Half Past Awesome

Smoking kills. Apparently, however,  it kills in a decidedly random pattern, as evidenced by my family. We seem to be tougher than cigarettes and there are quite a few of us who smoke like freight trains (present company exempt). We are the family that Big Tobacco wishes they’d known during all of those messy legal troubles a few years back. I’ve watched as my father, The Lyin’ Dutchman himself, swore on his grave to his pulmonologist that he’d never touch another smoke, only to pick up the habit within weeks of his discharge, blowing off his diagnosis of emphysema as “a bad cough”. Hard as a coffin nail, the old man refuses to give up his beloved butts, claiming that they’re really no big deal and that doctors, on the whole, are idiots.

As kids, this presented my brothers and I quite the conundrum. Most kids smoke as a form of rebellion against their oppressive parents who don’t know the meaning of cool. But we were actually encouraged to smoke from, like, age ten. I wasn’t a fan and never could manage to pick up the habit, something which no doubt brought my father great shame. He smoked during meals, in the car, in the shower, in other peoples homes, in stores, at work, at Little League games and any other time he deemed fit. To be fair, when I was growing up, smoking was NOT as socially frowned upon; in fact, if you looked at any faded pics from my youth, at least 87% of the adults are holding on to cigarettes, as ubiquitous as cell phones are today. Auto parts stores had a smoking requirement if you were ever to be taken seriously as a customer.

And this…..this was the environment that The Lyin’ Dutchman was born to inhabit – that era when it was thought that women really did appreciate a nice swat on the ass as they walked by, when veiled bigotry was a way of doing business and cars got 7 miles per gallon. There are pictures of him riding the carousel at Disneyland with a cigarette clenched in his teeth, eyes set with the maniacal intensity of a crusty sea captain, and me on the horse behind him, choking on the smoke and face twisted up tight to avoid his exhaust. All of our household furniture had the associated burns and smelling like Harry’s Cocktail Lounge upon arrival at school was the norm. Unfortunately, as society progressed and we left smoking to angst ridden teens and twenty-something models looking to cover up the scent of their bulimic lunches, The Dutchman chose to remain behind. He still enjoys referring to complete strangers as “sweetheart” and casually muttering racial epithets at dining establishments. And oddly enough, he still seems irritated when informed that he cannot light up in an airplane, an indignation that he’ll remedy by strolling around airports with an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips; this lets everyone know he’s both cool and insane.

Just like they won’t know about life before the personal computer, riding in the back of a truck or the fear we had of the Soviet Union, The Heathens won’t have to worry about growing up in a house where there is the deathly pall of faded yellow on the walls or the mess of ashtrays and the associated stench. On the side of town where I work, we see a substantial share of folks who are living in squalor, and I’ve come to associate poverty with a certain smell; it always reeks of piss, cigarettes and cat shit. I think that’s a universal odor, known to firefighters, cops and EMS personnel the world over. So where those of my parents generation viewed smoking as a sign of urbane sophistication, I see it as living in a socioeconomic condition where cat waste is considered interior decor. No wonder my father hates cats.

This is not to say there aren’t plenty of good people out there who smoke: we ALL make conscious, horrible decisions when it comes to our habits and vices. I can’t rationalize my partaking of a dip now and then, nor my copious abuse of the liver, but then, when can we rationalize our bad choices? At the very least, should I take up smoking, my family history dictates that I can inhale with impunity. I just need to get my mind around having a cat using my house as a toilet.

Uli West Coast shenanigans Bones, Buns, the Heathens, The Lyin' Dutchman

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

Whenever you and I scroll through books, magazines or articles, inevitably there will be references to how one must cherish friendships or, in the words of the Lyin’ Dutchman “you must cherries and culture your relationships, son” (that is a direct quote from the bowels of insanity). Now, while we ALL pay lip service to the value of friendship, and we ALL have those relationships that stand the test of time, most of us can count on one hand the folks who’ve had a direct influence on who we are as adults. Parents? Sure. Grandparents? Why not. The amigo with whom we always went to Denny’s at 3am after a bender? Of course. And the list goes on: kind parents of a classmate, that evil Spanish teacher who threw very heavy dictionaries at your head while you tried to sleep in class (you know who you are), etc, etc.

