Half Past Awesome

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

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

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

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

Welcome home.

Uli Travelblogue, West Coast shenanigans Buns

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

“I’m very important. I have many leather-bound books and my apartment smells of rich mahogany.” – Ron Burgundy

Despite whatever impressions you may have formed from reading the rants I dole out here on this site, I actually do enjoy reading; yelling at the computer screen each time the schism between pop culture and real life grows wider…..well, that’s just a hobby. But unlike my author-amigo Josh Conviser and my idiot-savant brother Buns, I don’t delve into real intellectual-like tomes on a regular basis. So somewhere between People Magazine (a favorite target of fury) and A Brief History Of Time by Stephen Hawking is where I like to get my read on. I enjoy authors that make me laugh, make me feel like I’m being let in on a hilarious family secret or just a wild yarn about some crazy adventure. I’m curious as to what you guys are reading….so give me some literary suggestions that might make a Missouri winter a little less hostile. And I thought I’d share with you the latest selections that were in my rotation. Enjoy.

1. Born To Run (Christopher McDougall) – this guy is the kind of outdoors author I’d want to hang out with based on both his superb ability to tell a tale and to utilize language to which I can relate. In other words- he’s not taking an incredibly serious subject too damn seriously. An awesome account of people who run for no other reason than a love of running, this book on the Tarahumara Indians of Mexico’s Copper Canyons makes my whining about 3 mile runs seem even more pathetic.

2. I Was Told There’d Be Cake (Sloane Crosley) – a collection of essays by a hilarious observer of life in New York City, this girl has the acid wit that made me laugh out loud while reading a few times; and yes, it was in public, and yes, I looked even MORE like an idiot than I already do.

3.) Water For Elephants (Sara Gruen) – I really enjoyed escaping into this one, and it read kind of like a grown-ups version of Polar Express. It was elegant and graceful – two traits that have eluded me all my life.

4.) BOBOS In Paradise (David Brooks) – this book attempts to reconcile the Bohemian and bourgeois lifestyles (hence BOBOS) in a very definitive study of how aging hippies can afford to live in places like Santa Barbara and not feel guilty about it. It’s something of a hard read in that it tends to be dry as toast at parts, and this explains why it’s taken me so long to slog through the thing. Plus, I don’t think that I possess the kind of intellectual capital which would afford me a “summer” home in Martha’s Vineyard. I’ll continue through to the end, however, because there are some pretty eye-opening theories that he puts forth with regards to wealth and values.

5.) Let My People Go Surfing- The Education Of A Reluctant Businessman (Yvon Chouinard) – possessing all the ingredients for a potentially badass read, the founder of Patagonia wrote this horrible turd of a book that was impossible for me to finish. It had everything I love – life on the ocean, blacksmithing, the West Coast that is my home and it still managed to irk me to no end. Was it his condescending tone? The apparent megalomania? The holier-than-thou approach to environmental conservation? The constant self-congratulations? Yes, yes, yes, and yes. I gave the book back to the friend I borrowed it from, muttering that I’d just like to cold-cock the smug bastard/author in a bar sometime. So much for my time-tested approach of judging a book by it’s cover……apparently, you can’t.

6.) Classic Trains, Fall 2009 – because, really, who doesn’t like steam trains?

Uli Tales of Misery Buns

I’ve decided I need to join a cult. After reading about how the Church Of Scientology is having conniption fits over the actions of some internet trolls (read here), I was left feeling like a spiritual Switzerland, with no dog in the fight. Sure, the guys who are attacking the Scientologists are nothing more than a coterie of jerkwads and the Church Of Science Fiction is little more than a pyramid sham with Tom Cruise as their unofficial spokesman. Sure, we have churches here in the Ozarks that want a copy of your W-2 for tithing purposes, just as we have plenty of nice, humble little places of worship all over, available in the denomination of your choosing. But these options are just not fringe enough for me these days.

You ever notice the fiery passion that cultists have? The wild eyes, the insane zealotry, the madcap desire for worldwide evangelicism of their faith? The fact that theirs is always the “chosen” religion, that their leader is the one who has been called to guide us heathens out of the abyss of mankind? And that most of those same cult leaders will demand at some point that their followers kill themselves? You never hear about a former cult leader now living a normal life and employed at a car title loan establishment. Hell no, when these guys call it quits, it often times involves a hail of gunfire or a raging inferno. At a bare minimum, grape Kool Aid and/or a subway system plot is involved.

