Half Past Awesome

For sale: 5 acres, 2 shovels, 1 broom. Children not included

Vapor lock.

Two words when that come to mind when I wrap my warped mind around the concept of moving back into town: “vapor lock”.

We bought this house 5 years and 10 months ago, an excited and younger family, eager to get out of the suburbs and onto our 5 acres of the American Dream. It was a larger, kinda run down house with lots of, um, potential, but the real selling point for me was The Shop. 24′ x 80′, it was the ultimate man cave, built by the previous owner for his cabinet business. I owned a small excavating concern at the time, and although none of my equipment would fit INSIDE the shop, all the tools, beer fridge and other necessary manliness trappings would. 5 ACRES. I envisioned my boys on dirt bikes, I saw digging out a large pond that would freeze over in winter for some outdoor hockey, I pictured throwing big fall parties with a corn maze that I would create. I failed to look for the money tree that would fund all of these endeavors, but hey, when you’re dreaming, you can’t let a little thing like financial realities come crash the party.

As time and income would allow, we fixed up the things that needed it. The Dirtbag came out from the Northwest and we remodeled the former garage/family room into a fully functioning hair salon so that The Wife could work from home and the boys could come off the school bus to a home with at least one parent in it. I built things from salvaged barn wood in the shop, installed a stove and created a social haven for other off-duty firemen looking to escape their own homes. We half-built a garden that’s half the size of our former house. We have a guest room so that our out-of-town visitors aren’t fighting disgusting small boys for bed space or worse, toilet time.

Like the American Dream itself, though, it’s about the pursuit, not necessarily the arrival. The day arrived when the acquisition of more, bigger, greater wasn’t fulfilling anymore. It leaves a void, a void in which I was missing some vital aspects to being a father. Maybe smaller COULD better. Maybe I didn’t need as much.

I sold the business because I was never home, and it wasn’t worth the chump change I was able to claim as profit when my boys were growing up in my absence. I wanted to give writing a shot, even if only as a hobby. Then, the economy decided to jump the fiscal shark, and new realities really hit. We probably weren’t going to put in that swimming pool, much less a garage or a pond or a life-size re-creation of Mt. Rushmore in the back yard. And, like many people these days, we were asking “do we really need all this stuff, all this space, all those weeds?” We don’t. Mowing through the summer in Missouri equates to trying to drain a swamp with a shop-vac, humidity included.

“Let’s move back into town!” I boldly declared. My family looked at me like I just informed them that I was having recreational sex with feral cats. It took a while, but I sold the idea. Mostly, I sold it by telling them that we’re doing it. But she saw that we were spending all of our time in town anyways, that it doesn’t take a 1,920 square foot shop to house a laptop for writing, that she missed the social interaction of business in a salon. It was decided. We contacted a reputable Realtor, who guided us through the steps it’s gonna take to maybe, barely, hopefully break somewhat even on our house after all this time and money spent on improvements. We know what neighborhood we want to live in, what sort of tile & carpentry work I have to do get our house ready to put on the market, how to purge all of my hoarded treasures that are living in my shop.

I want to do this. She wants to do this. The boys could care less.

So why am I vapor locked when it comes to getting the house on the market?

I think it may be a mix of lamenting emotion, trepidation at the unknown and abject laziness. My boys have begun to grow up in this house, the only one they remember. It’s nice to have my own bathroom, whereas the historic old bungalows we’re looking at in town mandate that we’ll probably all be lucky to crawl into an old water heater for family bath times. I like that, on the rare occasions when the weather isn’t similar to either Vietnam in summer or Hoth in winter, my boys can go tearing around chasing each other with lightsabers, screaming at the top of their lungs to no one in particular. I like interacting with her clients in the salon, where I can get salacious and worthless details about people I don’t even know.

But it’s time.

