Half Past Awesome

As of late, there has been some concern with regards to my ongoing detente with the trainer at CrossFit known as “Ryan”. In an effort to further defame his character, I did a little research. It turns out that “Ryan” is not only a sadistic trainer by day, he is also an MMA fighter when the opportunity arises. A glance at YouTube shows one of his matches, one which I happened to attend long before I knew him. While he was down in the ring beating the holy bejeezus out of this guy (see here.…he’s the one in white shorts) I was up in the stands getting sloshed on overpriced donkey piss being passed off as beer. Perhaps this bit of information would have come in handy before I challenged him to a sumo-suit style match today (an example of which can be seen here). I need to determine which discipline in which I might be able to best this killer of men, because in the arena of physical prowess, I’ll be left in a big ol’ puddle of pummeled mess.

Time to take stock. I somehow doubt the city will allow me to hijack two fire department ladder trucks and issue a “race for glory” style test of manhood down the mean streets of Springfield. Nor could I ask him to deal with an unhinged meth-head wearing a chili-dog wrapper as a hat while claiming ownership of the dumpster behind the firehouse……these kinds of events don’t occur with enough consistency to hold his attention. Clearly, “Ryan” has the ability to crush me physically and he’s getting his masters degree in something, or so I’m told, thereby eradicating my ability to wipe the floor with him in a round of Celebrity Jeopardy. These are the kind of dilemmas that keep my cocktail tumbler full. My stress level was reaching red-line levels when I realized that the only dimension in which I could beat this man was in a bacon eating contest. As a child, I would eat raw bacon for sport. As an adult, I’ve been known to floss with bacon. When it comes to the fruit of the pig, few can match my ability to ingest such mass quantities of fried pork. I’m not proud of this fact. Also, there seems to be a very slim chance that frying bacon would be allowed at the gym, so again, another roadblock.

I can’t beat the man with wicked sarcasm and under-appreciated smart-assedness. No matter how many times I can dead-lift a broomstick, I won’t command his respect until somewhere near 300lbs. is on the bar. He’s not intimidated by my excessive body hair nor impressed by my ability to break a sweat just thinking about breaking a sweat.

And then it came to me in a flash of clairvoyance that can only come after several adult beverages……..what if I actually listened to “Ryan” and stopped trying engage him in this war of wills? What if it turns out that he’s not the devil incarnate but merely a man trying to better his fellow travelers through the regimen of physical fitness? How about enough bitching and on to lifting? Wouldn’t that be a better alternative than trying to undermine him as a trainer, a human, a person who cares about the physical well-being of his charges? Sweet Jews for Jesus, am I finally growing up?

Nah – that’s gotta be the rum talking. The plotting continues…….

Uli Less Lardass "Ryan" the Sadist, Add new tag, CrossFit Craziness

What is the measure of a man? This is a question that has eluded philosophers, teachers, coaches and the IRS for generations, and I think I’ve found the answer. It’s around 45 pounds. How can I say this with such certainty? Because that is the precise weight of a lifting bar. You know what I’m talking about, one of those contraptions that metal plates are affixed to and then lifted, hefted and tossed about the gym. As it so happens, these bars are extremely prolific, and I have yet to go to a gym that did not employ several of them as a means by which to intimidate and abuse paying customers. Not coincidentally, I think said bars are also a tool of the devil, although the science behind that theory is still a little shaky.

Yesterdays workout at the Springfield CrossFit gym involved lifting these bars in a movement known as a “clean”. I’d describe it to you, but that would be akin to me describing cold fusion principles: I’d just be making it up. Here’s the downside of all this business – outside of some lame attempts in the past to bench press and curl, I’ve never in my life lifted weights, so I lack what some call “proper form”. Roughly translated, what this means is that while all the other people are pushing around the iron and getting all pumped up, I’m having fits in the corner and risking some serious back injury while making all the noises I assume you’re supposed to make while lifting weights. I don’t know, I’m just faking it the whole time. I grunt and heave and sweat a lot, but really, nothing’s getting done.

Unfortunately for me, this does not go un-noticed by the sadists, aka trainers, here at CrossFit. In order to protect his identity, I’ll call the trainer from yesterday “Ryan”, since his real name sounds exactly like that, but with a “B”.  So anyways, “Ryan” didn’t waste much time in sending me to my own corner of the mat and make demands that I show him my “form” with regards to this “clean” lift. Using only the bar. What follows does not please him, and I am guessing that is because it resembles the mating dance of an irritated baboon. Face red, sweat running down my leg hair, I set the bar back down with a self satisfied look on my face while “Ryan” looks at me as though he just caught me making love to trash can. He’s incredulous. I’m good with it. And ne’er the two shall meet. He spends the next half hour keeping tabs of my form, taking enough time out of coaching others to yell at me “ULI! Again! No, I don’t care about your “feelings”! AGAIN!“ (or something to that effect). I tried to shake my fist at him, but by this time, I’ve no strength left. It looks more like some sort of limp-wristed wave, matching nicely with the drool leaking out of the corner of my mouth. He continued to glare at me as though seriously considering outfitting me with a helmet to wear. He seemed to take offense that I refused to “open my hips” for him during these lifts, and that’s just because I’m not that kind of guy. I’m no man-slut, no exceptions; just ask anyone. No, scratch that, just take my word for it.

