Dean Graham

I Can't Wait!!!!!

2012-01-15T15:00:00.000-08:00

Click here to see the trailer: The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey

I can't help but compare

2012-01-12T09:06:00.001-08:00

I sure looked a lot more grumpy than Lincoln does.

How the Mighty have Fallen

2011-12-09T10:52:00.001-08:00

Moribund Fascination: The Utah Runnin’ Utes

Fear

2011-12-02T14:34:00.001-08:00

I listened to a speech given by Sherron Watkins, who worked at Enron for several years leading up to the company’s bankruptcy and who is generally credited for being one of the first to blow the whistle on the fraud that was occurring. It was interesting to hear her view of how the general company-wide incentives were the ultimate cause that led people to abandon their morals. But what interested me the most was the upper management’s ability to manipulate employees’ fear of being fired into making them keep their mouth shut. It made me think a lot about why it is that people are so afraid of being fired. Personally, I know that if I were to lose my job, I could rent a smaller apartment, live on rice and beans, and survive. It is an unappealing scenario, for sure. I would much rather live in the apartment that I am living in now and occasionally be able to go out to eat than the alternative. Relatively speaking though, going to the smaller apartment and living on rice and beans is a much smaller fall for me than for most people. Perhaps the degree of fear that one has in being fired is directly correlated to the level of lifestyle they are living. So, for someone with a nice house, a couple of nice cars, and a few toys, it would be much harder to live in that small apartment and live on rice and beans than it is for someone like me. How much harder would it be for someone who lives in a mansion, owns a 30-foot yacht, and has a second home in Vail? And, how much more apt would a person with that lifestyle be to abandon their morals then the average Joe in order to maintain their lifestyle? My train of thought led me to a verse in the Bible, Matthew 19:24. And perhaps in order for a person to be able to avoid the temptation of abandoning their morals to maintain their lifestyle, they would need to live in a modest house, and maintain a modest lifestyle, so that they neither have the fear of losing it nor the pressure of maintaining it.

Flat Tax

2011-11-29T20:44:00.000-08:00

I hear arguments for a flat tax rate and think that such a system would never work. Sure, you can ask a rich person to pay more taxes and they will probably be just fine, but I just can’t imagine the poorest of the poor suddenly being burdened with a tax bill that will cut into their food and gasoline budget. However, I belong to a faith that requires its members to pay a flat donation, regardless of income. It has made me wonder, why does a flat rate work in the one setting, but probably wouldn’t in the other? I have thought of a couple of things it could boil down to.

One, people in my church are relied upon to be generous with their donations above and beyond the flat tax rate. These other donations are given in the form of donations for the poor in their neighborhoods, donations to help our missionary efforts, donations to help build meeting houses, donations to help educate the poor of our faith in other countries, etc. Sure, you can be held in good standing in our faith by simply paying the flat rate, but many pay much more in the additional optional donations. As a country, if our tax rate were flat, I doubt that anyone would voluntarily pay a cent higher than what is required. Maybe it comes down to whether a person is forced to do something or if they are able to do it of their own free will.

The second could perhaps just be a matter of perspective. With taxes, we do everything we can not to pay them. And when we do pay them, we expect to receive something in return for them in the future. We pay income taxes, so that we can have new roads, be protected from our enemies, and generally have our country function. We pay social security, so that one day our kids will pay social security for us so that we can retire. We pay other taxes so that we can receive healthcare in our old age. Everything is paid with an eye to getting that money back in the future. The donations that we pay in my faith are viewed as paying back from what we have already received. We believe that everything we have was given to us from God, including our food, clothes, homes, the air we breathe, the sun that warms our face, even the very bodies we are walking around in. When you think of it that way, it really isn’t that hard to pay back a flat rate of what we have already received. Who wouldn’t give 1 dime back if someone gave him 10?

There are probably other reasons. Can you think of any?

Great Report on What to be Grateful For

2011-11-27T11:13:00.000-08:00

Zakaria: U.S. problems are not economic, but political

The Entitlement Trap

2011-11-10T21:19:00.000-08:00

I was able to go to a presentation and Q&A session tonight that was given by Richard and Linda Eyre, authors of The Entitlement Trap. It was a wonderful evening of insight and I thought I would write down some of my thoughts before I forget them.

1. Entitlement: This is the number one concern of most parents. They had statistics that approximately 80% of parents fear that their children will become entitled more than any other thing. Because this discussion was also given at BYU it had some religious tones to it and the authors argued that Satan’s plan was a plan of entitlement.

2. Ownership: The way to combat entitlement is to give children a sense of ownership. This ownership is given to children in several ways.

a. Strong Family Culture: This is developed through setting up easy to understand Family Laws that each member of the family must live by. They also suggest building a family Mantra that each member of the family should live by.

b. Stop being Managers and Start Being Consultants: This was a great way for me to think of this principle. Too often parents try to manage their kids in every way. Instead, we should try to become more of a consultant to them as they work things out for themselves.

c. Set up a Family Legal System: Rather than taking ownership in an argument between children, set up a family legal system ahead of time that everyone must live by. The authors, for example, had a repentance bench that the children had to sit on if they got in a fight until they could admit what they had done wrong and ask for forgiveness.

d. Set up a Family Bank: Rather than giving children an allowance, make them earn their money, learn how to spend it, save it, and give to charity. The authors go so far as to set up a family bank that their children can make deposits into after they have earned their money through chores. Then, they have family checks that they must use to purchase things. And their children must purchase everything for themselves through this system, including even their own clothes.

3. The power of Case Studies: The author is a Harvard alum, so he obviously loves case studies. However, I liked how he used case studies with his children. He would set up detailed, specific case studies that he would go over with his children and then at the end ask them what they would do in such a situation. Then, later in life when they are faced with a similar situation for real, they will better know how to react.

Those are the points I remember for now. I asked my friend for a copy of her notes, so if I forgot something when I get her notes I’ll add it later. One last thing that they suggested is a blog from one of their daughters that gets over 10k hits a day. Check it out here.

PIIGs Crisis Made Easy

2011-11-09T09:54:00.000-08:00

http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2011/10/23/sunday-review/an-overview-of-the-euro-crisis.html

Cool article about the Utes! Go Utes!

