Half Past Awesome

Just Like That. But Different (Getty Images)

So, in four words, I’m kinda laid up. Nothing bad or critical, nor, much to her chagrin, fatal. Unless, of course, you count aging and stupidity as fatal; if that’s the case, I’m guilty of both and on a collision course with death. Not a glorious cocaine-and-hooker-laden death like Charlie Sheen, more like with the headlines “Man Bends Over To Pick Up Penny And Drops Dead.”

Like all cataclysmic events in the universe, this one came crawling into the room, unnoticed until it was too late. Here’s how I want the history books to record this event of epic proportions: “as Uli was attempting to smash a world record by deadlifting 978lbs. without even warming up, he suffered a neurological anomaly which resulted in a severely crippling injury. Women the world over proceeded to hurl themselves off of cliffs and in front of speeding trains to escape the wrenching agony brought about by his downfall. He’s expected to make a full recovery in three days and will be once again smashing records and breaking hearts.”

The truth is more like this here: “I bent over to pick up a measly 65lbs. worth of weight at CrossFit, and by the x- number of reps, something went “twannnngg”, and I was done. I’ve since been shattered to a whimpering, whiny pile of puny-ass, reduced to looking for Oreo crumbs on the corner of kitchen floor, where I’ve been since Thursday.”

I’ve spent the remainder of the time, when not at the chiropractor or chewing on Ibuprofen like they were Skittles, trying to defend the tragedy within. “I swear, it was really no big deal, I have no idea what the issue was, normally I can bench press school buses” I mumble and attempt pass off, though no one is buying it. There’s also no cache in lame, completely improbable scenarios, either. “Yeah, I turned around to catch an errant dust mote, and BOOM! I was on the floor.”

No.

There was nothing but trying to lift some light weight without responsibly warming up, first.

It’s called getting old.

The chiropractor had a fun and fancy name for whatever the hell my lumbar action is up to, but really, it’s just being old and out of shape.

And as I lay there on the kitchen floor, casting about glances for errant food that may have fallen from the counters, I’m forced to confront this new reality. In the age of the druids, I’d be considered a very senior citizen with one foot in the grave and a rune-script headstone declaring “he lived a long 36 years.”

Hours later with some muscle relaxers on board thanks to the mysterious Brown Sugar, I’ve curled up into a fetal ball on TOP of the kitchen counter, ready to take on the world.

As long as the world weighs less than 65lbs.

Let's not force the issue / copyright, some Italian guy on Flickr

It must be time to lay out another essay: there were 99 comments in the spam filter, almost all of which were either in Russian or advertising porn and cut-rate Cialis. I’d hate to disappoint my perverted Soviet core support group, so I thought I’d write up a little something. How about 5 things I’ve learned this week? Sound good, comrades?

1. I learned of a heretofore unused new term for “hangover” that has been employed by my father: vertigo. It’s much more socially acceptable to use that term when you’re staggering around the next morning, growling for coffee and babbling incoherently. I shouldn’t be surprised, really; he has an awesome laundry list of other claims (read them here!)
2. Pull-ups when you’re as weak as I am can only be accomplished through what looks to others like a genuine and total seizure, complete with grunts and spastic slobbering. Which is why, after one or two, I collapse into a heap and actually have a seizure.
3. There’s nothing that can make a motor mouth like me speechless like witnessing my 1st grade son kiss his girlfriend in the school hallway. In front of parents and teachers. And me. There is no escaping that moment, and the accompanying mix of emotions: pride, fury, respect and a desire to slap them both. That was a fun car ride home.
4. Offering up your writing to various outlets is a great way to learn the many versions of the word “no” that are out there. It’s also a great self-esteem check valve.
5. Yelling at cats doesn’t phase them in the least. If anything, it makes them shoot a leg up into the air and lick their genitals in front of you. I could take a lesson from their self-assured obliviousness.

From The Dirty Churros Archives....

