Public confessions of serious misdeeds.

I am publicly confessing of serious discretions, misdeeds and marital infidelity. This Christmas, I had a lurid love affair with a woman other than my wife. Mandy had her over for Christmas dinner. She was sort of round and squishy, but very sweet. She introduced herself as Marie Callendar. There was actually two of her. One in the form of a chocolate satin pie (Possible "Satan" misspelling?) and an apple pie.

Not sure if that little vixen sold her soul to get her frozen pies to taste like they were fresh made. I am pretty sure I am packing a few new ounces around in the midsection. Not sure how many years I took off my life. Not sure if I nudged up that point in my life when I clutch my chest in agony as my eyes glaze over and I mutter out my last words "Those damn pies!" Not sure, if even after all of that, I would do it any different.

I guess that would make me an impenitent transgressor. I stand only ashamed of the consequences of my actions not the actions themselves. I gotta go, I think there is still some leftover pie in the fridge.

As a side note Mandy just told me she wishes she had bought a pumpkin and a Berry pie also.

A word about discrimination

dis-crim-i-na-tion: treatment or consideration of, or making a distinction in favor of or against, a person or thing based on the group, class, or category to which that person or thing belongs rather than on individual merit: racial and religious intolerance and discrimination.

I have a somber message regarding a topic that has been troubling me for nigh on these some 33 years of my existence.

I have felt bullied, pressured, harassed, diminished and belittled by a ruthless dictatorship of individuals that control my life in the harshest of ways. You know who you are people! I am making a stand and calling like-minded people to join me in my cause for awareness! For a new day! A better tomorrow! Just not too early tomorrow...

I am referring to a group I Will call "MP" or Morning People. MP established such heinous, controlling mechanisms such as Morning news, 7:00 A.M. traffic jams, 8:00 A.M. store opening, 5:00 store closing, curfew, early morning exercises, Morning calls, sayings like "The early bird gets the worm!" "Early to bed, Early to rise, makes a man healthy, Wealth and Wise!" and the most hideous of all--DAYLIGHT SAVINGS!!!!

If we exam each one of these devices we can see that they are injected with privileged dominance and masked by a contorted tone of chipperness. Sort of like your German teacher Mrs. Falke. The one who greeted you with a fake smile that you thought for sure was going to crack her narrow, gaunt and otherwise stern face. The one who stared down at you through silver rimmed glasses with squinting eyes and pursed lips that were surrounded by a ring of cracked lines, making it look like a volcano threatening to spew out harsh criticisms at any moment. And she would roll her head around almost like she was continually cracking her neck or letting her brain swirl and marinate in the hate filled juices that surely sloshed around under her skull. Let us not forget how she continually paced in front of the classroom with a ruler in one hand that she wielded like a sword. Slapping her desk with when she was angry. Pointing and smacking the chalkboard when she wanted to emphasize a word. Words that when she repeated, sounded like a scream a black belt might emit as he inflicted a neck breaking kick to his victim's throat. You know, that kind of wry smile she would give as you walked in the class as she would say "Gud morning class! Velkom to my class! Very vell, ve shall begin!" with a smile that said "I have planned a very exciting set of tortures to inflict your minds with, I can hardly contain my excitement!"

By the way, Mrs. Falke, big time MP! Like upper eschelon MP!

I am not a coffee drinker, so I am forced to conform to MP standards unaided by any external stimulants. Coffee is no doubt a method derived of necessity for the general masses to conform to MP regulations. MP says I should be at work by 8:00, at my desk, well rested, perfectly groomed and chomping at the bit to begin my day. MP is. MP has already been awake for 3 or 4 hours. MP has already exercised, showered, eaten breakfast, read the paper, let the the dog out, done the crossword, vacuumed the house, mowed the lawn, washed the car, washed the dog, washed the house, watched the traffic report, drove to work, checked the email, and ran updates on their computer.