2011-10-16T20:24:00.001-07:00

http://espn.go.com/blog/pac12/post/_/id/27577/pac-12-announcement-give-utah-a-break

How do you know when your baby is hungry?

2011-10-01T21:18:00.000-07:00

Our Little Guy Doing His Exercises

2011-09-19T20:34:00.000-07:00

Some Challenges of Today's Church

2011-09-15T20:20:00.000-07:00

I just listened to Clayton Christensen give a great speech on why we can’t create jobs in America. It dealt with some deep rooted paradigms in our business culture. He also gave three concerns he has with the current direction of the church to which I belong. I’d like to give a summary of those three concerns before I forget them. Maybe you’ll enjoy his perspectives as much as I did.

1. The church gives too much emphasis on the number of baptisms. Clayton suggested that instead of baptisms, the church should focus on church attendance. I couldn’t agree more. I had a very good friend who fell in love with a girl and she wouldn’t marry him because he wasn’t a returned missionary. My friend is the best Mormon that I know and is currently serving in his bishopric. Girls who are dating guys should look at if that guy is doing his home teaching rather than if he served a mission several years ago. What have you done for me lately? I think that is what the Lord is going to ask us and it is something we should ask of our members too.

2. Clayton put it this way, “Parents outsource too much”. A generation or two ago, children worked in the house, helping to make bread and can food and put oil in the furnace. Not only did they have to work hard, but they had to work hard for their parents. Today, much of the manual labor in running a home has been simplified and automated through modern conveniences. With our extra time, parents are now running their children around to different activities thinking that they are creating well rounded adults to serve. In reality, they are just working for their kids and their education isn’t as valuable as good hard work.

3. The Church’s capital is its members. And the Church’s capital is migratory. The members of the church make the mistake of looking for the “best” ward when they move to a new neighborhood. This is a mistake, because moving to the “best” ward often means moving to a ward with an abundance of capable people and the amount of service that any given individual has to perform is diminished. In contrast, they should look for a ward that needs good people so that they can give the amount of sacrifice and service that they need to give to grow and improve and help others.

Anyway, I thought they were great insights into the current affairs of the church and the challenges it is facing in today’s world. I hope they are as insightful to you as they were to me.

NBA Lockout

2011-07-08T21:07:00.000-07:00

Here is a great article about the NBA lockout. Bill has some great ideas on how to fix the league.

Explain That

2011-05-02T08:19:00.000-07:00

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

2011-04-26T11:30:00.000-07:00

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

2011-03-05T09:52:00.000-08:00

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?

2010-07-03T12:01:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-11T09:04:00.001-07:00

So Funny

2009-03-01T16:29:00.000-08:00

Sabroso Viejo

2009-02-24T17:11:00.000-08:00

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!

Toothbrushing at Work

2008-11-13T19:30:00.000-08:00

I was driving to lunch the other day and I was listening to Jim Rome as he was ripping on guys that brush there teeth at work and keep a toothbrush in their desk drawers. Well, guess what? I do that! And I don’t really understand what’s wrong with it. Do you get annoyed if a coworker brushes their teeth after lunch? I really don’t want to be the annoying guy in the office, but I also don’t want to smell like a Subway Sandwich all afternoon. I kind of feel like someone told me I'm the stinky kid in class.

Narrow Margins?

2008-10-22T17:12:00.000-07:00

I need a new car. I kind of like this one that costs $12,875, so I was looking at financing for it. So, I can get a loan for 4.4% if I put down 30%, so my loan would be for $9,013, cost me $205 per month, and $833 in total interest over the life of the loan. So, if instead of paying cash for the car I get the loan and put the extra $9,013 in a bank account earning 3.0% interest, I would earn a total of $1,148 in interest and be ahead $315 at the end of the 48 months. Nice! No wonder we have a financial crisis.

Sometimes

2008-10-22T17:10:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wonder
Why Life is so tough
Or ponder if it’s only me
Who is having it rough

I see so many others
Who fall so easily in love
Or have little children
Who run to the door for a hug

I drive past lots of houses
That are warm and friendly
And wonder if I’ll ever
Afford such a luxury

All of my friends at work
Have successes so often
And I wonder if I’ll even
Ever earn a promotion

I have applied to school
But just got turned back
To wonder what it was
That they found that I lacked

But I can’t help but be happy
To smile and whistle as I go
Because of my certainty
In a principle that I know

That God is a just God
To both the bond and the free
The rich and the poor
And, yep, even to me

And the test we are all living
Will push each of us to the limit
So it is just as hard for everyone
If you think on it for a minute

And if the experiences we have
For everyone are equally rough
Then on a personal level
It won’t seem quite as tough

Our thoughts will no longer
Drift inward on us
But to everyone on earth
Both the evil and the just

And how we can help
To brighten someone’s day
Or lift another’s burden
And send them on their way

We’ll strive to become
Like that one perfect being
To lift those around us
With no concern to be seen

And instead of craving status
We’ll realize deep within
That true happiness comes
From helping someone grin

Reloaded

2008-09-26T16:34:00.000-07:00

I love the Matrix series. Besides having some killer action sequences with unique cinematography, it also has sophisticated flowing dialogue. I watched the second show in the series the other day and can’t seem to stop thinking about one little piece. It starts when the Oracle offers Neo a piece of candy.

The Oracle: Candy?
Neo: Do you already know if I'm going to take it?
The Oracle: Wouldn't be much of an Oracle if I didn't.
Neo: But if you already know, how can I make a choice?
The Oracle: Because you didn't come here to make the choice, you've already made it. You're here to try to understand why you made it. I thought you'd have figured that out by now.
Neo: Why are you here?
The Oracle: Same reason. I love candy.

Do you think that’s how it really works? Are the choices we make in life already decided and we’re just here to experience it all? Or can we actually shift our destiny at each fork in the road? The former seems logical to me. How else could God be all knowing and fit us into the great puzzle in our perfect spot or know our wants, needs, and desires before we even know them ourselves if he doesn’t already know us so well that he knows what we’ll decide before hand? But still, it doesn’t feel very comfortable to know that my reservation is already set in stone. I don’t know. What do you think? It’s been boggling me.

