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.

Bones Ink

I have five brothers. Between them all, there are something like 683 pieces of art tattooed on their bodies. If you count The Lyin’ Dutchman, you can throw in another three or four to the mix.  When it comes to ink, my body is something of a hairy, blank canvas. I am the lone holdout.

The line of reasoning I’ve chosen to employ is not too unlike that of an aging virgin: it’s not that I haven’t wanted a tattoo, I just haven’t found the right tattoo. If you’re gonna make a commitment that you will literally be taking to the grave, then it needs to be right for all time, not right for right now. This is precisely why the names of lovers, movies, movie stars, phases you’re in, bands you dig, vehicle manufacturers and video game platforms are all bad ideas for a tatt in my opinion. How awesome are you gonna feel with “Spice Girls” boldly screaming across your chest in ten years? Or in ten minutes, for that matter?

Chewie Ink

For years, I wanted to have a piece of art that would reflect my tastes in a location that could be kept in private if I chose and would not bring the shame upon my mother that she’s no doubt feeling upon reading this post. So, of course, the Bob Marley cover art that I might have wanted plastered on my back (complete with vague references to the religious implications of smoking pot) would not qualify as such. Nor does my hardcore love of the red Peterbilt oval. As for my favorite movie, “Snatch“? A bad idea all around.

No, I’ve never been able to decide on what exactly I wanted inked on to me; as such, I’ve resisted all the urging of brothers and friends, waiting till the idea came to me in a revelation-kind-of-style. Being in a family that inks like an octopus in an ambush, I HAVE come up with a list of all the things I don’t want. Here’s a few:

Buns Ink

• ANYTHING with gangsta-style olde english style script. I’m not a Crip, in case you hadn’t noticed.
• Bicep ink. I have no guns, and there is no need to highlight that fact. None at all.
• Any art work that my brother Barbara has. I think he employs the Jackass methodology of selecting pieces.
• Tribal Style. Unless I start dating Pam Anderson, and then you can throw some barbwire tatts and Hep-C into the mix.
• Hometown dedications. I once asked a fellow trucker named Cricket why he had “Los Banos” tattooed all across his back (in gangster-script, no less), to which he replied, “So they know where to bury me, esse”.  I know where I’m from, and Santa Barbara and Cayucos aren’t exactly towns that need any more advertising
• The Wife’s name. She will eventually wise up and leave me and this will surprise no one, including me. And the Lyin’ Dutchman has proved that you can’t ink your way back into a failed marriage. So ix-nay on that crap.
• Patrick Swayze. As good an idea as it might seem in a drunken stupor, it ain’t. Ever. I must try very hard to resist this urge.

Barbara Ink

And then without any preamble, the idea washed up in my mental tide one day: I’ve been a fan of pinup art since I saw the Memphis Belle for the first time in the early eighties. As a kid, WWII-era aircraft nose art was as close to pornography as my dad’s tattered copy of The Joy Of Sex that my brother and I stumbled across one day – minus the creepy factor of THAT discovery. As I’ve grown older, it seems that there is less and less that people won’t do in the name of lust, but there was at least an element of subtlety in the risque yet suggestive artwork of that time. I am a big fan of the detail found in the works of Vargas and Gil Elvgren. Combine it with a respect for jazz music that came in my late twenties and I’m damn near ready for three martini lunches, traveling by train in a snazzy three piece suit and buying war bonds. There’s also been of late a healthy resurgence of the pinup girl look mixed with a little hot-roddin’ rockabilly,  and a dash of Gothic tramp – an all-win situation, as far as I’m concerned. The revelation had finally, FINALLY manifested. There was only one thing left to do.

I approached The Wife with the initial idea, and then the final kicker… “How would  you feel about being the subject of said pinup tattoo? No names – just the model……” (see earlier stances on names)

Long story short? As soon as the very talented Sarah Rasul finishes up her sketches, I’ll be hopping a flight with Heathen #2 to the West Coast to continue a family tradition. Details to follow.

Being a fan of the human condition, my radar for bizarre behavior operates on high alert most of the time. One aspect that always grabs my attention? Culture clashes. I am not talking about a cannibal in a room full of vegans kind of thing, more like certain behaviors that seem to make sense to locals, but seem weird-o-riffic to a transplant such as myself. This area of the country offers several opportunities to observe these customs, from folks’ obsession with fried chicken in cashew sauce (white meat only….dark meat is always rumored to have come from neighborhood cats), to having homes in the “country French” style (not to be confused with “French country” style which is also a favorite and TOTALLY different), to one of my all-time favorites: dining out as competitive sport.

When I first moved here, I found it really and truly odd that people would tolerate waiting two hours on a cold or hot sidewalk just to eat at one of the 79,651 restaurants our town seems to offer. This takes place every weekend, and we’re not talking about only fancy, swanky joints either. A national barbecue chain rolls into town and we’ll gladly sit knee deep in peanut shells in the waiting area just for the opportunity to dive into a baked potato with 3,800 calories of meat and dairy on top (that’s one of two side orders, just to let you know). In fact, going out any time from Thursday to Sunday is an exercise in sheer madness, unless Taco Bell sounds like the kind of cuisine you were thinking about. After nine years, however, it somehow became enmeshed in my system that weekends were meant for these feats of endurance, where we could all jam our elbows into one another in waiting areas, proclaiming to the world how nice it was “to just get out of the house” (a sentiment clearly shared by, like, 99.9% of the metro population as well). The Wife, being a native, accepts this as a part of her civic obligation to Springfield, and insists that we participate on a regular basis.