I envy their conviction. Yes, yes, I understand that envy is one of the Deadly Sins and all that, but when it comes to cult life, I’m sure that these become more like flexible parameters than steadfast rules. Sort of like the whole plural marriage concept, or the assertion that Jesus would vote Republican, there are certain spiritual speculations that cult leaders find themselves uniquely able to justify and propagate. I can’t even declare the way The Wife’s customers drive on my lawn a sin, so I could use a dose of evangelical charisma if there’s a chance of making it into an off-brand religion.

The Wife has a friend, and I’m going to call her “Consuela” to protect her anonymity here, who is also feeling a spiritual void. She has tried 97% of the churches in the area with little satisfaction and was left feeling like there’s something wrong with her being a 35 year old divorcee. Consuela, in her quest for fulfillment has recently attended a mega church in the area affectionately known as both “Six Flags Over Jesus” and “The Jesus Christ Supercenter” and left there more than once crying. She reportedly cried because she felt worse about herself after the services; a couple of dates with other single parishioners ended with them telling her she wasn’t “Christian enough”. Ouch. I told her that in order to get churchy enough for those boys, all she really needed was to join me in my quest for a cult. And thus we were two.

All that Consuela and I are lacking is the kind of wingnut religious movement that will satisfy my spiritual needs, and those needs are as follows:

1. That our brand of religion is a zero-sum game. If I’m gonna move to some forsaken hell-hole like New Guyana or Los Angeles, then I want assurances that THIS is the team that wins. WE win. And everyone else loses. Sorry Jews, Muslims, Buddhists and Scientologists; we win and you burn.

2. Harems. They were, apparently, quite popular in the Old Testament times;  if they were ok with The Big Man way back when, then I see no reason why there shouldn’t be a return of that venerable institution.

3. Spaceship rides. Most of your higher-grade cults promise you at least one ride to the cosmos on either the tail of a comet or some other groovy form of space travel. Of course, this usually only occurs after the suicide, so there are some sticking points we might need to iron out.

Buns as cult leader?

I think those needs are reasonably basic, and as long as we can find a charismatic lunatic in oversize Coke-bottle glasses to lead us, I’d venture that we’d make damn good cult followers. Now, if you’ll pardon me, I need to troll through several late night cable tv channels that are offering spiritual salvation in the form of big hair, big jewelry and big promises. And if you don’t hear from me, chances are that Consuela and I have found the cult of our dreams. At the very least, I hope the Kool Aid tastes good.

`

Uli Tales of Misery, Wandering Ponderings Buns, The Wife

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

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

Few things can be ingrained in young minds as severely as shame. We are taught at an early age to be ashamed of letting our parents down by cracking a sibling across the head with a croquet mallet. We felt embarrassment when caught in a heinous lie as to our whereabouts at 3 am (ps- where ELSE would a teenage boy be?) When the other kids mocked you for being  – insert here - tall, short, thin, round, weak, strong, mustachioed, you name it – you’d look down at the pavement and kick your Vans in the dirt, hoping the attention of the group would soon turn on another, weaker member of class, while secretly wishing you had the ability of Mr. T to crush them against the cafeteria walls.

So tell me, if you can, why on earth some folks insist on naming their kids with a one-way ticket to an ass-kicking? I am a certified authority on the subject; not only is the Johnny Cash song “Boy Named Sue” relevant to me on a personal basis, I survived grade school through this very day with a name that still makes people say “huh?”

Somehow, in May of 1974, my sweet mom decided it would be a “good idea” to name her first and only son after his father: thus Ulrich W. Gulje, jr. was hatched into existence, more commonly known as “Uli“. Let’s get the first part out of the way. It’s pronounced “oooo-leeee” (uli), “ool-rick” (ulrich), “goool-yay” (gulje) and joon-yur (junior). The Lyin’ Dutchman (aka “senior”) somehow was able to get by with being called “Bill” when he arrived stateside, and while there are plenty of jokes centered around Bill, nothing makes you a marked target like a name that people think is pronounced “ooleygooley”. My own loving bride even made the comment to several people while we were dating that she would NEVER date someone named UleeGulee. As the marriage certificate states, I showed her.

