Half Past Awesome

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.

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.

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.

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.

***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.

** 5/20 POST UPDATE** Read the comments from The Dirtbag to this post for a hint of the madness that rules this man!

There comes a time when normal discourse between two parties reaches an impasse. How do we get past that roadblock? The more timid among us might avoid conflict altogether, while some put their head down and forge ahead through the tense times. And then there is my favorite category of folks: those who eagerly anticipate the tension and view it as an excuse to vent all their rage, related or not. It would seem that I surround myself with those who are thrilled when trouble comes knocking.

Buns lives with the outlook that everyone else’s purpose in life is to make his better; when folks don’t seem to be on the same page, he has no problem screeching at them in parking lots. It helps that he’s like 6’10″+, so there is rarely much argument when he DOES step out of the car, unless it’s from a psychotic urban outdoorsman. The Lyrical Jackass will try his very best to convince you to bend to his will, but when he has run out of patience (this takes, like, three minutes), it’s not unusual for him to start letting his redneck roots get the best of him. This involves his complexion going through several color changes, from red to purple to sheet white. Next up, if his situation isn’t resolved, is for his eyes to pop out like golf balls and then rotate independently as he rails on (think rabid gecko), enormously long arms waving around, knocking crap off shelves as his voice ratchets up a notch or three. RoJo is a “peace” officer: need I say more?

The Dirtbag brings this anger to a new level of existence, as it permeates his very core. In his opinion, they ARE ALL out to get him, and he finds this irritating. He will rotate and swivel in the seat of his truck, cursing (loudly and with his window down) people who don’t understand the fundamentals of merging onto the highway. He reserves most of his ire for the big box home improvement stores and HGTV, as he believes that they are the ruination of the trades and “real” tradesmen, and therefore in part responsible for the major decline of  this country.

The undisputed king of the realm, at least in terms of my friends, has to be Fury the Landscaper. I met him during a construction trade show, when we had booths opposite one another. Soon Fury became a customer of Pacific Excavating (my former outfit), in part because he seemed to appreciate attention to detail, something that is often overlooked in construction. We hit it off immediately, he benefiting from my obsession with digging ditches “just so”, me benefiting from getting a chance to work with a real-life Soup Nazi. This aspect of his persona is never more evident than the lunch hour. Being someone who is adverse to change, Fury almost ALWAYS takes his lunch at a Subway, but he is running out of Subways who are “doing it right” in the greater metropolitan area. You see, it is imperative that they slice his sandwich EXACTLY in half. It is even more important that they NOT use a knife that has been used to spread something as vile as mayonnaise on someone else’s order. I have been with him when he declared a Subway on the Forbidden List because they “spread his vegetables all wrong”. The difference between Fury and most of the general public is that instead of just taking the guff off of some poor slob who chose to work at Subway, Fury will DEMAND a new knife be used, or a new loaf be cut. To quote the stoner/prophet Tom Petty, he won’t back down. There is always the moment of incredulity on the employees face when Fury insists that they get a different piece of bread; THIS is the awkward moment I live for. (I also make sure that I order before him, so that I don’t get a sandwich laced with spit). He just wants the people to do their damn job, as he has said on more than one occasion. I have also been witness to his furiously punching his steering wheel hard enough that I was reasonably sure that it would somehow set off the airbag and we would both die soaring off a bridge; it took all I had not to laugh out loud, both out of a sense of respect and of self-preservation.

At the end of the day, I am thankful for people like Fury the Landscaper and The Dirtbag; they bring a little order to not only my own chaotic existence, but also to the general unruliness of this world. If some punk with three pounds of jewelry in his face wants to get a little surly while almost throwing change back at the customer, you can bet that it won’t stand with these gentlemen. When an entitled cell phone yakker barrels through a construction zone at 100 mph (true story), RoJo will be there to give them the law enforcement slap down. Buns will always be around to argue with the bums on a street corner if that’s what he deems they need. Those closest to us help keep it all in perspective. Here’s to hoping they don’t turn that furious perspective against us.

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!

Dear Santa Barbara……

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

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

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

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

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