Half Past Awesome

From The Dirty Churros Archives....

Tomorrow, I’ll be undergoing some sort of exploratory procedure. The details are somewhat murky, but the long and the short of it is that some people who practice this sort of thing will be trying to discover why I can’t hardly eat a solitary slice of apple without having a near death choking experience. Since it gets really, really old to constantly be clutching your throat at restaurants while your eyes shoot off in different directions, I’m on board with this whole thing. But since I’ll be under the influence of drugs the names of which I cannot pronounce, I immediately assume there’s a chance I’m gonna die, violently maybe. That being the case, I thought I’d update my will, the last copy of which was printed on a cocktail napkin one night in the throes of a rum bender and an argument over the origins of the M.A.S.H. theme song.

So here goes nothing, literally.

I, Uli, being of unsound, unstable mind and broken body do leave my entire estate to the following people in the event of my untimely demise in a bizarre industrial mishap or some equally chaotic end.

1. To my children, The Heathens, I leave the bulk of my substantial debt. This seems to be trend of our national leaders, and I’m nothing, if not a patriot. I would encourage them to utilize this situation to learn how to speak multiple languages and enjoy the concept of living abroad, preferably in the company of women of ill-repute.
2. To The Wife, I leave my 5 hockey sticks and my entire metric wrench collection. I never did trust her to use the standard size with the proper amount of respect. Also, I leave to her my collection of dirty and clean laundry, unwashed dishes and vast assortment of paper clips I’ve been hoarding over the last year.
3. To The Dirtbag, I leave my beloved dual-sport motorcycle. I should warn you, it’s not paid off yet, so rip the plate off and head south of the border when you come pick it up. As well, you’ll have access to my motorcycle gang of two, The Dirty Churros, and my friendship with El Jefe, but odds are you two won’t get along. Think of this as a team-building exercise, and my last gift to you.
4. To my shop cats, I bequeath my air compressor and all the associated pneumatic tools. I think it would be awesome if they figured out how to use them to terrorize the feline world. Best of luck, gatos.
5. To ThunderChicken, I leave my vast stash of frozen bacon. Lord knows, you look like you could use some, man. That staying fit stuff might kill you yet….in fact it may be why you’re now reading MY last will.
6. To my brothers, Bones, Buns, Chewie, Nan, and Barbara, I leave you nothing, because you’ve spent your lives making mine miserable, and this is what you deserve. Fine, the five of you can split my sweet collection of old red shop rags. No fighting.
7. To RoJo, I leave all of the books and magazines I’ve been quietly stealing from you since I was 18. Don’t hold a grudge.
8. To The Outlaw Trucker, I leave all the scrap metal in my shop. Weld me something beautiful, preferably a statue of me stabbing a savage, attacking wild beast in the eyes. Use your imagination.
9. To The City of Springfield Fire Department, I leave that tube of toothpaste that’s in my locker, and that itchy, nasty wool blanket I was issued in rookie school and made to swear I’d return in 25 years. Most lower mammals wouldn’t use that thing to nest in, by the way.
10. To my friend The Author, I leave my glorious, luminous and entirely non-grey head of hair and magnificent pelt of manly chest hair. You’re welcome.
11. Finally, to my beloved canine MoJay the psycho-killer boxer, I bequeath all of our domestic garbage receptacles since you’ve spent the last year knocking them over and rooting through them at every chance. Go on, help yourself to old banana peels and coffee grounds. I hope you gag on an old guitar string, you obnoxious bastard. I love you so much.

There you have it. I expect this will to be faithfully executed, but let’s be honest here: most of you are gonna come over, loot all of my worldly possessions and then burn my house to the ground, pissing on the flames as you pour out your malt liquor over the ashes. I’m good with that, too.

Nan, Chewie, Oma, Amanda & Barbara

One week from today, the entire Missouri wing of our clan is rolling west to California, road tripping in what will surely be come to known as “I-can’t-believe-we-thought-that-was-a-good-idea fest 2010“. I’ve made the drive a handful of times, most notably in a newly purchased Peterbilt with the Outlaw Trucker (back when I had an excavating “interest”) and with SeaBass (on a trip to gather up the Lyin’ Dutchman’s abandoned possessions when he left the country, saying he wasn’t ever coming back. Two weeks later, he was back, but that’s another story).

This trip will be the first time I attempt 26 hours in a vehicle with The Wife and The Heathens.

Someone may die.

