Half Past Awesome

Drink The Lemonade. It Pairs Well With Rabbit.

Top 5 Reasons I Suspect There’s Something In The Water Lately

1.) Suspicious fire in the middle of the day. Firemen go predictably nuts when they happen upon gay porn stash in house, immediately accusing each other of “looking at it too long”. I can’t talk about the fire in too much depth, but I did experience massive hunger-induced panicky hallucinations while waiting for the Fire Marshals to methodically examine the scene. I accused them of spending too much time examining the magazine collection of the homeowner.

2.) Skull-viewing. While working a car wreck, we tended to an un-seatbelted passenger who had “spidered” the windshield with her forehead, tearing it open during the process of ramming a telephone pole. She was exhibiting mild concern over her hysterically screeching unbelted daughter/driver and paid no mind to the fact that we were looking at her exposed skull. I’m reaching here, but I’d bet a paycheck that it hurt like hell the next day, and that’s my semi-professional opinion. Although slightly confused, she was aided in answering our questions by the bearded grandma who was riding in the backseat and who WAS wearing a seatbelt. Outside of being royally pissed and barefoot with nasty toenails I could take an angle grinder to, she was just peachy.

3.) Gangster Chaos At The Courthouse. Another car wreck, this time at the seat of all local law enforcement, the county courthouse. A carload of thugs with gold toofs and gangtastic tatts on their faces pulled some stunts out on the road, then pulled into the courthouse parking lot and proceeded to slightly nudge a sheriffs personal motorcycle. Although there wasn’t any real injury among them, the high drama and yelling and wailing ensured the arrival of two ambulances and everyone looking around in a confused manner and pointing fingers. My favorite quote? “Don’t you take my name down, mister. Uh-Uh. Don’t you do it.” My guess? Warrants. Where’s Dog The Bounty Hunter when you need him?

4.) Rabbit Sacrifice. Today, while working on the dubious garden project, one of the shop cats I call Darth Macho proceeded to eat an entire baby rabbit right in front of me. Disemboweled, destroyed and devoured. Legs, fur and guts…gone. He enjoyed this entire feast while staring at me with a look that said “That’s right, you silly bastard, and you’re next.” I mean it was downright creepy the looks he was shooting me. He is called Macho for a reason.

5.) Don’t Drink The Lemonade. The Wife has been making some crazy delicious lemonade lately, thanks to the fresh lemons we procured from Rojo and his family while we were in Cali. Seriously, it’s like crack, it’s so addictive. She swears it’s the sweet lemons and 2 pounds of sugar per batch, while I’m prone to believe she’s lacing it with arsenic and making it wildly addictive so that I’ll consume up to a gallon per hour. She wound up the evening by slapping me in the face while saying “You show me some damn respect. I made you lemonade.” I suspect she’s pissed I’m not dead yet.

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.

Black: Not As Slimming As I'd Hoped

In the ongoing soap opera known as Trying To Be Less Of A Fatass, I seem to encounter speed bumps on a semi-regular basis. One of the greatest obstacles is a slavery to habit. Sundays at the firehouse are a prime example; as opposed the rest of the work week where we eat at 11am and 5pm, Sundays are  reserved for a brunch that would make a sumo wrestlers heart skip a beat. Bacon, biscuits &  gravy, pancakes, scrambled eggs and fried potatoes are never strangers to the brunch table and I’ve been seduced by all of them. The scale confirms this less-than-ideal affair of the clogged arteries. And, as I try to make healthier choices, nothing sucks harder than eating turkey “bacon”, avoiding the potato pan and nuzzling up to a bowl of oatmeal.

As with all routines in our lives, habits dictate our patterns. Methheads on a bender will spend hours peeling back stolen electrical wire insulation to get at the precious copper that will fund their next hit; RoJo will dictate large portions of time to organizing his sock drawer so that all of the seams line up; The Heathens are devoted to waking up at 5am and making sure their parents are awake too, so that they can discuss their latest Transformer-inspired revelations. Creatures of habit, all. And one of my many habits is to consume food the way I did at age 18, when I had the metabolism of a hummingbird. Always the skinny kid, I ate without consequence until my mid-twenties, as did many of us.

Now would be the time in another setting where the writer would describe how his children inspired him to live better, how the radiating pains shooting down his left arm made him find religion or something like that. Well, those guys can suck it. I’m making the change towards healthier choices for one reason only: it sucks being a mid-thirties fat cliched caricature of yourself. You know it, I know it and since you’re not doing anything about it, I guess I’ll take responsibility for myself.