Hold the Juice Box

2008-08-13T16:21:00.001-07:00

On Monday I went to an event where I put together a 72-hour emergency kit. Yesterday, I ate the whole thing for lunch and was still hungry. I don’t know how a granola bar, beef jerky, a fun-sized Snickers, and a juice box is going to last me for 72 hours. I ate more in one meal when I was six! But apparently one juice box is still enough to make me pee. Doh!

Wet the Bed?

2008-07-26T12:41:00.000-07:00

Ok, get this one. Most mortgages are set up so that you make a monthly payment to the mortgage every month and it slowly gets whittled away until you have paid off the loan. So, to throw out some hypothetical numbers, it would look something like this:

Loan Amount: $200,000
Total Payments: $479,018
Total Interest: $279,018
Tax Savings: $83,705
Out of Pocket: $395,312
Years until paid: 30 Years

Well, most of us have our dumb little checking accounts that we use to buy groceries with, use the ATM machine, etc. What if we could open a Home Equity line against our homes that is large enough to pay off the entire mortgage on the homes; and then convince the bank to open a checking account that would automatically sweep against the line? Sweep, meaning that if we wrote a check it would add to the loan balance and if we made a deposit it would lower the loan balance. Then, you could close that dumb little checking account and deposit the money in the sweep account. Assuming that you have an average checking account balance of $5,000, the new numbers would look like this:

Loan Amount: $200,000
Total Payments: $441,761
Total Interest: $246,559
Tax Savings: $73,968
Out of Pocket: $367,793
Years until paid: 27.6

So nothing would really change in your daily spending habits, but you would save $27,519 and pay your mortgage off in over 2 years less time. Now, we all have that dumb rainy day fund as well (or we should). Why not apply that to the sweep account also? You could draw on the line if that rainy day ever did show up, so why not? So let’s say we apply that $5,000 checking account and another $10,000 from our rainy day fund. Then the new numbers would look like this:

Loan Amount: $200,000
Total Payments: $381,884
Total Interest: $196,173
Tax Savings: $58,852
Out of Pocket: $323,032
Years until paid: 23.92

So, you would save $72,281 and pay off the loan six years faster. And you wouldn’t have to change any spending habits or anything. Those dumb little accounts we hold are just getting chewed up by inflation anyway. Why not put them to work?

"Borrowing money is like wetting your bed in the middle of the night. At first all you feel is warmth and release. But very, very quickly comes the awful, cold discomfort of reality." – Elizabeth Gilbert

Mr. Gullible

2008-07-23T21:07:00.001-07:00

I get a lot of forwards every day, emails filled with non-productive content, such as jokes about lazy husbands, or videos of kids doing stupid things, or slide shows with poems and flowery fields that are meant to make you cry, or news articles about unstoppable gas prices, etc, etc. Sometimes these emails are filled with outrageous content that is entirely false. Other times it is genuine stuff. And sometimes it seams real, but isn’t. I’ve been known to get tricked into believing that emails are real when they really weren’t. Yesterday was my most gullible of email moments to date. A video showed up in my inbox that showed people using cell phones to pop popcorn. I’m so paranoid about what cell phones are doing to my brain that I believed it really worked. In fact, I went to the store and purchased popcorn to give it a try. And I didn’t just try it out at home, but I took it to work and convinced a couple of my coworkers to use their cell phones to give it a try with me. I even had a few more people from my department as an audience. It didn’t work of course, and I was left to bemoan my failure in front of everyone. I tried to use the excuse that maybe it had to be microwave popcorn to work. One member of the peanut gallery decided he’d make things worse by asking me if I’d checked out this experiment on Snopes. Well, I did after he suggested it, and sure enough it turned out to be a complete fabrication. Everyone spent the rest of the afternoon making jokes at my expense about how I should try other household chores with my cell phone, like ironing my shirt or whitening my teeth. I should stamp gullible on my forehead before going out in public.

Tis the Season

2008-07-22T17:05:00.001-07:00

Yesterday was the Mountain West Conference media day, which is kind of like the day after Thanksgiving when it is officially the Christmas season, but this is even better because it is Football season. This morning I marked every Ute game on my Outlook calendar, the Mountain West Conference 10th Anniversary team was released (5 Utes on the roster), and a lady from my work had a helmet signed by Sione Pouha and the entire Jet’s team. Tis officially the season. Now, I just need to get a couple of days off of work, because the Utes have two Thursday night games and decide which of the road games to go to this year; definitely Utah State, hopefully San Diego State, and maybe a third one in Colorado Springs. I’m so excited! All I want for Christmas is a Ute victory in Ann Arbor! Go Utes!

After I wrote the above, I began to wonder whether my fascination with Ute football is bordering on obsession. So, I decided to add up the time I spend watching Ute football. If I go to the game, I probably spend about eight hours with the tailgating and everything, and if I watch the game at home, it probably only takes about four hours out of my life. If I go to eight games a year and watch four on the television, then that is a total of 76 hours per season. Now, if I spend 16 hours a day awake that is 5,840 hours a year and the 76 hours I spend watching Ute football is only 1.3% of my waking life. One would probably have to spend upwards of 50 hours a month doing something to consider that something an obsession, so I think I’m in the clear. Of course, that doesn’t count all the other things I do related to Ute football, such as reading newspaper articles, listening to talk radio, and debating around the water cooler, but I think I can chalk those activities up to multitasking. I may be a superfanatical Ute supporter, but I’m still a productive member of society. Feeling justified, I’ll shout it again; Go Utes!

Quel es? ... Ahhh ... la belle femme skunk fatale!! Tch-tch.

