Half Past Awesome

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

Morning Face

4:02 am – Alarm begins its relentless attack. Self-loathing is the first conscious thought. Smash the snooze.

4:07 am - Litany of excuses for NOT working out begin to stream into consciousness. Excuses make sense. Smash snooze.

4:12 am – The Wife shares her feelings: “Get your ass outta bed and get to the gym. I love you. Now, go.” Stumble around blindly. Smash toe on kids toy. Mumble curses under morning breath.

4:13 am – A glance into the mirror confirms it – God, I’m an ugly mofo first thing in the morning, and it ain’t gonna get any better throughout the day. Self-loathing begins to reach critical levels as I catch a whiff of my own breath.

4:16 am – Vigorous brushing, face splashing and cracking of joints do nothing to improve appearance. Shrug and accept lot in life, all the while pining for a wasted youth. Thoughts of coffee begin to dominate and overwhelm as I realize I really don’t care how I look.

4:17 am – Attack first pot of  coffee and begin mad dash for gym, but realize am walking out the door without shorts on. Stop for a moment to appreciate the enormity of consequences if I show up without pants. Hilarity? Restraining order?

4:20 am – First of the acceptance that this is really happening. No going back to bed. Vow to go to bed by 7pm tonight.

4:21 am – Gaze longingly at house, knowing that warm bed is 106′ away. Double check to make sure I’m wearing shorts.

4:22 am – Plug iPod into Toyota’s stereo. Decide to crank music to “11“ to punish those sleeping in the house.

4:22:30 am – Realize they can’t hear it in the house. Curse violently at steering wheel, take another shot of coffee.

4:25 am – Pull out of driveway, realize that I’m too old to headbang without getting a severe concussion. Seethe inwardly.

4:30 am – Pot #1 of coffee begins to kick in and I begin silently hoping for a deer to jump into my path, just to add some spice to my morning commute to the gym.

4:35 am – Why spice it up when I can swerve all over the road trying to find the perfect song to scream along with?

4:40 am – Realize I’m glad it’s dark out, so I can conduct full conversations with myself, complete with sweeping hand gestures, without other drivers staring at me. Congratulate myself on such stealth. Out loud.

4:43 am – Take too long staring at heavy equipment on highway lit up by floodlights. Road chaos, followed by road rage, followed by cursing of indeterminate origin.

4:44 am – Start alternating shots of coffee with hits off the water bottle. You know, cause I believe in hydration. Plus, too many coffee stains on t-shirt this early in the morning just adds to peoples perceptions of my mental stability.

4:46 am – Think to self: “screw what people think. I love coffee and I’ll wear some if I feel like it”. Kidneys begin to quiver in protest.

4:50 am – Wrap up conversation with self with a loud and violent debate over whether I’ll make it in time to 5am class.

4:53 am – Start up another round of yelling at traffic engineers for their idiotic placement of stop lights. Begin to mull over merits of blasting through red lights. Unable to go full outlaw, I decide to obey the rules, but fume on the inside. Consider writing a very stern letter to City’s Traffic Engineering Department. Get more irate as I realize nothing will change. Damn you, bureaucracy. Damn you.

4:55 am – Slide in to parking lot of gym. Quick glance in mirror confirms suspicion that I look like a homicidal maniac. Pleased with self. Guzzle one last swig of coffee and tumble out of truck, tripping on non-existent obstacle in parking lot.

4:59 am - Shoot fellow CrossFit member curious look when he asks if I “am always this ‘up‘ this early?” Consider ramifications. New cycle of self doubt and self loathing begins.

4:59:30 am – Realize today’s workout consists of 2 mile run. Begin to experience chest pains upon realization.

5:00 am – Seizing (or seizure) of the day begins.

Uli Less Lardass, Tales of Misery CrossFit Craziness, 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

Living the Dream in Missouri

Spring is busy trying to spring. Last night marked the beginning of the season with our first tornado-watch/panic-fest that local meteorologists seem to drool over. We had thunderboomers, lightning and the sounds of frogs looking to get their freak on permeating the night air. Stupid wild onions have started to rise up from what I loosely term my “lawn”. My slut of a cat Skunk is out on the prowl, looking for some strange tom to knock her up, thus prompting The Wife and I to look at one another in a fit of laziness and say “we really oughta take care of that.”