But once in a while, we have someone in our life who defies conventional paradigms. The kind of person who challenges all your deeply held beliefs, challenges you to think for yourself, to not just regurgitate the party line. This person is dangerous, because he or she will be a radical departure from your upbringing, the kind of person your folks warned you about. Often times this guy or gal comes in the form of a college professor, a first boss, that dude down at the Food Co-Op who rails against fossil fuel consumption then roars off in his mandatory Volkswagen hippie-bus. For me, that person is Steve Watt.

Being from a small town, I knew Steve as a local builder and craftsman since I was a kid, but didn’t really get to know him well until my freshman year in college. This is a time in your life when you are genetically pre-disposed to pissing everyone off. You annoy your parents with your platitudes of wisdom, you irk your girlfriend with the constant humping of the leg, you enrage the neighbors with never-ending parties and 1am bonfires and you make an ass of yourself on a constant basis. The shame you bring on your family is palpable. Despite engaging in all of the aforementioned crappy behavior, Steve and his wife Joanie gave me the one thing that every single angst-ridden teen needs: affirmation that I was alright. Steve brought me into his group of aging guitar slingers and encouraged me artistically and philosophically to explore the world outside of my safe confines. He helped to ease the transition from short board wannabe surfer to a more mellow style of longboarding and fellowship with your friends in the ocean. His gift of melding artistic vision and wooden creations led to many hours of my watching and learning in his shop. And always, always, he and Joanie were there with a smile and a hug, fresh food, a cold beer and a willingness to listen. This in and of itself is amazing – I mean, who wants to listen to some punk ass kid who claims to have the patent on heartbreak? They did. In the process they gained my respect and admiration, and despite the years that have passed, they remain close to my heart.

I bring all of this up because I recently learned of Steve’s battle with prostate cancer. From what I’ve been told, the cancer was detected early and, thanks to the efforts of Joanie, their amazing daughters (one of whom is a pediatric ICU nurse – mad props Darcy!) and their support system of friends, things are looking as good as can be expected. We talked the other day, and it made me so happy to hear his voice again; I was suddenly eighteen, wanting to confess my devious deeds, seeking his counsel and approval. There he was, cheerful, upbeat, asking about life in the middle of the country while we conspiratorially whispered about the quirks of the hyper holy-rollers. And it dawned on me, only afterward, that maybe he gains as much from my friendship as I do his. I’ve looked up to Steve for almost 18 years now, never thought that maybe I brought him some semblance of friendship that gave him fulfillment as well. At best guess, I figured I just amused the guy. If there was anyone I’ve ever met who deserves a healing grace, who has the ability to whip this cancer while smiling all the while, it’s Steve.

I’m writing this now because I think that too often we wait until someone passes before we let them know just how important they’ve been. We heap praises on the dead, and it makes the family feel good, then we raise a glass to them down at the pub. But none of that benefits the person you intend to honor; for all I know they’re busy becoming worm food and have no time for such tribute. And there’s nothing like a good cancer scare to jar it all into perspective, if only a little. So Steve, I just wanted to say thanks. Thanks for being a good friend to a mouthy, cocky kid who didn’t feel deserving of any respect. Thanks for pushing me to explore the music, both literally and figuratively. Thanks for showing me what it means to be a stand up guy, one who doesn’t back down from his beliefs, even when it’s raining bullshit. You’ve been a greater influence than you’ll ever realize, and I’m honored to call you my friend.

Uli Amigos, West Coast shenanigans The Lyin' Dutchman

Bones Ink

I have five brothers. Between them all, there are something like 683 pieces of art tattooed on their bodies. If you count The Lyin’ Dutchman, you can throw in another three or four to the mix.  When it comes to ink, my body is something of a hairy, blank canvas. I am the lone holdout.

The line of reasoning I’ve chosen to employ is not too unlike that of an aging virgin: it’s not that I haven’t wanted a tattoo, I just haven’t found the right tattoo. If you’re gonna make a commitment that you will literally be taking to the grave, then it needs to be right for all time, not right for right now. This is precisely why the names of lovers, movies, movie stars, phases you’re in, bands you dig, vehicle manufacturers and video game platforms are all bad ideas for a tatt in my opinion. How awesome are you gonna feel with “Spice Girls” boldly screaming across your chest in ten years? Or in ten minutes, for that matter?

