Cuties

I don’t really like December that much. Mostly because it is the time of year when winter really kicks in and there are several months before the sun starts to shine again. I’m convinced that whoever decided to put Christmas, Hanukah, and all the other December holidays in December, did so in order to put something fun and bright into an otherwise pretty dismal time. But there is one thing about December that I’ve learned to enjoy. It is the time of year that they sell those little tangerines at the grocery store. You know the kind that you can peel in about five seconds, usually don’t have seeds at all, practically already come de-pulped, and don’t even get your hands dirty. I love those sweet little treats and their juicy bursts of flavor. Cheers Mother Nature! Or should I say Noel? Actually, what does Noel even mean? I see it every December, but for all I know I’m posting propaganda opposing some guy named El. I’d rather not have a mob show up at my door for posting a decoration sporting “Noel” wanting me to join a death march to the rhythmic chanting of “No El”. I mean, I don’t even know El, or his political views, personal aspirations, or strength of character. I would need to study the issues before casting my vote. Or maybe Noel is jumbled up letters symbolizing something else. There’s a word for that. My brother would know. Does it really mean Lone, like the Lone Ranger? Or Leon? Who the heck is Leon?! But whatever, that angry anti-El mob, the Lone Ranger, and Leon better all stay away from the groves that bring December tangerines.

Let's all go to the Lobby

I was once corrected for syntax on an answer I gave to an everyday question. This question was, “How are you doing”. I simply answered, “Good”. It was explained to me that the correct answer to that question is, “I’m doing well”. I guess you can’t be doing ‘good’, unless you are Mother Teresa or something and you’re out waiving flies off of orphans. But if you are genuinely feeling healthy and happy, and you’re commenting on your general state of being, then you are doing ‘well’. Yea, okay, I get it. I’ve even tried to give the correct answer when asked that question. However, lately I’ve noticed that some people are so concerned about giving the correct answer to that question, that they will answer “I’m doing well”, even if that isn’t necessarily the question that was asked. As if your answer to this question is an actual status symbol to fit you into the appropriate stratum of society. For example, is the appropriate answer to the questions “How are you doing” and “How are you” necessarily the same? I’m not so sure, because if someone asks me “How are you” and I answer “I’m doing well”, it doesn’t seem to me that I’m even answering the question that was originally asked, and in that case I’m actually being rude trying to make sure I appear cultured to those around me. Or maybe, in a round about way, I am answering the question correctly according to syntax, but to me it feels more like I’m forcing a round peg into a square hole. Perhaps more appropriate answers to the question “How are you” would be something like “Sick to my stomach”, or “Green with Envy”, or “Utterly in Love”, or “Bored to Death with this Blog”. I would even argue that an appropriate answer to that question would be “Good”. I admit, if I just got done blasting a 3-run shot to center to win the game in extra innings, and someone asks me “How are you” and I answer “Good” it could come across as haughty and smug, but nonetheless, it is still, what I would consider, a correct answer. Now, I realize that I’m doing the very thing that urked me in the first place and now I feel like a tattle, but hey, I’m not the one who started it. In the future, unless I’m in a job interview, I think I’m going to respond to such questions with a one-word answer, “Fine”. That’s because “Fine” has a fat heel and won’t fit into either one of these stilettos. I can’t be “doing” fine, and I’m definitely not at any point “Fine”, unless you were to consider the slang form of the word, in which case I could dress myself up to be “Fine” in an overpriced tuxedo, which, to this point in my life has yet to happen and perhaps never will. Using “Fine” to this question will be my way of being mysterious and edgy. That may be beneficial actually. I mean, every girl has been brain washed by their mothers to think they just want a plain nice guy, but what they really want is someone with a mysterious side that they can tame. This will be my subliminal way of being mysterious like those ads that come on before a movie that make you crave a Coke, even when you don’t drink Coke. Soon, girls will be flocking to me without even knowing why.

Gravy

This Thanksgiving I wanted to do some cooking, so I stopped by the grocery store on Thursday morning on my way to my mom’s house to pick up a few things. As I was walking through the isles I was stopped by a guy who said, “Scewz meh, cud ya tuhl me whur uh cud fine smm gurayvee”.
Having a hard time sifting through his thick southern accent, I asked, “Excuse me”.
To which he repeated his question, “Uh sed, cud ya tuhl me whur uh cud fine smm gurayvee”.
“Gravy? Umm, I think you might find some canned gravy by the soup, but I’m not sure”. I then looked down at his handful of items and realized that this guy was trying to piece together a Thanksgiving meal. I felt a bit sorry for him, thinking that maybe he didn’t have anywhere to spend Thanksgiving or perhaps that his wife was punishing him by making him cook it this year. But whatever the background story, it was abundantly clear that he didn’t know how to cook. For a moment I thought I should explain to him that you generally don’t buy gravy, you make it, but then I thought that it would probably take several days of cooking shows to get the point across, so I simply said, “Good luck”. He reminded me of one of those guys on the Carl’s Junior commercials that is poking a package of ground beef with a befuddled look on his face trying to figure out how to turn it into a burger.
I’m not sure where I picked it up, probably through my parents and brother, or through simply following a recipe, or through trial and error, but this year I’m thankful for knowing how to cook. That, and a whole bunch of the other things I generally take for granted; like knowing how to iron, check my oil, do my own laundry, fold my clothes, make my bed, vaccum, clean the bathroom, mow the lawn, change a tire, fix drywall, replace a light, paint a wall, wash my car, shine my shoes, pay my bills, prune a shrub, tie a tie, shave, install a video card, install a car radio, swallow a pill, ride mass transit, fill a propane tank, run a snow blower, assemble a piece of furniture, chop wood, hang a picture, wash a dog, jump start a car, and even how to make gravy.

Happy Thanksgiving! (Only a week late.)

My New Hat

I went to the Jazz game tonight and my buddy took this picture of me. Do you like my new hat?

A Victory for the Ages

On Sunday night, I was invited to play Cities and Knights with Doug and Tom, two of my brother’s friends who are pros at the game. Not only are they pros as Cities and Knights, but they are also pros at life in general. They live in a posh east side neighborhood in large houses, drive cool cars, have great families, sweet jobs, and are genuinely kind and caring people. The invitation to play that I got while sitting in my room that I rent from my friend on the opposite side of the city is one that I wouldn’t possibly turn down. We played at Tom’s house, which is beautiful. I had starry eyes all night. The outing was like the AA Springfield Mud Ducks playing against the New York Yankees in Yankee Stadium. Because of my general excitement just to be there and because I hadn’t played the game in several months, I made several dumb mistakes at the game’s outset; first, I placed my city and settlement on hexes with identical numbers, so only three numbers out of twelve would produce resources, second, I placed my city in a location that would only produce one type of commodity, and third, I wasn’t adjacent to a single ore hex, a highly critical resource. On this night, not only were the Mud Ducks playing the Yankees in Yankee Stadium, but I penciled in my left hander that throws like a little girl as my starter. I was in deep trouble. I knew it, Tom knew it, Doug knew it, and even Tom’s little girls who came in at the start to see what game we were playing knew it. The game progressed along as expected with the two thoroughbreds dieseling around the track in the lead with the pony trailing along behind with its jockey just trying to get it to stop smelling the daisies or keeping it from running in circles. Tom and Doug had serious strategy steaming out their ears while I sat on the side being the banker and trying not to be humiliated when asking to be reminded about certain rules or what on earth certain cards even did. Towards the end of the game, Tom was one point away from winning, Doug was close behind, and I was still not adjacent to a single ore hex. And then, on one fateful turn, I was able to earn 4 points while Tom and Doug were busy trying to keep each other from winning. At first I thought I was just saving face, but then Doug decided to count up my points, and it turns out that I had thirteen, the amount needed for victory. In shock, Tom recounted, and then Doug recounted, and both arrived again at thirteen. I recounted and came up with eleven, and then blushed as Tom and Doug counted one more time to assure that I indeed had won. Luck is all it was, but nonetheless a come-from-behind victory on par with Superbowl 3, or the Music City Miracle, or the Maverick’s being bounced in the first round of the playoffs by the Warriors. I couldn’t believe it, but also couldn’t stop grinning. As I walked to my car, I raised my forefinger high into the air, just like Broadway Joe. Okay, not really, but I wanted to. I then fired up my wobbly station wagon and drove away from the poshness back to my rented bedroom. Small victories . . .