Tomorrow, I’ll be undergoing some sort of exploratory procedure. The details are somewhat murky, but the long and the short of it is that some people who practice this sort of thing will be trying to discover why I can’t hardly eat a solitary slice of apple without having a near death choking experience. Since it gets really, really old to constantly be clutching your throat at restaurants while your eyes shoot off in different directions, I’m on board with this whole thing. But since I’ll be under the influence of drugs the names of which I cannot pronounce, I immediately assume there’s a chance I’m gonna die, violently maybe. That being the case, I thought I’d update my will, the last copy of which was printed on a cocktail napkin one night in the throes of a rum bender and an argument over the origins of the M.A.S.H. theme song.

So here goes nothing, literally.

I, Uli, being of unsound, unstable mind and broken body do leave my entire estate to the following people in the event of my untimely demise in a bizarre industrial mishap or some equally chaotic end.

1. To my children, The Heathens, I leave the bulk of my substantial debt. This seems to be trend of our national leaders, and I’m nothing, if not a patriot. I would encourage them to utilize this situation to learn how to speak multiple languages and enjoy the concept of living abroad, preferably in the company of women of ill-repute.
2. To The Wife, I leave my 5 hockey sticks and my entire metric wrench collection. I never did trust her to use the standard size with the proper amount of respect. Also, I leave to her my collection of dirty and clean laundry, unwashed dishes and vast assortment of paper clips I’ve been hoarding over the last year.
3. To The Dirtbag, I leave my beloved dual-sport motorcycle. I should warn you, it’s not paid off yet, so rip the plate off and head south of the border when you come pick it up. As well, you’ll have access to my motorcycle gang of two, The Dirty Churros, and my friendship with El Jefe, but odds are you two won’t get along. Think of this as a team-building exercise, and my last gift to you.
4. To my shop cats, I bequeath my air compressor and all the associated pneumatic tools. I think it would be awesome if they figured out how to use them to terrorize the feline world. Best of luck, gatos.
5. To ThunderChicken, I leave my vast stash of frozen bacon. Lord knows, you look like you could use some, man. That staying fit stuff might kill you yet….in fact it may be why you’re now reading MY last will.
6. To my brothers, Bones, Buns, Chewie, Nan, and Barbara, I leave you nothing, because you’ve spent your lives making mine miserable, and this is what you deserve. Fine, the five of you can split my sweet collection of old red shop rags. No fighting.
7. To RoJo, I leave all of the books and magazines I’ve been quietly stealing from you since I was 18. Don’t hold a grudge.
8. To The Outlaw Trucker, I leave all the scrap metal in my shop. Weld me something beautiful, preferably a statue of me stabbing a savage, attacking wild beast in the eyes. Use your imagination.
9. To The City of Springfield Fire Department, I leave that tube of toothpaste that’s in my locker, and that itchy, nasty wool blanket I was issued in rookie school and made to swear I’d return in 25 years. Most lower mammals wouldn’t use that thing to nest in, by the way.
10. To my friend The Author, I leave my glorious, luminous and entirely non-grey head of hair and magnificent pelt of manly chest hair. You’re welcome.
11. Finally, to my beloved canine MoJay the psycho-killer boxer, I bequeath all of our domestic garbage receptacles since you’ve spent the last year knocking them over and rooting through them at every chance. Go on, help yourself to old banana peels and coffee grounds. I hope you gag on an old guitar string, you obnoxious bastard. I love you so much.

There you have it. I expect this will to be faithfully executed, but let’s be honest here: most of you are gonna come over, loot all of my worldly possessions and then burn my house to the ground, pissing on the flames as you pour out your malt liquor over the ashes. I’m good with that, too.

Winter's Bone-Chilling Cold (AP Photo/Kiichiro Sato)

This past weekend an old high school friend I call The Author paid me a visit from out in sunny Southern Cali all the way to the snowy center of the continent. Ostensibly, we were looking over some information that may have led to a collaborative project between us; realistically we were catching up and enjoying the company as one only can with a friend with whom you have a couple of decades of history. As to the writing project, we’ll talk about that later, but suffice it to say that I really look up to this guy; what he’s done in the creative community, projects from novels to screenplays and roles in his life as varied as mountaineer to independent producer. Just the chance to collaborate with him is worth at least a six pack of Guinness on the open market.