Chewie Ink

For years, I wanted to have a piece of art that would reflect my tastes in a location that could be kept in private if I chose and would not bring the shame upon my mother that she’s no doubt feeling upon reading this post. So, of course, the Bob Marley cover art that I might have wanted plastered on my back (complete with vague references to the religious implications of smoking pot) would not qualify as such. Nor does my hardcore love of the red Peterbilt oval. As for my favorite movie, “Snatch“? A bad idea all around.

No, I’ve never been able to decide on what exactly I wanted inked on to me; as such, I’ve resisted all the urging of brothers and friends, waiting till the idea came to me in a revelation-kind-of-style. Being in a family that inks like an octopus in an ambush, I HAVE come up with a list of all the things I don’t want. Here’s a few:

Buns Ink

• ANYTHING with gangsta-style olde english style script. I’m not a Crip, in case you hadn’t noticed.
• Bicep ink. I have no guns, and there is no need to highlight that fact. None at all.
• Any art work that my brother Barbara has. I think he employs the Jackass methodology of selecting pieces.
• Tribal Style. Unless I start dating Pam Anderson, and then you can throw some barbwire tatts and Hep-C into the mix.
• Hometown dedications. I once asked a fellow trucker named Cricket why he had “Los Banos” tattooed all across his back (in gangster-script, no less), to which he replied, “So they know where to bury me, esse”.  I know where I’m from, and Santa Barbara and Cayucos aren’t exactly towns that need any more advertising
• The Wife’s name. She will eventually wise up and leave me and this will surprise no one, including me. And the Lyin’ Dutchman has proved that you can’t ink your way back into a failed marriage. So ix-nay on that crap.
• Patrick Swayze. As good an idea as it might seem in a drunken stupor, it ain’t. Ever. I must try very hard to resist this urge.

Barbara Ink

And then without any preamble, the idea washed up in my mental tide one day: I’ve been a fan of pinup art since I saw the Memphis Belle for the first time in the early eighties. As a kid, WWII-era aircraft nose art was as close to pornography as my dad’s tattered copy of The Joy Of Sex that my brother and I stumbled across one day – minus the creepy factor of THAT discovery. As I’ve grown older, it seems that there is less and less that people won’t do in the name of lust, but there was at least an element of subtlety in the risque yet suggestive artwork of that time. I am a big fan of the detail found in the works of Vargas and Gil Elvgren. Combine it with a respect for jazz music that came in my late twenties and I’m damn near ready for three martini lunches, traveling by train in a snazzy three piece suit and buying war bonds. There’s also been of late a healthy resurgence of the pinup girl look mixed with a little hot-roddin’ rockabilly,  and a dash of Gothic tramp – an all-win situation, as far as I’m concerned. The revelation had finally, FINALLY manifested. There was only one thing left to do.

I approached The Wife with the initial idea, and then the final kicker… “How would  you feel about being the subject of said pinup tattoo? No names – just the model……” (see earlier stances on names)

Long story short? As soon as the very talented Sarah Rasul finishes up her sketches, I’ll be hopping a flight with Heathen #2 to the West Coast to continue a family tradition. Details to follow.

Uli Family DysFUNction, West Coast shenanigans, ink Barbara, Bones, Buns, Chewie, Santa Barbara, The Lyin' Dutchman, The Wife

Once in a great while I have a scandalous desire to wander from my commitment. I long to feel the strange caress of another, to stray just a bit with a sweet alternative. To ride the high of forbidden intimacy while escaping the bonds to which I’ve become accustomed; to soar to new heights of manic passion bordering on a nirvana-like state of mind and body. I am, of course, talking about cheating on coffee.

I love coffee, much in the way a junkie loves heroin -  if by love you mean “hopelessly, aimlessly and madly addicted”. That describes my relationship with the bean to a tee, and I am so deeply embedded with the stuff that there’s a pretty good shot that I would rather shave my face with a rusty spoon than go without the joe. And yet. Yet, like all relationships, there comes a time when speedbumps pop up on the superhighway of hopped up jitters. When the dog days of summer get here (like, this past week, thank you very much Satan) it becomes a slightly less appealing to throw steaming hot mud down the pipe – but only slightly. As of late, I’ve tried alternatives (Java Monster, iced McCrap from the golden arches, and, most infamously, The Chinese Rocket Fuel incident). Frankly, little compares to the real deal, and this presents a bit of situation.  Regular soda just rots teeth and encourages horizontal expansion of the belt. Not good. I long for that close tango that I do with coffee daily, wherein it scalds my tongue and then rewards me with an ability to perform like a tweaker on a binge. Glorious, gorgeous nectar of the bean, I wonder what can compare? That got me to thinking about the alternatives and then in a divine moment of recall, an old idea finally hit me.