I however, have fallen out of bed, put something on in the dark. I hope I at least picked something out my closet this time and not Mandy's. Brushed my teeth because it tastes like I might have been sucking on a poopsicle all night. Get in my car, somehow get to work, even though I don't recall any details, like if I stopped for any stop signs that I know are on the way. I fall into my seat, hair disheveled, bloodshot eyes, vaguely aware of my surroundings. MP says to me "Gud morning! Velkom to vork! Very vell, ve shall begin!" through pursed lips and a wry smile.

MP has gone to great lengths to ensure the world conforms to its standards including changing the time twice a year so that MP has more daylight in the morning. This sadistic illustration demonstrates how far MP will go to control its environment while the rest of us are literally still asleep.

I have always felt this to be an unfortunate circumstance because it forces me to give my best efforts to my employer when I am at my worst.

Is there something that can be done? I believe so. As the day progresses I notice the MP begins to wither. MP's hair begins to unravel. MP's energy level declines. by about 1 o'clock in the afternoon MP and I are on equal grounds, I on my way up, MP making their way down. By about 7 or 8 o'clock there is a complete roll reversal. MP is only vaguely aware of their surrounding. MP is fumbling around for a toothbrush, because it tastes like MP has been sucking on a poopsicle. MP stumbles around in the dark and collapses onto a bed, hopefully their own this time. I am awake now. I have eaten dinner, read the paper, let the the dog out, done the crossword, vacuumed the house, mowed the lawn, washed the car, washed the dog, washed the house, watched the late show, checked the email, and ran updates on my computer. Mentally I am at the top of my game. Solutions to problems come to me, I am alert and aware and I understand most things. I am ready to start projects, do stuff, go places. MP has seen to it stores close, things are turned off and stuff is locked and boarded up for the night... so it can be open bright and early in the morning to accommodate MP.

What about NP? (Night person) NP is forced to try to go to bed at a reasonable bed time so that they can get up when MP says so. NP will most likely lay in bed for several hours thinking about how people ever existed without pillows, how did people cut their hair before scissors? How about before knives? How did people shave before razors? Did they shave before razors? What came first razors or shaving? When did shaving cream come into play? What did they originally use for shaving cream? If people had to cut their hair with sharpened rocks, did it hurt to get your hair cut? Did many people cut their hair back then? What did they do about allergies? Or, whatever my active mind decides to latch on to. I waste my most mentally active moments trying get to sleep. MP has none of these problems.

MP gets the whole world, and door buster sales. NP gets Denny's and Wal-Mart. I personally, am I little frightened by what I see at both locations during regular business hours, at 1 or 2 AM, The patrons of either location look like the wild contrivement of Tim Burton. I guess we have vampires too. I saw one eating a breakfast skillet at Denny's once. I think he was wearing a trench coat... and a Mickey mouse shirt.

NPs unite with me! While MPs are blissfully sleeping in bed we can reverse centuries old traditions! We can establish morning curfews, change business time to 10-6 or maybe even 11-7. convince the lumber stores and auto parts stores to be open until 1 AM... because seriously, there is nothing more annoying than realizing you just need an O-ring or a hinge to complete a project and realizing your store closed 15 minutes ago! And possibly the coup de grace, final elimination of daylight savings time! Join with me as we end the tyrannical death grip MPs hold on civilization! MPs might be the first to strike, but we will be the last ones standing! HUZZAH!!!!

Choose your own adventure Blog

I have put a new saga on the Choose your own adventure blog. Do your democratic blog duty and vote.

Yesterday Mandy had a Scentsy party in Lehi. I took the kids and kept them occupied by taking them to Cabela's to see the fish and the animal exhibits there. When we pulled in to the parking lot Walker says "Where are we?" I said "Cabela's" He grumbled and said "I thought Cabela's was some lady's house that just had some fish and stuff" I said "Um, nope. It's a store that has a huge aquarium in it" He said "I'm bored already..." He confessed as we were leaving that he had fun.

