Half Past Awesome

Last night I hung up my firefighting gear for the foreseeable future. And by “foreseeable future” I mean “the next two weeks” since I have the attention span of a fly and two weeks into the future may as well be two decades. The family is heading out of Missouri, as mentioned in this post, the nerve-wracking, make-me-sweat-like-a-whore-in-church experience known as emceeing the Blogaronis is over, and Hotwire has been put in charge of maintaining the compound while we drive like mad bastards to my home state. All is good on the horizon.

Sometimes it feels like a royal pain in the a-double snakes to be a government employee – the bureaucracy, the constant cycle of loathing/admiration/hating/envy that the citizens feel towards public safety (pension problems, anyone?), the feeling of being a cog in a blue shirt, replaceable within about 5 minutes or less. The bureaucracy – yeah, I gotta mention that twice, and if you work in government service, you can appreciate this.

But on top of that, I feel really lucky. Lucky that I’ve found the career that makes sense to me. The fire service is loaded with all kinds of wayward issues, but really, what job isn’t? Anytime you have more than two employees, you have politics. Any time you answer to the citizens, there’s gonna be one old grouch out there who wants to kick you in the balls just because he got a speeding ticket once. So we accept where we’re at, but that doesn’t always translate into appreciating it.

Every third day I spend in the company of 5-7 others who endure my lies and copious bull. I drink ungodly amounts of coffee, I get to tinker with a three-quarter million dollar ladder truck and generally when people dial 911, they’re happy/relieved to see us arrive. Little kids never, ever fail to wave up at the truck, little old ladies always coo when we change their smoke detectors and our spouses are generally happy to get rid of us for one day out of three. When the economy is down, our business seems to pick up, not necessarily a good thing in terms of public safety, but it makes for interesting times. We operate on a level of maturity with one another that you may have last witnessed in sixth grade.

And still, we bitch about it.

For the next couple of weeks, I’ll hopefully sleep through the night. There will be no phantom alarms at 3am, no loudly lamenting the empty coffee pot, no staring off at the rest of the world going home at 5pm while we have a whole 14 more hours of gilded cage time. No staring at a giant truck knowing that there’s really several hours of checking it that need to get done. No arguing over what channel to watch. I’ll need to keep my mouth in check, since firehouse humor doesn’t necessarily translate smoothly outside the station. It won’t go well, and I’ll end up saying stuff I regret. The Pimp and The Pirate won’t be around to berate me, and tales of JoBoo’s adventures into Oklahoma will have to wait. I won’t think about funding issues, staffing issues, pension issues, rookie issues or the plain ol’ business of fighting fires.

The Heathens will spend time on the beach, time at Disneyland, and time on my nerves. The Wife will pass judgment on my driving skills and my brothers will point out how great it is to see us and how old I’m looking. The Lyin’ Dutchman will probably make some sort of appearance, trying to ambush Buns and me through a meeting that Bones will have unknowingly set up. I’ll spend an inordinate amount of time missing living on the coast. I’ll watch Barbara get married and lament losing time with my family. I’ll secretly wish for a return to a life that really never was. Hopefully The Author and I will have time to meet up and we can wax idiotic on classmates from twenty years ago.

And in two weeks? Putting on the turnouts and climbing on to Truck 2 will seem like a damn fine way to make a living. Even if the coffee pot is empty.

Uli Siren Songs, Wandering Ponderings Barbara, Bones, Buns, HotWire, JoBoo, Santa Barbara, The Author, the Heathens, The Lyin' Dutchman, The Pimp & The Pirate, The Wife

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.

Uli Amigos Dirtbag, JoBoo, Outlaw Trucker, RoJo

Somehow a chicken drinking beer seemed right

Sometimes those closest to us make choices that, at the very least, are hard to understand. When they do, it’s never easy to shake the funk that follows. I recently found myself in such a funk.