Plain and Precious

I used to have trouble driving a manual transmission. This issue was probably because when I was a teenager I didn’t have a car with a manual transmission at my disposal to drive. In fact, I rarely had a car at my disposal at all. If I needed to go somewhere, I would usually ride my bike, or walk. During college I drove my mom’s old Corolla that had an automatic transmission. Occasionally someone would ask me to drive their cars with manual transmissions, and I would struggle. The worst was getting stuck in the intersection without being able to keep from killing the engine. People behind you are honking, people to your sides are laughing, the dang light is turning yellow, and if you don’t get your act together soon it’s going to be whiplash gang up time at the amusement park bumper car ride of your youth all over again. My heart would start racing and I’d get so nervous that instead of letting out the clutch smoothly, I would end up stomping on it like the bass petal of a drum set. At that moment, when I would look down at my leg and realize that I no longer had any control over it, the look on my face can only be described as the same look that Dr. Emmitt Brown had when he saw the tree branch fall and disconnect the lightning harnessing power line that, if not reconnected in the next five seconds, wouldn’t boost the Delorean into time travel but strand Marty McFly in the year 1955. Great Scott! The lowest point of my manual transmission education came when I had to drop my brother off at school and got stranded in an intersection on the south side of Chicago. I thought I was going to die, but luckily was able to peel out of there and make it home alive. Once that old Corolla started to teeter, I decided I needed a new car and the one I wanted had a manual transmission. I went to a parking lot to practice and took a buddy of mine along for the ride. After killing it a few times, my friend got frustrated and said, “Look, just do it like this”, and then made a motion with his hands, one representing the gas and the other the clutch. For some reason, that little lesson made driving with a transmission click in my brain and I’ve been able to do it ever since. I recently had a similar experience. My doctor recently prescribed pills for me to take. (Refer to a past post.) I’ve always had issues with pills, probably because I’ve rarely had to take any. I was talking with a coworker during lunch one day and told her of my predicament. After laughing at me for about 5 minutes, she looked at me and said, “Look, just do it like this”. After watching her swallow her own pill, something in my brain just clicked, and I’ve been able to swallow pills ever since. Occasionally one of my horse pills will go down sideways and the panic will begin to rise in my stomach, but overall it’s been smooth sailing. Thank goodness for plain and simple lessons that just click!

Deseret Rent-a-Blues

I feel like this blog is just becoming my personal soap box, but here I go again anyway. So on Saturday I cleaned up my room and bathroom and cleaned out my closet as well. I ended up with a garbage bag of clothes and shoes that I no longer want and have plans to take to the local thrift store, the Deseret Industries. This is a local chain of thrift stores that are largely managed by the mentally disabled and handicapped to give them an income. Well, I sort of got busy watching football and getting ready for Halloween parties that night, so I didn’t make it to the thrift store on Saturday. My plan was to drop off my bag on my way home from church, since there is a DI close to my home. When I got there, I noticed a rent-a-cop sitting in his car in the drop off area and signs that said, “No Donations Today”. Not wanting to make a scene on a Sunday afternoon, I just went home with the intention of dropping by with my bag on my way home one night this week. The other night I got around to doing it on my way home, but I don’t usually make it home until late, and the other night was no different. I think it was about 8:30pm or 9:00pm. Again, I pulled up to the drop off zone, and again there was a rent-a-cop sitting in his car working his way through a book of Sudoku. I didn’t want to come back a third time, so I got out of my car so I could get my bag out of my back seat and throw it in the donation bin. But the second my left foot hit the asphalt this rent-a-cop was all over me with his clenched fists and flared nostrils. Not wanting to get hit in the face with an overreacted blast of mace, I got back in my car and left. Apparently, you can only donate during business hours, and I’m at work during business hours, so I’m stuck with this bag of old clothes in my back seat.

Everyone has their procedures to follow, I get it, but this is the DI, a thrift store full of stuff that no one will pay more than a dollar per item for anyway. At a dollar per item, I was dropping off about $10 worth of old dress shoes and pants that didn’t fit right. What are they afraid of? Will some homeless guy come by and pick through my bag and take a pair of pants and cut their gross sales by a dollar? Hello, that’s a dollar! And besides, it’s a Not-for-profit, that dollar goes towards paying for salaries anyway and the pants would probably be purchased by the same guy. Will that dollar they don’t get from my pair of pants inhibit them from making payroll? If not, their product will end up in the same hands. Fire the rent-a-cop; let people steal a pair of pants once in a while, and you’ll come out ahead in the end. And besides, you have fewer products to sell when you dissuade donations, right? I also thought that they may be concerned that someone would come by and vandalize the donations. If so, who cares! How often could that possibly happen; once a month? When it does happen, just throw my bag of clothes in the dumpster. I know I would have if I could have found one somewhere between the DI and my home the other night. I couldn’t, so now I’m stuck with this bag in my car. I’m sure not going to take a day off so I can make it to the DI during business hours. Does anyone know of a thrift store that isn’t crawling with rent-a-cops?

Another Run-In With the Law

I’ve now experienced being profiled. On Friday night, I went to watch a cover band of The Misfits. I can’t remember the connection, whether it was my friend’s friend who was in the band, or a friend of my friend’s friend, or just some other acquaintance, but that’s how I found out about it. And of course, they played their set in a bar. I’m not a big Misfits fan, but it was kind of fun. But, on the way home, I drove into a police checkpoint on Redwood Road. I didn’t know what it was all about, but I pulled up to the nearest station and rolled down my window.

Me: Hello Officer.
Officer: Hello, where are you coming from?
Me: Downtown, I’m just heading home.
Officer: What were you up to tonight?
Me: I was at a bar. (Thinking to myself, “Stupid, you should have said a concert”.)
Officer: When was the last time you drank?
Me: Never.
Officer: Never?
Me: That’s right.
Officer: Will you follow me into the parking lot?

As I followed the officer into the parking lot, I was a little bit nervous. I was really tired and I wasn’t sure how well I would do at walking a tightrope. And was it possible to fail a breathalyzer test from second hand smoke? But then I thought to myself, “This guy just accused me of lying. I don’t like being accused of lying. Anyway, it’s probably a good thing that these guys are out here to catch the real offenders.”

Officer: Will you please step out of the car, Sir?
Me: Sure.
Officer: So you’ve never had a drink before?
Me: Nope.
Officer: Okay, put your feet together, hands at your side, and follow the end of this pen while I shine my flashlight in your eyes (Okay, he didn’t really say that last phrase).
Me: Okay.
Officer: Well, you’ve passed that test and I don’t smell any alcohol on you….
Me: (In my thought) that’s because I didn’t drink!
Officer: …but I better have you take one more test anyway.
Me: Okay.
Officer: Now, I’m going to have you breath into this tube, notice I didn’t touch the end you’ll use.
Me: That’s fine.
Officer: No, I need you to blow into the tube.
Me: Sorry, I thought you said to breath in it.
Officer: No, blow. (I could have put out my grandpa’s birthday cake.) Okay, you passed. You can keep that tube.
Me: Like a souvenir?