But the sure sign that the seasons are on the move? The endless rumbles of Harleys motoring up and down the two-lane state highway in front of the house. From Thursday through Sunday, lawyers in leathers, the old, the young, nasty scumbuckets and yuppies alike tool their Hogs up and down the roads,enjoying that wild, carefree sensation of bugs smacking them in the face at sixty miles an hour.

I’m so jealous, I just can’t stand it.

And, in a series of maneuvers I’ve been keeping from you guys, the day is almost here. It turns out one of my five brothers, Chewie, is trying to sell his dual-sport bike in order to drum up some cabbage. I love dual sports. He’s letting it go dirt cheap. I love dirt and I love cheap. The bike is out on the West Coast. I’m going to the West Coast in April to attend yet another brothers’ wedding (the brother we call Barbara). This is a divine sign, if ever there was one. There was only one obstacle left, and she was somewhat significant.

The Wife.

She can conjure up tears on command when the subject is brought up. She likes to talk about such uplifting possibilities as “orphaning your children”, “making your wife a widow” and “maiming your face”. She also tossed around fun phrases like “a cold day in hell when you get a motorcycle” and “maybe you can live on your motorcycle, cause you won’t be living here”. I looked at these as minor setbacks. I tried quoting a co-worker named Lenny, using his brilliant defense of purchasing a bike against her will, “what is she gonna do, take away your birthday?” When I used this argument she suggested exactly where Lenny and I could stick it. Time to re-think strategy.

Loving affection didn’t work; she was immediately suspicious I was “up to something”. Putting my foot down and insisting that I’d do what I want only resulted in her laughing at me and pointing, like you would at the clown with his pants unzipped (yes, that clown is often me). Sulking and pouting only resulted in me joining the Heathens in the corner, left to mutter to ourselves about running away. And then, one night when she was excitedly screeching at me about housework, or money woes or something else (selective listening is an essential trait acquired through years of marriage), it hit me: DISHES.

She hates the dishes. With the intensity of a thousand boiling suns, people, I’m serious. Now, to be fair, The Wife is a phenomenal cook, handles laundry like she’s running a dry-cleaning business from our laundry room and basically keeps our house from looking like a crack den, so it’s understandable that she chooses to unleash the hate on the dishes. I can live with that. And, when I’m feeling relatively mentally stable, I do them with an alarming frequency. Unfortunately for her I’m rarely stable. But for a motorcycle, I could fake it. And, for several months, the ruse has been in play.

I declared victory three weeks ago. I found a banner that said “Mission Accomplished” on eBay for a good price (used once on a large ship!) and purchased it.

Come April, this fool is getting him a motorcycle. Today, I dropped into her salon and smugly declared to The Wife that I’d been faking stability and the dishes for months in order to gain approval for a bike.

“You haven’t been fooling anyone. You’ve never been stable” she deadpanned.

I tried to saunter out of there like I knew that. I won. Every aspect of our marriage is a competition, I kid you not. And then she dropped the bomb on me.

“Oh, and by the way? I said you could buy one, I never said you could ride it.”

Uli Motorcycle Dreamin' Barbara, Chewie, the Heathens, The Wife

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.

Uli Less Lardass "Ryan" the Sadist, CrossFit Craziness, RoJo, the Heathens, The Wife

"No, it really IS a Rolex...see?"

There is a scene in the 2004 remake of “Man On Fire” where the protagonist Creasy (Denzel Washington), while engaged a murderous spree of vengeance, is questioning a corrupt cop in Mexico. The cops’ name is Fuentes, and as part of a  vigorous interrogation of the filthy scum, Creasy has ominously placed a five minute time-bomb in Senor Fuentes’ rectal region. Fuentes is furiously bargaining for his life, trying to bribe his way into salvation, when the following conversation takes place:

Fuentes: A last wish, please, please. Please.
Creasy: Last wish? I wish……. you had more time.

You can well imagine what happens next.

I love that movie.

But, it is more than just a great scene where the flawed hero exacts revenge on someone worthy – it’s a universal wish we all have, especially as we grow older and the time span between years shrinks. Right now, this very moment, I’m cramming in our little conversation here while waiting for The Heathens to return home; then it’s a quick buzz to the CrossFit torture palace, off to the firehouse to cover a shift for three hours, then home at 11pm, up at 4am, back to gym, then another shift cover (48 straight with firefighters makes for some ADD-addled moments) and back to my own fire station. All this before Friday. This is not a complaint, however. Life is good, sometimes better than that, and I’m grateful for all the positive aspects we can experience.