I can see that this “Ryan” character is not going to buy any of my formless bullshit, so I try in earnest to do it right. Out of 743 attempts I get it right exactly three times. That’s a number I can live with. “Ryan” can’t. The war of wills is going to be an ongoing engagement – but I recently recieved vital information that shall give me an unmistakeable advantage. Apparently he harbors an unhealthy fear of lobsters. No idea why, but when I head into the gym tonight? You bet your ass I’ll be toting a couple of fresh cockroaches of the ocean, one under each arm, ready to again do battle. And this time I’ll be sure to use the proper form.

Uli Less Lardass "Ryan" the Sadist, Add new tag, CrossFit Craziness

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.

Uli Travelblogue, West Coast shenanigans Add new tag, The Author

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

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

Who do YOU dislike?

Uli Wandering Ponderings Add new tag, Buns

There has been too long since last we met for the Monday Mud. I thought that for new readers, it might help to run through the rules, so that we can have some more interaction and this becomes more than just a vain rant. Each Monday, I put up the Monday Mud, wherein I give three things the “Raising Of The Pint Glass” and three things the “Karate Chop To The Throat”. If you have any ideas, or items that need to be either lauded or chopped in the windpipe, drop me a line, and I’ll put it in for the next week. Also, at the bottom of Moday’s post there is a survey question to which I want your responses. The wittier and funnier they are, the better chance of them making the top ten list, which is posted the next Friday, after a night of imbibing and scientific ranking. Many of you out there are far funnier than I could be, so it’s YOU to whom I appeal. I hope you find your wit, and when you do, send your answer to bluecayucos@gmail.com Now, it’s on to this weeks heroes and villains………

RAISING OF THE PINT GLASS

1.) Rec League Hockey Players, et. al. – there was a rec league tournament held here in Springfield this past weekend, one that involved teams from as far away as Omaha (home of the Mutual of and the Wild Kingdom). Good folks who appreciated a good beer and the company of a bunch of wanna-be puckheads. I salute you guys! Good times were had by all!

2.) Dr. Price – after years of battling the effects of aging, gravity and those kids, The Wife finally got to have her back pain relieved by having a, er, um, “lift kit” modification. Already feeling well enough to verbally abuse me again, she is grateful to the nth degree to have had the work done. Can’t say I’m not a fan, either. A brew for you, good doctor.

3.) The Two Dudes – after putting our busted clothes dryer at the end of our gravel drive with a “free” sign on it, two Whiskey Tango specials in a beat to hell silver mini-van pulled up within the hour and loaded as fast as a shipment of stolen electronics. Bets were laid as to how fast it would take to get it ganked. I lost, but got rid of trash in the process. Ah, for cheap thrills. We toasted their boosting speed and skills by raising our cocktail glasses to their mullets as they sped off into the sunset.

KARATE CHOP TO THE THROAT

1.) Surfey the Hermit Crab – in your epic battles against Spiderman, your hermit crab compadre, you somehow ripped off one of his claws (the big one, btw) and left a once macho king of the habitat little more than a one-armed exoskeletal freak. At least get rid of the evidence, so I don’t have to explain THAT one to the youngest Heathen. Chop to you.

2.) The Month of August – you serve no purpose. Kids hate you because you represent the onset of school. I hate you due to the humidity that causes an ungodly amount of sweating in places where the sun don’t shine. My lawn hates you because you do nothing but kill it with a lack of rain. You should be stricken from existence. At the least you deserve a backhand to the throat.

3.) Whoever Is Sponsoring THAT Ad - we have an ad running around the radio dial out here stating how we are so “lucky to live in the Ozarks”. I’m telling you, whenever you have to CONVINCE people that they are lucky to live in the land of  the cheap, it just comes across as desperate and contrived. I know it costs little to live here. I know that there’s a church on every corner. And you just piss me off when you have to take out ad space to remind me of it. Especially in August. CHOP!

Half Past Friday Survey Question

It’s deserted island time – give me your one movie, one food, and one album .

Tell me the why. Make me laugh. And send your answers to bluecayucos@gmail.com

Till then, take it easy amigos……..

Uli Monday's Mud Add new tag, the Heathens, The Wife

Last night marked a return to the ice after a three month self-imposed hiatus. What with The Heathens in full sports swing during the hottest months of summer (brilliant), it seemed parentally prudent to take a season off from the men’s rec hockey league, give the old blades a rest. By spending some time at the gym and riding my bike to work occasionally, I’d hoped to keep in enough cardio shape to prevent a stroke from happening upon my return. It was a big mistake.

