Half Past Awesome

I'm So Over Waldo

Chaos is absent right now. My kids are healthy and full of piss and vinegar. The Wife has a birthday of indeterminate origin tomorrow. Good and decent people came to our house tonight to celebrate the simple joys of a home cooked meal. It’s as hot as Satan’s trigger finger right now, pretty typical for July in the Ozarks.

I’m still horribly out of shape, and starting to get a little nervous about competing in a foot race in Portland, Oregon in September, as well I should be. My stepfather arrives from the beaches of  the Central Coast of California on Tuesday and I’ve no doubt he’ll find the state of my shop to be horrific and may well shake his head in disgust at his slack-ass son. The neighbor procured a new tractor, and I swear that he’s driving back and forth in front of our house as a means of showing off.

The fire service is what is was last week, last year and last career. It’s a mess of people in dire need of something, anything, and a call to 911 helps put their mind at ease. And we’ll be there to hold their hand and administer oxygen or put our their garage fire or pry them out of some sort of horrific car wreck. All very predictable, really.

We need a new roof on our house, but really, that’s nothing new. More urgently, I need to get on the road, see a new town, preferably somewhere where you don’t have to chew the air. The motorcycle repair job is about done, perhaps when El Jefe gets back from California we can hit the trails out of town.

I hope to get some work capitalizing on my inability to pay attention for more than a few minutes. My status as an international sex symbol seems to be secure, especially in light of Mel Gibson’s latest fall from grace. I’m thankful that we haven’t had a medical patient refer to me lately as a “fat Vince Gill”. We miss hanging out with my Brother Bones out in Santa Barbara, especially when conversations focus on Area 51 conspiracies. I hear the Lyrical Jackass got engaged, much to no one’s surprise.

Above all, I’m thankful for the relative quiet of the last month. Because I’m sure that my ever-present sidekick, inconsistent chaos, will make an appearance before long, and I’ll have to go into spin doctor mode, trying to explain my latest deviation from the accepted norms. And then I’ll be grateful for the return of my normalcy.

Hope all is well with you, amigos.

Uli Motorcycle Dreamin' Bones, El Jefe, the Heathens, The Wife

Pretty Sure This Is A Huge Copyright Infringement

*We took the family to see Despicable Me the other night, courtesy of the lovely and talented Chris Louzader. This is my take on the film and in no way counts for anything beyond what you are paying to read this.*

Despicable Me is absolutely loaded with potential. Kinda like me. And, kinda like me, it never reaches it’s full capabilities. All the elements are there for a ripe harvest of hilarity, a touching story of heartbreaking warmth, all that business that’s made a few animated films true priceless gems. And, as an uninformed and non-credentialed critic, I liked it. It was “cute”. It was “adorable”. But so is my grandmother. And if she ever hears me call her that, there will be a beating in my future.

But was the movie a full-bore love affair for me? No.

There was so much that was reasonably likable about it, though. Steve Carell belts out an impressive accent, and the illustrators managed to capture what I think his face might be contorting like in the studio. But, somewhat like his character on The Office, he absolutely needs foils to make his humor work. Awkward, party of one, wouldn’t be near as funny, and his title character in Despicable Me, Gru, is sorely missing mo’better banter with either his mother, his scientist sidekick or his adopted kids. All of these characters are underutilized. And his nemesis Vector? That dude falls as flat as a pancake in Kansas. He was annoying enough that you found yourself really, really hoping that Gru would actually kill him. Of course, that might make kids cry, but they would probably agree with me.

In fact, the best dynamic in the whole movie exists between Gru and the very best part of the movie – his legion of Minions. Minions don’t really speak, they mumble and chatter and they perform semi-human acts that are funny in the same way it’s funny when your kids carry on debates about ideas they don’t even understand, like health insurance legislation. (I’m not pretending to understand it, I just like to get angry about it). I loved these guys. Gru clearly loved them too. Who wouldn’t want an army of loyal little yellow guys carrying out all your heavy lifting and getting themselves in to rascally conundrums? I think they carried the movie, and they made a s0-so story funny enough for me to choke up on over-buttered popcorn a time or two.