And here’s where the beauty of the fire station kicks in: your co-workers are forced to spend 24 hours with you, and as such, we all become de-facto therapists for one another, unwilling to leave any stone unturned in our search to humiliate each other. JoBoo and I were soaking up the last of the suns’ rays yesterday evening out in the engine bay, keeping an eye on the barbecue grill as the flames were licking the walls of the firehouse, each of us wondering who would get up first and deal with it. We were discussing such issues, waiting for dinner and lazily noodling out ideas for improving our lot in life. As I sat there unloading my burdens on him, it struck me that what we really needed was a good house fire.

Now, let me be clear: I do not wish for someone’s home to burn down. It’s just a given fact that fires are going to happen, and if they’re inevitable, I’d just as soon they happen on my shift in our district. There’s nothing like a good worker to remind you why you signed up for this gig, why you spend a third of your life away from home, subjecting yourself to the whims and fantastic bureaucracy of local government.

When we finally sat down to eat, The Wife decided to make an appearance, coffee and kids in hand, knowing I could use a little uplifting. The boys were climbing all over the ladder truck when the tones struck for a house fire. This part was cool, since my boys aren’t at the station too often anymore, and what can beat tearing out of the firehouse, lights blazing and siren wailing – especially if you’re six. What I didn’t know was that she decided to follow the howl of the wind-up sirens and the column of smoke in the sky to the scene. And, as we rolled up and got to work, heavy smoke pouring out of the basement windows, The Heathens got to witness just what it is I do when I leave every third day. Chaos, smoke, flames and a cacophony of noises and smells and sights. After we had the initial attack set up and I was tooling around the pump panel, I finally noticed my family standing behind me. The look on their faces was enough to make all the other bullshit seem pretty irrelevant; I was never more stoked to be their dad than in that moment. No matter what my job on the fire ground was, I was part of something big in their eyes, and, when you realize how important you are as a parent to them, it’s pretty humbling. Heathen 1 came up to me, hugged my leg and said “Daddy, please be careful”. No worries, son…. I’ve got half a dozen jackass co-workers who keep me in line, even when I can’t. When we sat down to dinner at 9:15 pm, I realized that all things considered, this life is pretty damn fantastic.

I considered that victory #1 in my defeat of the funk.

Victory #2 came tonight.

The folks at CrossFit Springfield decided to host a social night with everyone toting in side dishes while a man named Jay smoked enough meat for a small army to consume in the snowing sleet-rain-crap we call weather in Missouri. It was nice enough to not have people see me in all my sweaty, nasty glory for once, but rather, showered, shaved and slightly less stinky. But, and this is important, it got my pitiful ass out of the house and surrounded by folks who are upbeat, positive and generally in a same mental reference in terms of getting slightly less fat. There was a copious amount of beer flowing, families mingling and, in the middle of it all, “Ryan” The Sadist, holding court and telling tall tales. A couple of other firemen were there as well, and, as ever, we gravitated to one another and immediately began regaling one another with bullshit and laughter. As each Guinness was cracked and another plate of delicious food was passed around, I could feel the mood lifting. These? These are the moments when we’re glad to have the friendships we do, and I’d be well served to remember these facts. Whether shooting the bull with JoBoo behind the rigs while sunning like lazy cats or in a group of one hundred, those moments we get when we’re in the company of good people? Yeah, that’s good stuff, and moments we need to treasure.

I might lose sight of that fact from time to time, but I hope you know this: I’m a grateful mo-fo for all that you bring to the table.

Thanks, amigos.

Uli Amigos, Less Lardass, Siren Songs "Ryan" the Sadist, CrossFit Craziness, JoBoo, the Heathens, The Wife

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.

Uli Family DysFUNction, Less Lardass, Tales of Misery Bones, Dirtbag, JoBoo, RoJo, the Heathens, The Lyin' Dutchman, The Wife

In order to mark my return to the firehouse after a few weeks off, I thought I’d go whole hog and work out before shift, too. This was a dumb decision. I go to stationary cycling classes (er, spin) regularly, ride to work once in a while, play some ice hockey and even go so far as to attend yoga/pilates classes once or twice a week (don’t laugh too hard till you try it. Burns like acid).  But if I really, truly want to get rid of the junk hanging off the waist, it’s got to be running, a sport I loathe with utter contempt. It’s hard on the knees, I sound like a gagging water buffalo when doing it and it looks as though I might be in the throes of a grand mal seizure when I attempt it. Nonetheless, it is the one tried and true method of getting rid of the Guinness and baconic residue.