Going out to the car I observed some rugged looking outdoorsy type guys -- 4 of them emerge from the store notice the snow, wince in apparent pain, cover their necks up and run like little girls who had just tipped over a beehive, to their trucks.

Then I took Walker and Shelby to McDonald's so they could play in the play area. Several more observations took place there.

I first noticed the person working the counter who looked exactly a heavier set Napoleon Dynamite. He stood motionless behind the counter like the life size animatronic dolls at Chuck-E-Cheeses that fall limp at the end of the show, but suddenly spring into action when you put a token in the machine. He stood there, head hanging slightly down and to one side, mouth hanging open just staring motionlessly at me. As I continued to watch him, he would stand up taller and assist customers that came to his line. But on their departure, sagged and continued staring at me again. I looked over at one point and saw him lazily blowing a poinsettia leaf in an arrangement by him. When the leaf stopped wagging from his last poof, he would blow on it again.

After Walker and Shelby had finished eating they went and played. Meanwhile a family came in and one person, who I later surmised from eves dropping was the father of three children and was with his mom who the children called Grandma. Their father wore cowboy boots, tight wranglers, a grey Mickey Mouse shirt and had a blue bandanna wrapped around his head, worn low over his eyes so he had to tilt his head back to see. He stayed focused on his sandwich, until he paused turned around in his seat to face the play area and then he would bark out "YOU KIDS NEED TO STOP SCREAMING!!!!!!! DALTON! QUITE SCREAMING!!!!" Not sure where they learned to communicate loudly to each other.

The yelling didn't seem to distract Napoleon or spur him into any sort of alternate action. The yelling did have a pretty immediate action on the parents of the other children who were playing there. They all stood up, started putting on coats and began collecting their children for prompt departures.

Which brought me to my final observation or point of pondering. Is it, or when is it acceptable for someone over the age of 12 to wear Micky Mouse clothes? To be honest, I had never really paid much attention, but I couldn't think of an occasion where I thought an adult wearing Micky Mouse, Minnie Mouse, Donald Duck or Pooh Bear type clothes looked notably good. (Certainly not with Wranglers and a bandanna.) However, I also realize that as a parent your fashion sense instantly dissolves. Some parents do well watching others and sort of mimicking what they are doing. Some revert back to whatever it was that was cool when they graduated from high school, and others like me just wear whatever passes the sniff test off of the floor.

I have embraced my fashion ineptitude and maybe this person's sniff test indicated that Mickey mouse, Wranglers and a bandanna, to keep the ears warm was what was on today's menu. Uniform wearing individuals like Napoleon don't have to worry about trivialities like this, which free up some spare time for doing stuff like staring or dusting the leaves of poinsettias with your breath.

SNOWWWWW!!!!!

It finally snowed! Old man winter took his chance when I was out of town. In Lehi and Ogden where I was all day, there was just a sciff of snow. I assumed no snow had even stuck to the driveway, so we took our time getting home. It was not until I pulled off the highway into Nibley did I see a lot of snow. "Grrr!" I grumbled when we pulled into our driveway. "It looks like everyone had already dug their driveways out!" I went all the way around the block and only found two other driveways to do besides my own.

Chuck operates like an autonomous death machine. Stubbornly relenting in a single-minded direction, until otherwise directed. the auger on the front makes a rhythmic pounding sound like the hammers of Thor. on the second swath down my driveway I twisted the handle bars of chuck pointing him in a new direction, as I stepped around to position myself behind him, my foot slipped and I found myself being drug down the driveway knowing that if I let go he would continue on unguided and unmercilessly. If I kept hanging on, I wouldn't be able to get my feet under me to stand up. Luckily there is a handle, when squeezed, takes chuck out of gear. Finally I gathered enough wits to remember how to squeeze the handle and I was able to regain my composure.