Would I see it again? In a theater? Well if The Heathens wanted to, sure. But then, I’ve also been talked into situations far shadier by virtue of being their dad. I endured years and years of The Wiggles and Thomas The Tank Engine and now some sort of obsession with battle-bot/transforming/Lego/Ben10AlienForce/weird Japanese anime mash-ups, so I’m easily impressed by very little. This movie has much more than very little; I’m just not gonna beat some kindergartner silly for the best seat at the next showing.

I hate to undersell this show, but when you’re up against the Toy Story and Cars-esque powerhouses, the bar has been set really high. As a conspicuous consumer, I DEMAND oxygen-depriving fits of laughter, mind blowing animation and gut-wrenching storylines with each new release. This attitude, like my wasted potential in life, is pretty shameful. In fact, it’s downright despicable.

Enjoy the movie. I did.

Overall Score: Solid B

Uli Movie & Music Pontifications the Heathens

I'd Totally Whip This Dude

Like most people I know, I lack discipline. And patience. And skills.

None of these attributes help when you find yourself in that situation where you really, really wish you could drop a bomb of utter bad-assedness in a completely surprising way. Here’s an example: you’re leaving a restaurant with a bunch of friends, having just enjoyed a fine meal, great conversation, what have you. As you cross the parking lot, some filthy sleazebag walks up with a knife/gun/machete in his hands, a wild look in his eyes and immediately demands that you hand over all your wallets. Unbeknownst to your friends, you’ve been quietly practicing various forms of martial-arts in your limited free time, and with little more than a sigh and rolling of your eyes, you completely incapacitate the bastard in three moves; you then act like it was no more than pushing a crosswalk signal button. Your friends stare in complete disbelief as the would-be mugger moans with multiple fractures and a crushed spleen, and there you are, nonchalant as a cup of black coffee, and you calmly state “….and you were saying?”

Who DOESN’T want that capability?

But, as stated earlier, I’m too fundamentally lazy to master a martial art in my spare time. I would be utterly incapable of keeping my mouth shut if I had reached master-level status of any sort of kick-ass skills. I’d threaten anyone who looked at me wrong, be they little old ladies walking with a stoop or my own children. These threats would be my undoing because, really, who goes around threatening their children with throat chops and shin kicks? People who get reported to the authorities, that’s who.

Nonetheless, I’d like to be able to quote the Bible in Hebrew, Aramaic & Greek, so that when arguing with someone about the sin of Harry Potter or those crazy people who find love with someone of the same sex, I could trounce their ass with informed debate. I wish I knew enough about Middle Eastern cultures that it made sense to me when shiites and sunnis go at it like maniacs. I’d like to be able to open a conversation with “so I was machining the new flywheel on my lathe when…..”. When hostage negotiations begin, I’d like to receive a call from The Mayor as the last, best hope. When the St. Louis Blues Hockey Club makes a pitch for me to play starting defense next season, I’d like to be able to politely decline, citing the rigors of life on the road and my responsibilities as a parent. I’d like my opinions to be the source of debate on talk radio, with hosts crying and screaming at the thought of logical, rational thought taking over partisan bullshit. I’d like to go to some random holiday party, find an unused piano lolling about in the living room and strike up a rendition of Piano Man that gets the party-goers into some sort of karaoke-frenzy.

All of the aforementioned attributes would have to be the result of years of study and an exercise in mastery of skill sets. I have no such capabilities nor time to devote to mastery beyond the characters in Transformers, if only so that I can keep up with the conversations of The Heathens. One must know his Transformers, and so I do. That, and random pop culture trivia minutiae that allows me to compete from the firehouse on such shows as “Celebrity Jeopardy” (“this day comes after Thursday and before Saturday”) and Cash Cab (“in what city is The Statue of Liberty?”).

I’m just waiting for the day I get called to compete on Non-Celebrity Jeopardy and get the opportunity to showcase my ability to recall worthless facts about bands from the 80’s. How I’m gonna showcase my hidden martial-arts skills while on the set is still up for debate.

Uli Wandering Ponderings the Heathens

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.

Uli Wandering Ponderings Dirtbag, the Heathens

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.

Uli Family DysFUNction, Motorcycle Dreamin', Travelblogue, West Coast shenanigans Aunt Viper, Dirtbag, the Heathens

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

Nan, Chewie, Oma, Amanda & Barbara

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

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

Someone may die.

Neck-wringing will be determined to be the cause.