He took off last night, back to the land of the fit and fabulous, back to his grind of creative output. And here I sit in front of my seemingly vanilla laptop (not a Mac), staring at the same old news sites I use to come up with inane tales of stupid observation (hello, Daily Mail) and there’s an overwhelming melancholy to the whole bit.

I think it’s being surrounded by the creative energy of someone else that inspires such impetus for me to create. That’s why observing my kids create art, ninja battles and other products from their fertile imaginations provides me with such intrinsic happiness. It’s why I root for the artists striving to break out, such as Nathan Maulorico of Unknown Films or Sarah Bliss Rasul, who does amazing work in several types of media. I want to see their creative talents rewarded, because they’ve been given a gift, one that I hope provides them with the ability to dedicate their lives to it.

Because if they can do it, I’m inspired to believe that I can as well.

The downside is when I’m apart from other weird, creative types, I get into a funk. It feels like the world is transpiring all around me, as though there’s this tremendous wave of artistic flow happening just outside Missouri’s borders. It’s the same feeling I used to get when waking up from an afternoon nap as a kid: something just happened out there, and I missed it. Let’s face it – the fire service is just that…. a service, and a valuable one at that. Really, though, it’s the application of science to disaster. Preparedness, training, conditioning, paperwork, all these are hallmarks of a successful career in the fire department. While it’s necessary to keep the lights on with a job like this, for which I’m grateful, I pin a lot of happiness on the ability to create while off-duty.

And when I find myself in a melancholy jag, watching a friend’s plane take off from our gray and white world out here in the Great State of Ranch Dressing? I look to the boys, my very own Heathens, and take comfort and inspiration from their very own creations. Ninja battles and Legos never looked so good.

Wrong Hooker, but you get the idea.

Let’s face it: it’s a tough economy out there. We’re all struggling to make ends meet, even while those who control gasoline production insist on bending us over their barrels of sweet, delicious crude oil. Cities everywhere are determining that public safety should be valued on a risk/reward system, whereby it’s perfectly okay to close fire companies that are, you know, just a real drag. I’m perfectly aware of this, and while I’m grateful as can be that I still have a firehouse to call home, there may come a time where our fair citizens demand even lower taxes on their cigarettes (despite our state having THE lowest tax rate on coffin nails….read here) and I’ll be shit out of luck. If that becomes the case, I’ve decided that prostitution will become my next career advancement. I have many reasons why, but here are the top ten:

TOP 10 REASONS I’D BE A GREAT PROFESSIONAL HE-HO

1. I’m really quite unremarkable. Ladies, the last thing you need when you hire an escort is for it to be obvious that you’ve paid to have some massively strong and good-looking dude-hooker accompany you to fancy functions. Lucky for you, no one will suspect you’ve spent a dime when you show up with me on your arm, and you can claim we just “met on the internet”.
2. No middleman. Pimps have a bad reputation, and they’ve earned it. As such, my self respect demands that I do not employ said dealers in pleasure, and I can pass the savings right on to the customer. Plus, no weird canes or obnoxious hats and tricked out Monte Carlos with gold-spoke rims to contend with.
3. I can do the dishes. This is a quality that plagues many an otherwise harmonious relationship. So, for a very reasonable fee, I can come over to your house and suds up those pieces of dining ware that you’ve been leaving in the sink. There is a three day maximum waiting period on that one though, cause then we’re dealing with some gross stuff, and I just don’t get weird like that.
4. I’m a fireman. Now, before you go dreaming up someone who might be in a calendar, I mean this in a totally different way. Firemen gossip worse than hens on a fence, so maybe you need to talk some trash about that skank at work who’s clearly slutting her way to the top. I’ll not only completely understand, I’ll probably be able to contribute some completely salacious, and utterly fabricated, commentary about her clear lack of morals.
5. I have a horrible short term memory. This will come in handy when we run into each other at a local coffee shop and you’re in the company of your family. I can barely remember my kids’ names, so there’s no fear of awkward social encounters or the need to explain how we know each other….chances are I won’t recall a thing.
6. No need to be self-conscious. As The Wife informs me on a regular basis, I’m no prize; therefore, there is no need for you to feel bad about any aspect of your being, either. Worried that you may have a bit too much of a mustache for it to be considered socially acceptable? Pfffftttt….I can grow one of those things in three hours. There’s beauty everywhere and in everyone, and I’m guaranteed to see it.
7. I know how to change a tire. Do you have a long road trip that will take you along poorly paved highways, or are you worried about being car-jacked in the city? Then you should consider hiring me. I’ll bring the Funyuns, and we’ll listen to the music of the REM, and claim how we got Michael Stipe before anyone else did, thereby making us “better” than everyone. I’ll even bring a set of tools for changing a flat tire or intimidating the hell out of roadside thugs. It’ll be great.
8. I don’t hunt or fish. This is mainly a regional issue, but here in Midwest, there are many, many sportsman’s widows. Their hubbies get their goatees trimmed up, break out their finest camo and disappear into the woods or onto the lakes for days on end, all vying for machismo rights when they kill something with brains no bigger than a housecat. I could care less. So, when the fall and spring are here and you’re abandoned for the company of some other guys who smell like deer piss, give me a call. We’ll go eat some overpriced sushi and grab some Starbucks, head back to your place and burn all of his shit on the front lawn.
9. I’m tax-deductible! Apparently, for many years, The Wife has been claiming me on our tax statements under the category “financial sink-hole”. I’m not sure what this technological jargon means, but I’m 72% sure you, too, can claim our rendezvouseseses as a deduction of sorts. It’s like you’d be throwing away money NOT to engage my services; be diligent about your fiduciary duties, already.
10. I’m NOT a Craigslist Killer. I just thought I oughta put that out there.