Yep, I passed. I got back in my car and started to drive home. When I was almost there I thought to myself that I didn’t get my license back. After checking my pockets, my wallet, under the seat, everywhere, I still couldn’t find it. So, I turned around and went back to the police checkpoint. Up until this point, I was okay with being profiled. I mean, the likelihood that a single 30-ish looking guy that is driving home from a bar at 1am would be drunk driving is probably greater than a pizza delivery guy at 6pm. But then I got back to the checkpoint and I noticed that there were about 20 policemen inside this little building eating donuts and another 20 out manning the checkpoint, all of whom were getting time and a half. I had to ask around for the officer that chose me, and sure enough, he was in on break.

Me: I didn’t get my license back.
Officer: Well, is it in your pockets?
Me: (Acting stupid and checking my pockets again.) No, it’s not in my pockets.
Officer: How about your car?
Me: No, I just checked there and didn’t see it.
Officer: Maybe you dropped it where you parked.
Me: Yea, that’s an idea, let’s go check.
Officer: I’m not sure what you would have done with it.
Me: Me neither, I don’t see it here.
Officer: (Checking his pockets) Oh, here it is.
Me: Thanks. Have a good night.
Officer: Drive safe.

Okay, I was starting to get a little fired up. This checkpoint was being handled by twice as many cops as it needed, all being paid with my taxes, and the guy had the typical smug police attitude and wouldn’t even apologize for having my license in his pocket, but it was partly my fault for not asking for it, so I just got in my car and left. But, as I left, out comes another cop car that proceeds to tail me half way home. I mean, I passed all their tests, and they forgot my card, and now they figured they had to follow me and run my plates through their system to see what came up. Give me a break. I need to move back to the east side

Game Night!

The glorious banner of Game Night has often been met with stiff opposition from monetary duty and household cleanliness. As endless nights pass with the constant hum of Infant-42’s flying overhead and the relentless bombardments of poopy diapers, our sanctums of colored mini cubed stratagem have often been blasted to rubble. Other tactics of priority and that most evil of enemies, a life too busy, have all but extinguished this candle of tradition. In my own life, for instance, the Pinochle games of my youth were interrupted by one of the game’s member’s relocation to Costa Rica. And even when he returned, our subsequent games of Hero Quest and Magic were halted by my own move to Mexico. This piercing of its jugular was nearly the end of it, as our members soon became scattered across the globe. Interspersed among long droughts, we occasionally had a game night that seemed more of a memorial than an actual event. But for those who believe, scrubbing the floors all night with a toothbrush is well worth the chance of only a few moments of late night gaming on the fourth Thursday in November. Hope conjures miracles. And this case was no different. Soon, a member of my gaming group was introduced to a little game involving the harvest of wheat, wool, grain, brick, and ore. This little beauty kindled in him a thirst for gaming that I feel cannot be quenched. Behind his leadership we had four years of Boise and Holiday peace. But peace never lasts, and the stenchy breath of war was breathing down our necks. The sinking ship of the S.S. Cookie Company required our fearless leader to jump ship for Africa and the abysmal distance of the Atlantic once again broke through our lines of defense. Fortunately, technology has improved since my youth to a point at which games can now be played over great distances. An advance which I believe has been fueled in no small part by the ranks of our cause. But I have been unable to participate. My Fuehrer CEO and his Third Reich of Upper Management have instructed its Secret Service IT department to snuff out anything with even a thread of hope or glimmer of amusement. Just as classic vinyl is broken for no other reason than having the same beat as a distress call, so too are the vast majority of internet sights blocked. I feel your pain Amadeus! (Or was it Wolfgang?) As in so many other instances, I once again am the weakest link. When all seemed lost, my broheim, the Patton of noble diversion and Montgomery of unassuming victory, rode in on his Sherman with a plan of attack that was clearly inspired by the subterranean procession of the United State’s internal conflict of the 1860’s. Indeed our cause is as encumbered as ever, but place two fingers on its neck and you will feel a slight pulse, one beating to the rhythm of our anthem, kept alive, if by nothing else than the memory of wind blowing across our fingers as we shuffle the cards. Maybe if I clap my hands and scream out it will bring this little guy back to life? Viva Game Night! Viva!

Nice

Here is a blog I started to write a while ago, but couldn't figure out how to finish. If you don't mind feeling like you've been left hanging a little bit, you can read this for a break in your day.

“Nice”, now there’s a compliment I could get used to. Thirty years of being “nice” is just the tip of the iceberg on this gem. When I hear its familiar rat-ti-tat-tat across my hull, I know it’s soon time to take a dive into the icy depths of never call me anymore. The razor-like chill of those waters is just like coming home. “Nice” is one arrow I’m glad to have in my quiver. Even better is when that supercompliment brings along its sidekick, the long drawn out “Soooo”. As soon as I’m distracted by the misty eyes and tilted head of the long drawn out “Soooo”, in comes a quick karate chop of “Nice”. If “nice” were a southwestern condiment, I wouldn’t be mild, or medium, but “Soooo”. Here are just a few of the perks of being nice. (Imagine me counting these out on my fingers.) First, I get to take out hundreds of other guys’ girlfriends so that they can make their boyfriends jealous that they’re not with them that night. Plus, I don’t have to waste all that money on myself. Second, upon approaching a girl, if I hear the word “nice”, I no longer have to worry about getting nasty calluses on my fingers from putting her number into my phone. Third, on most Saturday nights I can watch a nice game of basketball, while other less fortunate arrogant mysterious types keep those beautiful women at bay. Fourth, the few beautiful women that I do know would feel safe enough around me to cuddle up under a nice blanket and read a nice piece of poetry without any worries of wondering hands. Fifth, I get to be the backup boyfriend to hundreds. Not just plan B or plan C, but somewhere near the bottom of the totem pole. (Probably near N, for nice.) Sixth, married women tell me how nice I am, and at one point were even great enough to marry the teasing jerk to leave more of us nice guys for the rest of the girls. Seventh, great girls that I would like to hang out with think I’m so nice that they want to set me up with their friends. . . . . . trailing off into writers block, kerplooie!

A Near Disaster

I recently purchased new t-shirts and underwear. Since they are new, they are really big and drown me. They need to be put through some wash cycles so they shrink down a little. But today I am wearing a brand spanking new pair. This morning, I took a break to use the restroom and when I unzipped and reached for the hole, I couldn’t find the hole. I was a little startled and reached again, but still no hole. I tend to jump to conclusions, so the first thing that came to my mind was that I had put my underwear on backwards. My eyes widened in terror as I looked over my shoulders to see if anyone else was in the rest room. Thankfully, I was alone so that I could slap myself in the forehead. I really didn’t want to go into the stall to remedy the situation, because I would have to stand there wearing nothing buy my shirt. Plus, I could just imagine some guy peaking under the stall to see if it was occupied, and after seeing nothing but a pair of shoes and my bare legs, conjuring up wild images of some cross dresser in the stall hiking up his skirt to use the head. I groaned and assessed the situation further. To my relief, what had really happened was that my new t-shirt is so long that it was overlapping the hole so I couldn’t find the hole. I pumped my fist and let out a hoot. As I washed my hands I had some hesitation of leaving the restroom in fear that someone in the lobby had overheard my shout and drawn the conclusion that I was just overjoyed from being able to go at all because of an enlarge prostate. I decided to bury my chin in my chest as I took the walk of shame across the lobby and up the stairs to my office. The tellers or secretaries could have been snickering as I did so, but I wouldn’t have really cared if they had.