A long, long time ago (somewhere in the early eighties, I believe), we used to frequent a 7-11 convenience store in Santa Barbara when we’d wander around on our BMX bikes. In the time before energy drinks or even the awesome Jolt Cola, we’d look for ways to achieve the ultimate forbidden rush. I can’t remember who stumbled across this idea, but it was revolutionary for it’s time: The Suicide. The idea was to take a hit from each of the soda flavors in your cup, thereby creating the ultimate (and ultimately nasty) concoction. It was the beverage equivalent to theater hopping (another pastime of young idiotic turks like us). You got a little of this, a little of that, something that tasted like carbonated printer ink and you’d earned enough chops to strut like a Bantam rooster.

According to The Wife, there were signs in the roller rink back in the day, just above the soda dispenser that said “No Suicides”. Apparently this phenomenon wasn’t limited to the West Coast, and the fact that it was in a roller rink just further proves that this was not a mild happening. The Suicide. Part of me wants to stroll into my local Kum & Go and glare like a badass at the attendant while, in a macho way, I haphazardly toss various flavors of carbonated delight into a 440z. Styrofoam cup. The moment after I paid for this fine medley of caffeine, I’d take a sip, never letting my eyes lose their lock on the no doubt incredulous clown behind the register. And then I’d probably puke it out all over myself and the counter and lose the coveted macho status I was hoping to acquire. Damn.

Maybe Suicide isn’t the answer. I no longer ride a BMX bike. Too many years have passed since I considered Pop Tarts a reasonable breakfast. Despite all of my immature antics, the fact remains that I’m getting older at an alarming rate; blistering the inside of my mouth with a shot of hot java may well be as close to living like a maniac as I can get. I just can’t get past the fact that I considered stepping out on my beloved mud. One can only hope the coffee maker will still be there on the counter in the morning, when I beg for forgiveness and a cup of scalding love.

Uli Tales of Misery, Wandering Ponderings, West Coast shenanigans Coffee, Santa Barbara, The Wife

One of the advantages to relative insanity is that there is never a shortage of material from which to draw. Disadvantage? No one believes you when you try to describe family dynamics, because it sounds like utter and complete cockamamie. I would like to cite my own pater familias as an example. Those of you out there who know him can vouch that my following description of him is accurate to the point of being tragicomic. In upcoming essays, I’ll go into details that’ll make your back hair curl and your tea turn bitter. But for now, play along as I try to paint you a picture of the man I refer to as the Lyin’ Dutchman.

The man who is known as my alleged father was born in Indonesia in 1934, one of the few facts my brothers and I have found to hold up to the passage of time. There was some migration involved following WWII, time spent in Holland, some more roaming and a (seemingly) final stop on the west coast of California. He’s been married something like seven times (kind of like Elizabeth Taylor, minus the White Diamonds) and has all the traits of a good fisherman: tall, tall tales injected with a lot of variety and loose facts. As a child, I was informed on more than one occasion that all good things in life are Dutch; therefore, music groups that were in continuous rotation on our hi-fi were all Dutch. I trundled off to lower elementary declaring bands like Pink Floyd, ABBA and Supertramp were all from Holland, resulting in more than one schoolyard fight. Do you realize how hard those kids can hit?

Some aspects of his fabrications were harmless: he convinced us that he had control over all the red lights in town by means of his cigarette lighter. By craftily staring out of the corner of his eye, he’d time it so all he had to do was hit the thing when the opposing light went yellow, then BOOM! MAGIC! How did he harness such mysterious powers? At this question he’d likely scoff that it was a trick he picked up as a tank commander in the Royal Dutch Army (……did he serve there? Outside of a few pictures, all we have are stories.) This pre-internet environment was perfect for setting up these wild delusions. We were kids without the ability to vet the stories. For all we knew, he was spending those years inventing the internet with Al Gore.