Here For Your Soul. And Brains, Too.

On our way home from a hockey tournament lately, a friend of mine mentioned an irrational notion that he had: he said that for some strange reason whenever he travels and is at a large, international airport, that somehow, he’ll run into his ex-wife. He said he has no idea if she travels internationally, but it concerns him, nonetheless.

Several weeks later, I thought about my many irrational thoughts and I, too, have an eccentric fear, borne of ignorance: I’m scared shitless of the Amish undead.

To make sense of this, we need to travel back in time. In late 1999, when I was applying for the Springfield Fire Department, it was necessary for me to fly out here for the interview process. Up until that point, I’d only lived in California and Alaska, so I knew nothing about life in the Midwest, much less that there was a large contingent of Amish living in Missouri. So I flew out, staying up in Northeast Missouri at the ex-in-laws place which happened to be a Christmas tree farm surrounded by Amish neighbors. I found their stares and glares unnerving, not taking into account that I was the outsider, I was the curious one.

My lodgings for the trip consisted of sleeping in the enclosed porch area of a log cabin, with a good and full view of the perfectly abandoned house on the property. This abandoned red dwelling had a fruit cellar, another regional oddity that, while described as “quaint” by many, really came across as a creepy portal to all things terrifying. After enjoying a local delicacy billed as a “Pig-Hip Sammich” (technically, a fried pork tenderloin on white bread) at the local bar/pool hall/gatherin’ place, my then-mother in-law informed me that there was a storm rolling in, and we’d best be heading back to the farm.

I’m from California. We did not have real lightning and thunderstorms on the Central Coast. Forked lightning was a phenomena best reserved for horror flicks with disemboweled zombies, or, apparently, Missouri in the month of May. We headed down the gravel roads and I took in all the homes of the Amish that were merely outlined by flashes of lightning; this made me really second-guess the wisdom of spending the night out here. Let’s face it: I was coming dangerously close to realizing what a damn pansy I really am.

And that’s when it got somewhat hairy. After being left to my own devices on the enclosed porch, my mind began to cast near and far for reasons why with each thunderous clap that shook the cabin, I came close to pissing myself. This was nothing other than science in motion. I lay on the makeshift bed, family dog locked in a head clamp, chastising myself for being scared of weather. It was not lost on me in the least that I’d flown here to apply for a job where I was supposed demonstrate how NOT to be such a candy-ass. But fear and imagination are funny bedfellows, and if you’re unhinged like I am to start with, no good can come of what I later learned is referred to as “a real toad-strangler” of a storm.