I just want to make those positive aspects last a little longer, take time to enjoy it all. Like a kid slowly pulling apart string cheese, as opposed to cramming it all down your throat, some things take time to be parsed, enjoyed, savored even. I like making a cup (or pot, or two pots) of coffee last two hours while shooting the breeze with a good friend. I enjoy the hassling that goes on between firemen after a union meeting, when we get a chance to flap our jaws with brothers from other stations. You can’t really buy that entertainment. When The Wife has a particularly engaging client down in the salon, I’ll happily idle away ridiculous amounts of time listening to their latest tales of woe and scandal.

Most would label this behavior “procrastination”. And by “most” I mean “my wife”. While this seems to make sense when you see the piles of work that need attention at our house, I might beg to differ. I enjoy these moments where we interact and bullshit and trade in on our mutually shared experiences. Yes, yes, we all have obligations like feeding our kids and not letting them become methamphetamine pushers, important little footnotes that we have as parents. I’m just hoping that we all get enough moments where the laughs come freely, the needs we have as social beasts are being met (with the exception of The Dirtbag and Bones, two people in my life who would enjoy most aspects of living in a cave) and we can just think “yeah, it’s all good.” Even in our darkest moments, none of us look to the dishes for consolation when a loved one is stricken with a disease – we turn to those we can embrace, those who support us, those we love. Those with whom we spend time.

Even a guy with a bomb up his ass knows this.

Uli Family DysFUNction CrossFit Craziness, the Heathens, The Wife

The Wife & My Replacement

Every week on the Springfield Bloggers site they have a Take It & Blog subject that we’re invited to write about. Since my mind is currently more of a muddled mess than usual, I think this is a great opportunity to have someone else come up with the theme and I’ll just fill in the answers. The question this week was “how did you meet your significant other?” Sit back my friends, while I weave a tale of lust, deceit, scandal and the most heavily exercised triceps in three counties.

Back when I hired on the fire department, we were offered a membership at a brand new, city-owned fitness center as an incentive for keeping in decent shape. The year was 2001, I was emerging from a reasonably amicable divorce, lonely as hell and living in a place with no family, no roots and no money. Taco Bell on a Friday night was considered my extravagance.

Being as the membership to Chesterfield Fitness Center was free and thus fit into my budget, I began to devote a considerable amount of time to hanging out there. Having never lifted weights nor ever belonged to a gym, I had no idea under the sun what I was doing, so I just followed other firefighters and moseyed around the machines and flapped my jaws. Somehow in the process I lost 30 pounds, a mystery diet that seems heavily influenced by aforementioned divorce.

Then one day she came in. I’m too cynical to believe in such asinine concepts as “love at first sight”, but I remember well thinking, the very first time I saw her, “man, if I could date someone as beautiful as her…….”. Surrounded by a posse of her friends, she was intimidating, laughing all the time, looking confident and self-assured while I resembled slack-jawed hairy troll, getting all knotted up in the weight machines. I dated quite a bit after becoming single, but nothing of significance. I had to meet her, but I lack any sort of confidence in this arena; I realized that I’d need to plot out this meeting like a good soap opera, coincidentally meeting her, faking a pregnancy and then forcing her to fall in love with me.

I enlisted the help of Shane, a trainer there at the gym. He told me that yes, he knew her, that surprisingly enough she might be single, that yes, she’s very funny, I should just go up and introduce myself. Stupid Shane…you can’t just do such a thing. Clearly he didn’t watch enough soaps. I began trying to catch her eye from the machine closest to where she was working out – the triceps rack. I would work that machine like a man possessed, arching eyebrows, casting glares, anything to snag her attention. She blissfully ignored me, laughing with all the meat-heads who tried talking to her, the rat-bastards. Despite developing some freaky triceps strength, it didn’t take long before I realized I needed to engage Plan B…..actually talking to her. This was going to be painful.