The only disappointing thing, from a previous owner using it without skids the scoop on the back is worn down. There is now a 1/4'' gap between the ground and the scoop that lets snow pass under. I wasn't able to get a perfectly removed cleaning. I either have to have a piece of metal welded on or figure out a way to keep it working good. I wonder if I could put a strip of ruber on there, like a strip from a used tire? I will have to think about this.

What did you say?

We have a little Christmas decoration that is a mouse holding some colored lights and is wearing a Santa hat. when you press his foot he dances back and forth and sings a verse from "Let it snow" It has always been Walker's favorite decoration. When he was little he would carry it around and play it over and over and over. Sunday he made it sing and started to sing/mumbled along. when it got to the part where it sang "And since there's no place to go..." Walker mumbled something completely different. I said "Walker, what did you say?" He looked at me with a perplexed look and softly repeated "Mexican mrfffnfnfm" I said "what?" He mumbled, "Mexicans we don't know?" I said "Is that what you think he is saying, Mexicans we don't know?" He didn't say anything he just shook his head yes. I liked that better than the real words, so now I sing "Mexicans we don't know! Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!"

Tonight I put a movie on for Shelby as I made dinner. Before the movie started, they had trailer for a kids movie. A sing along kids movie. They showed a portion of one of the songs. It had some kids and puppets singing "If you're happy and you know it" Except I swear they were singing "If your heavy and you know it..." And all of the kids they showed singing were fairly chunky. I am still not sure if they were not saying "heavy" Poor fat kids!

Which brings me to a lifelong gripe I have had. Singers who either don't sing, just talk (William Shatner is the only one who can pull that off) or just mumble their words. Most of them get thousands, millions, trillions, zillions of dollars to do what? Sing words! That's it! You are just being lazy. (Click here) I guess I am just jealous because I want to put a half hearted effort into something and get rich. I have always wondered about Shaq for this reason. He gets millions to play basketball. He's big and tall and sweaty. No one wants to try to get under the basket when he is there for those three reasons. They take no effort on his part. He is big and tall and sweaty by default. Ask him to complete a shot beyond his reach and he is hopeless. Can't make a free throw if his big, tall, sweaty butt depended on it. I would like to think that if I were paid obscene amounts of cash to make a ball go into a hoop, I would spend all day perfecting all of the different ways I could make that ball go through the hoop. The other thing about Shaq though is that his eyes are always at half mast, like he is so lazy that he couldn't even be bothered to wake up. My favorite Shaq experience (I don't watch much basketball so my stories are limited) was after a game a reporter asked Shaq what was the key factor in their victory. Shaq said "We simply out played them. Period! P-E-R- Uh, um whatever!" Great job there Shaq! It's a good thing that whole basketball thing worked out for you. An awfully good thing. (Click here)

New blog?!?!

Remember the "Choose your own adventure" Books you read as a child? Well now we have a choose your own adventure blog. Yippee! Let's find out what happens! Click here!

Already Tired

Ever have a day where you are tired all day? That is me today. There is no repreve tomorrow either. I need to be up at 4 to catch a flight to St. George for meetings all day tomorrow that will carry on until about midnight tomorrow. Well, not so much meetings as parties. In the evening we are having an ugly sweater Christmas party and then we are going to go see Quantum of Solace. Let's just hope the movie is better than the name. Speaking of sleep and dreams here is an exerpt from an email I got from a friend of mine:

"I had a dream last night that you were being appointed to fill a vacancy on the Nibley City Council. So, channel 2 is there interviewing you, and they ask the question: “Mr. Ungerman, with no experience in public service, exactly what are the qualifications you bring to this office?” You responded: “Well, as you know, I am rather good looking.” That’s all of the dream that I remember."

Handsomeness has sure worked well for Mitt Romney and Governer Huntsman. Too bad I am not that good looking.

Thought I would give this little report while I am waiting for a load of clothes to finish in the dryer so I can pack.

The Tragic Sibling

Last week my sister got us tickets to go to the rodeo. I think rodeos are great, fascinating and on the whole a very entertaining experience. However, this rodeo included a non scheduled event.