Nerves on edge, dog growling from being held in a death-lock, it hit me: I was positively sure that with the very next flash of lightning, I’d see in the porch window, pitchfork in hand, an Amish Zombie. I could’ve sworn that, as the abandoned house was lit up, I saw movements near the damn fruit cellar. It was upon me. I was the only one who could see that the fruit cellar was the portal through which the Amish Undead travel, looking to feast on the brains of chicken-shit Californians who dare trod in their sphere. Only a couple of ghouls at first, but as soon as they realized I was in that porch area, they’d moan out to one another, and next thing you know, every window pane would be filled with a ghoulish, bearded harvester of souls. I had no idea that storms could last as long as they do out here.

Come morning, with no sleep to claim and one very pissed-off dog, I gazed in puffy-eyed disbelief at the house across the way, amazed that I’d made it though the night. I vowed to do my best to come up with a plan to annihilate this plague of the Amish Undead. Little did I know that within a year, that abandoned red house would become my first residence in the state of Missouri.

I lasted there less than a month.

The Voices In My Head Stopped Talking To Me

I’ve noticed when writer’s block hits, and I ask those around me for subjects, there’s a universal response: “You should write about ___(me)”.

Crosffitters want to hear about the slow deaths endured at the Box, firefighters want to hear about the camaraderie and shenanigans. People like the lists, as long as they stay focused on their interests. And The Wife is always quick to point out that I’ve not adored her enough in e-print, lately.

Now, as opposed to being a rant about the raving self-absorption we all engage in, this diatribe is one in which I praise you for it. Here’s why:

It means we’re connecting.

When I write it and you read it and you mutter to yourself  “hell yes, I hate how society rewards the Lindsay Lohans of this world, too!” or something like that, it is the very definition of success to me. Being the class clown is more than a pathetic cry for attention; we really want to amuse you, make you laugh at us and at yourselves and all the ridiculousness that comes with taking life too seriously. I imagine you somewhere, taking a moment away from looking up the ads soliciting parking lot encounters on Craigslist, and stumbling across this blog, this one right here, and chuckling for 10 seconds. Then you probably head to back to The Onion or porn or whatever, but in that moment? We connected, and that’s the name of this game.

Today a friend of mine turned 30, and when I visited her at the radio station, lottery tickets and coffee in hand, I told her of my dilemma about coming up with a good subject to write about. I was bouncing the idea around about how the doctor would likely confirm that I was pregnant at my appointment today, that it wasn’t the Guinness after all, when she says “you should write about turning 30. Like how much it sucked, or whatever.” I was thinking to myself, “hells bells, I’d love to turn 30 again.”

But, in retrospect, the pregnancy post really came across worse than it does right now, and I was back to considering her idea about birthdays, aging, bad hips, et al. And it struck me: she finds it funny enough when I throw my bullshit online that she’d like me to write about her turning 30. And I’m grateful for that.

So, in an effort to connect with her, too, here goes:

Turning 30 makes one feel really, really old, until it is viewed from the perspective of someone who is 36.

Now, back to my regularly scheduled writer’s block. We’ll talk some more about you, all of you, later.

Oshie Shoots (image courtesy Mark Buckner/NHLI via Getty Images)

In just a few minutes, the puck will be dropped as the St. Louis Blues take on the Detroit Red Wings at the Scottrade center; we’re gathered near the roof of the rink, center ice to be sure, but so high up that there’s a noticeable delay when a player makes a shot and the sound of it reaches us. I’m desperately trying to reconcile in my mind why it is that I love hockey so much that even though I can’t name the current roster of my beloved Blues, I feel like I’ve been a fan all my life. I’m not a sports nut, actually not even much of a fan. I enjoy playing sports, but I’m not very good at it, especially as it comes to hockey; that’s the price of learning how to skate when your 29 years old as opposed to 2.9 years old (per Canadian law).

So why is it that hockey turns me into a screaming, bellowing fan, outraged at missed calls, pulled out of my seat when a goal is scored, cheering as though we’ve just landed a man on the moon for the first time?

I think it’s because I find hockey analogous to life in so many ways.

The puck drops and St. Louis can’t seem to battle it back to their defensemen, so they must now play in a defensive mode, preparing for Detroit attack. This pisses me and 19,000 other people off (Red Wings fans, notwithstanding).