Neck-wringing will be determined to be the cause.

So here’s the plan: we leave at 3am, this way I can get at least 4-5 hours of solid, uninterrupted driving time. Time in which I get to pick the music (even if it is in ear buds), time where I can drive without constant “advice” from the passenger seat. Time without questions and pesky little voices declaring war on one another over Spongebob.

It’ll be the smoothest part of the trip, no doubt.

Chewie On What Shall Soon Be Mine

The reason we’re heading out there? Supposedly my brother Barbara is getting married, to a lovely girl named Amanda, and we’re going. I feel sorry for her, she seems so nice, and Barbara is such a, well, a Barbara. He’s actually extremely intelligent, but he doesn’t want anyone to know this, so he never displays this trait. He’s kind, but he’s my brother, so I refuse to acknowledge this fact, preferring instead to harangue him mercilessly online and to his face. I’m proud of him for becoming the man he has, but don’t tell him this, you’ll ruin our rapport. THIS is why I’m enduring a road trip with all the appeal of The Exodus.

But not really.

In an unusual alignment of the moons, it turns out my other brother Chewie is selling his motorcycle. To me.  What better way to get it back to Missouri from California than to be attending a wedding out there? Who better to buy a motorcycle from than my own brother? How perfect is it that he’s selling EXACTLY what I want? This logic is nearly flawless in my eyes. Not so much in The Wife’s or anyone who cares about “surviving”, but what do they know? This whole wedding affair is getting so many earmarks, I’m making politicians look like amateur pork-barrelers. The Wife has talked me into hauling the family down to Disneyland so that my boys can experience that whole hobnobshebob. Any objection I raise? “Motorcycle. You’re getting a motorcycle, so you just shut your face.” Can’t argue with that. In a little more than seven days, I’ll have my nasty, filthy hands on a bike. AFTER ALL THIS TIME! The road trips with El Jefe have already been plotted, I’ve already started a motorcycle gang, I’ve already pissed off my wife – this is just the natural progression of things.

I just gotta get the thing back here without choking the crap out of my family in the process. One week. ONE WEEK AND LIFE AS I KNOW IT CHANGES! YES! YES! YES! VICTORY IS ON THE HORIZON, BOYS!!

Barbara may feel the same way, although for different reasons, I suppose. Just give it a few years, a couple of kids and he too, will salivate at the thought of freedom on two wheels. Maybe he’ll give me a call, looking for a motorcycle.

That sounds like a road trip.

Living the Dream in Missouri

Spring is busy trying to spring. Last night marked the beginning of the season with our first tornado-watch/panic-fest that local meteorologists seem to drool over. We had thunderboomers, lightning and the sounds of frogs looking to get their freak on permeating the night air. Stupid wild onions have started to rise up from what I loosely term my “lawn”. My slut of a cat Skunk is out on the prowl, looking for some strange tom to knock her up, thus prompting The Wife and I to look at one another in a fit of laziness and say “we really oughta take care of that.”

But the sure sign that the seasons are on the move? The endless rumbles of Harleys motoring up and down the two-lane state highway in front of the house. From Thursday through Sunday, lawyers in leathers, the old, the young, nasty scumbuckets and yuppies alike tool their Hogs up and down the roads,enjoying that wild, carefree sensation of bugs smacking them in the face at sixty miles an hour.

I’m so jealous, I just can’t stand it.

And, in a series of maneuvers I’ve been keeping from you guys, the day is almost here. It turns out one of my five brothers, Chewie, is trying to sell his dual-sport bike in order to drum up some cabbage. I love dual sports. He’s letting it go dirt cheap. I love dirt and I love cheap. The bike is out on the West Coast. I’m going to the West Coast in April to attend yet another brothers’ wedding (the brother we call Barbara). This is a divine sign, if ever there was one. There was only one obstacle left, and she was somewhat significant.

The Wife.

She can conjure up tears on command when the subject is brought up. She likes to talk about such uplifting possibilities as “orphaning your children”, “making your wife a widow” and “maiming your face”. She also tossed around fun phrases like “a cold day in hell when you get a motorcycle” and “maybe you can live on your motorcycle, cause you won’t be living here”. I looked at these as minor setbacks. I tried quoting a co-worker named Lenny, using his brilliant defense of purchasing a bike against her will, “what is she gonna do, take away your birthday?” When I used this argument she suggested exactly where Lenny and I could stick it. Time to re-think strategy.