Other sides to his tales were not as harmless. There is a trail of broken marriages, lies and offspring as screwed up in the head as I am. I suppose I should be grateful that there are facets to his humor that have spilled over into my own parenting: I’ve convinced both Heathens that Darth Vader was once my neighbor and I turned him in to Planning and Zoning for building a Death Star in his backyard without a permit. These things make me laugh and convince my boys that I need help. Frankly, they’re right. I could use help trying to mend a disconnect in my mind between what I THINK a father-son relationship should be (between him and me), and the reality with which I am left. It’s not healthy and it’s based on an appallingly distasteful sort of narcissism the likes of which leave no one laughing.

There is a running joke in the family that there’s a “Wheel of Fondue Shame” (don’t ask…..we’re a weird bunch). It would be invoked each time the Lyin’ Dutchman declared one of the six boys dead to him. Pictures came down off the wall, proper names were replaced with “whats-his-name” and there was to be no mention of the incident that had offended the old man until the transgressor came back and begged for forgiveness. I once spent over a year on The Wheel because I could not attend his (7th) wedding picnic reception at a certain time. I pleaded with him to understand that I would be there the MOMENT I could get out of class, but was informed that I would be there “or else”. A stubborn bastard, I chose “else”. More than a year later, when I realized just how ridiculous the whole thing was getting, I knocked on his door, hat in hand; he greeted me as though I’d just returned from forty years in the desert.

Right now I am currently serving a life sentence on The Wheel for crimes linked to speaking my mind with regard to his pending (7th) divorce. This one has all the hallmarks of a good soap: heroes, villains, harlots and scorned sisters, stepsons disowned, medication mixups, international intrigue and at least one pseudo-suicide attempt. Stay tuned.

Uli Family DysFUNction, West Coast shenanigans Barbara, Bones, Buns, Nan, The Lyin' Dutchman

Friday, and a holiday Friday at that; I congratulate you for getting to this point with your sanity. Perhaps this Fourth of July will find you and yours celebrating with parades, burnt hamburgers and overpriced fireworks. For my money, I’d rather be back in Cayucos, Ca. watching our funky hometown parade with the hordes of Central Valley tourists all looking to escape the heat by coming to the coast. Spend the day with the family, roll on down to the Old Cayucos Tavern for some blues that night, revel in the summertime fog with friends. But I digress. This weeks’ survey question went as follows:

There is not a one of us out there who has not mangled the lyrics to our favorite song, convinced that we got it right. Tell me the song whose words you unknowingly butchered, singing out at the top of your lungs, time and again. Mine? Easy enough: up until I was around 3o, I just knew that the lyrics to Pink Floyd’s “Another Brick In The Wall” went something like this: “The dogs of Hazard (as in Hazard County, home of the Duke boys)/ In the classroom” when in actuality it is “No dark sarcasm / In the classroom”

You sent the answers to me. I won’t lie: I had a few Pacificos to lubricate the ol’ creative process so I could rank and criticize (those are the responses from me in red) and came up with the following. It went a little something like this:

Number Ten

“Our house, in the middle of the street “– from Crosby, Stills & Nash– I thought was “outhouse in the middle of Australia”

I am more than a little shocked that of all the lyrics in all the world, you would not only remember, but lyrically mangle such a crappy song. And I THINK you may be confusing the song with Madness’ sonic masterpiece from the ’80s. But I am too lazy to look this up. Still, you rank, so 10,000 points to you.

Number Nine

This is the most ridiculous question ever, I butcher every song I sing, and to boot, I even sing the songs I wrote wrong; I’m awful!

The statement after the semi-colon is the first sign you’ve given all of us in the family that you are becoming self-aware. For that I congratulate you, and give you a big thumbs up. By a “big thumbs up”, I mean if you were here in Missouri I would slap you, yet again. Of my five brothers, you are the one we ALL feel sorry for.

Number Eight

I got “disappointment heartache on my knees” instead of “disappointment haunted all my dreams” in I’m A Believer (The Monkees).. Will that satisfy you?

Yes, it does satisfy me, and here’s why: I badgered this poor pregnant soul to give me an answer me ON DEMAND, THIS INSTANT, and this is what popped into her head. I love that The Monkees play on her life’s soundtrack; probably in the same way that I’m fascinated by how her husbands’ first love was a Datsun B210.

Number Seven

Well, seeing as how when I’m not sure what the lyrics are I just belt out “watermelon” over and over; I think I’ve jacked up quite a few songs in my time!!

Where in the hell do I meet these people? This is sheer genius! In fact, I will employ this method at the first opportunity, no doubt resulting in public humiliation.