Time to move on. Time to get out from behind the financial 8-Ball. Time to accept that without an excavating company to house, 5 acres just translates into a lot of mowing. I have no desire to become a hobby farmer. I would prefer to be a hobby coffee-and-bullshit consumer. Rural living has it’s benefits, not including some of the redneck mindset that my neighbors have (although I will miss trying to understand how one of them truly believes that a Kansas-born African American man as President is a sign of the impending terrorist apocalypse).

Home is a state of mind, and this one has been good to us. Hopefully, this vapor lock will pass, I’ll get off my rump and do what needs to be done, and we can begin our slow shuffle into town. And the memories? We’ll take those with us into town and start making new history.

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.

Like most emergencies, this one came as a surprise. I was trying to enjoy a cup of cold coffee while sitting out in the sun, unremarkably bitching about the heat to Chris & Kristen. The patio of this particular coffee establishment faces a busy road, one that delivers people to strip malls of every stripe in our fair city. We’re casually casting glances when I see motorcycle parts scattered all over the road and two people in helmets on their backs and chaos begins to rain down.

This is where it gets tricky.

Off duty from the fire department. Accident in front of your eyes. No gear, no medical gloves and lots of blood. No reason to not help. No way to ignore what’s right in front of you. No way to finish the cup of coffee in peace.

People, being basically good and decent, begin to offer help to the motorcycle riders. Someone has the presence of mind to demand that their helmets be left on, in case of spinal injuries. Some people mill about the scene, as though staring at it might help it go away. The little old lady who turned in front of the bike, the one responsible for all of it, is off and looking dazed and worried and this reinforces my stance that drivers licenses for seniors in a town as crowded as ours are a dicey proposition. Twice yesterday, while on my own motorcycle, I had elderly drivers pull out in front of me, causing a lockup of the brakes and a steady stream of freaky loud cursing.

But back to the matter at hand.

The driver of the bike is now starting to thrash about, somewhat violently, and before I reach him, he jerks his helmet right off his head, causing panic-prone bystanders to collectively, and loudly, register their disappointment in his actions. His passenger, wearing short shorts and flip flops, is feeling the effects of her legs sliding across hot asphalt at high speeds but is not causing much of a ruckus. Not like the driver.

No gloves. This sucks. One of the first rules in EMT school is “if it’s wet and it’s not yours, don’t touch”. The bridge of his nose and other points on his face are slathered in blood, and a lot of it. All right. Fine. And down go the hands to his head and cervical-spine precautions have begun. He doesn’t like this and want to fight it a little. This is totally normal, and I tell people around me to hold his limbs down as it is explained that what we need right now is cooperation. He’s mostly concerned with the state of his bike, which is mostly shredded and leaking enough fluids to qualify for Superfund status. Someone in the crowd decides to lie to him and tell him the bike is fine.

Some minutes pass; Engine 9 and Truck 6 arrive, take over patient care, give me a ribbing about working off-duty and help me shed the blood from my hands. Despite being on a different shift on a different side of town, the rules of the job remains the same. While it’s a dance of orchestrated chaos, there are roles we all play and everyone knows them. Mostly I’m concerned about the status of my coffee. I say this not out of a sense of callousness, but rather, a function of my addiction to the bean. The patients need care, and once that is established, we can focus on other, more pressing matters. Coffee is a pressing matter.

I return to the curb to find Chris & Kristen looking at me as though they’d just witnessed me working as a rodeo clown. In many ways, that’s an accurate descriptor. Since our friendship is based on factors outside of the world of the fire department, I guess it was somewhat odd for them to see my work environment. Ten years after climbing onto a ladder truck as a professional firefighter for the first time, you see these events not as cataclysmic life changers, which is how the patients will view them, but rather, as a typical job duty. To quote both retired engineer Mike Abbey and my psychotic Aunt Viper “This is what we do.”

What we do is take for granted that we’re the helpers. We help those who need it. No more, no less. The Wife sees someone who needs their hair whipped into shape and that’s what she does. My brother Buns finds those who need second hand computer parts at deep discount, and he helps them get said parts. The Dirtbag sees an empty lot and the need for a well-built home, and he gets down with his tools and his anger and builds the damn thing. When some 20 year old fool in a tee shirt wrecks his street bike into the hood of an old lady’s car at high speed, I hold his neck in place and avoid blood spatter.