So Uli it was through grade school, with teachers all taking great pains to announce on the first day of class, “myyyy, what an INTERESTING name, why don’t I subject you to further humiliation by making you talk to the class about such an UNUSUAL and UNIQUE name?” Then, after being drug out from under the desk of shame, and compelled to make up a reason why I had such a jacked up moniker (“my folks are international assassins, and I’m only here to hide out from the KGB while they’re at work, maam”) she would no doubt refer to me as “you-lee” for the rest of the school year. And I never quite looked like a “Rick“, “Rich” or “Ulrich“, even. When I first moved to Alaska and got a job with NAPA Auto Parts, my bosses all wanted me to go by “Ulrich”, because “Uli” sounded like too much of a kids’ name. WHAT? Who in their right mind would name their kid “Uli“? My parents, that’s who. And to say they were in their right mind is a bit of a stretch.

All of my siblings from The Lyin’ Dutchman’s other nuptial endeavors managed to escape serious harm; there’s Daxter, Trevor, Davis, Alan and Matt. Oh yeah, I also have an older brother and sister I’ve never met named Reggie and Penny. Get married enough times and I guess the law of odds mandates that ONE of your progeny is gonna end up with a name that seemed like a good idea at the time, but in reality, just sounds like something you might cough up. The situation was only exacerbated by moving to the Ozarks, where to stand out with a name like mine, you might as well declare that you’re currently engaged in a love triangle with Rosie O’Donnell and her cat. I’ve gotten all sorts of comments ranging from “You got some sorta disease, or is that yer name, son?” to “Man, your parents must have HATED you, to name you something like that.”

Any diseases I might have are long gone thanks to the advent of pharmaceuticals, and no, my parents did not HATE me per se, they just have an appreciation for a lifelong practical joke. I’ll never lack for conversational material with strangers, who often believe I am making up my name. I still get the treatment from cashiers and bartenders who want to know where the name originated, and I still tell them lies to amuse myself.  As we’ve all gotten older, and I am no longer the skinny little kid getting picked on, fewer third graders take liberties with mocking me to my face. As well, I took care to give the Heathens names that are easily recognizable in the Western Hemisphere.

After all these years, though, I think I’m gonna stick with Uli; I’ve earned the right to use it. Brad, Adam, David and Mike may well be fine names for fitting in in this world, but then, I’ve not been one for whom fitting in is a priority. Just don’t call me Sue when I crack you over the skull with my croquet mallet.

Uli Family DysFUNction Barbara, Bones, Buns, Chewie, Nan, The Lyin' Dutchman, 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

It’s Monday morning here in the Ozarks, and I’m watching the parade of mad country commuters out my office window trying desperately to beat the clock and face their weekly obligations. Even from here up at the house, I can see the clenched knuckles on the steering wheels, the eyes set in steely resolution and the grim realities of the workweek etching their lines on foreheads. All this while they buzz by at 60 mph. Okay, I may be imagining it more than actually seeing it, only because I’ll be joining them tomorrow morning for a stint at the firehouse. Either way, it’s time to clock in and contribute more of what little time we have on here on Earth to The Man. Let’s lighten the mood a bit and assign the weekly LOTPG / KCTTT. Take a glance at the bottom for the Half Past Friday survey question, and send your answers to bluecayucos@gmail.com. In the meantime, I hope your week is getting better all the time

Lifting Of The Pint Glass

1.) The bartenders at Patton Alley Pub. No matter the time of year, the state of my day or the mental condition I’m mired in, the tap yankers at my favorite local watering hole always make me smile and keep the Guinness flowing, even when I am trying to convince them that it’s Jon Voight sitting next to me at the bar. Good people, here’s to you!

2.) Fred, from Decatur, Il. The name of the gent who bought my excavator, this guy lends credence to the concept of an honest deal sealed with a handshake. Despite a variety of sketchy potential scenarios, this guy was true to his word, and I lift my pint glass to him. (stay tuned for a future essay on the subject)

3.) The Wife. She has declared this “The Summer Of Jeena.” And so it has been. In every way possible. But, as I think about it, there are few more deserving of an entire season devoted to them, and she’s earned it. So while I’m in the shop, I’ll raise my glass to you as I slave away on as-yet un-named project for you.

Karate Chop To The Throat

1.) The Wife. It seems the nicer I am to her the saltier she is to me. I am confused and conflicted, so in my anger, I give her a Chop. Damn, it feels good. Then it hurts when she kicks me back…..real hard-like.