The fire department has a loosely organized team of fools who’ve decided “yeah, hockey, that sounds like a good idea.” So most of us, for the first time, decided to learn to skate, spend an ungodly amount on gear and form a team. That was about six years ago, and each season, the group grows by one or two guys until we’ve finally gotten enough to field an actual team. It’s been a blast, no doubt, complete with locker room antics and smells, road trips to tournaments and age inappropriate behavior. We may be trying to re-create our squandered youth or maybe it’s the idea of chasing other people around with a stick that appeals to the little boy in each of us. It matters not what our motivation seems to be, but the consequences of choosing ice hockey at an age when most professionals are retiring has provided more than bruised egos and bodies. It’s been the source of guffaws for every spouse or random soul who’s been down to the ice park on a Sunday night.

I wish I could accurately describe the pain that surged through my beaten down corpse after one measely game. You ever see one of those unfortunate armadillos that is laying toes up on the highway with parts scattered all over? I would wager it felt a little something like how that thing looks. Pre-game, we all laced up in the locker room and gave each other the expected razzing over creaky joints and achy bones, while the hockey rookies looked around nervously, as though maybe this decision to play a game that involves this much safety equipment was a pretty stupid one. We stumbled out onto the ice to the capacity crowd of, I counted, fifteen spectators. And two brutal hours later, we limp-skated off, the five remaining die-hard fans laughing themselves into asthma attacks. It’s hard to sell hockey in bass fishing and turkey killing country. My own wife won’t even waste her time going to the rink, insisting “it’s cold in there.” How can I argue with that?

As for me, I think the reason I like hockey so much is that it embodies much of the same code of conduct as the firehouse. You got guys that you would never trust with your daughter but that you intrinsically trust with your own safety; the rink provides an environment in which people who have no other common denominator get together to enjoy the harassment and shenanigans that hockey provides. We cajole and congratulate with equal enthusiasm, we sit around and complain about one another; it’s as close to the kitchen table in a firehouse as I can find. I may suck at hockey, but I am damn good at drinking beer, a common post-game decompression strategy that we employ frequently. And despite the fact that we all look like a pack of escaped mental patients having meth fits out on the ice, there is nowhere else I can have that much fun while dancing that close to a cardiac event, save for a good house fire.

I think the bruises are worth it.

Uli Amigos, Less Lardass, Tales of Misery Add new tag, the Heathens, The Wife

Manic Monday has once again meandered in and let the world know that while the weekends may belong to you, your ass belongs to The Man, and his name is J-O-B. For some folks, that is. Around here, The Wife has been gone for something like 4, maybe 14, days on a “Girls Trip” to Florida. That equates into a complete breakdown here on the home front. I’ve declared Martial Law, The Heathens countered with anarchy and chaos, and somehow this morning I woke up to a Transformer toy being shoved up my nose. Well played, boys. Counting on the old mans’ need for sleep is working in your favor. Probably best if I just hand you, the reader, this weeks Raising Of The Pint Glass / Karate Chop To The Throat and the survey question for Friday. It SHOULD look familiar. Email me your answers: bluecayucos@gmail.com before Friday, and then tune in. I believe in you. Until then, here’s the weeks heroes and villains:

Raising Of The Pint Glass

1.) Cancer. The sign, not the disease. Today is the Lyrical Jackass’ birthday, yesterday The Wife’s and a whole slew of those closest to me have birthdays in this astrological period. Don’t know what it is about you crabs, but I dig ya, and here’s a lift of the brew to you!

2.) Amigos. While I was in a constant state of trying to run this household without The Wife’s input, I was relying on three things to make it happen: coffee, alcohol (late at night, I swear) and my friends. There was no shortage of them dropping by, calling, whatever. Now this may well be because they are amused by a breakdown of my mental state, but their reasoning is of little import. Thanks, amigos!

3.) “The Herkamator”. This is the name Heathen #2 gave to the excavator when he first decided to talk. It was the last piece of excavating equipment I owned as a result of selling off Pacific Excavating, and it finally sold this week. A pain in my ass till the end, I’ve loved that iron and it served me well. The Wife will not miss making the payments, though. So here’s to you, Herk.

Karate Chop To The Throat

1.) The Springfield News Leader. The folks running the show at this “newspaper” seem hell-bent on selling subscriptions and ad space by driving a wedge between the community and it’s public safety employees. Armed with innuendo and the opinions of some local black-helicopter types, it strives to generate mediocrity at best. CHOP!

2.) Starbucks. Screw you for making me crave you every time I get into the car. I need you and your ways, and I loathe you for it. Karate…….Chop!

3.) My own lazy ass. The whole time The Wife’s been out of town, I have yet to work out. I’m going today, but that’s only because I have a hockey game on Wednesday night, and REALLY don’t want to have a cardiac episode on ice. I hate myself for the lack of motivation, and am making chopping motions as I type this. It looks real awkward.

Half Past Friday Survey Question For July 24th

As a result of your meteoric rise to the top of your game, a big screen biopic of your life is in the works. Fortunately for you, YOU get to choose who plays the title character. Tell me who would play the role of you in this movie and why. Make it original and make ‘em funny. Email your answers to bluecayucos@gmail.com.   Tune in Friday for the results.

Uli Monday's Mud Add new tag, the Heathens, The Wife