Farmer's Market

Salt Lake City hosts a Farmer’s Market every Saturday morning in one of its downtown parks. I went this weekend with visions of finding vine ripe tomatoes, new mushrooms, fresh oregano, and tender basil that I could take home, put it all in a pot, and reduce it to a killer marinara sauce, or as I like to call it, “gravy”. (“Hey-yo, wait-uh, whez duh gravy fo’ my braciole?”) I was excited to look through some fresh home grown produce. When I first got there, I saw a quartet playing some music; which wasn’t all that bad, but I would have expected the band at a Farmer’s Market to be filled with banjos, fiddles, and a guy blowing across the opening of an empty jug. I didn’t mind, though, since I had my mind set on finding fresh tomatoes. I looked all over that park trying to find them, but instead, all I found were booths and booths of things like jewelry, tie-died tee shirts, scarves, pottery, paintings, and even didgeridoos. They even had a row of booths filled with fast food chains trying to sell burritos and ice cream cones. The closest thing I could find to vegetables was some small seedling plants that someone was selling out of the back of their truck over by the curb. What I thought would be a fun farmer’s market turned out to be the worst flee market ever. They even had prices on all of their goods so that I couldn’t haggle. Boring! I probably would have paid money for something I didn’t even want if I could have talked them down on the price. Call me back when the “farmer’s” market decides to sell herbs and vegetables, or at least offer pony rides.

Larping

I went to dinner with a couple of friends on Saturday and half way through our meal a large party came in and sat down next to our table. That’s not that interesting normally, but this group had just finished a “Larp” session and they were still in costume and character. (Google “Larp” if you don’t know.) Needless to say, it’s difficult to keep a straight face when the guy in the elf suit at the next table says “Give me a pint of your finest ale good sir”, instead of just ordering a coke. Or even worse, when a couple from the group has to break away and have a serious conversation in a vacant booth about why the cleric hadn’t healed the warrior at a critical point in a major battle sequence. Now, I admit that when I was a kid I used to have sword fights with sticks and we had life points and pretended that half of us were goblins, but I think there is a big difference from what I did then and what this group was doing on Saturday night. First, I never dressed up in a costume or got into character, but most importantly, I was ten years old. Not to be judgmental because everyone has to have their hobbies and to each his own, but I find this particular subculture extremely fascinating to observe. In fact, they are coming out with a movie documentary about it, which will be a must see.

Workman's Comp?

There are so many possible twists to this story that the best way I can think to say it is exactly how it is. (I know, that's not typical for me.) I went to my buddy's summer work party tonight and the crowning activity of the evening was to have all the employees gather in a field so that a few could launch water balloons (a few filled with money) at them from about 50 yards away. I laughed so hard while I watched these poor people get pelted. Listen closely and you can hear the balloon hit.

Million Dollar Ideas

Why is it that when someone sits down on an office chair it makes a sound like a whale coming up for air? I’m tired of my office sounding like the collective blow holes of a migrating school of hump backs. Maybe I should invent a silent office chair. Oh yea, that and a gizmo to mute the Kenny G that is intruding everyone’s private lives from the cubicle two doors down. I’m sure I could convince several of my coworkers to put an empty fish bowl over their heads if I told them it was a silencing helmet for lame music. What’s the number to the patent office? Or better yet, what’s the number to NBC? Can you imagine Stanley sitting down on a chair that goes “Spooossshhhh”, or Dwight convinced that a fish bowl could drown out Jim’s voice? Being a writer for NBC sitcoms sounds a lot better than being a loan writer. Suh-weet!

Wasatch Back 2008

Star Search

I got my picture taken with a minor celebrity this weekend. Does anyone know who she is?

Cirque de Ferguson

I went hiking up Ferguson Canyon with some friends last night; a canyon I didn’t even know existed until yesterday. We made it about a mile before getting lost. After a few dead ends and some perilous situations, we decided to cross the stream and see if we could see the trail on the other side. Well, when I say “we”, I mean the two girls with those chaco/tiva thing-a-ma-jigs did while the rest of us waited. They indeed found a trail, and I, being the chivalrous type, asked if one of them wouldn’t mind carrying me across the stream so that I wouldn’t have to get my feet wet. One of them did, but she wouldn’t carry me like a bride across the threshold, so I compromised for an old fashioned piggy back ride. It worked like a charm. But when she went back to carry some of the others, the rest of the group decided they had had enough and headed back for the car. The girl that carried me went with them. That left me and the other trail blazing girl on the other side. We decided to ditch them and see where the trail took us. After a mile or so of some uphill and switch backs, we made it to a cool view of the city. But at that point we decided we better head back before the rest of the group got mad enough to make us shell out for cab fair. When we got back to the stream crossing, I was able to talk this other girl into giving me a piggy back ride across as well, and I was feeling pretty good about my negotiation skills. A little distance down the trail we came to another stream crossing. It was shallower and I could have easily played Frogger across the stones to the other side, but I was having too much fun with the piggy back rides not to get a third. I must have been pressing my luck though, because after a step or two, she tripped. As she fell to her hands and knees, I outstretched my arms and legs like Tom Cruise in mission impossible right before he hits the weight sensitive floor and triggers the alarm. I, on the other hand, didn’t care about setting off the alarm; I just didn’t want to get wet. Miraculously, when she came to a rest on all fours, I was teetering on her back like a turtle shell. This poor girl was getting drenched in the current, her headlamp had fallen off and was washing downstream leaving us in the dark, and all I could think about were the odds that this girl could get back up with me still on her back. As I petitioned if she was okay, I wondered if I dare follow that up by asking if she had ever dead lifted 180 lbs, when suddenly my glasses started to slip off my face. I knew I was doomed since I had to give up my balancing act to keep my specs from falling into the drink. We laughed about it on the last walk to the cars with my shoes split splatting the whole way.