And, in the back of my mind, while taking all of this moment, this role and this career for granted, there’s one thought that plays on an endless loop, keeping time like a locomotive in my consciousness: man, that coffee is going to taste good when I finally get it back in my hands.

Smacking The Dirtbag

On September 12, 2010 two middle-aged heaping sacks of sluggishness will square off in Portland, Oregon for the Pints To Pasta 10k race. The Dirtbag and I are said heaping sacks of man-fat, and the event promises to be one in slow-motion, with me employing every dirty tactic I can come up with to sabotage my best friend. I’ll dump ExLax in his coffee, I’ll employ some kung-fu kicks to his throat at the starting line, I’ll get into his head by talking about how hot his wife is (he’s jealous and he hates it when I do this). He may be a man of honor and valor and Church and all that, but I’m a sneaky rat bastard. If I’m gonna fly all the way across the country, I’m gonna want to see blood.

Why bring this up?

Because along with being a sneaky rat bastard, I am also highly unmotivated. So unmotivated, I might try and weasel out of this commitment with sleazy tactics, like faking a pregnancy. I figure if I declare it publicly, I’ll have no choice but to enter or else face additional ridicule by you. And that won’t stand.

So, the training has begun in earnest. And by earnest, I mean I ran a mile today on a completely unrelated note. The crazy unhinged leader of CrossFit Springfield decided that a good way to end up the workout was to run 1.2 miles in conditions that rival the surface of the sun. With humidity. After getting tossed around the gym like a two-dollar hooker on dollar day, I stumbled outside, plugged in some kill-your-landlord Celticskapunk and began the plod.

It could have gone worse. No death, no near-death, and only mild heat stroke. If sweating truly is liquid fat leaving the body, then I should be looking a little less John Candy and a little more Jean-Claude Van Damme in no time. It’s as though gallons of Guinness and several hogs’ worth of bacon came cascading out today, even if the scale refuses to acknowledge it. 1.2 miles is a bit off from a 10k, but it’s all about baby steps.

And when the baby-steps mutate into awkward teenage lumbering? I’m coming after you, Dirtbag.

It’ll be ugly, it’ll be chaotic and it’ll be embarrassing on my part. But it’ll be ON!

Heart attack to follow.

The Dirtbag & Me, Circa 2030

In 5 days it’s officially over. By over, I mean my youth. May 15th is the day that I hit 36, and from there it’s a hop, skip and a shuffle to assisted living. Yesterday I heard Pearl Jam being played on the classic rock station; if that’s not a sign from The Flying Spaghetti Monster that the springtime of my life is past, then I just don’t know what is.

By 36, Jesus of Nazareth had been dead for something like three years. Bob Marley wouldn’t live to see 37 (ps- 29 nine years ago tomorrow!). Princess Diana and Marylin Monroe both checked out at age 36. Eric “Eazy-E” Wright of NWA infamy had been dead for 5 years by the time he would’ve hit 3-6. Even Mozart only made it to 35. And I’ve got one year left if I want to beat van Gogh to the graveyard.

Hardly my contemporaries, I grant you that much.

Still.

The incoming Prime Minister of Great Britain is only 43.  At age 36, Benjamin Franklin invented the Franklin Stove and Robert Jarvik invented a pneumatically powered heart.

I managed to remember to take the trash out to the street tonight.

WHAT. THE. HELL. HAPPENED?

And from this statement, I follow it up with this theory: the last time the world really was your oyster was at your high school graduation. Seriously. Think about it.

Set aside how the Class of ’92 was THE best class EVER!! and all that other bilge that you endured at your graduation about how your high school would never see the likes of a class like this again. And think about this: never again in your life will you be afforded any opportunity like this. You can really do whatever it is you want, and people will applaud you for “following your own path”. You want to be an astronaut? Get your ass in gear and brush up on your physics in college, next thing you know, you’re guzzling Tang in lunar orbit. You wanna get stoned all day long and live under the pier? People will admire you for “finding yourself” before you dedicate your life to living in dumpsters. There really are no limits.

