Explain That

The other day I volunteered at the local cannery. I spent the morning watching countless open cans of chile pass in front of me on a conveyor belt. My job was to watch the level of chile in the cans to make sure they were filled to the correct level. I didn't eat any of the chili. I haven't eaten chili for months and probably won't eat any chili for a while after staring at it for a few hours that morning. Yet, that night I had gas that was laced with the pungent aroma of chili. How is that possible? Did my body actually absorb the aroma of chili from the air? Did thinking about and watching chili for a full morning transfer the smell to my GI track? Weird!

It's in your blood

ARUP called me today and told me that I have rare blood. For whatever reason my blood can be used in transfusions for infants and babies. It's kind of cool to think I can help save babies. However, I do wonder if my blood is what makes me such a wussie.

New Website

I have entered a web building competition at school. For my website I'm building a page for my brother's father-in-law who owns a lamp shop in Salt Lake City. Check it out at Custom Lamps Direct.

Where are the heroes of Lonesome Dove?

In my opinion, Lonesome Dove is a classic and Woodrow Call and Augustus McCrae are two of the greatest characters ever created in American literature. I recently read Dead Man’s Walk and just finished Comanche Moon, the two novels that describe the early and middle years of the two heroes. I was anxious to read about how the two learned what they needed to know to be two of the greatest Texas Rangers that ever lived and I was also excited to read about some of the great victories they had during their primes. I was instead disappointed. The two books focus more on secondary characters and when they are discussing McCrae and Call, it appears that the two heroes are driven by the winds of chance and luck into their few successes. Furthermore, McMurtry tends to dwell on the two’s faults, seemingly to undermine the two beloved heroes. I read on and on through hundreds of pages hoping for a glimpse of the strength and courage displayed by McCrae and Call in the original Lonesome Dove, but when I reached the final page, I was only still hoping. What happened to the McCrae who charged into a camp of renegades by himself with only his Colt pistol? What happened to the Call that made his men quiver with the strength of his command? What happened to the McCrae who operated on his own knee while under attack of Indians? What happened to the Call who nearly beat an army scout to death in front of his very squadron? I did enjoy the character of Buffalo Hump that was depicted in the two books of Dead Man’s Walk and Comanche Moon, but it was a crime what happened to two of my favorite characters. I should have left their lives prior to Lonesome Dove to imagination. Since Dead Man’s Walk (1995) and Comanche Moon (1997) were written so long after the original Lonesome Dove (1985), perhaps McMurtry felt pressured into writing the books and that he undermined McCrae and Call out of spite. Did he take the money and run? I’d bet on it.

An all time great

So Funny

Sabroso Viejo

It sits there staring at me with its beady little eyes, taunting me to make a move on its snide existence. My senses are heightened and my reflexes are coiled, willing me to spring them into action. I am a gunfighter in an old western shootout and at any moment my pistols will glimmer in the sun, unholstered in there assent towards a blazing smoking inferno of satisfying destruction, hammering down with the unrefrained cracking of pierced eardrums, drowning out the very battle cry bellowing from my mouth. Yet in my eagerness my mind is telling me that this foe can do nothing until I make my move. I trump the situation like the starting bell at a dog race, yet I am weakening to the demands of my enthusiasm to engage. Forcing my attention away by breaking eye contact with my enemy, I try to hold off my appetite until the opportune moment. But its aroma whispers to my senses, and the rumblings from my gastrointestinal break my concentration. Attempting a sneak attack, I slide my chair just slightly and pretend to reach out for a file, before pouncing on my foe like a cobra. The battle lasts mere moments. Thinking that this fight is entirely one-sided, I gorge myself on its lush palatability, ripping through him like a buzz saw with complete satisfaction. I laugh heartily in the ecstasy of victory. Yet what is that pinching at my intellect, small at first like a twinge at my forehead, growing slowly into a painful migraine? It is the realization that I have several hours to go in the cubicle sentence of my workday and I’ve exhausted my rations and that, indeed, my enemy has had the last laugh. A tear rolls down my cheek as I begin to walk across the hours of desert until I will finally arrive at the mirage of quitting time. The bitter sweet reality of it all stings like a Marciano jab to the kidneys. And as I let out a silent wail of remorse the truth whispers to my consciousness: If you make a lunch, don’t set it in plain view or you’ll end up eating it by ten in the morning!