insist on me waiting in a food court? I’m starting to put the pieces together when he shows up outside a book store and demands that we “drive around” until we get to a friends house. This statement has all the loose parameters of a poorly executed drive-by shooting. We end up at a friends’ house, a very nice guy who is in “the business”, and I am instantly enthralled. How does one get into “the business”? Is there a rite of passage akin to getting jumped into a gang? Yes, well, it turns out there is, and it involves the sale of your soul and dignity. I immediately want to sign up for this treatment.

The night rolls on and finds us in a bar called “The Red Rock” on the Sunset Strip, where we are joined by more people who work in the entertainment industry. I come to several brilliant conclusions, but unfortunately shots are being purchased in my name, with the caveat “here’s to the rube from the nether regions of The Ozarks”. I confidently accept these accolades and partake to the point that I’m rendered incapable of detail revelation. Suffice it to say that I sweepingly make several declarations that are met with rounds of drunken acknowledgment, followed up by their stories of illicit drug use and women of ill repute. I’m in awe.

Hours later, there are no illegal mind altering substances being snorted off of prostitutes’ thighs, and I loudly demand a refund. I am now a resident of the “Show-Me-State” and I demand proof. This leads to more accusations of moral turpitude, culminating in a manly declaration of love while overpriced drinks are being sloshed about the table. Hours later, I think on the conversation I engaged in, making sure that the behavior doesn’t mandate an apology letter – despite reprehensible behavior, one must not neglect the niceties.

A day later I find myself on I-5, heading to Bakersfield to pay a visit to my grandparents, mindful of the bi-polar actions of raging in Los Angeles one day and practicing your best manners in the central valley the next. I wish I could tell my grandparents of the crazy behavior in L.A., but most likely they would take that information and use it to catagorize me as the grandson “with issues”. I cannot have that. I maintain my best behavior, and as I’m sitting there peacefully devouring a patty melt from a roadside greasy spoon, I look over at my sweet and aging grandparents and feel a fulfilling sense of belonging. Apparently, they don’t seem to mind the company of a rube from the Ozarks.

Sarah Heads To A Book Signing In Santa Barbara

Notes from Santa Barbara, Day 2

• People act funny if you offer them assistance. While it’s completely normal to hold a door open for someone in the midwest, when you do it at the fancy grocery store here, strangers mistake you for an employee. I helped a woman reach some sugar from the top shelf of an aisle, and she said “Thank you so very much. That’s why I come here, the employees are just so nice.” I told her that I didn’t work there and she looked at me as though I had just stepped off another planet. I think she thought I was kidding.
• The shopping carts were deceivingly small at aforementioned store, and while I think it might be impossible to shop for more than a family of two with one of these carts, I also noticed a distinct lack of junk food.  This may well have tied into the distinct lack of morbidly obese people in sweatpants shopping there. I’ve never felt like such a worthless fat bastard.
• There was a mild rainstorm that blew through here yesterday, thereby sending local news outlets into gravitas-laden fits of predictions of doom. I loved it. Almost as much as I love the fact that in this town? Well heeled women wear high heeled rain boots. I didn’t even know they MADE such things. I know what The Wife is getting for Valentines Day next. (Didn’t you know about this problem I have? Read about it here)
• Go into a Border’s book store in Goleta, California, and then go into a Border’s book store in Springfield, Missouri. Same store, same corporate ownership, same layout (sort of) and guess what? Working on two totally separate worlds. In Springfield, people will line up for (literally) days when Sarah Palin comes to a book signing (albeit at a Barnes & Noble), and both chains feature her book, Glenn Beck’s loony tome and other assorted conservative pundits prominently. In Goleta they still have a large section devoted to Obama love anthems with titles like “Obamanos!” which appeal to the Hispanic Democrat in all of us. Of course, it’s marketing and product placement. Palin would no sooner come to sign books in Santa Barbara as wrestle Barbara Walters in a jello-filled inflatable pool; she prefers to go rogue on friendly turf.
• Speaking of bookstores, I went into a locally owned shop that carries really cool kids books, and I noticed that their cell-phone use policy is Draconian and clear. They hate cell phone being used in their shop, a fact that you can’t help but notice due to the half dozen signs stating this position. I can respect that, but there were a few obnoxious high-end ladies who felt that those rules did not apply to them. This led to the cashiers getting surlier and glaring at said ladies while pointing to the signs. This did not, in any way, slow down the mobile yakkers. I was happy to pay for the book and get out of there before the whole thing escalated into violence and the ladies ordered their assistants to attack. From their phones.
• Next up? A day trip down to L.A. with a good friend who happens to be an author. I told him I want to watch him “work”. I hope his version of work includes cocktails and bullshitting with others because that would absolutely cement my desire to write full time. I’ll let you know.