2008-07-07T16:49:00.000-07:00

I went rock climbing for the first time on Friday, something I have been avoiding for years, because I was deathly afraid of it. It’s not that I’m afraid of heights; it’s that I’m afraid of my ability to hang onto the wall. First of all, I don’t exactly have a lot of upper body strength. To be honest, some of my shirts button right over left instead of left over right. But mostly, I don’t have a lot of hand strength to hold onto the wall. I’ve always pictured rock climbers as having vice grips on the ends of their wrists. But on Friday, I was finally talked into it, mostly because I didn’t want to be the only one not to go. I learned a lot about climbing that day. The first thing I learned was that the shoes really hurt. In fact, after I laced them up I no longer had any fear; I just wanted to get it over as fast as I could to get that special kind of torture off my feet. I scurried to the top as fast as I dared, repelled to the bottom, and ripped those things off of my poor little patos. Once the pain diminished to an aching throb, I realized that I had made it and started to feel pretty good about myself. I was amazed to learn that rock climbing is done mostly with the legs and that you don’t have to do the equivalent of a thousand pull ups by hanging onto a crack. Another thing I learned was how different climbs are rated, and that the one I had just struggled with was aptly named “bunny slopes”. I no longer felt very good about myself. Later that afternoon we went to a more “moderate” climb. To me, it seemed like we were trying to shimmy our way up the side of a rock that had a face as smooth as a mirror. I did my best to hold back the tears as I laced on those foot sized iron maidens and then began to climb. Do you remember the old Warner Brothers cartoon about Pepe Le Pew chasing around Penelope Pussycat? And do you remember the part when the cat would eventually get cornered and would try to climb up a sheer wall while the skunk stood at the bottom reading poetry and declaring his love? Well, I was like that cat. I tried to scratch and scrape and claw my way up the wall, while the girl at the other end of the rope voiced her approval. But in reality, I just kept slipping, swinging into the wall at the end of the rope, and bumping my knuckles, arms, legs, head, buttocks, you name it. Each time I slipped, the girl at the other end of the rope must have given a heave so that I was a bit higher on the wall when I regained my grip (lather, rinse, repeat). By the time I got about half way up, I started to feel like the belayer was just hoisting a piano up to the fourth floor, so I decided to tap out. I give props to rock climbers with sufficient technique to rest their entire weight on a bump of rock the size of a pea.

Farmer's Market

2008-06-30T21:59:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-30T21:58:00.000-07:00

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?

2008-06-27T22:04:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-25T22:30:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-22T19:11:00.000-07:00

Star Search

2008-06-18T20:31:00.001-07:00

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

Cirque de Ferguson

2008-06-17T19:06:00.001-07:00

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.

To pay early or not to pay early

2008-06-16T17:19:00.001-07:00

I ran a model that measured the difference between making extra payments to a mortgage to pay it off early and making the minimum payment and letting the mortgage go the full term. It also assumes that the one letting the mortgage go the full term, invests an amount equivalent to the extra payment made by the one paying the mortgage off early; and that the one paying off the mortgage early begins to invest an amount equal to his mortgage payment plus the extra amount applied to principal as soon as the mortgage is fully paid off. Therefore, both sides of the equation have the exact same out-of-pocket monthly expense for the full 30-year period. My assumptions were:

Tax Bracket: 30%
Market Return: 11%
Mortgage Rate: 6%
Principal Balance: $300,000
Mortgage Term: 30 Years
Extra Payment/Mo: $899 (or an extra 50%/mo)

Here are the results of the one who lets the mortgage go full term:

Interest Expense: ($347,514.57)
Tax Savings: $104,254.37
Investment Return: $2,522,176.92
Ending Balance: $2,278,917.72

And, here are the results of the one who pays off the mortgage early:

Interest Expense: ($139,175.62)
Tax Savings: $41,752.69
Investment Return: $1,485,569.51
Ending Balance: $1,388,146.58

I believe that the primary proponent to paying off a mortgage early is peace of mind. Believe me; I know how having debt can weigh down on your shoulders. But is that peace of mind worth $890,770.15? It very well could be.

I think the key in all of this is to make sure that, after you’ve signed up for that mortgage, there is a surplus of discretionary income with which you can do as you see fit. Otherwise, there will be a whole percentage of the population who are teetering on the edge, so the government won’t be able to raise interest rates, so the value of the dollar will continue to plummet, so the cost of oil will continue to skyrocket (among other reasons, such as increasing demand, and a fairly inelastic supply . . . . does three make a perfect storm?), so it costs me $4 for a gallon of gas and $12 for a hamburger. Oh wait, that already happened. I don’t know about your CPI, but mine’s not in check. (Would that be the DPI – Dean’s Price Index?)

The World's Best

2008-06-14T14:01:00.001-07:00

Yesterday, Business Week published “The World’s Best Places to Live 2008”. Consultants from Mercer Consulting rated each city on a variety of factors including the level of traffic congestion, air quality, and personal safety reported by expatriates living in more than 600 cities worldwide. I thought the list was pretty interesting, so I thought I would publish the results. Out of the top 20 cities on the list, I’ve only been to one. (How many have you been to?) It looks like I have some sight seeing to do. Switzerland, Austria, Germany, Luxembourg, Belgium, Denmark, and the Netherlands are all neighbors. I could knock out 12 of the 19 I haven’t been to in one trip. Then, with a trip to Canada and another one to Australia/New Zealand I would be able to see them all. Of course, the best places to live might not be the same as the best places to visit, but oh well. And, if you’re curious, the first US city on the list was Honolulu at No. 28.

No. 1: Zurich, Switzerland
No. 2 (tie): Vienna, Austria
No. 2 (tie): Geneva, Switzerland
No. 4: Vancouver, Canada
No. 5: Auckland, New Zealand
No. 6: Dusseldorf, Germany
No. 7 (tie): Munich, Germany
No. 7 (tie): Frankfurt, Germany
No. 9: Bern, Switzerland
No. 10: Sydney, Australia
No. 11: Copenhagen, Denmark
No. 12: Wellington, New Zealand
No. 13: Amsterdam, Netherlands
No. 14: Brussels, Belgium
No. 15: Toronto, Canada
No. 16: Berlin, Germany
No. 17 (tie): Melbourne, Australia
No. 17 (tie): Luxembourg, Luxembourg
No. 19: Ottawa, Canada
No. 20: Stockholm, Sweden

The Dark Tower

2008-06-07T16:01:00.000-07:00

I read the first line on December 15th on a flight from Salt Lake City to Atlanta. I read the last line yesterday on my couch.

6 Months
174 Days
7 Books
4,505 Pages

Wonderful! Exceptional! Inspriring! I'm officially a Dark Tower junkie. Here is a great quote from one of the last pages in the series.

"There is no such thing as a happy ending. I never met a single one to equal 'Once Upon a Time'. Endings are heartless. Ending is just another word for goodbye."

