Half Past Awesome

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.

First, and this is important, I did NOT forget about the Half Past Friday Survey. For the first time since the concept was unleashed (like, a month ago), your answers did not satisfy me. Sure, there were a few choice cuts, but on balance, I was displeased. And I am an angry and jealous (insert deity of your choice). So, I will, in my magnanimous mercy, grant you one weeks’ reprieve to come up with some good answers. Or else. That, and The Wife has abandoned me for some sort of “girls trip” to Florida for five days; I have no doubt that she and her friends have all taken up residence with underage Cuban male sluts, and this depresses me. This also means it’s been me vs. The Heathens, and we all know what happens when the inmates outnumber the guards. Cut me some slack, even if I won’t for you.

In my quest to entertain the boys, I stumbled upon an invite to the Ozark Boosters Club Rodeo tonight. I am quite serious when I say that when The Wife leaves us to our own devices, we go into a survival mode that includes:

1.)  wearing only underwear (less laundry for me to do.)

2.) eating off of the table sans utensils (I’m all “green” ’cause I don’t want to “waste” water on dishes. Yeah, right.)

3.) only leaving The Compound when we run out of food stores (it’s dangerous out there, boys.)

At some point, the guilt hounds me into submission, and we begin to venture out into the big, bad world, in search of entertainment that does not involve Leogs, Transformers or Light Sabers.

My own experience with rodeos is hinged around being an ag major in college. I was neither talented nor interested enough to actually participate in the myriad rodeo opportunities Cal Poly offered, but I did like going to them purely for cheap entertainment and the chance to gawk at girls stuffed into too-tight pants with belt buckles the size of Cadillac hubcaps. We would load up on “value-priced” beer (read: Hamms or PBR) stumble down to the campus arena and take in the kind of sensory overload that can only be rivaled in a big city airport. There was a visual smorgasbord, ranging from skinny little bull riders missing teeth and brain cells to arrogant team ropers prancing around as though their ability to engage in bondage play with livestock made them superior life forms, to barrel racing babes, chewing Copenhagen, walking bowlegged and STILL looking hot. It boggled the mind. It was in this environment that I took up chewing leaf tobacco, drinking beer and killing my own brain cells, and I won’t lie, it was one of the best times of my life.

Fast forward to tonight; visualize, if you will, The Heathens and I taking this concept by storm. Heathen 1 was in a fury because I wouldn’t abide his wearing his fringed chaps to the event. Heathen 2 was stoked at the smell of livestock waste. That kid smells EVERYTHING, and this can be plain weird. Bones does the same thing, and while it’s cute when a four year old wants to smell your coffee, it’s just straight up creepy when a 24 year old is always smelling his hands (this is a plea for you to get help, dumbass). We get into the booster club arena, and it is as though I had stepped back in time. Outside of rhinestone encrusted cell-phone cases (cell phones in MY day were $600 bricks the size of shoe boxes, thank you very much), it could well have been the early nineties. The girls were all wearing 13 pounds of caked on makeup, hair teased up like Jersey gangster chicks, squeezed into Rockies and chain-smoking Marlboro Reds. The dudes all looked strung out, drunk, or both, all equally obsessed with looking filthy and sauntering around angrily. I believe the message they were trying to convey was that this “po-dunk” rodeo weren’t NOTHIN’ like that one time they went to the NFR finals and hung out with George Strait (dubious about that one, I am). I give rodeos credit for this: they are immune to passing fads, and attending one in 2009 seemed EXACTLY like going to one in 1989. The horseback-mounted announcer made the similar plugs for God, Country and Eating More Beef. The Clowns (wait, now they’re called bull-fighters…..whatever, dudes, you wear makeup), were ridiculous and funny as hell to my boys. The rodeo contestants were still treated like, and behaved like, rural celebrities. It was three ways of awesome, and I loved it all.

This is the kind of environment that a man can teach his boys a thing or two about life. So when I saw the Sherrif engage in, and eventually remove, a mulleted soul with a WWF wife beater on, I took the opportunity to point out to them what happens if you don’t listen to authority figures like the Sherrif. Or your Dad. They got to watch calves crap themselves in the pens while awaiting the dally team roping event; Heathen 2  subsequently demanded to “smell it”. I somehow doubt his mother would encourage him just “smelling it”. I did. As I get older, these are the things that truly bring a smile to my face. I’m too old and too married to be chasing the buckle bunnies. I can’t exactly load up on cheap beer when I have the boys with me. But when they weren’t looking? I took the opportunity to slip in some Levi Garrett chaw, and for the briefest of moments it was 1994 again. Thanks, caballeros.