This came to a head at a local gas station/convenience store with a name I loathe (see my feelings here). I always pay at the pump, seeing no need to venture into the vipers den of M&M’s, 9682-ounce sodas and nasty looking hot dogs on rollers. But this time, I was forced into the situation: I needed to buy a days’ supply of cat food. Mortally embarrassing enough that you purchase cat food at a gas station, I’d be forced to enter a place where Monster Energy Cold Coffee drinks would beckon to me, those damn sirens on the rocks. I began to get a little clammy.

I headed in to the belly of the beast, confident I would not disappoint Ryan and all the other CrossFit fanatics by giving in to the deliciously sweet sights and smells of a highway convenience store. I grabbed the box of overpriced feline food (really? 4 bucks for a days supply? I swear those cats are so fu*#ing unappreciative of my efforts), and calmly strolled up to the counter. Goddddddd, I wanted to buy something, anything. The habit is strong and bred deep within me. I looked over some candy bars, kinds I don’t even like, with an instinct to impulsively purchase. Alcoholics don’t hang around bars, so what the hell was I doing here? Pork rinds were gazing at me longingly, and I found myself eyeballing the lottery tickets as though I might take up gambling today. What the hell is going on here?

Chaotically, I walked to the register and back into different aisles several times, just convinced that I needed something. The corners of my mouth started to water as I began to convince myself I really WAS hungry. After all, I hadn’t eaten in several hours, was working in the shop, c’mon, what’s wrong with a little pick-me-up? Damn, I’d make an ideal drug addict, I follow the script so well. My mouth began watering as a new concept entered my consciousness: beef jerky. My mouth is literally beginning to water at the corners, even as I write this, because beef jerky is so awesome. I found myself at the register, standing in a puddle of my own drool as I rolled the idea over in my mind. I had to excuse myself once again, to dash into the aisle that held my own version of manna. Aisle 3.

At this point, you expect me to tell you of my overwhelming mental strength, where the voice of Ryan is screaming in my head about “form” and not being fat and how I used this imagery to walk away from the sodium-laced death known as jerky. That would make a really cool finale to this story, and maybe it would inspire you in your own journey to better health.

That thought never even crossed my mind.

Finally, box of cat food in one hand and bag of teriyaki beef jerky goodness in the other, I left the store, the checkout clerk shaking her head at the weird dude who obsessively went from aisle to counter and back 23 times, leaving large puddles of drool in his wake.

Beef jerky has protein in it, right?

We’re all good, then.

SORT of looks like Aunt Viper

The last couple of days spent on this trip went by in a seeming blur, no doubt influenced by a desire to return to the barn and seasoned with liberal amounts of imbibing. My visits with The Author and RoJo’s family were complimented by an unexpected visit to Aunt Viper. Aunt Viper is The Lyin’ Dutchman’s sister, and, much to her chagrin, she was given the moniker by none other than her own brother, my father. I believe the sentence went something like this: “I tell you what, Ool, that woman is a goddamn viper.” This is the way the crazy wing of the family relates to one another.

Aunt Viper and I haven’t spoken in nearly nine months, ever since The Lyin’ Dutchman’s latest flight into lunacy involved blaming my brothers and I for the implosion of his marriage. When told of such accusations, Aunt Viper had a classic response: “THIS IS WHAT WE DO! We hurt the ones we love when we hurt!” In my book, that’s called ridiculous and I told her as much. There was much yelling involved, and Aunt Viper ended the argument in her typical fashion; she told me to have no further contact with her ever again, seeing as how she now considered me dead to her. This was followed by a ritual slamming down of the phone from her end. Totally standard operating procedure.