Random Thoughts

I recently read an article about a study that was done on obesity, I think from the Wall Street Journal, but now I can’t remember for sure. But anyway, this study claimed that obesity is actually a social epidemic. It claimed that if you have friends that are overweight, that you are more likely to be overweight as well. People that you work with or who live near you didn’t matter as much as a close friend, even if that person lived several states away. I thought it was an interesting article, but wasn’t sure how accurate it really was, since I have several friends who are husky gentlemen, and I still seem to be a bit wiry. In the end, I tossed it aside as an entertaining article to read one weekday during lunch and hadn’t thought of it since. But this Sunday, that article crept back to mind as I watched the general conference of my church. Throughout the conference, the choir performed several times as the cameras panned through its members and I couldn’t help but notice that the majority of them were overweight. At first I thought maybe my eyes were playing tricks on me because of the unflattering blue dresses that they wore, or my mother’s widescreen TV, or the rumor that television adds ten pounds, or all three. I even tried to convince myself that this trifecta could have a summing effect to make them all look 30 pounds heavier than they actually are. But even then I couldn’t help but think that this choir would be an excellent subject group for just such a study on obesity. These people fit the mold of the study, since they are probably all close friends, since they are required to spend a good majority of their free time practicing and performing together. And, its members come from all over, so they more than likely don’t all live close together either. And if this evidence truly was present, then the choir could be good evidentiary support for this particular author’s conclusion. Now, I’m not trying to say that they were all overweight, because several of them were rather skinny, but I’m sure that if you plotted the BMI of each of the choir’s members, the distribution curve would be negatively skewed. My church is known for having root beer floats after every social event, and if the choir is having refreshments after each practice and performance I thought it a good idea that they mix in a veggie trey to their menu selection.

And now, since I will most likely be struck dead by lightning momentarily, I bid you all a due. (-Click-)

Mr. Bluuuurg

I have a question. Why does everyone take the “hannes” out of Johannesburg to leave just the Joburg? Sure, Jo can wake you up in the morning, and it can be a great dinner to “Eat At”, but it’s pretty generic. And Burg sounds smug. I expect some old butler in a starched out tuxedo to look down his nose at me to say that “Mr. Buuuuurg” will see me now. Hannes, on the other hand, sounds completely gnarly, like a soccer player that is so good he only needs one name, or a compliment given to a guitar player after a sweet riff, or even something Brody would have said while plummeting to his death at the end of Pointe Break. “Vye-uh con Dee-Os Brody, that wuz utterly hannes, man”. Johannesburg without the “hannes” seems like a PBJ without any PB or J, just two dry pieces of wheat bread. Maybe when people ask me about my brother, I can leave off the Jo and the Burg and just tell them that he is on assignment in Hannes. That would be fun, kind of like licking the double stuff out of an Oreo. And then when they look at me and say, “Party on, Wayne”, I can look back and say, “Party on, Garth”. Hannes would be my vote, if there were votes for such things.

Hello Nurse! (I hope.)

So I’ve had this weird thing going on with my throat, so my doctor referred me to an ENT. I went to my ENT appointment on Tuesday and it turns out I have an ulcer on one of my vocal cords from acid reflux. Who knew? I don’t even get heart burn. Anyway, that’s nothing to really write home about, other than the fact that he put a fiber optic scope up my nose, around the corner, and down my throat to check things out and I felt like I was Neo from the Matrix. That and he gave me some pills to take. I hate pills! Yesterday I was able to get one down, but this morning I went through about a liter of water and the only thing that happened was the pill started to dissolve in my mouth and I spit it in the garbage and I had to pee four times before lunch. I hate pills! Yes, I’m using the word “hate” about pills. Why couldn’t he prescribe me some shots, or even some suppositories? Ugh.

That’s not the real story though, so I better stop stalling. The day after my appointment, someone from the doctor’s office leaves me a message asking me to call her back. Thinking it was some issue with my insurance, I called her back, but she didn’t have an official medical request at all. But instead, she asked if she could set me up with her friend from the office. She then proceeds to tell me how wonderful, and marvelous, and fantastic this girl is, just like anyone who ever sets up anyone with anyone does. While she’s shpealling off her resume to me, I’m putting two and two together in my head.

“What in the world”, I thought to myself, “this girl who I’ve never even met and just happened to notice me in the office yesterday went through the trouble to pull my file, check my marital status, and then call me up out of the blue. There are several possible causes for such an outcome. First, she could have thought it pathetic to notice me whimpering in fear at the thoughts of Morpheus plugging me into the Matrix, and took pity on me to boost my confidence. Second, her friend is Ugly Betty and this girl calls up every guy between the ages of 25 and 54 that checks single on their medical history. Third, whoever her friend is happened to mention to her that she thought I should comb my hair and decided to play a prank on her friend. Fourth, she happened to notice my posterior tautness and since she’s married wanted to have a vicariously good time with this hunk. –pause in thought– Nah, there’s probably only three possible causes for such an outcome. But still, that’s pretty flattering that she would want to set me up even though she only knew me by sight. I better say yes. Here’s hoping her friend looks like Trinity”.

Yea, I know, that’s a lot to process in a thirty-second phone call, but that’s how my mind works: mock speed in comparison to my tongue. So when it was finally my turn to open my mouth and voice my thoughts, all that really came out was, “Umm, sure, huh, huh”. I ended up calling her later that night and she seemed nice enough. But, I’m going to Las Vegas this weekend to watch the Utes play UNLV, so I told her that I would call her again when I got back in town to set something up.

For those of you that doubt the number of blind dates I’ve been on, let this serve as evidence, even complete strangers who I’ve never even said hello to will find a way.

To be continued . . . maybe . . . if you’re lucky . . .

State Fair

I went to the Utah State Fair on Saturday night. It was a surreal experience for me, since I didn’t even realize that they still had State Fairs. I felt like I was stepping back in time. There were all kinds of little amusement park rides, art exhibits that I didn’t bother to look at, a bunch of booths selling what you can only find at State Fairs and swap meets, and stages with people playing musical instruments, the kind you usually see people sit down to play, but that night were standing up and playing while kicking their legs out to the sides. There were games that you could play to win stuffed everythings, tetherball poles set up everywhere, and pony rides for the kids made out of real, living, breathing ponies. The roar of a tractor pull filled the air, but for some reason we could never find where the noise was coming from. It wasn’t loud enough to drown out the incessant jabbering of thousands of people though. Buildings upon buildings were filled with animals, all of which were tied up just right so that as you walked by all you really looked at was their rear ends. It stunk. I didn’t like the animal part of the fair, especially the pigs. They just laid there in their filth, covered in flies, and did nothing. And the line was slow, so I just stood there with my nose stuffed down the collar of my tee shirt. I couldn’t believe that when I came to the end of the line they were trying to charge me to see a pig that was supposedly the largest in the world. No thanks, a few small pigs were more than enough.

But my favorite part of the fair was the food. Everywhere you looked (accept in the pig tent) they were serving food. And the best part was that everything you could order was either served to you in a cup, a bag, or skewered on a stick. And almost everything that they served was covered in batter, plunged in a big tub of sizzling grease, and served to you within seconds of removing it from the pool without any time to let it drip dry. Kids everywhere were holding on to sticks with grease dripping down to their elbows, with mustard all down their faces, and cotton candy in their hair. And parents felt free to smoke near the carousel and double fist cups of beer while meandering down isles of neon plastic trinkets that in no way would still be working by the time their owners made it back to the car. Nope, there was definitely no “Over 18” or “Smoking” area at the fair. Personally, I had a large frozen lemonade, a fresh dipped corn dog, a pork-chop-on-a-stick, fresh cut fries (which came from a bag, rip off), and a deep fat fried Snickers bar. I didn’t even know that deep fat fried Snickers bars even existed. But it was so good, with its melted chocolate and nougat engulfed in a greasy hot pocket of freshly fried batter. At the same tent they had deep fried Oreo cookies, deep fried Ho Ho’s, and deep fried coca-cola, which I think was just coca-cola flavored batter. The guy doing the cooking was dipping the treats in the batter with his bare fingers, which almost made me look over my shoulder for the health inspector, but then I realized that this alternate reality from a time long past didn’t care about health inspectors, so I just decided to enjoy in the fun. As I walked away from this all-American good time, with a raging all-American stomach ache, thoughts of all-American stereotypes filled my mind.