Number Six

When I Grow Up by the PussyCat Dolls…I’m sure it says “I want to have boobies”, but apparently it says “I want to have groupies”! I want both!

And I want both for you, my friend. You deserve it all. 50,000 points for you.

Number Five

Mine sucks….Manfred Mann’s cover if the Boss’ song “Blinded by the Light”:
Until I was a senior in college, I gleefully sang the lyrics thusly:
“Blinded by the light/wrapped up like a douche/another ruler in the night”
Instead of the actual lyrics:
“Blinded by the light/revved up like a deuce/another runner in the night”
Bonus points: I know for a fact I sang that sh*#  karaoke style at a party back in the day (which was a Wednesday, in case you were curious)

Okay, so this was a very popular lyric to jack up, as indicated by the number of people who used it as an answer to the survey. YOUR choice made the list for two reasons: 1.) you used the adverb “thusly”,which, according to Websters was coined in 1865 and last used in 1869, so there’s that. And 2.) you threw in a bonus fact. Well played, sir.

Number Four

It was 1995 at Betty’s Billiards on Glenstone when a young man and his two closest friends climbed onto a flaming red snooker table and in their best rock and roll baritone voices their drunken asses could muster, yelled out “IN THE GARDEN OF EEDEN BAABY” for 15 long minutes.   They found out very shortly thereafter,  that the infamous Iron Butterfly tune was named In-Da-Gadda-Da-Vida.  Interestingly the song was to be called “In The Garden Of Eden”, but the singer was to messed up to pronounce it correctly…

Yet another case of the backstory giving this entry a high ranking. Of course, there’s a good chance this story is complete horseshit, but it amuses me. Good job.

Number Three

Much like when the man asks me “Hey what is that guy’s name over there ; the one in white patent leather shoes?”; I would have been able to provide a better answer to this, if in fact you had not even asked the question.  Looking back, I don’t recall the actual words that I sang before my epiphany.  I do recall, however, the song was Tesla’s Love Is All Around You (please leave your comments to yourself).  Evidently there was a part in the chorus over which I just mumbled.  Frankly I think Jeff Keith just mumbled during this part too, so for all I knew I was singing it correctly.  While attending a concert in which Tesla opened for someone that I forgot by the end of the first set, I sat in the lawn section with a group of friends and cohorts.  Don’t knock the lawn section; you know that is where all the action and entertainment happens.  I vaguely remember someone smuggling in some paraphernalia in my bra; so you can imagine that my senses were at their highest (read: paranoid).  These heightened senses come in handy in many scenarios and today was my day to understand otherwise misunderstood song lyrics.  While laying on the blanket in the warmth of that summer evening, I interrupted what was a very deep and meaningful conversation (read: making out with my guy) and shouted “That’s what they say!” As you can imagine, that was not exactly the kind of shouting he was expecting but I was satisfied….er….happy.

Someone needs their meds adjusted.

Number Two

I wasn’t going to reply to this week’s Half Past Friday just because there are way too many song’s that I mess up daily. My newest one is Boy’s Boy’s Boy’s by Lady Gaga. I messed up by singing “fancy bars” instead of “fast cars”. The one I truly hate to mess up but you just have to is by the man I would turn my “get out of marriage” card in for. His europe/folk singing I just can’t grasp. J—-  knows all too well who I’m talking about. I had to look him up on Lyrics.com just to grasp what he says. The sad thing is, is that I still listen to the songs trying to get what he is saying. What a sad life I lead sometimes.

Okay, so here’s why you ranked so high: your answer makes no damn sense at all. I’m pretty sure you’re crazy, and for that reason alone, I think I love you.

Number One

suicide blonde = super salad bar

Here’s my recommendation to all you out there reading along with me – don’t be trying to down a frosty adult beverage when these answers come rolling in; you’ll only end up with a laptop screen covered in beer. Priceless, my friend.