Here’s the Half Past Friday top ten list in response to the following question: “we’ve all been to a concert that has changed our life. Tell me yours and why.” Your responses were insightful as ever and I apologize that I was late in posting….it’s just that I spent the day being all “dad-like” and then smoking meat all evening. A piss poor excuse at best, but as The Wife says, when you accept an invitation to dinner, you have a moral obligation to be amusing. And we’ve had some funny folks over tonight.

10. “Santana….I was sober and remember it. Besides that, they’re excellent musicians”

9. “Jane’s Addiction…. it was like a religious experience listening to ‘Jane Says’ live with steel drums while nursing the perfect beer buzz”

8.”U2 in general…….but I have to give an honorable mention to the Def Leppard concert- can’t recall a lot of the details but seeing as how there were leaves in my bodysuit the next day, I’m pretty sure it was crazy !!” (hint: I am married to this person…..yikes)

7. “Naturally — the Grateful Dead at Shoreline” (this from a neighbor of my grandparents who I had the biggest case of butterflies over…she was so damn cool back in the day)

6. “I would say Steel Pulse at the Ventura Theatre….epic concert and I will always remember it!” (this is remarkable because it comes from Bones who can hardly remember that I am his brother)

5. “(My husband) said he saw Melissa Ethridge in Vegas and that’s when he became a lesbian”

4. “Liberace” ( a writer friend said this……and I STILL can’t tell if he was serious. This might explain why he carries a candleabra everywhere he goes….that, and the whole cape thing)

3. “The first time I saw Blink 182 on New Year’s 2001. I saw a bunch of girls all together with shirts that said “Blink Girls”. I have since devoted my life to becoming the perfect ‘Blink Girl’” (this from my “brother” Barbara)

2. “My buddy Alan said he lost his virginity after his first Willie (Nelson) concert. That is always a high point. I, on the other hand, kept my virginity after seeing Willie for the first time with my Grandmother at age eight. I learned a lot that evening at the fairgrounds on the front row with 10 or 15 bikers and my Grandmother. While she passed around a half gallon of Jack Daniels, I stuck to a quart jug of root beer. I learned alot about life that night and I think I got my first contact high.” (web designer of HalfPastAwesome)

1. “It’s a toss up. Prince….proof positive that a man can look good wearing purple high-heeled boots. Richard Marx…after the concert I made out with a band member in the elevator.”  (both answers equally classy, in my opinion)

Welcome to the birthday edition of the Half Past Friday highly scientific opinion poll. This weeks’ question was “what was the worst movie you’ve ever sat through?” Included from emails, FaceSpace updates and the like, here is the ranked scorings, in 3D. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will celebrate turning a decrepit 35 while soaking in beer and friendship down at a local watering hole and leave you to enjoy the results of your cinematic nightmares. Here ya go:

10. The Last Dragon (this was from a Springfield, Il. fireman who thinks he’s a ninja)

9. Soul Plane w/ Snoop Dogg

8. Stop or My Mom Will Shoot (I think Buns was going for obscurity points…well played)

7. Alpha Dog

6. The Cable Guy (creepy, but in my opinion not his WORST work….but that’s me)

5. Kazaam (this from Bones, whose OCD doesn’t permit athletes to “act” or vice versa)

4. Georgia “….then I had to listen to critics call it a ‘bold performance’ which made me want to start punching people” (this ranked so high because of the personal rage it triggered in Oliver)

3. Gigli (this was almost preordained, wouldn’t you say?)

2. Plan 9 From Outer Space (high value place on randomness…smooth work, Chad)

1. “Triller(sp), by Michael Jackson. I know it’s not a movie but it SUcks so much it should be told to everyone NEVER TO WATCH”     (this made number one only because it comes from my brother Barbara, who clearly wasted those 7 years in college, hoping to become a teacher. This is a direct and exact quote, people.)

So there you have it, amigos. Enjoy your weekend, and join me down at Finnegan’s Wake tonight for a beer or three if you’re in the neighborhood. Cheers!