Take your 30′s: you’re expected to do your job, and do it competently. No one looks at a 32 year old machinist and says “hey look at Bobby. Can you believe it? Only 32 and he shows up to work every single day!” And Bobby silently seethes each night as he cracks open an Old Milwaukee, wondering how in the hell he ended up making cylinder heads for a living. I can’t just up and tell my family tomorrow “I think I shall be a mathematician, starting around lunchtime.” They would verbally lynch me and tell me to get my ass into the firehouse and back on the ladder truck. My path is set, to a certain degree, and so is yours.

B.B. King is universally hailed as the King of The Blues, and I’m 67% sure he plotted that course much earlier than 36. And while his music has more and more appeal to me every day, his path is one that never occurred for me to take, except for a short period of time in high school. My stepdad pointed out to me “yeah, I can see you like playing music; so did I. And so do thousands of starving musicians. Keep studying.” And I listened. And I’m not starving, so there’s that. But I abandoned my nutty ideals and wayfaring dreams somewhere along the way. So did most people I know.

Now lofty flights of fancy like owning a tugboat with The Dirtbag and plying the mighty Columbia River are little more than front porch mumblings into my cocktail tumbler. And I look at the Heathens playing in the yard and envy them not the pain they’ll endure at life’s hands, but rather, the opportunities they’ll be given as they approach double digits. I see it as my job to help them embrace their dreams and encourage their risk-taking. Heathen #1 told me the other day he wants to be a volcano scientist, and I was stoked. I told him that was the coolest thing I’d ever heard, and I’m sure when he changes his mind next week, I’ll like that idea too. I might be hitting middle age, but I refuse to let my enthusiasm for their dreams be dimmed by my crotchety outlook on other aspects of this life. That, now, is my job.

Of course, Julia Child began cooking at 36.

I think I’ll start looking on Craigslist for a good deal on a tugboat.

Old Friends Picking Old Tunes

“CALIFORNIA WOULD BE A GREAT PLACE TO LIVE IF IT WEREN’T FOR THE CALIFORNIANS.“  -Dirtbag (a native of the S.F. Bay area and current resident of Washington State)

Top 10 Highlights From California

1. Best Truck Stop Name I Found - “Jesus Christ Is Lord Not A Swear Word Truck & Travel Plaza”
2. Best Aspect About Barbara’s Wedding - whole thing took less than five minutes. Seriously, we drove 1857 miles one way for that? I didn’t even get a chance to finish the cocktail I’d purchased to make it through the ceremony. Plus they walked down the aisle to punk. My family is classy like that.
3. Second Best Aspect Of Wedding – blood spatter on Nan’s tux vest at the reception as a result of some clown being paid a visit by Nan’s fists  “because he needed it”.
4. Best Moment In Cayucos – jamming with old friends in the Old Boradorri Garage (best place in town) and keeping it to ourselves. Good because it was like sharing old secrets, better because no one heard how awfully I sing and play guitar. Safe to say Rodrigo y Gabriela won’t be calling me to play for them in the near future.
5. Best Line (By Aunt Viper) – “Well, you’re not so fat this time.” (first line upon seeing me)
6. Second Best Line (By Aunt Viper) – “Boys, remember, I love you very much, all the time. Your father, not so much.” (to The Heathens)
7. Best Part Of Disneyland – hacking, coughing and looking like enough of a psychopath that most people avoided me. I’m not so down with crowds and crowding, so it all worked out. That, and the boys had a great time riding vomit inducing attractions while I drank coffee and glared at people.
8. Biggest Difference Between California & The Ozarks – try saying “hello” to someone walking down the beach and they look at you as though you’ve just suggested you have sex with cats recreationally. People there are too busy to be bothered with such trivialities, I suppose. You are there to be seen, not talked to.
9. Best Part Of Being Home – outside of family and friends? Had to be all the fresh fruits, vegetables and seafood. There’s nothing quite like homegrown, a fact lost on me growing up and now sorely missed.
10. Best Part Of The Trip - came home with a motorcycle and a new lease on idiocy. It’s great to be back. I’ve missed you guys. Promise to write more soon.