Hockey is a jittery, fast, inconsistent sport, with a constantly changing face of play that demands the ability to act and react on a moments notice. I realize that my life is lived inconsistently and my caffeinated addictions result in jittery behavior. Back and forth, up the ice and down, these fit and furious men are constantly engaging in give and take, elbowing their way into advantageous positions, looking to exploit the tiniest loopholes in their opponents strategy and skills; it’s politics and Wall Street on ice, minus the lawyers.

Detroit goes up by three goals in the second period, and I take it personally. I angrily shout at the boys from 10,000′ up, as though they’re looking to me for coaching advice. All at once I hate myself and am totally immersed in this moment. When I hear fans of other sports talking about “their” team in the first person plural, I’m overcome with urge to slap them right in the mouth:

“Yes, if we don’t get our defense anchored before next week, Green Bay is gonna tear us apart.”

What is this “we” business? Does the coaching staff call you up and solicit you for advice with regards to their team strategies? YOU are not the team, you are not ON the team, you are an overweight, lazy spectator, and don’t give me that “ownership in the game” bull either. You’re living vicariously through the athletic endeavors of people who don’t know you from shit, and frankly, it’s a little embarrassing to see you carry on like that.

Except for me, and except for tonight. Except for every night I go to a Blues game. I’ve become that guy. And the rush it brings.

Oh, the rush.

The surge of emotions when Oshie FINALLY sends a saucer into the net (check it out here, it’s the clip from 11:44 in the 2nd period), and it’s as though I’ve just found out it’s not cancer, after all. Out of my seat, $9 worth of Guinness splashing all over my overpriced jersey, and I’m lost in the moment. All is hope is not dashed, not yet. This will NOT be a shutout, and as the horn blows, thousands of fans gain optimism at high decibels.

Life is compromise and constant adaptation to circumstances beyond your control. Hockey players do the same thing in 1 minute shifts. And who comes out on top? The player willing to find just a little more juice at the bottom of his tank, willing to chase that puck into the corner, scrum it out with a vicious passion and make something big happen. It’s the same in life. We root for the single parent who has to dig deep into her own passion to provide for her family, willing to fight to make a better life for her kids. We’re touched by people who seem hopelessly overwhelmed and somehow find the grit to fight back, to triumph against the obstacles in their path. Hell, we hungrily absorb movies like Forrest Gump and the Pursuit of Happyness, one fiction, one based on fact because we want to cheer them on, we want to we savor their triumphs.

The same holds true for me when I watch Blues hockey.

I’m rooting for the boys to find that strength, to draw deep from that well of iron will, to beat the unholy piss out of the Detroit Red Wings.

And somehow, I’m convinced that my own iron will has played a role in the Blues tying up the game in the closing minutes of the third period. I’ve now switched over to Red Bull and churros as a means of keeping my laser-beam focus of positive energy aimed soberly towards a win. We just might do this. We just might defeat our hated rivals in the Central Division. The coaching staff has yet to place a call to my cell phone so as to inquire how I’d handle the special teams lineups. But that’s okay. Right now they need me. I’m convinced of this.

The clocks ticks down in the third period, and this can mean only one thing : it’s going to overtime.

5 minutes of chaos, with “sudden death” rules set into play, meaning that the first team to score wins it all. It’s not as though it matters in the big scheme of the NHL; Detroit is in first place in the division, as usual, and my beloved Blues are trolling in third (out of four).  Since their inception as an expansion team in 1967, they’ve never won a Stanley Cup, despite multiple playoff appearances. They’re perennial underdogs, which is a huge part of their appeal to me, their uninvited coach high up in the stands, in a Guinness and Red Bull frenzy of panic and expectation. C’mon boys; make a play happen. Make the three and half hour trip back home worth the drive. Don’t let me down, don’t give the entire fair-weather Red Wing nation one more reason to gloat.

One minute and fifty one seconds later it’s over. Darren Helm, one of the fastest skaters in the NHL and, unfortunately, a Red Wing, scores off of a pass from Jiri Hudler. Just like that, it’s over. Another non-win.