Rated R

2008-06-04T16:30:00.001-07:00

Last night I saw a commercial for the new M. Night Shamylan movie and the biggest selling point of the commercial was “the director who brought you The Sixth Sense and Signs brings you his first R-rated movie” and the R was gigantic on the screen. Not only do I think that the whole rating system is bogus, but to use the rating as a selling point is absurd. Ratings are basically a way to tack a letter grade to a movie to indicate if it is suited for children, adolescents, or adults. When looked at that way, is there any wonder why R-rated movies make the most money? The answer is: because the majority of movie goers are adult. I’m not so mature that I can’t laugh at a guy running around in tighty whities or enjoy a comic book remake, and animation is fascinating, but a movie that not only entertains but challenges my intellect as well is a real winner. My issue with ratings is that they are tacked onto movies by a room of suits somewhere getting paid way too much money to assume that they know the values of individuals everywhere. Wouldn’t it be easier just to disclose what questionable content is shown in a movie? For instance, I would rate Saving Private Ryan a “GV, L” (graphic violence and language) and Titanic a “SC, N, V” (sexual content, nudity, and violence). I would rather see the GV so I can appreciate the cost of my freedom than to see the SC and N just to get my date in the mood. But that’s just my personal opinion; and that’s the idea, that everyone could decide for themselves and parents could decide for their children. And are we all so naive to think that corporate pressure and money aren’t enough to have that room of suits change the rating to what they see fit? But what really gets my goat about this whole commercial, is that they were marketing the rating, some letter generated by that room of suits. Either Mr. Shamylan was targeting the rating, or the big studio distributing his movie is in charge of the advertising, but either way it seems clear that they are simply trying to boost ticket sales by rating it R, so that more adults will go. I realize that the movie industry is in business to make money, but I like living with the illusion that writers and directors make movies because they are in love with the art of cinema. I like to think that they dream up great stories and get great actors and camera men and hair dressers to bring those stories to life. I like to think that they are just as inspired as any painter with his canvas, or writer with her blank sheets of paper. And I hope that they make the movie however they dreamt it and hand it to those suits in the boardroom to give it whatever rating they want because there is no way they would ever change their art, just as Michelangelo would never finger paint a tuxedo onto his statue of David because someone thought it inappropriate. When I hear that they are targeting a rating to boost ticket sales, all it does is scream “SELL OUT”. If all they want for their efforts of making this new movie is money, then I hope it flops.

Blogger's Block

2008-06-03T17:00:00.001-07:00

I think I have bloggers block. It probably has a lot to do with my new position (I recently transferred within my company), or more precisely my new location, which is again in a cubicle. My little cubie is right on the corner, so I have people walking by my desk all day long. Furthermore, I believe that my cubicle has taken the place of the office water cooler. People come and lean on, in, and around my cubicle just to shoot the breeze. Inspiration is hard to come by when everyone in the whole office is constantly looking over my shoulder to see what’s on my screen. They don’t intentionally intrude, I’m sure, but it’s hard not to look at something you pass by ten times a day. For example, I’ve alt-tabbed my way around the peepers of about 10 people just writing these few sentences. I miss my little haven where I could drum up blog inspiration without interruption. On the other hand, this new location is probably better for my career.

Oh, by the way, the final numbers from Concert Quench were $48,000 going directly to Care for Cambodia. That amounts to about 48 wells in 48 villages in which people used to have to walk miles just to fetch river water. It will help hundreds to have better health. If you helped spread the word about the concert, or spent money on a ticket, or even just wished us well, then I say thank ya.

Mr. Muscle

2008-04-26T15:11:00.000-07:00

I’ve been part of the planning committee for a charity concert that took place the other night. Well, okay, I sometimes went to the meetings and listened. But, they decided to let me be a security guy during the concert anyway. It was a fine job. When I heard they would let me be a security guy, I immediately offered to be the frisker at the front of the girl line. (“You pass ma’am, and your legs are very smooth. Next!”) I thought that I had finally found my life’s calling, until all of my hopes and dreams were shattered when someone told me of a legal loophole prohibiting guys from frisking girls. What a jip! There was no way I was going to frisk the guys without wearing a plutonium suit, so they decided to make me a ticket taker. That went okay for a while until I got in trouble for letting all the cute girls in for free. (“What are you doing? Those ten tickets could have bought a clean well for the sick children! But . . . but . . . did you see her?”) After my first mishap, they decided to put me at the front of the crowd, where all I had to do was stand with my back to the band with my arms folded. Things went well at first until they started to crowd surf. The first little kid that came my way I dropped on his head. (“Oh, quit crying. Just walk it off!”) That was strike one. When I caught a girl surfer, set her down on her feet, and proceeded to frisk her (“You in the glasses, stop it! But boss, she looked like she had a razor blade in her back pocket.”) I got both strike two and three. I was fired from my security position, but they let me keep the t-shirt. I’ve always heard that what a girl really looks for in a guy is “security”, and I just knew that this was my big break. I strutted around the crowd with as much swagger as I could just knowing that my security T-shirt was going to draw them in like chum in a shark pool. At first it didn’t work, so I decided to tap on a girl’s shoulder and introduce myself. She slapped me! I guess she thought I was accusing her of carrying razor blades again.

Okay, so almost none of that was true. I actually was assigned a position outside by the bus.

Birds of a, well, whatever

2008-04-22T17:04:00.000-07:00

I work with a guy who has a different sense of humor. For instance, he finds it hilarious to flip people off just out of the blue. I must admit, it makes me laugh whenever I’m typing away at my keyboard and notice the flash of a middle finger out of the corner of my eye. It got me thinking, there are a lot of ways to give someone the bird. (There may be others I’m forgetting. Personally, I don’t usually flip anything off, except for maybe the all too frequent graduate school rejection letter.)

The shy apologetic bird – is the kind when your finger is only half way extended, and only two digits of the finger are distinguishable from the fist. The kind you have to hold down low around your belt, and can’t help but let fly to get something off your chest, but at the same time hope that no one else sees it.

The camouflage bird – is the type when you are agreeing with everything the person is saying, but at the same time you are pretending to scratch your cheek or push up your glasses, of course, with the middle finger. “No, no. That’s not what I meant at all. I was just scratching”.