“Well…….I don’t like banks”

This baffling and absolute declaration of sentiment was Bones’ reaction to his latest statement from a large, faceless institution whose name rhymes with Bells Margo. In an apparent give-and-take of interaction, my brother was attempting to close down an account at the aforementioned institution and was down to dickering over the last, like, 26 cents. He’d tried all the usual routes: hours in the phone tree, unmotivated customer “service” people, halfhearted attempts to actually go IN to the bank and mostly cursing to himself that in fact these people ARE out to get him. He’d even tried to just let them have the 26 pennies, please stop wasting your paper and the mailman’s time, let’s just end this already, COME ON!!

As a fan of the human condition, most notably when it involves the insanity of those closest to me, I shot an eyebrow up in curiosity. Smelling the blood of familial weakness, I found this both hilarious and inane. This could not go unexamined:

me: “What do you mean, ‘I don’t like banks’? As in you’re one of the New World Order / Tri Lateral Commission/ IMF weirdos that goes around protesting crap in a gorilla mask? Or do you not like the concept of people handling money? Are you somehow offended by the architectural layout of banking institutions? Is this some sort of class warfare idiocy that you and your counter-revolutionary friends sit around scheming up? What in the hell are you talking about?!?”

Bones: “No, no, no, no, definitely not. Definitely not. (that statement, by the way, cinches the fact that RainMan lives). I just, you know, had this thing with the bank, and, you know, it was just all this crap, I mean, here’s how it went down……”

After recounting the details of his transactions and after I finished cleaning the beer up that I’d subsequently launched from my nose, I took a moment. You see, of all the wonderous traits that my brothers and I have inherited from our illustrious and prolific father, “Bones” Gulje may well have won some sort of lottery from hell. He’s not only certifiably OCD (in my non-professional opinion), he’s a pleaser (kinda like me) and absolutely non-confrontational (um, not so much on my end). And, as his oldest brother, I have taken many liberties at torturing him like a terrorism suspect. From idle pastimes such as asking him to reschedule a workout in order to witness the awkward reaction to interrogating him about his maniacal cleaning habits, I just can’t get enough.

My obsession with obsessive behavior is not limited to just one brother however. Ask my wife the next time she climbs a flight of stairs how many were there and she can tell you THE EXACT NUMBER. EVERY TIME. I can barely remember where all the tools on my fire truck are stored, and that’s my damn job for crying out loud. My father-in-law, as the supreme arbiter of this behavior (at least in the circle of people I know), used to make his daughters “jiggle the door handle” a specific number of times before leaving the office. He covered his hands with his sleeves when entering their homes, if they happened to be homes that included pets. His girls made him watch the movie “As Good As It Gets” only to have him respond with “I like that he has a schedule. I see nothing wrong with that.” Around the firehouse, there are certain crews that, if not served their lunch at 1100 on the hour or dinner at PRECISELY 1700 will pitch verbal tantrums to rival any room full of two year olds jacked up on sugar. Interestingly enough, the very people I work with, those who deal with the unknown on a call-by-call basis, are slaves to certain schedules, rituals and traditions that define the essence of who they are as firefighters, parents and people.

I’ve come to realize I don’t have any OCD tendencies, which, while a positive trait to most, actually pisses me off. I thrive on chaos, whether it be a raging house fire, delving into the sordid details of a friends’ messy divorce, or even taking it to an extreme like having string cheese for breakfast. I have no schedule to keep, save for the going to work thing. You wanna play hockey on Sunday night? Cool. How about growing pumpkins on a 1  acre patch just to see what happens? Sounds totally reasonable, at the moment. What do you think about moving to Missouri, see what that’s like? Um, okay.  In fact, if I make believe it’s my own idea, even better. Then the genius can flow, if only in my own mind. Result? I end up being a fan of old-school reggae and ska AS WELL AS bluegrass NOT TO MENTION the lyrical stylings of Bad Religion, a quasi-punk, social commentary hard band I love. This sucks. I’m gonna end up transitioning from “my, what eclectic taste you have in so many ways” to that dude pushing around a shopping cart full of plastic bags screaming at no one in particular, destined to die in an abandoned apartment surrounded by cats and old TV Guides.

I’ve got to develop a routine before this destiny reaches its fruition while there’s still time. I need to stop mocking Bones, maybe follow in his shadow for awhile, take a lesson. Maybe we can season this love of chaos with a little good old fashioned scheduling. I don’t know. But I think I’ll head into a local bank and see if their very existence can upset me, if only for a bit.