Dejected, muted fans begin the long descent from our perches at high altitude. As the teeming masses cram onto the escalators, the mood picks up considerably, as fans begin to buoy one another up with loud claims of unfair referees, bullshit calls, and the mercenary tactics of the Detroit hiring staff.

The boys in blue will come and go, changing jerseys as their contracts allow, in pursuit of victories and paydays and a chance to play in the big leagues. And toiling away, with a bizarre sense of undeserved ownership, the myriad fans of hockey in this most Midwestern of towns will continue to support their boys. They’ll wear jerseys and spend ungodly amounts of money on beer and pretzels and they, and I, will pull together every time we enter the rink, bellowing like fools for the Blue Notes.

"Do these shades make me look taller?"

Hello.

By now, as I’m sure you’ve heard, I’ve been selected by the voices in my head to assume the mantle of Supreme Exalted Leader Of All Mankind.

Yes, I know, it’s an awesome responsibility, and with it comes the burden of shepherding the flock of humanity towards a path more befitting my title and righteous glory. No big deal.

This whole thing came to me in a garlic-Parmesan chicken wing-induced haze at around 3am the other morning, in between infomercials about dating exotic women on the telephone.

So, that being said, we gotta make some changes around here; to get started, I thought I’d lay down the first ten rules of life under my magnanimous leadership. These are non-negotiable items, so don’t you go and get fresh with me, or I’ll send you to the same prison cell as Lindsay Lohan, and believe me it’ll be no treat for either of you. So, in three words, COMPLY OR DIE.

Have a glorious day.

1. The inauguration of my ascent to power will be highlighted as such: there will be a to-the-death cage-match between Snooki (the trollish Cookie Monster from Jersey Shore) and Sarah Palin (the snow monster of the Great North). Tina Turner will be the ringside announcer, and she will be in her Thunderdome outfit. Chainsaws and tanning oils to be provided.
2. If you have a handicapped license plates and do NOT have any noticeable ailments (or children with them), you are not allowed to be a smoker. If we are going to give you the best parking places (a sacrifice on our part), then you will sacrifice, too, and give up the cancer sticks, thereby relieving us of the duty of paying for the associated health-care costs you’ll no doubt incur. Again, blue plates = no smokey smokey.
3. Speaking of the Great North, preparations will be made to invade Canada. Currently, there is a shortage of quality hockey players coming out of our country, and in a bid to capture good skaters and natural resources, we’ll be imposing some freedom on our neighbors to the North. As a sweeping gesture of benevolence, I will, in exchange, give the entire Southern United States to Mexico. Let them have the humidity, tornadoes and monster truck rallies, says I.
4. Traffic will be improved. Here’s how: all roads will have four lanes in each direction, each lane being separated by a concrete barrier. The inner lane is reserved for drivers 16-24, there are no speed limits, texting, talking and makeup application will not only be encouraged, it’ll be mandated. The outer lane is reserved for people over 52.5, and there will be no speeds allowed above 37 mph. Left turn signals will be on at all times and signs in that lane will be in 25,000,000 font. The middle two lanes are for the rest of us, and any behavior that deviates from what I find satisfactory is punishable by lectures of up to seven hours, delivered by Fran Drescher and Gilbert Gottfried.
5. All you can eat restaurants will go the way of the dodo bird. You want a plate of food, you pay for it. You want a second plate of food? You pay for that too. With obesity reaching the levels they are, there is no real reason for AYCE‘s to exist, and they won’t be tolerated.
6. NASCAR, as well, shall heretofore be banned. Cars go fast, then they turn left. I don’t understand why this is the flame that draws the redneck moth, but it’s high time we turn the bug zapper on. Again, with the donation of the Southern U.S. to Mexico, that will probably become a problem our neighbors to the south will have to contend with. Good luck, amigos.
7. Churches will no longer be tax-exempt. If you have an issue with that, I urge you to take a visit to your local mega-church, gaze upon the copper spires and neon billboards and contemplate just why it is that these businesses ought to be able to skip out on the taxes the rest of us shell out. Well, really, the rest of you saps once I am anointed.
8. Prison over-crowding will no longer be an issue. All inmates who want to claim gang affiliation will meet out in the yard at noon each day, whereby knives, shivs, shanks and other pointy weapons will be handed out. Two hours later, the survivors will report back to their cells.
9. I will be keeping an enemies list, and it will be a very dynamic and secretive conglomeration of those who are in the wrong. I’d advise you to stay off of it, unless you’ve already been declared dead to me, a position from which there is no return. You know who you are.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I do believe there are a plate of wings and some phone-dating infomercials calling my name.