I dropped in on her at her office and her first words when she saw me were “Well, well, well……look who’s back.” This was followed by several clucks and a small hug;  then, as she patted me these words of endearment came spilling from her mouth… “Christ, Ool, you’re getting fat.” Sigh. She then led me by the ear as I’d refused to got get some lunch “on her tab” across the street and marched me into a deli where she promptly demanded that a tri-tip sandwich be made. She is of the school that if someone doesn’t understand her thick-as-mud accent, then she should just shout her demands; her favorite target of such tirades is anyone of Mexican decent. No one raises her hackles so completely like the Latinos – she just can’t hate them enough. As I ate half of a sandwich, I asked her if she and her office-mates ate the same thing when they came here. She told me, no, they do not, because it’s too fattening. “Perfect for you, though, Ool. Tell me, are you curling your hair now? What the hell are you doing with your hair?” I informed her that no, this fat boy was indeed, NOT, curling his hair. She dismissed this as an outright lie and intimated that maybe her suspicions about my sexuality were more accurate than I’d care to admit. Despite my having a lovely wife, kids and a propensity for the opposite sex, Aunt Viper thinks most men are nothing more than closeted homosexuals. My opinion is that this is a line of defense she employs when people get too nosy about her spinster status. I tell her as much and she informs me that I have no idea what I’m talking about, as usual. Family.

I arrived this morning at o’dark thirty at LAX to head home (Thanks to RoJo and Amy for their hospitality!) and was greeted by the most hostile ticket agent in the L.A. Basin. When I came up to her counter and said “Good morning, how are ya?”, she just stared at me and slowly picked up the p.a. loudspeaker, angrily announcing “Ladies and gentlemen, when you come up to the ticket counter, you must have your I.D. ready, this will make the process go much more smoothly.” Turns out my I.D. was in my other hand, but I was too busy trying to be all friendly for her liking. I then slapped the plastic card on her counter and made some remark about how some folks just aren’t morning people. She responded by seating me at the back of the plane near a toilet. Score one for the asshole airline employee.

I then met the same customer service etiquette when dealing with the T.S.A. of L.A. They don’t want to be told “Hello!” They want I.D. and they want nothing more. In an ironic twist, there was someone sitting in my seat, and when we compared boarding passes, we were both assigned seat 31D. This counter agent was nothing, if not relentless. I then noticed the guy occupying my seat had, as his name on the pass, my exact name. It then occurred to me that perhaps my sadistic counter agent fell a little in love with me, and was surly as a response to her magnetic attraction to me. She couldn’t get me off her mind, so she kept typing Ulrich Gulje on her computer and assigning groups of people to sit on my lap. I could see that our relationship was going to be tumultuous from the start. In other words, a typical Los Angeles love affair, where mutual hatred was the primary attraction. Score one for the hopeless romantic.

As the plane descended from its cruising altitude and we dipped below the cloud line, I recognized the December hinterlands of the Ozarks coming into view. If California is, in the words of my Rogersville neighbor “the land of fruits and nuts”, then Missouri is the section of the freezer that is in desperate need of a defrosting. People are iced over, there’s no snow to speak of, and there’s a pretty good chance there’s freezer burn on our asses.

The family unit was waiting at the curb, both Heathens eager to tell on one another and pretend they missed me. The Wife seemed glad to see me, and in that moment, I knew that I’d have to end my dangerous relationship with the ticket agent. I don’t think she’d fit in too well here in the freezer section.

It’s back. It’s happening and you guys are making it happen: The Half Past Friday survey. This past week, I asked you to submit your best Halloween costumes with pics being a bonus, and, once again, you didn’t disappoint. I had a host of impressive costume submissions, ranging from a fully functioning bong to proctologist to my personal favorite – Jonathan Quail Higgins III from Magnum P.I.

The fact that you gave me so many cool ideas and several sweet images made it all the harder, but I finally pared it down to the top five images and my associated commentary. You people rock, and I’m grateful to have such twisted minds as friends and readers of the site.

5.) Speedy Gonzalez. Note the perfect stance, the appropriate huarache sandals, the white pants……….Sal’s got it going on, and I applaud his ability to capture my favorite smart ass rodent so perfectly. You know what this makes me want to do? Punch some jerk gringo in the face, steal his cheese and then perhaps liberate a large village of oppressed compadres. All while traversing territory at a speed worthy of my name.

4.) PBR delivery man. Question: who doesn’t want their Pabst Blue Ribbon delivered to their doorstop by a handsome lad of five years with highwater pants and a hand truck that is taller than him? Now, RoJo will tell you that at one time (around 10 years prior to this picture) PBR was considered a premium label. “Hogwash”, I say; it has always been and will always be the beer of choice for river floaters in their 20′s, shop dwellers at my house and college kids looking to drink something that is as “ironic” as their $65 tee shirts. What makes this shot even better is that the said deliveryman is now a California Highway Patrol officer who would love nothing better than to pull over and arrest underage beer distributors. This one goes into the permanent file for coercion purposes later on.