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

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

Chewie On What Shall Soon Be Mine

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

But not really.

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

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

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

That sounds like a road trip.

Uli Motorcycle Dreamin', Travelblogue, West Coast shenanigans Barbara, Chewie, El Jefe, Nan, Outlaw Trucker, SeaBass, the Heathens, The Lyin' Dutchman, The Wife

To paraphrase any number of lyrics of a solid 80’s tune: times/people/seasons change. If you look to the cast page of this site, you’ll see that I’ve not updated it in quite a while and maybe you’re wondering to yourself “who are all these people that this idiot keeps referencing? Why am I on this site anyways? Where are my pills?” If you find yourself in that situation, fear not; over the next couple of days we’ll give you an update as to what the stars of Half Past Awesome are up to, and then we’ll introduce a couple of new characters. Here we go:

Ruler Of The Roost

The Wife: she’s currently plotting my untimely demise. I urge each and every one of you to NOT believe the suicide note she’s gonna swear she’s found on my body. She’s also still running her salon out of the house, so I can’t get away with jack, especially if it involves a delivery that requires a signature. Despite the fact that she’s hacked off to no end about approaching an undisclosed age, she’s somehow still tolerating me. If you want a couple of random posts that focus on her, you can read them here, here and here. ps- you want a little known fact? She’s a sucker for Harry Hamlin in the original  “Clash Of The Titans” (circa 1981). NOW who’s the weird one?

Slugs and Boogers

The Heathens: they’re getting that much older and starting to utilize the question “why” in response to every request/demand made of them. Although it’s always wrong to ever shake a baby, they seem more than amused to be shaken as small kids. I’m pretty sure they’re gonna shake me when I’m old and frail, and guess what? I’ll have deserved it. Currently occupying the ages of 4 and 6, these boys have a serious attachment to all things Transformers, Star Wars and Mario Kart – thank you marketing departments of aforementioned icons, you’ve made them believe they can’t live without EACH AND EVERY ONE of your creations. Some posts with the boys can be found here, here and here.

The Jackass & Nachos In Happier Times

The Lyrical Jackass: I was recently and unceremoniously dumped by the Jackass in the manner of a couple of 14 year old girls – he “unfriended” me on Facebook. This should demonstrate the level of maturity on which we operate. Crazy is as crazy does, and his current relationship situation mandates a divorce of sorts from all things sarcastic & toxic in his life. Unfortunately, I happen to fill both roles quite well. I’m not 100% devastated at this point, though, since he and his current flame break up just about every other week . He’s still in Arkansas somewhere as the Propaganda Minister of some fire department and we wish him the best of luck. Well, I do, but he may well have crossed into dangerous turf by “unfriending” The Wife. She has the memory of a very pissed off elephant, whereas I forget just how I (no doubt) started this whole thing

Buns & His Woman

Buns: Little has changed for Son#2 (or #3, depending on how you counts all of The Lyin’ Dutchman’s progeny). After a few international forays, Buns has yet to find a nation willing to install him as a Benevolent Dictator, a fact that irks him to no end. Continuing in his career as a computer hardware pirate, he’s taken to recently wearing an eye patch and interjecting “ahoy, ye scurvy dogs” into all business transactions. Buns spends much of his free time trying to unhinge paradigms of the modern-day salesman.He has no plans to abdicate his title as Undisputed Tall Guy of Santa Barbara any time soon.

Bones, Right On Schedule

Bones: One of the advantages of being OCD is that you lead a life of consistency. Such is the case for the youngest of The Lyin’ Dutchman’s sons – as long as the routine is followed, no one has to get hurt, or worse, mumbled at under his breath. He continues to work as a photographer and photo editor for Couture Candy and has his own two avenues for his photography; one on JPGMag and another on his own site. More importantly, he continues to be a link between those of us who are considered “dead” and The Lyin’ Dutchman. His stories of times with our Dad, when you can drag them out of him, are the stuff of legend, both in the nature of the wild yarns being spun on one side and the ever so awkward reactions on our brothers side. One of my first posts was about Bones, and you can read it here.

That covers part one of our in-depth series. Tomorrow we’ll hit the other players, and introduce you to some fresh talent. You’re gonna love it. In the meantime, tip back a Guinness or three and enjoy all the idiocy the world has to offer. Pretty good chance you’ll see me there.