The gimmick bird – is when the offender makes his hand a prop, like a trumpet, or when they pretend they are blasting down their fingers in a shooting gallery, or imagining their hand as a makeup case as they powder their nose. This one kind of annoys me. What are they doing, trying to be cute and mad at the same time?

The gunslinger bird – this is the classic quick draw, nothing up my sleeve, now you see it now you don’t, flash of the middle finger. The kind you do as you are walking by someone else’s desk, or getting ready to flee in terror from a group of big dudes.

The hello how are ya bird – this is the bird you give with the thumb fully extended. Often the bird is at a slight angle and held up in front of a smirking face, as if to say, “hey there, buddy, I’ve got a call for ya on line one”.

The Big Ben bird – this is the pie in the sky, fully extended, tight fisted, leaning Eiffel Tower exclamation point. It is usually held high above the head in protest of a bad driver or ignorant zoobie and often takes a mother hanging at the wrist to end its well deserved and drawn out duration.

The Hill Billy McGee bird – That guy actually just had four fingers cut off on accident as he worked on his Hemi. “What? You got a problem? No sir, I’s just wavin’ howdy.” It was a disaster when they put McGee on the Girl Scout Float in the Fourth of July parade. No boxes of Thin Mints were sold that year.

Bling

2008-03-24T21:08:00.000-07:00

One of my earliest memories is when my family had our picture taken at the Pioneer Village of Lagoon. There was some picture studio there that would let you dress up in old clothes and get your black and white picture taken in front of some saloon backdrop of some kind so that the picture looked like an old tin type. Well, my memory of the occasion was getting dressed up in my cowboy stuff first and then being left alone while the rest of the family retreated into the dressing rooms to step into their spurs and strap on their bonnets. Being left alone, I of course began to cry. Someone that worked there gave me a little toy pistol to shut me up. And boy, did it work! I thought that thing was about the coolest thing I had ever seen. Cocking back the hammer and pulling the trigger kept me occupied for what seemed like forever. Suddenly, a gigantic frying pan of a human hand obstructed the view of the toy I was playing with. Shortly after that the picture must have been taken, because the old family photo that still sits in my mom’s house shows me sitting in my dad’s lap with him covering up my hands (and indeed half of my body) with his own face down palm.

Nine years ago now, my father gave me a ring that he made out of his old Smoke Jumper pin. I remember holding it in my palm, turning it over and over in my fingers, and finding it to be as impressive then as I had found that little toy gun to be when I was a child. I tried to put it on and was shocked to see that it wouldn’t fit on any of my fingers. It would easily slip off of even my thumb. I was reminded of how big this guy once was and was thrilled at the gesture, but because I couldn’t wear it as anything but maybe a bracelet, I was forced to just store it. Well, I’ve finally gotten around to resizing it so I can wear it. They were able to fit a second silver ring inside of my dad’s ring and somehow meld the two to make it just the right size to fit on my middle finger. It took the jeweler two and a half months to complete, (not because it was difficult, but just because they were slow) but it was worth the wait. I think it is cool, way cool.

My Music Library

2008-03-12T21:08:00.000-07:00

The top 30 played songs in my I-Tunes Library are:

1. Time Consumer – Coheed & Cambria
2. Speedway – Counting Crows
3. Subterranean Homesick Alien – Radiohead
4. Delirium Trigger – Coheed & Cambria
5. Everything Evil – Coheed & Cambria
6. #41 – Dave Matthews Band
7. As Lovers Go – Dashboard Confessional
8. Mr. Jones – Counting Crows
9. Amy Hit the Atmosphere – Counting Crows
10. The Rain Song – Led Zeppelin
11. Karma Police – Radiohead
12. That’s the Way – Led Zeppelin
13. The Bends – Radiohead
14. Fake Plastic Trees – Radiohead
15. New Slang – The Shins
16. H – Tool
17. Blood Red Summer – Coheed & Cambria
18. D’yer Mak’er – Led Zeppelin
19. Ten Years Gone – Led Zeppelin
20. Round Here – Counting Crows
21. High and Dry – Radiohead
22. Red House – Jimi Hendrix
23. Custard Pie – Led Zeppelin
24. Such Great Heights – The Postal Service
25. 33 – Coheed & Cambria
26. Pictures of You – The Cure
27. Tangerine – Led Zeppelin
28. Bullet Proof – Radiohead
29. Bron-Y- Aur Stomp – Led Zeppelin
30. Kid A - Radiohead

I'm kind of suprised by the results. Some songs made the list that I didn't think would and some that I thought would that didn't.

Trouble with Jars

2008-03-11T20:31:00.000-07:00

The guy that sits in the cubicle next to mine at work is one of the top two power lifters in the world for his weight class. Power lifters do only three lifts; the bench press, the squat, and lifting weight from the ground to the height of your waist (whatever that one’s called). He’s not a big guy, probably under six feet in height and only 180 lbs, but he can throw around mass like a fat guy just off a diet throws around bon bons. It’s amazing.

This morning, a lady that we work with turned her chair over to fix a broken wheel. She asked me to help her take off the old wheel so that she could replace it with the new one. I tried to get it off, but thought that there was no way it would actually come off without some special tool to trigger a release of some sort. But I had an idea. I would see if the power lifter who sits next to me could help. He came in and, after looking at the wheel for a moment, popped it right off like a cherry stem.

I was embarrassed. I’ve become “that” guy who, like a little girl, needs help opening his own mayonnaise jars.

Deer in the Headlights

2008-03-06T18:46:00.000-08:00

My roommate and his sister recently decided to start a dinner group so that a few people could get together once or twice a month to have dinner and try out new places to eat throughout the city that no one has tried before. I like trying new places to eat and I think it was a great idea. Last night was the first time we got together and we ate at this Middle Eastern place on 9th and 9th called Mazza. It was different, but I liked it.

I also had a blind date that I needed to take care of (not Tony Soprano “take care of”, but just get around to taking out), so I invited (let’s call her) Whatshername to come to our dinner group to kill two birds with one stone. Whatshername was a good sport and agreed to come.