Dump Truck

dump truck

–noun
a usually open-topped truck having a body that can be tilted to discharge its contents, as sand or gravel, through an open tailgate.

–verb
outplaying to a great degree the opposing team of a sporting event in all aspects of the game, usually resulting in a blowout.
















Okay, so the noun came from the dictionary and the verb is my own creation. However, I have heard the term used on Sportscenter, and it is the best word I can think of to describe what I witnessed at Rice Eccles Stadium on Saturday. It was the highest ranking team that the Utes have beaten in like 30 years or something. The scene was quite a party. I had so much fun.

PS – Here’s a picture of me at the tailgate before the game. I was pretty happy considering I thought I was going to be walking into a slaughter. And well, I guess it was a slaughter, but in the other direction. I was much happier walking back to the car afterwards.

My Drive Home Last Night

Well, that was a fun little reception put on by Chicago GSB. How cool that I already knew both of the second-years from my trip back to Chicago last fall. This made me want to reapply. I’ll have to think about it. I think I was so excited that I probably sipped down four glasses of water while I was sitting there. Speaking of that, maybe I should find a bathroom before I leave. Nah, I’ll wait until I get home. Typhoon eh? Not too bad, I’ll have to remember this restaurant. The Olympic fountain is under repair eh? What a shame, now I won’t have to watch little kids giving themselves an enema. Pfttt. Why did you park on the opposite side of this place? Now you have to walk two blocks. I need to go. I wonder if there is a restroom along here somewhere. Dang, no such luck. Now where did I park? Oh yea, down two sets of escalators. There is that green POS. I really need to go. Maybe I should just go against the wall before I get in my car. What? Are you serious? You’re not a hobo! Get in the car! This makes no sense. How did I drop down two levels in this place, but now I have to ascend through seven levels to get out? I hate this parking garage. Don’t they know I have an ever expanding grape fruit of a bladder that is pressing against the back side of my belt? Oh great! A line to pay. That wasn’t too bad. It’s a good thing I had a parking validation and didn’t have to pay. Now let’s get out of here. Oh good, one light to go and I’ll be on the freeway. Why is this thing not changing? Does it really know my predicament and wants to be cute? Go ahead, light, stare at me with your beady little red eye. It doesn’t bother me. Oh my word, this is ridiculous! You better change light! I’m serious! If you don’t change I’m going to get out of my car and give you a beating! Oh wow, you’re making me mad now. Light, you don’t want me to get out of this car! Oh, you’re really getting me mad now. I’m undoing my seat belt. I’m serious light! You don’t want me to open this door light! Okay, I’m reaching for the handle light! On the count of three I’m going to open the door and then you’ll be in real trouble light. I’m not even kidding! You better change light! You don’t want me to get out of this car! One… Two… Green! You’re lucky that I have to go or I would get out of this car and give you a beating just out of principle. Ok car, let’s go! Wow, what a night to have a car that does zero-to-sixty in fourteen minutes. I just had a 1972 VW bus beat me up this ramp. Okay, I’m on the freeway now and I’m cruising. I’m starting to sweat. Are you kidding? I can’t believe I just had to wipe off my forehead. Oh my word! I really don’t know if I’m going to make it. What are my options here? I could pull over and pee in the emergency lane. You’re not going to do that, come on now, just bite the bullet. What if I pulled off and used a gas station? That’s even worse than the emergency lane. I’ll just drive faster. Move you stinking minivan! I can’t get over. I can’t believe I can’t get around this minivan. Move! Oh my word! I swear I’ve been driving for 45 minutes and I’ve only made it to 33rd south?! My knee is shaking. Why can’t I stop my knee from shaking? I seriously can’t stop my knee from shaking! Out of the way Uhaul! Move it or lose it! Why does my jaw hurt? I think I must be clenching my teeth. Too late to think about that now, I’m starting to get double vision. Try singing a song to take your mind off it. Sing. Sing a song. Sing out loud! I’ll be there! . . . . What’s the use, not even Neil Diamond can help me out of this. Oh finally, my exit. Look truck, I’m not missing my exit! If I have to cut you off I’m getting over! Okay, I made that. What on earth, I made the tires squeal going around that corner?! I didn’t know that was possible in this car. My leg is seriously going to stomp a hole through the floor. Whoa, whoa, whoa! I think a drop may have just come out! I’m in serious trouble here. Finally! The gate to my complex. What’s the code again? Hurry gate! Hurry! Okay, just park the car, leave the engine running, and go! Wait, I need my keys to get in the house, go back to your car and get them. Where’s the door key? Where’s the door key?! I’m running in circles in my front yard while I look for my door key! I’m shaking. Where in the world is the key! Why is it so dark out here?! There it is! Come back and shut the door later! I just jumped up those stairs in three strides. Zip! Oh my, the sweet sweet Niagara of relief, the Nile of reprieve, the meandering Mississippi of liberation! I’m teetering. I should use my off hand to brace myself against the wall. Ah, much better. Oh yea….. What’s this? That’s the first time it’s given me an intermission. But what do I do? I’m already in the bathroom. Oh good, here comes Act II. Whoa, I just got the shivers

Spamalot

I went and saw Spamelot last week with my mom and I loved it. It was seriously cracking me up! Thanks to my mom’s season tickets, I’ve seen quite a few Broadway shows over the years, and this one was one of my favorites; this one, and the one with all the Trombones are probably my two favorites. I don’t remember the trombone one’s name. Anyway, Spamelot, which is based on the movie Monty Python and the Holy Grail, is better than the movie. My favorite part was when the power hungry father is trying to talk his gay son into getting married. Whoever the actor was for the part of the gay son had hilarious mannerisms and body language, which made the funny dialogue even better. I’ll try to type out a piece of it, as I remember it.

Power Hungry Father (in a clenched fist growl): Don’t you understand that if you get married you’ll be king?
Gay Son (in a soft, high pitched, apologetic, drawl): But I don’t want to be king.
Power Hungry Father: But if you get married, we’ll double our lands!
Gay Son: But I don’t want land.
Power Hungry Father: And you’ll be rich!
Gay Son: But I don’t want to be rich.
Power Hungry Father: Well, what do you want?
Gay Son: (The lights change color as the son looks far out into an unseen distance) I want to sing! (And then he breaks into song at the utter disgust of the Father.)
Power Hungry Father: Oh stop that will you?!

It doesn’t sound that funny when you read it, but mix in this guy’s rapid elasticity and fluttering fingers and it was classic!

There is also a recurring song throughout the play, as there seems to be with all plays, that emphasizes the show’s underlying theme. This one had a punch line of “never fail, find your grail”. Through its overtly gushing attempts at inspiration, the show tries to convince the audience to play to its strengths, or find its individuals callings in life, or do what it enjoys, or however you want to label “it”. Something the gay son had obviously found. I like inspiration that encourages me to follow my heart, perhaps because I get tired of the world telling me of the mold I have to fit in to be successful, or perhaps because I find it exciting to get and follow that inspiration, even though others or even I may not understand it at first. But anyway, I found the show funny, entertaining, and inspiring. I recommend it.