Uli Amigos, Family DysFUNction Bones, Buns, the Heathens, The Wife

He's got good taste in beer

There are certain things in this life that I would qualify as “extraordinarily heinous”. Smoker’s breath. Watching people spit their teeth out like Chiclets after a bad car wreck. Octo-Mom. Men wearing eyeliner. Those who would harm children. My ability to grow multiple chins just by looking at a pizza.

But there is a special place in my heart for the things that really, really make me cringe; near the top of this list is The Circus. Maybe it’s the way the animals always look pissed off and humiliated at being forced to stand on chairs. Maybe it’s the concept of paying $72 for a bag of cotton candy and a Coke. And I’m reasonably certain my disdain for the clowns has a major role in my loathing of the circus. I’m not scared of clowns in the traditional sense, I just sense that they’re one step closer to being predatory pedophiles when they don the makeup. They’re creepy, those silly bastards, and they oughta be banned.

So, of course, The Wife decided we’d be taking The Heathens to the circus when it came to town.

I swear, that woman hates me.

Funny, because at first she didn’t want to go any more than I did. Then, when our friends Matt & Melanie said they and their entourage were going, The Wife refused to be one-upped – we are going and we’re gonna have fun, dammit.

I swear, that woman is a fickle pickle.

Let me start by saying that my interpretation of the circus is that of a mid-winter version of going to the Ozark Empire Fair. No wait…..let me re-start by saying that here in Springfield, our circus is held indoors, at the Shriner’s Mosque. That’s right – take a moment to drink that in: a circus, with animals and all being held INdoors. A building that is approximately 285 years old and literally hosted Elvis many years ago and Willie Nelson a few months ago also houses a circus for one week a year. Elephants storm in and out of the main entrance, I kid you not. You can only imagine what it smells like on the final day of the circus inside this joint. That’s the day it was determined we would attend.

What you might not know about today’s circus is that it is primarily staffed by our friends south of the border. This makes ordering an Icee particularly vexing for Ozarkian rednecks, since speaking Spanish to them usually involves no more than ordering a “boo-rito, enchilah-der style”. My friend the Outlaw Trucker, who has a deep and abiding love of the Latina Gangster lifestyle, would be in heaven here; I’ve never seen so many super-sexed up teenagers as those who spiraled across the curtains, blond hairpieces whipping about, stripper heels kicking in tune to ultra-cheesy Euro-metal. Any way you cut it, these performers were damn talented, and I found their shows, if not like watching late night Telemundo, very entertaining….gotta give them props.

Of course, we were jammed into seats made around the turn of the LAST century, which made for some great people watching and really, really close interaction with those around us. Our posse of boys spent their time whacking people’s heads with $39 plastic swords that lit up.

I swear, those kids are so damn unappreciative.

My favorite part? During the “Rage In The Cage”, whereby a shirtless Siegfried & Roy wannabe constantly runs around a ring pissing off half a dozen tigers, I spent the entire time rooting on the tigers. I feel for those poor bastards. Shamed and humiliated beasts (as evidenced by the pinned back ears, hissing, spitting and roaring), I would love for once to watch one swipe the bare-chested and leather bedecked trainer right in the ol’ head. I would cheer the shit out of that tiger. I would nominate him/her for a civic award. And I would pay for an attorney for the tiger if the circus tried to prosecute. It’s about time the tigers realized that the Rage In The Cage is basically defenseless, save for a stick. It’s time for them to revolt. THAT would be a show I’d happily pay to see.

No such luck.

I spent the rest of the time in a crowded mess of overpriced chaos, with the only highlight being watching the employees scramble for trash cans when an elephant decided to unleash a mighty torrent of urine while toting people around on its back. That gave an olfactory essence to the entire event which I cannot replicate with words. Motorcycles on high wires, roller skating on tables, jugglers who dropped flaming bowling pins – none of this compared to the pleasure I got from a  giant, tired and sad looking elephant declaring “The hell with this, I’m taking a piss right now”. A pachyderms way of shooting a middle finger to the whole situation.

Funny moments like that made me reconsider my vow to never return to the circus, even if I have to shovel out $57 for 6 ounces of popcorn.

After all, the tigers might need a lawyer.

Uli Tales of Misery Outlaw Trucker, the Heathens, The Wife

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