Abs To Envy

The other day, I saw a tee shirt on a fellow member of CrossFit that boldly stated

“Run Faster Than A Lifter, Lift More Than A Runner” (or something to that effect).

I kinda liked it, in that it seemed to cover several disciplines with one cutting remark. The only problem with sporting one of several types of tee shirts and shorts and other paraphernalia offered in the CrossFit world is my own personal hangup:

It never pays to boast or threaten when you can’t follow through yourself.

Since I can’t, at this juncture, run faster than lifters and I can’t lift more than a second grader, to wear a shirt declaring these attributes seems to be the acme of posing. And I just can’t tolerate posing or posers (poseurs? It seems like posing to spell it like that. I dunno).

But I digress. Some people are so immersed in singularity of purpose, everyone else looks like pikers. Take, for example, another brother of mine who goes by “Nan” around here. Here is a video of him squatting 1000lbs. or more (look for it around minute 4); this is a kid that was a rail thin teen survivor of cancer who, after completing several turns in the sands of Iraq for the Marine Corps, came back and began efforts to become insanely strong. Granted he looks like a tick and his thighs make pretty music when he walks, but the mofo is freak-strong. I might be able to out-run him but that’s cause he may well have a cardiac event beyond 20 yards. On the other hand, both Dirtbag and RoJo are committed runners, but I doubt I could outlift them. This is because Dirtbag is strong and fueled by rage, while RoJo is short, angry and a cop, thereby giving him unlimited potential to get pissed off and lift a lot of weight in a short amount of time. There’s no way I could outrun either of them, not unless I knee-capped them first.

This brings me into the class of people who like to loudly profess, “Well, I’m a jack of all trades and master of none”, as though that were something to be proud of. That’s like saying you don’t always wash your hands after using the toilet, but you usually get your underwear back up over your shins before you leave the bathroom. Great.

And so the struggle continues. I go to CrossFit most days, have what looks to be multiple seizures as I struggle through the workouts, and there have been some small gains. I’ve learned how to badger Thunderchicken without him turning on me and crushing me like a grape. I’ve learned how to properly lift for the first time in my life, even if it involves using PVC pipe instead of weighted bars. I run (let’s be honest here, I jog) up to 2 miles for different workouts, and have yet to have a major stroke – plus my two mile time is under 45 minutes, so there’s that. Best of all for the first time in many years, I’m not completely embarrassed to look in the mirror. I should be, but I’m not.

You probably won’t catch me in a trash-talking CrossFit tee shirt just yet, though.

I should probably be able to do more than two pullups first.

Yesterday, we began a series trying to bring you up to speed on the main characters of Half Past Awesome. Today, I give you Part 2: Where Are The Unsung & Unpaid Heroes Of My Crappy Little Production Now? Without further malarkey here we go:

Dirtbag Gettin' Dirty

The Dirtbag: The Sage of Southwest Washington continues to under-utilize his education, skills and ill-temper in most aspects of his professional life, thereby driving him to the brink of insanity. In response, he took up running and recently completed his first half marathon, all without using music or water or shoes manufactured after Y2K. He’s constantly on the move from job to job, spending what free time he has on his local city council, the grouchy voice of reason in a town with it’s fair share of grumps. And he’s gonna be more than irritated by the pic I’ve included of him; serves him right for getting to live in the Northwest, the silly bastard. Some posts with the Dirtbag can be found here, here and here.

"May I see some I.D?"

RoJo: He’s now the proud papa of a handsome lil’ dude, thereby adding THAT whole element to the enigma that is The Ro. He’s still operating as the long arm of the law in SoCal and busting the living crap outta speeders and other ne’er-do-wells. Although we don’t keep up as much as I’d like (parenting putting a major crimp in our collective road wanderings), I know he’s out there, lurking, posting random crap on Facebook and here on Half Past Awesome. Posts that involve this man (who The Lyin’ Dutchman truly believes has a “secret gay agenda” -despite being happily married – that he’s imposing on me) can be found here, here and here.