3.) Janet Reno. From the files of photos I’ve swiped from friends, this little gem was destined to make a reappearance on the site at the suggestion of the model in question. Few can pull off the Janet look, including Janet herself. In my imagination she had very, very bad breath, which is fitting because The Lyrical Jackass is known for smelling as though a cat went to the bathroom in his mouth. He also exhibits many of her same dance moves, stances on Homeland Security and bizzare man-crush on Bill Clinton. Weird fact: he actually already owned those earrings and necklace and only had to borrow the black dress because his “was at the cleaners”. Another Arkansas wonder to behold.

2.) White Trash Wonder Woman aka PBR Girl. Have I made it too obvious to you that when not consuming Guinness or Pacifico, my go-to junk beer is PBR? And while RoJo’s attempt was made in earnest, I find that PBR Girl may be taking something of a mocking stance as she traversed the mean streets of Portland, OR. dressed as my dream date. Kick ass shirt, sexy boots, some sort of mylar/pleather skirt and the attitude that says “after this trick-or-treat bull, let’s finish off this sixer and get us some tatts involving skulls, roses and Mom.” Kurt is one lucky man to have harnessed this incredibly saucy welfare hero; I can only hope he doesn’t piss her off and she grinds that hand rolled smoke out in his eye. Best of luck.

annnnnnnnnnnddddddddd here he-she is

1.) Little Bo Nasty. This is disturbing on so many levels. One, a male captain on the fire department is wearing lipstick. Two, I’m not even sure this picture was taken at Halloween, it may have been for that parade he participates in every year. Now he might try and justify it to you by saying his daughter was wearing the same outfit that year, and that’s great and all, but…….I mean, wow. The red wrapping paper on the shoes really ties the whole thing together. I know that firemen as a rule like ratchet the crazy up a notch, but this one took the cake. And for any of you guys out there looking for a date, just let me know and I’ll hook you up with this tranny-tastic dude. I am so damn disturbed by the images he sent, I’ve run out of bleach flushing my eyeballs, and yet I cannot turn away. So cheers, Eric, you’re number one. And no, I will not kiss you.

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.

Everyone needs inspiration. Bones is inspired by cleanliness and germ-eradication. The Heathens are inspired by Transformers, The Dirtbag is inspired by architectural innovation, Fury The Landscaper is inspired by a Subway sandwich done right and I’d venture that RoJo is inspired by the recent birth of his son. Artists get inspiration from pastoral landscapes and runaway flights of fancy within the reaches of their imagination. Some folks on the northside are inspired by a good meth rush, which in turn inspires them to stay up all night and peel insulation off of copper wiring so they’ll have a way to fund their next inspiration. Our kids inspire us to be better parents, our spouses inspire us to get off of our asses and do something with the day, and I would argue that coffee can provide some of the greatest inspiration of all.

But, like all creative types, I need to constantly hit my mental “refresh” button in order to feed the flow of ideas that come spilling out of my mind. Often times, this comes in the form of the neighbors, Truck 2 antics at the fire station, The Heathens or the myriad folks who play supporting roles in the comedy that is my life. I believe with all I’ve got that you can find all the material you might need right in front of your nose, if only you take the time to open your eyes and see the ridiculosity for what it is. But.

But…..once in awhile a change of scenery is in order, if for no other reason than to throw your chaos into perspective and give you an appreciation for little things like, say, the Amish out on the state highway. Sometimes I achieve this with a trip to the Northwest to visit The Dirtbag, I’ve found it on a road trip to a music festival in Steamboat Springs, Co and it’s been had floating down a river on a lazy summer day with a motley crew of amigos. The common denominator is that travel is the impetus for my inspiration. I may not be as worldly as I’d hoped to be by this age, but in my limited travels, I find it to be a crack cocaine of sorts: I always want more and more, there’s always more to see, more to experience, more to drink in and enjoy.

The corollary benefit to me traveling around more is that it also provides much more material to write about, and thereby gives you moments of levity (in the form of this site) from time to time. The reason I bring this up? I am in deep negotiations with The Wife as to the purchase of a dual sport motorcycle, which would give me access to a whole new range of material and inspiration. You may argue that you can hit the road in your truck just as easily, and it would be hard to counter that, but there is something about traveling by bike to small town festivals, redneck jamborees and different little hamlets around here that really appeals to the wanderer in me. To take a dusty county backroad with an amigo or two just to witness all that is offered for my visual consumption would border on a spiritual experience for an old heathen. You know, like my own version of  Zen And the Art Of Motorcycle Maintenance kind of thing.