Uli Half Past Friday, West Coast shenanigans

Dear Santa Barbara……

It’s taken me 16 years to write this letter. It’s been a long time coming and we both knew it had to happen. How could you do this to me? To us? I grew up with you. I loved you as a child. With your constant 72 degree year round temperature, your picturesque mountains and sweet blue seas, I always took your beauty for granted. I took my first solo dive off of your Channel Islands. I raced BMX out in Goleta in glorious sunshine. You taught me the joys of Rusty’s pepperoni pizza, the rigors of Junior Lifeguards at East Beach and how to bask in the fresh taste of citrus and avocados on demand. You shielded me from the raw elements: a trip to the snow was a treat, a vacation to the summer heat of Phoenix no more than an excuse to swim in a relatives’ pool. And, as always, you were there with open arms to await my return to your ocean, steady climate and mellow winters.

Much like the boy in Silverstein’s Giving Tree, at some point I wandered away to blaze my own trail, to urinate on life’s other fire hydrants. I escaped to college up north with your less glamorous granola-munching sister San Luis Obispo. You should know I cultivated a love affair with her that continues unabated, by the way. But I digress. I experienced living in Alaska (good and bad). I meandered all over this country and one day ended up in Missouri, a fireman with roots no deeper than a dandelion when it came to a sense of home. I truly felt that we needed to reconnect.

So I traveled home on an unexpected trip to visit my father as he came to grips with aging and the associated health issues. Eight Days. Seven if you count the one day trip to visit San Luis County (it meant nothing, I swear). I was there for you. To spend time. To remember why we’ve drifted apart over all these years. Sure enough, you still have all the trappings of a seductive environment….. I believe I counted five clouds on my entire trip. I ate fresh seafood at your harbor. I took in a leisurely drive along foothills that would be considered mountains by the rest of the country living east of the Rockies. But something’s different. You’ve changed. Don’t you try to hide it, not from me.

You always were the bastion of the noveau riche and Stuffy Old Money, but that segment always kept to Hope Ranch and Montecito, respectively. The rest of town was accessible. Working class folks raised working class hellions. State Street was where the kick-ass arcade / movie theatre was and the derelicts hung out. There were hardware stores and auto parts shops and old warehouses where the really cool guys shaped their own surfboards. But now it would seem that all of your inhabitants are vying for the kind of notoriety Paris Hilton enjoys. You’ve become a town of labels and high end trends. Quite frankly, it’s ugly. Vapid shallowness is the realm of People Magazine, Barbara Walters interviews and the “music” of Ashlee Simpson……not you. Gone are the smoke filled bowling alleys and Pony baseball. Now the only joints that have any sort of credible seediness seem to be the ones that are affecting skuzzy irony, and that’s wrong. Wrong, you hear me? One of your residents proclaimed to me “Santa Barbara….where everyone either has a gardener or is one”. There is no shortage of smug fools parading around in “Smart” cars and golf carts in order to garishly prove their commitment to an environment…..YOUR environment, now held hostage by second tier Hollywood burnouts and aging hippie-professor-activist types who are drowning in their own rich liberal guilt. Damn you, Santa Barbara, why have you done this? YOU were my roots, my foundation, the reason I was born to be a cynical optimist (after all, who can really compare to your first love?). And now I find out that you’ve made the decision to price out all the working class kids who dream of owning a home. $900,000 for a 1000 square foot dump? This leads me to two critical questions…..who do you think you are? Where do you get off? I’ll tell you what….you’ve got some nerve trying to pull that one on me. Rob Lowe may think that your homes are worth more than the GDP of Trinidad, but I knew you when you were just an upstart with some palm trees and ugly Mexican architecture, facts I embraced. But you decided to Big Time me. And it’s more than just annoyed me, SB. I hate you for it.

I loathe you for your transition from a laid back coastal town to a haven for roving gangs of the Brazilian Idle Rich (see pic above). I despise the fact that your residents tend to use the word “fabulous” in every other sentence. It irks me to no end that every restaurant has to be associated with some media darling (ohhhh you have to try THIS restaurant…Kevin Costner is a partner in it! Tres Fabulous!) Does this sound to you like sour grapes? Well, it is, and they are. I am soured on you. I am envious of the coffee and Baileys my brother enjoys in his hot tub in the morning, followed by the Patron margaritas for lunch with some sushi, followed by a fit of yelling at his gardening crew, culminating in some culinary and debaucherous delight that evening. And I’m mad as hell that you’ve seen fit to accommodate him, the movie-star types and that damn gang of Brazilians while leaving faithful old me to smolder here in a life of public service and bitter shame. So don’t call me anymore. I hate you, Santa Barbara. And, I’ll never, ever stop loving you.

Uli West Coast shenanigans Buns