As Roommate and I got to the restaurant, we found Whatshername standing outside waiting for us. (I know what you’re thinking, and yes, I did offer to pick her up, but she preferred to meet us at the restaurant.) The three of us were the first ones there, so we decided to get seated while we waited for the others to show up. We perused the menu for a few moments and soon my roommate’s sister and brother-in-law showed up. In an attempt to be courteous, I said, “Sister and Brother-in-Law, this is Whosherface. Whosherface, this is Sister and Brother-in-Law”. To which Sister and Brother-in-Law respond, “Nice to meet you”, and to which she replies, “It’s nice to meet you too, but my name is actually Whatshername”. After a moment of that deer-in-the-headlights look, my eyes widened in terror at the realization that I got her name wrong. I turned to try to apologize to Whatshername as Roommate falls over on his side in laughter, Brother-in-Law almost falls off his chair roaring, and Sister turns red as she tries her best to hold it in. I made it through as far as “I’m s-“, before beginning to crack up myself.

She was kind enough to laugh it off and not take offense. Still though, it was hilarious. This wasn’t the first time I’ve forgotten my date’s name, but it was the first time I’ve introduced my date using the wrong name. The first one is much better, because you can actually get through a night without having to say someone’s name, unless you have to introduce them to the crowd. And then it is worse, because the whole crowd is there to witness your blunder.

The best part of blind dates is being able to tell people about the train wreck afterwards.

Snap Crackle Pop

2008-03-04T20:32:00.000-08:00

I’m currently reading a novel (Wizard & Glass) in which a young girl is forcefully put into a relationship with an older man and one of the things she despises about this older man is his popping knuckles and creaking joints. And I can’t help but wonder if girls really get that minuscule in their analysis to list popping knuckles on the con side of their prospective suitor t-charts; probably so. If guys do, then girls would too. After all, my left knee pops to the rhythm when I walk down the hall. And all this time I thought I was losing out with the girls because of my bad hair, donated wardrobe, slouching posture, and my upper lip that quivers like a slab of bacon on a hot griddle when I’m forced to talk about my feelings. {sigh} Add my popping joints to the list.

Pink Eye

2008-02-25T19:13:00.000-08:00

My brother recently told me how he thought that the eye was the window to the soul. Well, I’m currently sitting here with a nasty case of Pink Eye. It is nasty and swollen red, and it hurts, and there are these gross yellow stinging boogers that are secreting from my eyeball. As I am forced to think and type, because my vision is too messed up to read or study, I can’t help but wonder what this says about my own soul. On the one hand, I can’t help but feel grateful that it hasn’t spread to the other eye, at least not yet, and hope that means that although gooberlicious on the outside there might be a diamond in the rough waiting somewhere in the inside. Or maybe I have duel personalities. But on the other hand, I can’t help but feel anger boiling up inside of me thinking that maybe someone thought it would be funny to bear butt fart on my pillow. If that is the case, I swear I’m going to FREAK!

Concert Quench

2008-02-24T20:57:00.000-08:00

(I am going to send this out to everyone as an email. What do you think? Will this help get the word out?)

So often we feel that we should do something to help in the fight against poverty, but just as often we simply don’t know what to do to help. Well, I have something that will actually have a real effect in the fight against poverty and it will do so in a fun and entertaining way that will benefit all those involved. It’s a win-win situation! (Don’t worry; I’m not just hitting you up for money.)

Over the past year, I have become involved with a Not-For-Profit called Care for Cambodia (Check us out at: http://www.careforcambodia.org ). My sister-in-law met the parents of the founder of this organization last summer. And through those connections I was able to meet up with the founder and offer my support. Care for Cambodia digs sanitary well systems for villages throughout rural Cambodia to provide clean water to the people of those villages. Once built, the villagers have a stake in maintaining and operating the wells too. We have already built wells for some villages and have given a healthier lifestyle to hundreds, but there is still a ton of work to be done. And now that the first few wells are in the ground and our contacts are in place in Cambodia, all we need to do is to raise more funds to dig more and more wells. Every thousand dollars we raise is enough to put in a new well.

To that end, I would simply like to announce our latest fundraising event. On Wednesday, April 23rd, “Concert Quench” featuring Ben Folds will take place at the Great Saltair with all proceeds going directly to Care for Cambodia. Of course, we will have to pay for the band and venue, which we are attempting to take care of through corporate sponsors, but a complete sell out would do wonders, not only for the people of Cambodia, but also in offering up a wailing good time. I love to go to concerts, and I can honestly say that Saltair is one of my favorite venues. Ben Folds won’t stir up the best mosh pits, but I’m betting the crowd will be filled with hotties absentmindedly swooning to their rock ballads. And for you ladies, I’m sure their will be plenty of those zoobiesque, tight shirted, boy-band types with product in their hair for you to flirt with.

Everyone loves a party, so come out and rock out! And, if by chance you don’t like parties, or concerts, or simply can’t make it, do me a favor and help get some word-of-mouth advertising out there by telling a friend.

Feud

2008-02-13T20:50:00.000-08:00

My light switch hates me. And I hate it. You could cut the tension of this mutual vendetta with a knife. I turn my light on and off several times a day, and my light switch thinks it’s funny to shock me with static electricity on about half of those occasions. He’s so smug! It’s gotten to the point where I try to sneak up on him like Elmer sneaking up on Mr. Waskely. After a few fakes of my finger, I try to go in for the flip with the light switch’s head turned, as quickly as pulling out the table cloth from a full setting. Sometimes it works. Other times it doesn’t. It probably seems humorous to picture me sneaking up on him in my underwear in the dark morning in an attempt to turn on the light pain free, but this has gotten personal, and personal feuds are anything but funny. I envy those of you who are able to groggily zombie walk your way to the bathroom. Just remember me as I dart and weave my way through this battlefield of bedroomdome. If light switches had faces, I’d slap that smirk right of his lips!

Tibetan Test

2008-01-23T21:07:00.000-08:00

I got this Tibetan Test in my email today and decided to take it. I thought the results were interesting, so I thought I’d post them. The first part of this test gives you a list of five animals and asks you to rank them in order of your favorite. Each animal then has a corresponding portion of your life, and the ranking is supposed to coincide with your own priorities. Here’s the order in which I listed the animals, and what it coincides with.