And while she may have safety statistics, economic limitations and virtual practicality on her side of the argument, I’ll be utilizing divine inspiration as the cornerstone of my reasons to buy a motorcycle. I am also going to be relying heavily on needing to keep posts on this site fresh and funny, that you the reader have high expectations of low humor and that in order to accomplish this, I’ll need two wheels, a motor and a weekend here or there. I can’t let you down, and I won’t.  It’s going to prove a tough fight, my friends, and her ability to be all “rational” and “level-headed” is going to work against me  in ways I can’t even anticipate. Although it shouldn’t be necessary, I’ll even resort to guerrilla tactics such as…..well, I can’t say here, because she’s been known to read this once in a while. But trust me, it’ll involve behavior I am not used to, such as reining in some of my erratic ways. Hopefully the result will be a newly found sense of inspiration and a 650cc motor.

After all, who can argue against Zen and small town tractor pulls?

Here’s a random one: can we be nostalgic for a time that we never knew?

I would argue that this is a completely possible scenario, one that I am guilty of engaging in from time to time. I have enough books on steam locomotives to warrant engagement of the Dewey decimal system; one of the post-firefighter scenarios playing out in my mind involves moving to Scranton, Pennsylvania in order to work at Steamtown and hang out with dudes that are like, 50 years older than me. Like every other obsession that’s possessed my psyche from time to time (wanna be a firefighter? Sounds AWESOME!), I am sure that the reality would lose it’s luster after a relatively short period of time. Case in point? Said fixation on becoming a career firefighter morphing into the phenomenon known as “The Grind“. Sure, riding the rigs is great, and I love the lifestyle, but the reality is, it truly is just a job, one that demands the same kind of sacrifices as any other. Maybe it would be best to leave the steam fascination just that: a quest for something I never truly will realize, because the truth will inevitably be annoying as sand in the shorts. As I read in a selection from my own loco-nerd library: “The only people nostalgic for steam engines are those who never had to operate one for a living”. Well put, disgruntled railroad guy. Doesn’t mean I can’t still wonder, though.

That train of thought led to my next sub-question: if I am nostalgic about a time I never lived in, is this just a function of getting older? My conversations with The Dirtbag as of late center on career choices we’ve made, and I hear him often lamenting aspects of his former career as The Dark Overlord of The Night Shift at a poultry processing plant. Apparently, screaming at minimum wage chicken pluckers in the wee hours of the morning brought him a Zen-like sense of inner peace. In truth, I think he misses the financial security more than the cigarette-in-each-hand, five-pots-of-coffee, never-see-the-sun lifestyle. But it would be a close race either way. RoJo speaks often of his summers running a laser leveling tractor on his family’s tomato farm, as though whiling away his nights in the cab of a John Deere on the Sacramento Delta was much preferable to issuing moving violations to California drivers. I knew him then, though, and our actions were looked upon as a means to getting somewhere “better”. It’s as though we’re never satisfied: when younger, we’re dreaming of our future; when older, we’re longing for the adventures of our youth.

Here’s where I gotta give the Lyrical Jackass credit. He is one of the few people I know who has been able to live in the moment, every moment. This equates to someone grabbing life by the cajones and savoring each slice of life like your it was your last. Of course, the downside of this is that he has little past anywhere. He’s constantly on the run from one psychotic girlfriend to the next, switches jobs at intervals normally reserved for oil changes, and hardly slows down long enough for the dust to hit the furniture. He claims to WANT to “settle down”, but I think that the pandelerium dictating his life is as unpredictable and unrelenting as the tide; he’ll go wherever the next woman chases him. The chaos is what binds us, I guess, but I just happen to be a mite less unpredictable (The Wife makes sure of this).

Truth is, I’ll never play in the NHL, I’ll never fly an F-14 Tomcat off of a carrier, and I doubt that the Drive By Truckers are going to give me the call to play bass on their next tour. It’s best to focus on the myriad other things that are going on in the here and now. Little things, like, say, parenting The Heathens. Making a good pot of coffee. Being a husband that The Wife is a little less embarassed to be seen with in public. Being a friend worth having. That sort of thing. And, in the late hours, when no one else is looking, I’ll keep looking for steam engineer jobs. It never hurts to live in the past a little.

** 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.