You’re welcome, gentle subjects.

-Fearless Leader Of All That Is Good And Right

No Hurries

It was only a matter of time before the painful pangs of budding relationships would begin to enter into the lives of my boys, The Heathens. #1 is now seven years old, and within what seems like the blink of an eye, has immersed himself into drama-laden girl troubles that would make soap opera writers salivate. Slowly, unobtrusively as I can, I’ve been trying to make inroads into his mindset, trying to make funny stories out of my own mishaps, hoping against hope that he might take something from my errors. I know he needs to make his very own, and I know they’re gonna hurt like hell, but maybe I can ease just a little of the confusion by letting him know that above all else, he’s not alone.

His problems are currently revolving around a girl we’ll call “Allison”, since that’s the name of my first grade heart breaker.

Turns out that Allison is a bit of a handful herself, sassy, independent and with a jealous bone that just won’t quit. Compounding the issue, The Heathens have known her since birth, so there is  history there too.  The first time I was informed that Allison was his girlfriend, I tried my damnedest to convince him that seven is far too young to limit yourself to one girlfriend, much less even HAVE one. I was casually brushed aside like the ignorant fool I am, and their love continued unabated.

I thought not too much about it, until I was informed that the word “SEX” had entered his lexicon, a fact that roused me out of a deep sleep at 5am one morning. I wrote about it in this post here.

And today, around our tiny and syrup laden lunch table, I broached the subject again, ever so lightly. Turns out that Allison was at the hockey rink on the same day one of his friends (happens to be a girl) was there too. The Wife immediately sensed that the threat level was about to be ratcheted up. Me, being a guy and a fool to boot, I told her not to worry, what was the big deal? It was a very big deal, indeed.

The girl buddy of Heathen #1 has no interest “like that” and was content to wax poetic on the genius of Star Wars while we watched some hockey. Allison was having none of this. None. Not one bit.

Out came the claws; she ferociously kept her arm around him, kissing his cheek at every chance and loudly declaring that my son was her boyfriend. It was awkward, even for me. My son looked like he was about to have a heart attack. Torn between his friend and his girlfriend, he kept his head hung low, confused as to this other gender. He’s gotta fight his own battles, to be sure, but he seemed MOST relieved when I announced that we were going home, mid-third period. His girl buddy was coming with us (she was in our care) and this fact did not sit well with Allison. She continued to glare at me as I backed out of the stands, attempting, and losing, a stare down contest. No six year old girl is going to intimidate me. Not till she’s at least eight.

So it was that we discussed #1′s “situation” around lunch. I made him laugh with tales of how my love for his mother was most unrequited until I started to show less interest. Suddenly I was worth giving a second glance. This is the foundation for all relationships, a mystery that’s plagued mankind since we first brought our knuckles off the ground.

“Why’s that, Dad?”

“Son, if I had the answer to that, we wouldn’t be living in Missouri in January.”

And I got a glimmer of a smile from him. He may not listen too terribly much, he may have all the focus of a fly when we talk about some things, and that’s okay. We’re talking, and we’re talking about something that is only gonna get more awkward as he gets older, a fact that is not lost on me. I never got much advice when it came to the opposite sex from my folks except for two things:

1. “Keep it in yo’ pahnt’s goddammit, son. You keep playing wit’ it, it’s gonna fall off” (The Lyin’ Dutchman)
2. “Quit acting like a horned up dog, chasing around anything that’s in heat” (My stepfather)

I don’t blame my folks for limiting their sex talks with me; I was busy running from them at every chance, afraid of death by awkward shame. My own boys don’t need to tell me their details, and they sure won’t want to reveal them; that’s okay, too. I just want them to keep up the conversation with me, even at my own morbidly embarrassing expense.

I have a feeling we’ve only just begun.