First Animal: Cow

What it represents: Career

Second Animal: Horse

What it represents: Family

Third Animal: Sheep

What it represents: Love

Fourth Animal: Tiger

What it represents: Pride

Fifth Animal: Pig

What it represents: Money

My interpretation: I don’t know why I ranked these this way, other than still being bitter towards pigs after walking through their stenchy tent at the Utah State Fair this summer. And I think I ranked tigers second to last, because if there were tigers in Africa, they’d probably hide from me just like the lions and leopards did when I visited last month. But I was pleased to see that Pride and Money were at the bottom. My only wish is that I could switch those two, because in my mind Pride is the worst of those five items.

The second part of the test listed five words and you were supposed to answer with the first thing that came to mind after reading the word. Depending on how you answered them, was you’re perspective on some other thing. Below are my answers.

Item: Dog

My Answer: Friend

What it represents: My Own Personality

My interpretation: Yea, thanks for rubbing salt in the wound. I already knew I was stuck in the friend zone, but I didn’t realize that some monk in Tibet knew about it too. My reputation has traveled the world and back again. I bet if I was in a train outside of Prague and I tried to hit on a girl, her reply would be “Oh, I’ve heard of you”.

Item: Cat

My Answer: Sneeze

What it represents: My Partner’s Personality

My interpretation: I think maybe it’s the look that girls often get on there faces when a guy just doesn’t quite clear the minimum bar. You know, the look right before they let loose with an ear shattering “Haa-Chew!”, the one where their eyes roll back in their head and the skin between their eyebrows looks like its being pinched.

Item: Rat

My Answer: Whiskers

What it represents: My Enemies' Personalities

My interpretation: Rats have whiskers, but so do cougars.

Item: CoffeeMy Answer: Stain

What it represents: How I interpret Sex

My interpretation: Yikes! What in the Sam Hill does that mean?! I don’t think I dare venture a guess.

Item: Sea

My Answer: Fresh

What it represents: My Own Life

My interpretation: What I thought of when I first saw the word was that feeling I get every time I go to the ocean; a feeling of being healed, of taking all my dry itchy skin and my cracked dusty lungs and shedding them like a snake skin. I don’t think Fresh is exactly the right word for that, but it is what I wrote. And I don’t know what that is supposed to mean for my own life. Maybe I’m in constant need of healing. Or maybe I am meant to “upholden him that was fallen and strengthen the feeble knees”. Perhaps both.

Sports Stuff

2008-01-22T17:40:00.000-08:00

A couple of things I’ve noticed while watching sports lately have bugged me. So, since I haven’t posted in a while, I thought I’d ramble about these two things for a bit.

The first is the way NBA players rub talcum powder in their hands. I just don’t get it. Is it for hygienic purposes? Personally, I don’t get sweaty palms playing basketball, only when I’m trying to call a hottie. And if that’s the reason, why don’t they bathe their head bands in it instead of their palms. Or are they trying to be polite to the other players so they won’t get sweaty hand prints on the back of their jerseys? That seems unlikely, since they throw a knee to the same guy’s teeth on the other end of the court if he tries to take a charge. And I’ve played basketball my whole life, and there is no way that stuff could actually help your grip on the ball. That powdery softness could only, if anything, make things more slippery. I think I would be nervous about a powdery handed defender bodying me up. I guess it’s better than hearing the snap of a rubber glove. But what’s worse, by far, is watching them load up there hand with a gigantic mound of the stuff before checking into the game, and throwing it up in the air. Is that showmanship? Or do they get focused as they watch the fluttering white particles fall over the time keepers head? The only sports motivational technique that is worse than that is watching a bunch of white cougar football players try to do a Polynesian Haka. It’s like watching a puff of smoke without a disappearing rabbit or a bouquet of flowers from their sleeves. It’s ridiculous and I only have one more thing to say about it: Abracadabra, loose the talcum!

Now, did anyone see Serena Williams at the Australian Open? Was it just a glitch in my television or was she wearing knee length purple spandex and a white tee shirt? The last I checked, women in professional tennis had to wear a tennis skirt to compete. Yea, her shirt was a bit oversized and it had two little slits up the side, but I don’t think that counts as a skirt. Normally, I wouldn’t even notice, but when I flipped the channel and saw her match, I could have sworn that it was Ray Lewis out running around the hard court. I thought that it might have been a celebrity match or something. She may be bigger than a linebacker, but if she is going to compete on the “women’s” tour, I think she should have to obey the dress code. It’s like in the workplace where the guys have to wear ties, pressed shirts, slacks, and polished shoes, and then there’s that one lady that gets away with wearing sweat pants and sandals. Besides, I don’t want to get all excited thinking that I’m going to see Ray Lewis pelt Monica Seles with an overhead if it isn’t really going to happen. I would imagine that would stifle her little screeching awe-HEH!

At the Orphanage

2008-01-06T17:18:00.000-08:00

Mason and Bryn at Drakensburg

2008-01-06T17:11:00.000-08:00

A Hippo Video

2008-01-06T16:57:00.000-08:00

Africa Pictures

2008-01-06T16:51:00.000-08:00

Let's see if I can get this link to work . . . .

Dean's Africa Album

. . . . . Hmm, I think that worked! Yay for me!

Future Beauty Queens

2008-01-03T18:17:00.001-08:00

Look how beatiful my nieces are!

Cuties

2007-12-06T22:01:00.000-08:00

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

2007-12-01T09:13:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-28T20:07:00.001-08:00

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

2007-11-23T21:30:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-13T18:22:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-04T20:25:00.001-08:00

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

2007-11-01T22:34:00.001-07:00

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

2007-10-29T20:34:00.000-07:00

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!

2007-10-16T21:46:00.000-07:00

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

2007-10-15T19:50:00.000-07:00

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

2007-10-10T21:39:00.000-07:00

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

2007-10-09T18:04:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-25T19:52:00.001-07:00

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.)

2007-09-23T16:53:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-18T20:57:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-17T19:56:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-12T16:52:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-11T20:07:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-08T09:04:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-04T18:55:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-01T14:00:00.000-07:00

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

2007-08-27T21:05:00.000-07:00

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

2007-08-23T19:51:00.000-07:00

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

2007-08-21T19:17:00.000-07:00

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

2007-08-20T20:18:00.000-07:00

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

2007-08-07T21:11:00.000-07:00

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

2007-08-06T19:06:00.000-07:00

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