During the team roping event, the heeler was riding his horse back to gate after his partner had failed in roping the calf. I didn't pay much attention to him as I watched handlers preparing another calf in the chute. My attention was brought back to the heeler when I noticed his horse topple over sideways. I looked over just in time to see him hop off of his horse while it's legs started kicking and the horse started convulsing. It looked like it had fallen over and it was rocking itself back up to stand. Then it's legs started twitching and the front legs curled up. Within moments the horse was surrounded with help, it's saddle and halter were removed and a section of steel fence was brought out and placed behind the horse. The announcer began this long and meandering explanation of the time and money an owner puts into a horse and how these times are difficult for an owner. His voice was a creepy monotone other than how he began a sentence talking higher and by the end of a sentence his tone trailed out lower like a balloon letting out all of it's air. I didn't quite understand what was happening. Within a few moments they rolled the horse over onto the gate, everyone picked up a section of gate and they hauled the horse off. On with the rodeo. I assumed it had a seizure and would be fine. I talked to my sister on Thanksgiving who found out it had a heart attack. By the time they had rolled it over onto the fence it had already gone to that great big pasture in the sky.

It just got me thinking, "Why does nothing normal happen when Lori (my sister) is around?" Every time I talk to her she tells me these off the wall completely unbelievable stories that make you say "What the Hell...?" Normally I wouldn't believe omeone that spews such lofty lore, but she usually has reliable alibis and evidence that these things really happened. I am just going to ramble off a few just off the top of my head.

One time when she was walking to school a deer confronted her and actually chased her home... a nice sweet innocent, doe eyed DEER, like Bambi!

On a dare she agreed to approach and knock on a reputed and abandoned haunted house front door. As she was raising her hand to knock on the door the door knocked by itself. She and all of her friends ran away, she being the closest to the door and furthest from the car became the last one down the porch. As she jumped off of the porch a branch caught her shirt. Fleeing to the car the car, the branch pulled her backwards andthrew her to the ground. by this time her friends were in the car and were about to leave her. She got up and to the car before they left. And no-- this did not come from an episode of Scooby Doo.

Riding in the back of my dad's truck when it was struck by lightning

Hearing a police chase in her neighborhood and finding out the next day a high speed chase had ended less than a block from her house when a driver of a car smashed into a patrol car and then shot himself.

Wrecking on a three wheeler and injuring her hip and having my brother who she called "The Ethiopian" and could not have been 100 lbs wet, picked the three wheeler up off of her. Then having to ride in the back of a truck (same one that was hit by lightning) many miles down a dirt road that stabbed at her injury with every bump and pot hole.

Getting so sick with her first child that when I mentioned the words "Scrambled eggs" she had to scramble herself and her now fertilized egg to the bathroom to call for her friend "Ralph" in the toilet.

Having to deliver that baby by emergency C-section after a long and arduous labor.

Having a bone spur in her heel. After the surgery she stayed in my bedroom because it was closest to the bathroom. Every time I had to use the bathroom I dreaded it because she would ask for something else "Sterrrrrrrrrr, could you get me more ice for my ice pack?" "Sterrrrrrrrrrrr, can you get me some more Tylenol?" "SterRrRrRrRr, can you get me another blanket? I was OK with the first 100 or so requests. But, my patience eventually wore thin. I can't remember if she had a reaction to penicillin or if her pain medication started making her loopy but she finally got to the point that when I walked by the bedroom door she was saying "SterRrRrRrR!!!! There's mashed potatoes on the ceiling!" I looked at the ceiling and then at her and back at the ceiling "What do you want me to do?" "Get them off!" she groaned. They are making me sick!" I shook my head and started using the bathroom downstairs.

I just found out that on Saturday she went to cut down Christmas trees with my brother "The Ethiopian" in Wyoming. A storm swept through the area and turned all of the roads into ice sheets. Stressful moments ensued and she began peppering her children's now not so innocent ears anymore with more sailor talk. And I don't me the words like Jib, Ahoy, port, poop deck, knots, and hull either. My brother of course said it was fun.

