Half Past Awesome

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

** 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.

Uli Family DysFUNction, Tales of Misery Buns, Dirtbag, Fury The Landscaper, RoJo

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!

Uli Half Past Friday Barbara, Bones, Buns

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.

Uli West Coast shenanigans Buns