Do you remember those old cartoons where the dumb crow would shake his head and mumble “oh, no,no,no,no, duhhhh, nope” while his mother-crow harangues him in a thick German accent? Do you? Because that is the closest approximation to my attempts to strike up any conversation. She laughed at me. My friends and co-workers laughed at me. And, when no one was looking I laughed at me. Utilizing such brilliant lines as “so……it’s almost tax time, right?”(my brilliant line in April) and “Vegas, huh? Yeah…..Vegas is cool. Yeah….I LOVE Sigfried and Roy, yeah” (another attempt at ironic humor), it was no wonder she regarded me as some sort of illiterate moron with an inability to converse with anything smarter than a concrete curb.

Never mind that she was recently divorced and vigorously ogled by men for miles. Never mind that she had a boyfriend. Never mind that I’m clearly incapable of anything in the neighborhood of “smooth”. Akin to the big cats of the African veldt or the protagonists of daytime television, once something is in my sights, it’s nearly impossible for me to let go of it. I shucked whatever sense of dignity and self-respect I might have been holding on to and jumped headfirst towards the pavement of rejection. Finally, after screwing up the courage to ask her if she’d like to get lunch with me one day, she answered in the affirmative, completely throwing me off my game. I was so taken aback I just said “Great!” and walked away, no number, no plans no nothing but an idiotic grin and probably a stumble over a weight plate and on to my ass. Smooth.

That was nine years and two kids ago. To this day she still tolerates me, much to everyone’s surprise. Mostly mine. I never let her forget that, when done right, you can stalk someone into loving you. Then they panic and marry you out of fear, bear you children and love flourishes. It’s the classic American love story.

And yes…..we got married in Vegas.

Uli Take It & Blog Fridays The Wife

What The Pros Supposedly Rode.

I love lying to people, mostly my sons. If I was to be believed, Darth Vader built the Death Star on our 5 acres (right behind my shop), I used to be a Transformer until an accident at the power plant turned me into a human, I have a ninja on speed-dial on my phone who is ready 24/7 to fight crimes I encounter, I invented Legos one rainy Sunday and, coincidentally, I can both speak to and understand all animal life forms. These traits give me great credibility within the home, right up to the point where The Wife betrays me in favor of the truth. I curse her name when she does this. She has to, though, because I come by this capacity naturally, thanks to my father, The Lyin’ Dutchman. I grew up in a household where certain fabrications were spun out that we, his boys, were to take as gospel on pain of ostracization. An example, you say? Here are seven examples for you to consider:

• Pink Floyd , Supertramp and ABBA were Dutch bands (this is because my father is Dutch-Indonesian, hence, all things good in this world are, by default, Dutch. All bad things – well, those are usually Japanese, in his eyes)
• All major BMX stars purchase their bikes at Pep Boys Auto Parts, which is, coincidentally where my Huffy Thunder Road with the banana seat and get-your-ass-kicked fenders was bought.
• He invented the layout of the circuit board
• He got citizenship early from President Kennedy himself
• MIT was “a decent college”…..he’s a graduate, despite any sort of diploma or evidence of this education.
• He served as a tank commander in Korea ~ we’re not sure which country he was serving, none dared to ask.

…………..and most recently (as related by Bones, another of my five brothers):

• He invented the navigational strobe beacon found on aircraft as early as the 1940’s. Quite the achievement for someone under the age of ten.

Now, this might seem rude and crass to utilize this public forum to call out the old man for his fabrications, but I would argue to the contrary. If anything, they made growing up under his roof one constant adventure in fish tales. Yes, confusion reigned, especially when we dared to question the validity of his claims. A sad turn of events has led to the invention of the internet and search engines such as Google, thus making it easier to refute claims such as a long-referenced semi-professional soccer career (“stop being such a smart-ass. I was a pro. End of story.”) No, it was much simpler to weave a fabric of fabrication in the 70’s and 80’s, a fact not lost on me.

So now I’m faced with children who will have the ability to research my claims of leading a zombie army in the overthrow of a hostile military junta in South America way back when. But rather than being intimidated by technology spoiling my animated stories, I relish the challenge of  working around inconvenient truths. After all, part of the reason I became a father was to experience the thrill of lying to my kids in order to look cool. Some may label me a bullshit artist, but I prefer to go by “Dad”.

Uli Family DysFUNction Bones, the Heathens, The Lyin' Dutchman, The Wife