Loving affection didn’t work; she was immediately suspicious I was “up to something”. Putting my foot down and insisting that I’d do what I want only resulted in her laughing at me and pointing, like you would at the clown with his pants unzipped (yes, that clown is often me). Sulking and pouting only resulted in me joining the Heathens in the corner, left to mutter to ourselves about running away. And then, one night when she was excitedly screeching at me about housework, or money woes or something else (selective listening is an essential trait acquired through years of marriage), it hit me: DISHES.

She hates the dishes. With the intensity of a thousand boiling suns, people, I’m serious. Now, to be fair, The Wife is a phenomenal cook, handles laundry like she’s running a dry-cleaning business from our laundry room and basically keeps our house from looking like a crack den, so it’s understandable that she chooses to unleash the hate on the dishes. I can live with that. And, when I’m feeling relatively mentally stable, I do them with an alarming frequency. Unfortunately for her I’m rarely stable. But for a motorcycle, I could fake it. And, for several months, the ruse has been in play.

I declared victory three weeks ago. I found a banner that said “Mission Accomplished” on eBay for a good price (used once on a large ship!) and purchased it.

Come April, this fool is getting him a motorcycle. Today, I dropped into her salon and smugly declared to The Wife that I’d been faking stability and the dishes for months in order to gain approval for a bike.

“You haven’t been fooling anyone. You’ve never been stable” she deadpanned.

I tried to saunter out of there like I knew that. I won. Every aspect of our marriage is a competition, I kid you not. And then she dropped the bomb on me.

“Oh, and by the way? I said you could buy one, I never said you could ride it.”

“Dude, you’ve GOT to see Avatar! Best movie, ever! Make sure you see it in 3-D, dude, it’s sooooo much better that way!”

This is a statement a friend made to me recently. He took my raised eyebrow to mean I wanted to debate the merits of watching said new movie in 3-D versus 2-D. Nothing could’ve been further from reality, however. The odds of me seeing a science fiction flick in 3D on an IMAX screen in the near future are reasonably nil, a fact that baffled him. It was tantamount to missing The Resurrection as far as he was concerned, but then again, he has no kids. In all likelihood, I’ll see Avatar around the same time as I become a full fledged cocaine-cartel boss.

On the incredibly rare opportunity that I find three hours waiting to be pissed away, I find it hard to walk into a theater and plop down $13 dollars for a ticket $79.43 for popcorn and a small Sprite and sit still. Don’t get me wrong….I love the movies, and there is hardly a better guilty indulgence than to escape into a wild world of cinematic mindlessness. But I’m overwhelmed by the fact that three hours of my life will ebb into the abyss and I’ll have wasted time I could’ve spent on Facebook.

The actual truth is a few blocks down from that statement. The fact is that I’m a dad with two boys under the age of ten. If I’m going to waste a weeks’ pay on a cinematic experience, it better be one that they choose. I can’t see anything that can’t be purchased in toy form at a McDonalds. I cannot name the provinces of Iraq that my brothers served in, but I seem to know the Transformer characters by name, and have cursed their names in vain as I smashed them against a wall in an futile attempt to convert them. I’ve never given a second thought to how moronic it is that a robot would want to transform into a semi truck (I mean, really. What’s he gonna do in everyday life? Haul produce and lounge around in truck stops, only to have his driver seduce prostitutes on an hourly basis?) No, I gladly submit to the hell that is one million parts of Chinese plastic in an attempt to remain relevant in this household.

Those without children use me as an example of the pity they feel. They don’t know the depth of the unspoken, unconditional love that keeps me motivated to engage in thirty light-saber battles a day, always willing to lose for the cause. I wouldn’t do this for your kids, and you wouldn’t do it for mine, but something happens when you’re this invested. Hare-brained schemes like leaving it all to join a Bob Marley & The Wailers tribute band take a back seat, and you’ve become that guy. The one who gets mocked in a silent way when he leaves the party, stone cold sober and eager to catch the 763rd reading of “I Stink” before bed time.

Someday, I’ll be able to join in on discussions about the impact of the latest Hollywood blockbuster on pop culture, but, by then, I probably just won’t care. In the meantime, I’ll still build Lego spacestations and create forts of blankets and pillows to stave off attacks from the Imperial Mom. I can only hope they might want to catch Transformers 12 with me down at the cineplex in a couple of years; at least I’ll know all the characters’ names.

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.