Gram-Pa

My grandpa is a man of few words, and I like that about him. I visited him on Monday with my mom. At one point he was talking with my mom, and while pointing at me, he said, “I always thought this one would be a good Father”. I was taken back and I’ve thought about what he said. Sure, I have a ten-year-old mentality and maturity so I can relate well to kids, I spent a good portion of my childhood on a trampoline so I know how to give a good bounce, and I got most of my clothes for free so I don’t mind getting home and finding that my pockets have been filled with spaghetti. Heck, half the time I fill my own pockets with spaghetti for a mid-morning snack. But does all of that make me a good candidate for fatherhood?

I look at my own father and think of the qualities that made him excel at the position, and I think that he was a good provider, was a good disciplinarian, and he always treated me with respect, as an equal. Good grief, I don’t do any of those things! I talk my more successful friends into renting me space in their homes because I can’t afford my own, I’m a total pushover, and I ask my own nieces and nephews for advice because I look up to them so much. Seriously, I’ve sat in my brother’s back yard and watched my two nieces fight, pulling hair, scratching, and hitting. And instead of breaking it up, I sat between my two nephews and took bets on who I thought might win. I’m sure at that point of the fatherhood hiring process, I would have been thrown out of the interview. I don’t know if my father knew everything about being a dad, but he must have been doing something right. I mean, I didn’t turn out too well, but look at my brother!

Nonetheless, I liked it when my grandpa said that about me. And I’ve concluded that the emphasis of his statement should be on the “would”. I’m clearly not a good father now, but potentially I could be. I find that motivating. For isn’t that the true and most noble form of motivation; to have someone else notice great potential within you that you haven’t yet been able to notice in yourself? In my own experiences, that is how God has been able to motivate me. It’s wonderful that Grandpas so often have a divine manner of doing things. I know mine does.

Pocatello Speed Trap

I drove to Idaho Falls yesterday with my mom to visit my grandpa. It was a fairly leisurely drive, not much traffic. After two and a half hours of driving, I needed to use the restroom and the rest stop right before Pocatello was closed, so I thought I would pull over in Pocatello and use a restroom at a gas station. As I reached the top of the hill the southbound side of the freeway was closed and they had both directions of traffic merged onto the northbound side. Suddenly a cop passes me going the opposite direction. I look up in the rearview mirror and this guy is fish tailing his way through a Rosco P. Coltrane U-turn in the dirt and gravel on the shoulder of the highway and I think to myself, “He can’t be getting me, I’m barely moving. Oh wait, I’m going 75 mph, but still that’s not bad. What’s the speed limit here, 65 mph? There are some orange barrels around, maybe its 55 mph. Oh crap, that’s 20 mph over. But what does he care; I’m the only one on the road right now. No harm no foul. I’ve just been driving for a long time and didn’t realize how fast I was going”. But sure enough, here comes Mr. Flashy. “Are you kidding? He can’t be getting me. I wasn’t doing anything reckless. 75 mph?” The exit was right there, so I pulled off and into the gas station parking lot. Through the mirror I could see him put on his tasselly flat brimmed hat, get out of his car with his hand on his gun in fear that I might be a member of AlOreIda, and do a quick spit shine on his silverbadged superman mark of honor. I rolled down my window and gave him my license.

Rosco: In uh ‘urry?
Me: No, not really.
Rosco: You comin’ up from Utar?
Me: Yes. (While thinking to myself “What does that matter?”) We’re going to visit my grandpa in Idaho Falls for the day.
Rosco: Registrayshun ‘n prewf of inshurence puhleeze.
Me: Huh?
Rosco: Uh sed, Registrayshun ‘n prewf of inshurence puhleeze.
Me: Come again?
My Mom: Here you go officer.

Thank goodness my mom speaks Pocatello. Rosco then heads back to Mr. Flashy. At this point I’m thinking to myself, “He’ll look in his computer, notice that I’ve never had a ticket, and give me a warning.” But sure enough, after a considerable amount of time, much more time than is really needed to fill out a three-by-five form, he nails me for the full amount, and then begins a sermon that I only understood two words of: n’kay and Rooster. I could read between the lines that he just hated out-of-Staters. He then tapped the car and said, “Yew Druv Sayf Nah”.

Drive Safe?! I’ve been taking smack from friends, family, casual acquaintances, and complete strangers for years for my conservative, ten-and-two, too afraid to get in the fast lane, check your blind spot, pray before driving to the corner, extra reflectors, wait for Titanic-sized openings . . . . ah, forget it, I need to pee. There, that’s better . . . let people cut me off, never run a yellow, check left, then right, then left, then right, then left again style of driving, and you tell me to drive safe? I couldn’t believe the smugness. This guy clearly must have been a hall monitor as a child. Either that or he had a quota to fill. If so, I hope my contribution helped him with job security, or to reach his bonus for most tickets handed out for the day. To you, Corporal Rosco of Pocatello Idaho, I commend you for being a champion revenue earner. Whatever, I guess we all have a mortgage to pay.

The rest of the day, I safely set the cruise a couple miles under the limit and watched like a hawk for any change in the allowed speed. At one point, I swore I saw an RV flip on its lights. I’ve never been so happy to cross a State line. As we hummed through a very similar construction zone in Ogden, as the speed trap I was caught in near Pocatello, we were doing 65mph in bumper to bumper traffic, and I looked over and noticed a Utah Highway Patrolman helping a lady fix her flat tire. He had no tasselly hat, just rolled up sleeves. I noted to my mom that that is what a cop should be doing, not flagging down harmless accidental solo flyers to boost the municipal budget.

Happy Holidays

When I was a kid, I remember I used to love Christmas. There isn’t a lot about Christmas when I was a kid that I actually remember, and maybe that, because it was so simple, is why I enjoyed it so much. I remember I would agonize over what I would put on my Christmas list and then once I had given it to my mom I would torture myself with thoughts of a larger than life individual dressed in red maybe not giving me what I had asked for, even though it was something completely small, like a couple of plastic GI Joe dolls. Then I remember running to the advent calendar every December morning to put an ornament on it. Once the day finally arrived, we would have a nice dinner, open a present on Christmas Eve, and then finish off our other gifts on Christmas morning. And that was it; perfectly dumb.

Now that I’m older and Christmas rolls around, I usually scratch my head for a whole month trying to figure out what to ask for as presents, and bang my head against the wall even more trying to figure out what to buy for presents. I already have everything and everyone I know already has everything. Why do we still do this gift thing? It’s the end of the year, so I’m swamped at work. I’m required to go to a hundred Christmas Parties, several of which I’d rather streak through than actually attend. And it’s dark and cold outside. Basically, Christmas has lost that simple hang out with the family and be a kid for a day feeling, and has become a big steaming pile of stress. I’m usually too busy running around with my hair on fire to actually remember what I’m supposed to be celebrating. Bah humbug! The highlights of my Christmas Days over the past several years have been watching the Lord of the Rings Trilogy with my mom and playing some Euro board games with my broseph.

But that doesn’t mean that I don’t still have a day filled with anticipation and excitement. It’s a day that I can’t seem to concentrate on what I should be thinking about, because my mind is filled with dancing sugarplums. It’s a day that I don’t really feel guilty for daydreaming all day at work when I should actually be working. Weeks before I agonize over my wish list and then torture myself with thoughts that I might not actually get what’s on it. The night before it I can’t sleep because I’m tingling with adrenaline. And I can’t seem to wipe off that goofy grin from my face all day. Indeed, my favorite day has migrated counterclockwise by four months to late August to the start of the College Football season. It’s a day that you can just have a big meal, relax, dress up in goofy clothes, laugh, jump around in circles, hug complete strangers, cheer on larger than life individuals dressed in red, and act like a silly little kid. And that’s it; perfectly dumb.

Happy Holidays to everyone, and to everyone a good game! Go Utes!

PS - Having your QB and RB go down with injuries in the first half of the first game is like waking up Christmas morning, opening your gifts, and getting nothing but socks. You're kind of bumbed, but its still a great day!