2.) The Holstein steer across the street. It keeps giving me the hairy eyeball, and just took a dump while chewing its cud and looking right at me. If I weren’t so damn lazy, I’d mosey across the road and give the ol’ chop socky to the throat. And I’d probably break my hand doing it, you smug bastard.

3.) People doing it out of context. C’mon, you know who you are. Nobody wants to read on Facebook that you’re leaving your wife. Least of all her. It’s supposed to be a fun social site, not a place where you air out ALL your dirty laundry. And if you insist on airing it out there, at least show pics. CHOP!

Half Past Friday Survey Question For July 31st.

Describe for the me the worst job you’ve ever held and why (I promise to keep names out). Major bonus points for an awesome firing or awkward workplace scenarios (caught-in-the-deep-freeze-with-the-boss’-wife kind of thing). Send your answers to bluecayucos@gmail.com before Thursday, I’ll rank ‘em and let you know the details on Friday. Props to Buns for coming up with this weeks’ question.

Uli Amigos, Monday's Mud, Tales of Misery Buns, The Wife

***WARNING: THIS TOPIC WILL, ONCE AGAIN, OFFEND THE SISSIES AMONG US. SO, JUST MOVE ALONG IF YOU’RE GONNA BE A PRUDE ***

Tonight The Wife attended a “Passion Party”. Apparently, the purpose of these little get togethers is for women to huddle around sofas, drink cosmos, and then participate in some erotic multi-level marketing. There would seem to be a wide variety of, er, bedroom enhancers for sale; supposedly, in this setting, it makes for great fun to purchase things that most women wouldn’t want to be caught dead buying in broad daylight. This points out a glaring chasm in gender relations: when I told the Lyrical Jackass where The Wife was, his first question was “How come guys don’t do that kind of thing?” My response to him was that, while women enjoy embarking on potentially embarrassing tasks as a group, most guys prefer a solo approach. That would explain why women love to go to the bathroom together; it’s also why dudes prefer to do their “adult shopping” while wearing a trench coat, black socks,sock garters, black shoes, a fedora and a pair of Ray Bans (ALONE!) Men want to look like an ass to no one other than the person they’re trying to woo. Women think it is hilarious, evidently, to buy whips and chains in semi-crowded settings.

This revelation to LJ led to another tangent of conversation with Buns later on, in which I inadvertently stumbled on a stroke of marketing genius. Being as how The Compound is also the site of The Wife’s hair salon, there is no shortage of female-centric magazines that I find littering the place. I am not ashamed to admit that I have read more than my share of this pulp crap, and my general opinion of it is that, AT BEST, it sends mixed messages. Chief among these is that women should be happy and content with the bodies they’ve had bestowed upon them; this is followed up with miles of dieting advice, pictures of anorexic looking waifs and supermoms who manage to juggle six kids, yoga, volunteer work at a violence prevention center, a fulfilling career and no television in their homes. They never show a picture of the husband; he probably looks as though laying his head on some railroad tracks might be a welcome diversion.

ANYHOW, one other element that strikes me as ludicrous (and hence my stroke of genius), is that the covers of all these rags often shout to the reader How To Keep Your Man Interested, How To Spice It Up In The Sack, Ten Tricks To Blow His Mind, Three Things You Learn At Tantra Camp, whatever. And, apparently, this sells magazines, a fact I find amazing. While some of the more sensitive type guys will always appreciate attention to detail when it comes to massage oil selection, most of us could care less what moves Christina Aguilera can teach you to sustain new heights of intimacy behind closed doors. Wanna know the one thing you could put on every single magazine cover every single month, that would guarantee to “keep him interested”? Just Do It.

There. I said it. Steal Nike’s slogan from the last couple of decades, print it on every cover, follow the instructions, and most guys, most of the time, will do any single thing you want done. Shutters need painting? Wear some high heels, a come hither look in your eyes and little else, and that poor slob will give himself a heart attack splashing up paint like the fate of the free world is riding on him. Need the oil changed? Casually mention that you were considering taking it down to the dealer to have such a simple task done, while wearing nothing more than a smile after a shower, and all of the sudden he’s juggling 10W-30 and a filter in some bizarre attempt to establish alpha status. Works every time.

As men, we’re relatively simple creatures. We thrive on competition, owning tools, a good cup of coffee and a turn in the sack on occassion, although not necessarily in that order. There is no need to complicate the issue. Romance isn’t dead, ladies; it just needs to get laid once in awhile.

Uli Amigos, Tales of Misery, Wandering Ponderings Buns, The Wife