So imagine, if you will, the four of us out for lunch today at the Fuddruckers after some hiking at the Nature Center. All is going well, with Heathen #2 attempting to eat his macaroni and cheese like one might drain the last of the cereal out of the bowl (tipped up and going everywhere). I notice the crowds start to build near the drink station and in the ordering line. I mention as much to my better half, and she leans in, all conspiratorially, cocks up an eyebrow, and says “well, ya know, you GOTTA beat the church crowd. And we just did.” She then nods her head in a self-satisfied way, as though this indicates our consumptive prowess. I looked around. Of course, she was right. It would seem that the only logical thing to do after congregating in a house of worship would be to congregate in a house of pancakes. She then asked me “I guess you never had to worry about this in California, did you?” No, I didn’t. Ever. I am sure that all of the hot spots out there are packed on weekend evenings, but that’s where you’d mostly find singles and young couples, not spiritually inclined families in their finest khakis and polo shirts. It just wasn’t something we grew up doing. Most families were eating at home or in the homes of their friends. The adults would stand around after church on the lawn in front, eating cheap donuts, drinking cheaper coffee and smoking Virginia Slims during “social hour”, but that about covered the churchy-social obligations. We never went out to eat with our fellow congregants; for one thing,  Mom had to haul ass back home so she could prepare “dinner”. For 2pm (I never understood that). Even as a kid, I was busy inventing various diseases to get me out of going to church half the time, so why would I enjoy going out with those people afterward?

Back to today. We ended up discussing the pros and cons of eating out as a ritual for awhile, me advocating eating at home more often, as long as I didn’t have to be a part of the cooking process, she telling me I am ridiculous. Before long, I sensed trouble on the horizon. How? From the back seat of the car, still covered in ketchup residue, Heathen #1 pipes up “that was good, but can we go to Taco Bell tomorrow?”

Game, set and match.

Once in a great while I have a scandalous desire to wander from my commitment. I long to feel the strange caress of another, to stray just a bit with a sweet alternative. To ride the high of forbidden intimacy while escaping the bonds to which I’ve become accustomed; to soar to new heights of manic passion bordering on a nirvana-like state of mind and body. I am, of course, talking about cheating on coffee.

I love coffee, much in the way a junkie loves heroin -  if by love you mean “hopelessly, aimlessly and madly addicted”. That describes my relationship with the bean to a tee, and I am so deeply embedded with the stuff that there’s a pretty good shot that I would rather shave my face with a rusty spoon than go without the joe. And yet. Yet, like all relationships, there comes a time when speedbumps pop up on the superhighway of hopped up jitters. When the dog days of summer get here (like, this past week, thank you very much Satan) it becomes a slightly less appealing to throw steaming hot mud down the pipe – but only slightly. As of late, I’ve tried alternatives (Java Monster, iced McCrap from the golden arches, and, most infamously, The Chinese Rocket Fuel incident). Frankly, little compares to the real deal, and this presents a bit of situation.  Regular soda just rots teeth and encourages horizontal expansion of the belt. Not good. I long for that close tango that I do with coffee daily, wherein it scalds my tongue and then rewards me with an ability to perform like a tweaker on a binge. Glorious, gorgeous nectar of the bean, I wonder what can compare? That got me to thinking about the alternatives and then in a divine moment of recall, an old idea finally hit me.

A long, long time ago (somewhere in the early eighties, I believe), we used to frequent a 7-11 convenience store in Santa Barbara when we’d wander around on our BMX bikes. In the time before energy drinks or even the awesome Jolt Cola, we’d look for ways to achieve the ultimate forbidden rush. I can’t remember who stumbled across this idea, but it was revolutionary for it’s time: The Suicide. The idea was to take a hit from each of the soda flavors in your cup, thereby creating the ultimate (and ultimately nasty) concoction. It was the beverage equivalent to theater hopping (another pastime of young idiotic turks like us). You got a little of this, a little of that, something that tasted like carbonated printer ink and you’d earned enough chops to strut like a Bantam rooster.

According to The Wife, there were signs in the roller rink back in the day, just above the soda dispenser that said “No Suicides”. Apparently this phenomenon wasn’t limited to the West Coast, and the fact that it was in a roller rink just further proves that this was not a mild happening. The Suicide. Part of me wants to stroll into my local Kum & Go and glare like a badass at the attendant while, in a macho way, I haphazardly toss various flavors of carbonated delight into a 440z. Styrofoam cup. The moment after I paid for this fine medley of caffeine, I’d take a sip, never letting my eyes lose their lock on the no doubt incredulous clown behind the register. And then I’d probably puke it out all over myself and the counter and lose the coveted macho status I was hoping to acquire. Damn.

Maybe Suicide isn’t the answer. I no longer ride a BMX bike. Too many years have passed since I considered Pop Tarts a reasonable breakfast. Despite all of my immature antics, the fact remains that I’m getting older at an alarming rate; blistering the inside of my mouth with a shot of hot java may well be as close to living like a maniac as I can get. I just can’t get past the fact that I considered stepping out on my beloved mud. One can only hope the coffee maker will still be there on the counter in the morning, when I beg for forgiveness and a cup of scalding love.