Taken, Ladies.

JoBoo: No longer living the single life, JoBoo is still assigned to Truck 2 and plays the role of silent and deadly guy on the crew. Until my motorcycle plans fully materialize, I get the feeling that he’s looking down his nose at me, an outsider trying to be part of his club. But that could just be my paranoia. JoBoo is not a member of the CrossFit Craziness, preferring instead to mock me at every turn and to place bets on which part of my body I’ll injure next. That’s one reason he makes such a good fireman – schadenfreude. There are a couple of posts with JoBoo here and here.

Big Hair & A Trucker's Vest = Good Times

Outlaw Trucker: The Outlaw, a perennial bad-ass of the fire department, is still riding on Engine 1, feared by his enemies, beloved by his crew. We went to a really killer concert in Fayetteville, Arkansas recently, and I’d write about it, but Outlaw and I hit the bottle a little early, and left long before the end of the show. Worst part? We woke up too late the next day, some Russian guy claiming to be Outlaw’s new best friend, and had no time to hit up a Cracker Barrel and ended up in a Hardee’s, eating even worse crap and making up stories of what it might have been like. Plus, the wives were willing to go along, so really, we consider that a win. Outlaw is featured here and here, if you want to catch some posts on the man.

So there you have it: brief descriptions of people you most likely don’t even know, but who are pivotal players in my insanity-addled life. Tomorrow, I’ll introduce you to some more characters such as “Ryan The Sadist”, “Hotwire”, “El Jefe” and “The Pimp & The Pirate”. Stay tuned, my friends, and in the meantime, get outside and enjoy some of this good stuff before it gets hotter than a kerosene cat in hell with gasoline drawers on.

A sinus rhythm is defined one way as the normal regular rhythm of the heart as generated by the sinus node. This is what you want to see in a patient when an EKG is performed- five healthy waves in a single heartbeat. But like each beat of the heart, life happens in these up and down waves that define our interactions with others.

I thought about this while I was enduring the cardiac event known as “training run” today. Currently at the end of week three in a twelve week cycle of sado-masochism, I’m attempting my first half marathon in December. Back story -the event is for St. Jude’s Childrens Research Hospital in Memphis, and I committed to it for a couple of reasons; on October 18 of 2007, the beautiful daughter of a coworker of mine passed away at three years old, the victim of a brain tumor. St. Jude’s was instrumental in helping the family, and I’ve been impressed with this organization since I first learned of it. Secondly, if I am gonna do more than just TALK about being in better heart health, there’s nothing like setting a seemingly impossible goal to guilt me into running.

While experiencing undoubtedly abnormal rhythms, my mind was wandering all over the place, focusing on the peaks and valleys that happen to us at this age. The craziness knows no limits: one classmate of mine is in jail for allegedly murdering his wife in the heat of a bitter custody battle, we have folks with marriages on the rocks or ending, The Lyin’ Dutchman has ostracized each and every member of his family (except Bones), The Wife broke one ankle and sprained the other two days ago just walking down our driveway; hell, I even went nuts to a minor degree this past spring, sold off the excavating business, lost my mind and took up yoga. On the plus side, Heathen #1 is rocking kindergarten, this site has been a fulfilling outlet for my creative impulses, RoJo welcomed a baby boy into this world, Lyrical Jackass is back with an old crazy flame, Dirtbag is busy building out in the northwest, JoBoo just got him a new Harley and my first tattoo is on the horizon.