Swimming of the Bulls

I hate cold water; hate, hate, hate it I tell you. I hated the swim test at scout camp when I was a kid. While on my mission in Mexico we didn’t have hot water heaters and I since I hated taking cold showers, I learned to lather, rinse, and repeat in 30 seconds flat. I’m certain I looked and sounded a lot like the Tasmanian devil on one of his slobber slinging rampages. It’s a good thing I’m skinny and don’t have much skin to wash. I hate water skiing, jet skiing, surfing, body boarding, and every other type of board-over-water type of activity. If it wasn’t for a little invention called the bikini, I’d never go. Good grief, I’m shivering!

This weekend, I went to Flaming Gorge and we decided to take an afternoon to run the river. When we first got to the river and I stuck my foot in to check the temperature, I nearly cursed out that infernal H20’s mother. And I almost walked on water as we pushed off from the shore. Needless to say, I was bound and determined not to fall in.

Our trip down the river started out okay, and except for my friends sprinkling some water down my back, it was a great time. Fortunately, I was on the fun boat. Unfortunately, those on the boring boat decided to get themselves out of there doldrums by ruining my calm and chasing off my chi. Water fights ensued. Luckily, I was sitting on the tail of the boat, where it is easiest to manipulate its direction, so I continually pointed the front of the boat towards the other raft, regardless of whether we were headed over some rapids or not. (Let’s not kid ourselves; the Green River below Flaming Gorge Dam doesn’t have any rapids at all, just a few speed bumpy ripples and some boulders to get high centered on.) The two girls sitting in the front of our raft were drenched to the bone. It was awesome! We also had better rowers, so we outran them for a while.

As we neared the take out, the other boat was frustrated with me using our girls as shields. They were able to sidle up to the front of our raft and grab hold. My buddy, who outweighs me by 50 pounds, crouched down in a Carl Lewis and began to charge. As he bull rushed me down the length of our raft, passing down the middle between the two girls and my two buddies with nostrils flaring, I stood up and braced myself. He lowered his shoulder, I swiveled my hips, and “Boom!” he flew right over the side. I raised my arms in triumph just like Nitro from the American Gladiators. He somehow managed to grab onto the side rope and as I went to finish him off, my two friends decided to rebel in mutiny and try to throw me over. As we fought and struggled, and pulled hair and bit legs, with my foot caught in a fishing net, scratches up and down my arms, and a few bruises from oar handles, I looked up from the bottom of that raft and wondered how it was physically possible for a dust cloud to form on the back of a drenched raft floating down the river, but it did. When the dust settled, I was still on the raft, King of the Mountain. One of my littler friends decided to take the chicken’s way out and swim around the back of our raft and pelt me with cups full of water, so by the time we got to the dock, I was as wet as anyone. But that didn’t matter, because the adrenaline helped ward off the cold and victory was mine.

Kung Fu Hachoo

Today at work I found this file that I wrote last year when I was first going to try making a blog. I couldn't figure out how to blog at the time, so I didn't post it. But now that I have a blog, I thought I'd throw it in here, because I thought it was kind of funny to read it again. Here it is:

I created this blog so I can post a comment on my nephew Mason’s blog. Mason and his parents are currently in Vietnam adopting a little baby girl named Lucy. All three of them have been keeping blogs to inform the rest of us back in the States of their progress. Today I read Mason’s blog and found out that he was a little scared of a man they found in their hotel room asleep. For several years now when I’ve gone to his house, he has karate chopped and kung fu kicked me until I’ve hobbled around like Phil Jackson. Aren’t I at all more scary that a passed out drunk? Sometimes I wish I wasn’t just a nice guy and that I could be mean and ferocious, like a wolverine or a hot girl who finds me hanging out on her lawn.

I’m the crazy uncle who sits quietly in the corner until dessert time so I can elbow my way through a crowd of children to be first in line for cake. I may, or may not, also be overly protective of my original action figure of Blue Tooth Tony from the Cosmic Sacred Death cartoon series of the late 1980’s. But I have no choice. If it is taken out of its original packaging it loses all of its value. Besides, I already have my Volcanic Zombie Flesh Eater costume picked out for the 23rd Annual Plutonian Action Figure and Cartoon Convention in Reno, Nevada, and if I don’t have my originally preserved copy of Blue Tooth Tony I won’t be able to impress Super Gazer Goth Girl. Last year I was standing in line for my free sample of Albuterol when she pushed through the line right in front of me. She smiled at me and touched my arm. It was magical. I really think it is meant to be. That smile pulled me in just like the Death Star’s tractor beam when it pulled in the Millennium Falcon in Star Wars Episode 4. Those white teeth shone through the black lipstick like sunlight through rain clouds. Zultan!

Ok, none of that is true; accept that part about the cake. In reality I have sat in a box for the last 4 years staring at a computer monitor. I’m quite certain that the pixilation is causing me to redevelop the lazy eye I had in my youth. If they were to spread newspaper under my chair and throw a food pellet in my inbox at noon, I would officially be a hamster, a 30-year-old lazy eyed hamster.

Holy Whoa! This is a train wreck. It’s a good thing that no one is likely to ever read this or I may very well be required by law to take therapy . . . . again. Well there I am, I’m all signed up and ready to blog. If I return to this site and see two profile views, I will wonder who on earth you were. In my mind I will hope you were Jessica Biel and that you found me because we secretly are the only two people on earth who truly “get” the genius of Daniel Day Lewis’ character portrayal of William Cutting. You, and John McEnroe. I don’t know why. I just think John McEnroe is cool. Who else can get away with putting a head band over an afro, wearing nutter shorts in public, and screaming at the top of his lungs, “You cannot be serious”. Now that’s a man’s man.

PS – If you are Billy Bob McGraw from Mobile Alabama and you are looking for the guy from the local NRA office because he keyed your 1984 Camero, I’m not him. But if you happen to know Super Gazer Goth Girl can I have her number?

Of Chalkboards and Fingernails

There is a place of horrendous emotional agony and self confidence mutilation reserved only for those individuals nice enough to be trapped underneath the sexually suffocating glass ceiling of casual camaraderie. Somewhere whose long forgotten, one-and-done first date populace unwantingly echoes the refrain, "Fifty bones for a platonic a-frame embrace? You’ve got yourself a deal Baby!" Yep, I'm talking about a little place called The Friend Zone. And yours truly, Mr. Nicest of the Nice and Sweetest of the Sweet, am mayor of said local and I rule over my people with a timid fist and a shy demeanor. All those who desire are welcome to walk over me and stab me in the back on their way to citizenship. You will no longer find me in my office at city hall, but in the ICU at the local hospital, prescribed to heavy bed rest because of a chronic case of Big Brother Syndrome, with a hetero gauging thermometer in my mouth and a bed pan near the window that pitches instead of catches.

The Friend Zone has muddy grey streets, brown lifeless parks without a blade of grass or petal of a flower, and the architecture is entirely subterranean ensuring we are all firmly entrenched in the cellar. At night, no man dares wander the streets, nor even lift the hatch to his bomb-shelter-esk abode, because the ghouls of "muffed dates", skeletons of "missed opportunities", and zombies of "bad decisions" drop from the hills with pitchforks of “discouragement” and “burnt out” torches on an all night death march of terror. As dawn approaches, they laugh their way back to wherever they came from, arm in arm, with catcalls over their shoulders of “I’m so glad we’re friends” and “You’re just like my brother”. The pain of their wailings is indescribable.

Occasionally during the daytime, my friends will gather around my sickbed like Dorothy with the Scarecrow, Lion, and Tin Man, as we discuss new strategies and tactics for making it out of this hellish dimension. Just the other day my friend was telling me of a place he reached where small rays of sunshine actually broke through the storm clouds, and I incredulously asked, “So you mean to tell me that the sign by that trail actually said, ‘She touches your leg’”. At that moment a second friend broke in and told me of a similar place he had seen, where a leaf had been growing on the tree, and etched in the truck thereof was the phrase, “Second Date”.