So I gave in to my co-worker JoBoo’s demands and joined him in an attempt to “run” three miles before work. THREE MILES. Might as well have been the Battan Death March at that rate. I thought I might share my experiences as they related to what was cranking out of the ipod. The mileage/time sequence may be off, since I could barely jog, much less keep track, but you’ll get the idea.

Mile One-ish
Song: Nuthin’ But A G Thang by Dr. Dre
Turns out this is a good one for me to keep pace to. And by “pace” I mean it’s the kind of slow that you might commit a drive-by shooting to. Which is EXACTLY like the kind of crime I feel like committing within the first fifty feet of the run. Holy S#*t why in the world did I tell JoBoo I’d do this? This is stupid. I am already hurting. I want nothing more than to quit. My lungs agree that this is a good idea and demand I stop immediately. I don’t comply.

Mile 1.2-ish
Song: The Lightning Storm by Flogging Molly
The song title is what I am hoping against hope will happen right over my head at this very moment, thereby electrocuting me and making me forget the pain in my feet and inner chest cavity. As an interesting aside, I think a homeless guy just pushed a shopping cart right by us, we’re going so slow. JoBoo doesn’t look affected in the least by this torture, making my desire to stab him reach a feverish level. I want so badly to kill him, but don’t have the energy to complete the task.

Mile 2-something
Song:  Too Much Sex (Too Little Jesus) by The Drive By Truckers
This song is totally irrelevant to the situation at hand, but I like how lost the protagonist is in the tune (spiritually speaking), because I, too, feel lost. Lost in the sense that I lost a lung somewhere around a half mile ago, and this has forced the first “walking” foray of the trip so far. I vow to only walk 1/2 a block, but in reality I would jump onto the the bumper of a bus right now and hitch a ride back to the firehouse if I could.

Mile 2-and a something-ish
Song: Gold Digger by Kanye West
Since I don’t know if what I am doing technically qualifies as “running”, I assume I am experiencing a “shuffler’s high” right now, since I am having all sorts of mental revelations. It strikes me that this song has ABSOLUTELY no chance of becoming a reality in my life, since I am worth approximately nothing financially; this fact makes me grin like a lopsided baboon as I grunt my way up the street. Also, I almost fall on my face as I try and play Tetris with the brick patterns in the sidewalk, a slightly less funny fact. JoBoo is nowhere to be seen when this happens, and it’s too bad. Perhaps he would have died of an asthma attack laughing at me, which would serve him right.

Mile 3.000001
Song: Damn It Feels Good To Be A Gangsta by The Geto Boys
Why do I love this song in this moment? Perhaps it’s because of these lyrics:
“Real gangsta-a$$ ni##as don’t talk much/
All ya hear is the black from the gun blast/
And real gangsta-a$$ ni##as don’t run for s#*t/
cause real gangsta-a$$ ni##as can’t run fast”
I can relate on every level. I can’t talk, because I must save that energy for all of the gasping and dry heaving that is taking place at this juncture. There is no gun blast, but if someone shot me in this moment I would be in their debt for what was left of my eternity. And it is VERY true that I can’t run “for shit” nor “fast” because what I am doing is ridiculous and anything BUT running.

Mile 3.0009
Song: Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm by the Crash Test Dummies
The only good thing about this song and how it might relate is that I could no longer speak real words, and so the chorus made sense. And then I realized I don’t really like this song at all, and this is another reason I want to fall in front of the city bus that has just passed so close to my staggering corpse.

Mile 3.1
I die just a little bit in front of the firehouse, a casualty of ridiculous fitness. Time? 34 minutes and change. JoBoo laughs as I grasp at his barely sweating form mouthing “oxygen, please, for the love of God, oxygen!!” As soon as I regain consciousness, I vow to kill him.

Uli Less Lardass, Siren Songs JoBoo