And so it goes. These various waves in our lives give it spice, meaning, passion and heartbreak. When compared to asystole (also known as “flatline”), sinus rhythm is not such a bad option, even with all the valleys. Living a flat line life would be boring, repetitive, secure to the point of mad doldrums. I’m not advocating abandoning family nor commitments, but rather, learning to accept the valleys as just another point in my life’s rhythm. Caring for a temporarily crippled wife? That’s not too bad, especially when taken in the context of having a person in my life who is willing to even be seen with me. Mile 5 of the training run today? Well, there was nothing good to say about that one, save for that it’s about 4.75 miles further than I’ve run in nearly a decade.  As the knees were snapping, the sweat pouring down like a monsoon, and the feet protesting with each stumbled step, it actually brought a smile to my face. My shuffle might embarrass the hell out of me if I ever were to witness it, but least I’m out there, and not flat-lining here on the couch. I’ll never be a runner’s runner – I know this. To survive this thirteen mile race without congestive heart failure will be nothing short of a medical miracle. But I’ll take the unknown inconsistencies of this run, this life, over the alternatives any day.

Me & The Outlaw Trucker - Steamboat '09

Holiday on a  Monday – few things in life are as cherished to the same degree as a mandated holiday on the nastiest day of the week. And yes, I realize that many of us out there still have to pay homage to the grind, despite the holiday; so before you complain too much about unions and organized labor (yeah, you, Dirtbag!), it’s only a matter of time before the shift calendar mandates my working the next holiday.  I thought I’d run the ol’ Mud Labor-Day style: kicked back, a little late and full of relaxation. Now, I’m off to hydrate with a Guinness and I leave you with the winners and losers for the week. Have a good one, my friends

RAISING OF THE PINT GLASS

1. The Outlaw Trucker. I signed on for a small welding job this week, and it was Outlaw who came to my shop and supervised my actions over a frosty PBR or three. At eight in the morning. The Outlaw can weld like nobody’s business, so when he offers to impart some of his knowledge in the arena of fusing metals, you best listen. I raise my early morning pint glass to you, sir, and thank you for all the help.

2. Firefighters Local 152. This is Labor Day weekend, and I salute my fellow laborers in the Local for all of their efforts to put forth professional service, even when it seems some citizens and politicians feel the need to kick us in the teeth for a mess they created. Tough times are here, but you guys are consummate pros. A pint for the fir na tine, barkeep.

3. Dr. Ellen Ratcliff, DVM. When one of the fighting felines from the compound came home looking as though she’d tangled with an rabid wolverine, our first call was to Ellen. She’s working on the holiday, which sucks, but there’s none better to entrust with the care of one of our brawlers. Thanks, doc, I raise this cold and bold Guinness to you.

KARATE CHOP TO THE THROAT

1. Quack Docs on the internet. The Wife is in a blind rage because her mom keeps believing the utter horse squeeze that comes off of the lines, passing itself off as “medical advice”. It’s easy to spot these shysters for who they are, but then, I’m a fan of the human condition and generally trust nobody; d-bags who claim you need to rub three stones on your gut to cure cancer are as loony as Obama “Birthers” and the Black Helicopter Believers. A karate chop to you…..you’re no better than my Nigerian Prince friends who are so eager to send me my well deserved fortune. Thwack!

2. Poop Slingers. When the family went to a park today, The Heathens went on a mission to find things according to color. Something red, something orange, etc. etc. Very creative planning by The Wife. Well, when Heathen 2 was looking for something brown, guess what he pointed to – yes……a  heaping, steamy pile of dog shit left lying on the ground. If you’re gonna bring your hound to a public park, clean up after it, you thoughtless morons. Chop to your throats, you turd tossers.

3. Weird Girl in Saturn. I pulled up at the aforementioned park with the family and you were just sitting there in your car. Not on the phone. No music. Just darting your eyes back and forth as though some script were being teleprompted onto your front windshield. It was creepy, and even the vague hotness accented by the nose ring couldn’t overcome the heebie-jeebies you were exuding. What made it weirder? An hour later, you were still there, lost in your world. Maybe someone just broke your heart, and that’s a damn shame, but there’s no need for you to skeeze out in a public parking area. You set off my creep-o-meter. And I am overcome with the urge to pre-emptively chop you in the throat.