So the direct flight from Springfield to LAX was an hour late in departure. Why? Glad you asked – it turns out that getting mouthy with flight attendants will get your ass tossed off of a plane, post haste. I’m not sure what sparked the whole incident (something about overbooking), but at some point Todd the flight attendant turned off his sing-songy voice, let his testicles drop and boomed out from the front of the aircraft “THAT’S IT! YOU’RE OFF THIS FLIGHT!!” Then the object of his angry passion had to walk to the front of the plane, where a heated debate ensued between Todd, his good buddy Ken and the third flight attendant, Patty. Captain Michelle came out of the cockpit, and inflammatory words such as “disrespect”, “rude” and “vile woman” were being bandied about in hissing voices. They took their party out into the jet walk, where I imagine Captain Michelle smacked them all around and told everyone to stop whining like sissies, she had a plane to get off the ground. Eventually the offending passenger was let back on the plane, whereby she had to make the walk of shame back to her seat, wiping tears and enduring the gauntlet of the curious. And that’s how we began.

I sat next to a very nice school principal from Antelope Valley named Susan; her sons are firefighters and she’s a Harley rider, but most importantly, she was willing to talk trash with me about the other passengers. This is the kind of connection you want with fellow travelers. It not only helps pass the time, but allows you to vent to someone when informed that a can of soda is going to set you back two dollars. Nice lady.

Upon arrival at LAX, the first thing I notice is the prodigious amount of good looking women hanging out there and looking bored. Accompanying this surplus of attractive females are an equal amount of sleazy looking guys who look like they are either trying out for “The Real Dirtbags of LA County” or some boy band that has as its dress code very skinny jeans and hair done like Kate Gosselin. Three steps off the jetway and I hear people being rude to one another. The City of Angels doesn’t change much, really.

Buns greets me with a hot coffee, having somehow buffaloed his way through security (take THAT, TSA) and I am very much impressed by his slithering wherewithall that allows him to circumvent the Homeland Security system. I throw my bags into the back of his German sportscar and watch with amusement as he refuses to pay the parking attendant with a bill smaller than a twenty. There’s no “I’m sorry, that’s all I have”, or “I don’t know what to say, I apologize”. No. When the attendant says “You need to pay with a smaller bill”, Buns looks at him and says, simply, “No.” The detente continues until the poor sap finally cracks, and breaks my brothers 20-spot. Another victory in the land of the aggressive. As if to prove his point, Buns then roars out past the gate, cutting off another driver whom he refers to as a “filthy douchebag” and we’re off.

Welcome home.

This site is hitting the road. For the next week, I’ll be back in the arms of madness; I’m going home to California to observe that most holy of sacraments – my brother Buns is turning 30. Since he went and carelessly found a “relationship” in the time between my purchase of an airline ticket and the actual departure, I’m harboring no illusions beyond that of relegation to third wheel status. That’s okay, though, because I’ll use the opportunity to steal one of his vehicles and scatter around the state, visiting friends, sowing discontent and fomenting rebellion at every stop. For a change of pace, I thought I’d use Half Past Awesome as a rambling travelogue. I’ll keep pictures to a minimum, so as to protect the various characters and the unwilling. Wherever the truck stops is where I’m spending the night, and we’ll let it fly from there. What better place to start than the Springfield/Branson National Airport, Lube & Tune?

In all fairness, I love travel for the sole reason that it allows me to observe the mundane and insane and everything in between, all under the heading “people watching”. Springfield, Missouri is no different. In the past twenty minutes, I’ve watched an irate dad come unhinged on some poor soul on the other end of his phone call and three old farmers grousing about this new terminal, complaining about fresh food being served, whereas the restaurant at the old terminal was famous for food poisoning (“yeah, but you could at least smoke in there! What’s happening to this goddam place?!”).  Since this is a direct flight to L.A., I’m getting the chance to observe a grandmother in leather pants (not that hot) and a trio of Mexican dudes with enough gold around their necks to put Mr. T into a snit of envy. There’s the token guy in a Crocodile Dundee hat (seriously? We’re going to Los Angeles, not the outback) and twenty minutes before boarding, people are starting to line up dutifully, although nothing’s been announced. There is a mad rush to head into a flying aluminum tube and sit down, but it eludes me as to why you must mill like starving cattle. I found some hot coffee and a quiet corner of this place; until the aging hippie trying to pass his steamer trunk off as “carry on” gets his ponytail on the plane, I think I’ll just enjoy the view. See you in California.