Those urban myths were like a revelation of hope, a glimmer of possibility, a flash of encouragement, and whisper of potential. It was enough that I left the hospital and returned to my home to make plans of escape. Soon, I will clasp on my shimmering armor of apprehension, strap down my helmet of halitosis, clutch onto my shield of virginity, and raise my stammering sword of indecisiveness and venture out into the unknown in daily repeated attempts to break through the friendship quarantine. Wish me luck!

Sincerely,
Mayor of The Friend Zone (Or should it be the First Little Nancy Boy?)

PS - Please, if I am unable to beat back the beasts and make it out alive; give my belongings to Glandless Gilford, who, in spite of his front butt, has been a consummate professional and trusted confidant on my legislative committee.

Fashion vs Style

My personal opinion is that a girl's "beauty" depends more upon how she carries herself and her attitude than what she wears. I’ve seen girls who are far more pretty wearing a tee shirt and a beanie than another girl who is wearing hundreds of dollars of the latest fashion after spending hours on her hair and makeup in some gaudy salon. So, when I came across this quote in a book that I’m reading, I laughed, and then read it again, then smiled, and then read it again. And since I need some fresh material for my blog, I thought I’d post it here to share with all of you. Besides, the way it is written in this quote is more eloquent than I could ever say it.

“Style is something you can only possess in and of yourself-it’s originality, attitudinal distinction physicallized. Whereas fashion is just a bunch of assholes telling you how to dress and in fact conduct yourself in every area.”

- Lester Bangs, “The Grooming of David Johansen”, The Village Voice, September 3, 1979

Waddle Yogging

For a while now, I’ve been trying to talk myself into getting into jogging, or it could be yogging with a soft J, but whatever. I’m not sure why I’ve had this urge. Maybe it’s because I feel old and fat, or maybe it’s because my brother and his wife are world class athletes and they have inspired me. Perhaps it’s because the last two girls that have broken my heart were runners and I want to be more like them or have a chance to meet a third equally as extraordinary person. It could also be that I have too much time on my hands and I need something to fill the time. Whatever the reason, I bought some running shoes this Saturday and decided to take my first run tonight.

Rather than run along thirteenth east in the middle of rush hour with my shirt off, like so many of the runners that annoy me do, I decided to run along a trail that is near my office. It wraps around the Swaner Nature Preserve, winds through the neighborhood east of the Canyons Ski Resort, and then heads into downtown Park City past the McPolin Barn. I’m not sure where it goes from there, because that’s as far as I made it. After tying on my new shoes, I took off out of the gates like a bat out of hell. Two hundred yards later, I stopped running and had to walk. For a while I would sprint two hundred yards and then walk another bill. I soon came up to a really hot girl in sweats and a pink camisole that was walking her dogs. To impress her, I sprinted past her like white lightening and continued to trot my stuff until I was safely out of sight around the bend. At that point I doubled over in pain and began to wheeze like Boots when he coughs up the fur ball in Shrek Two. Once I regained my composure and popped my eyeball back in its socket, I looked up to see a mirage of welcomed relief in the form of a park with a drinking fountain and restrooms.

I entered the restroom and coughed up a long-term tenant from some seldom used recess of my pulmonary. Somehow looking at that milky white membrane through dancing white stars in my vision sparked inside of me an epiphany; there is more ways to run than the way you would being the wing on a 3-man fast break or while stretching a single into a double. After leaving the park, I began to slow myself down a bit, kind of trotting and waddling like a penguin, creating the illusion that I was running, but never actually taking both feet airborne simultaneously. It felt somewhat odd, and I felt somewhat femy, but I suddenly began to understand how to do this whole yogging stuff. As I reached the barn with only one walking spell, I felt I was doing much better. My heart rate slowed to that of a gerbil, and my breathing no longer sounded like a party favor. I actually made it all the way back to the park without a break. As I regained cognitive thought, I realized that I could probably speed things up a bit, but then realized that I had pulled so many muscles in my lower extremities that I was already maxing my hindered range of motion anyway, so I just continued. When I finally reached my car again, I instinctively reached out for a walker that I have not yet purchased. My feet hurt, my legs were sore, I had pulled both my groin muscles, I was seeing in white and a dull grey, my face felt like I had had a violent reaction to a bee sting, my tongue would no longer fit in my mouth, and my jaw was somehow popped out of joint. I tried to stretch a bit and then got back in my car. To add insult to injury, I looked in my rear view mirror and noticed that the wind had blown my hair into an 80’s do. Overall, I ran for 90 minutes, so I at least had to have run a couple of miles. Not bad for my first time in ages. I’ll have to give this special kind of torture another chance.

My Tagline

Job's I've had (starting at the beginning):
* Making dad Mac and Cheese so he’d give me a dollar twenty five out of his change jar to get me into the local swimming pool.
* Filling mom’s car up with gas, so I could keep the change. I seemed to always over squeeze to some-odd dollars and 1 cent.
* Mowing grandma’s lawn.
* Picking vegetables on a farm for pesos per truck load.
* Janitor at Bountiful Power.
* I cut down trees. Actually, I loaded the truck while the owner used the chainsaw.
* Graveyard gruntwork at Blue Cross Blue Shield.
* Bookstore Cashier.
* Legal Runner for a peg-legged lawyer.
* Bank Teller.
* Underwiter.
* Landlord.
* More Underwriting.
* Good grief! I haven’t done anything that actually takes talent, know-how, or skill.

Movies I'd watch over and over again:
* Lost in Translation
* Pulp Fiction
* Kill Bill
* Goodwill Hunting
* Garden State
* The Matrix Trilogy
* Almost Famous
* Kung Fu Hustle
* Riding Giants
* What? R-rated shows are just better.

Guilty Pleasures
* R-rated movies I guess.
* LAN Parties
* Live Music

Places I have lived
* Bountiful, Utah
*Oaxaca Mexico
- Oaxaca City
- Huatulco
- El Espinal
- Tehantepec
- Huajuapan
- Nochixtlan
- Oaxaca City
* Salt Lake City, Utah

Shows I enjoy:
* The Office
* Lost
* Entourage

What are the first things I thought when I met my wife:
* I wonder if she’ll give me her number, hmm, nope.
* I wonder if she’ll give me her number, hmm, nope.
* I wonder if she’ll give me her number, hmm, nope.
* Multiplied.

Places I have been on vacation.
* Idaho
* Oregon
* Chicago
* Dallas
* Stockholm
* Estonia
* Finland
* Rosarito
* San Diego
* Las Vegas
* Huntington
* Los Angeles
* Oahu
* Phoenix/Mesa/Tempe

Body Parts I've Injured.
* Broke my Arm.
* I'm pretty sure I've broken a few fingers.
* Dang near electrocuted myself a couple of times.
* I took a line drive off my shin this year while pitching in softball. I still have a dent in my leg.
* Stepped on a nail.
* Face planted in the middle of a mosh a few times.
* Almost bit my finger off once.
* I got shingles on my face and didn't want to pay for pain killers.
* Does sharting count?

Favorite Foods.
* Grapes
* Ice Cream
* Spinach
* Steak
* Broccoli

Websites I visit daily.
* finance.yahoo.com
* deseretnews.com
* espn.com
* sltrib.com

Nicknames I’ve had.
* Deaner
* Dingo
* Dino
* Dean the Machine
* Deanie Weenie
* Moonlight
* Honkey
* Honkeylicious
* Dean of the Ladies
* Clark Kent
* El Gran Elder
* Uncle Dean