I have been told that to the observer, I am the opposite. I seem to emerge from the hurricane with pressed pants and neatly combed hair. Catastrophe might happen around me but I seem unaffected. I would contest that although eventful situations do occur to me, I am either too dense to notice, to naive to realize their importance or simply fail to observe the magnitude of the events. An earthquake might level my home but I might just look at it and say "Hey! I must have hit another growth spurt! I don't remember being able to walk onto my roof from the front lawn! This is cool!" Life might be difficult for the fool, but it sure is exciting!

Mehhh! So what?

I am a generally placid and calm person. Or as some would say "simple minded" However, a blossoming bed of angst has been growing inside of me for quite some time that has only been expounded by recent events. So if you usually come here for my senseless observations, you might want to look away, because this could get ugly. I have decided this as the day I unleash a vile diatribe on an unsuspecting blog.

As long as I could remember I have had a keen interest in mechanical items, motorized machines and mostly cars. When most kids were doing normal things like dating or just hanging out, I was either fixing cars, driving cars or looking at cars. Simply stated, I like cars.

When I was 11 or 12 I was in our back yard jumping on the trampoline. It was fall, the air was crisp the leaves were changing as the trees prepared to cast off their green summer coats and scoff winter with their scraggly nude bodies. my skyward bounds were interrupted by a mystical howl that smacked of tire melting, drive line snapping grunt, ungoverned, needle pegging speed possibilities and just a hint of rage. At the time it sounded like a race car growling out retching threats to the neighbors. I leaped off of the trampoline and ran around to the front of the house looking for a stickered four wheeled Thoroughbred sitting in the driveway. Instead I saw a giant, brown four door land yacht parked in the driveway. The thing was a cesspool of ugly. White vinyl top, whitewall tires and the rest was dirt brown. I gaped in surprise. My brother was perched behind the steering wheel. He spotted me, smiled, started the car and revved it a few times for me. My amazement persisted. How could such harmonious beauty, purr out of such a detestable beast? I later learned to look past the exterior of the car and see it for the beauty that it was a four door 1971 Cutlass, or as it is still fondly referred to at my house "Labamba". My brother sold it, but I was able to own the same great car several years later. It began my infatuation with the GM A-body style car. The A-body hosted what I would consider the pinnacle of the muscle car era. The Pontiac GTO, Buick Skylark, Buick GSX, Oldsmobile cutlass, Oldsmobile 442, Chevy malibu, and the chevelle were all constructed off of this body style. All of them gorgeous. All of them offered with engine pakcages crammed with horsepower and torque. GM owned Chevrolet, Buick, Pontiac and Oldsmobile. They allowed each division to design configurations based on the A-body with their own specific engines. Each division saw it as a challenge to make a better, faster car than the others. It was a great time in the American auto industry. GM Realized, for a brief moment what the public wanted.

The good times didn't last long. The chips and salsa ran out the mariachi band ran out of songs the economy in America began to slow and we had an oil crisis. The big 3 auto companies, GM, Ford and American Motors begin suffering from new emissions legislation. cars got smaller, less powerful and more cheaply made. I can't think of a single American car made from 1974 to even 1989 that I could honestly say "Now that's a great car!" Nope. They were all crap. The big 3 seemed to lethargically pump out sub-standard mediocrity.

The government began regulating more heavily safety and emissions. American car manufacturers responded half heartedly, lobbied heavily against all of the mandates and skimmed along only meeting the minimal requirements.

Additionally, Detroit began to become laden with unions that drove up price of production and made the car manufacturers less competitive to global competitors. After 9/11 the economy slowed and car sales began to sputter. However, union workers for GM went on strike demanding more health insurance and better pay. Motions such as this demonstrated that the unions were not interested in the well being of the company that fed them, because they were too obsessed with their own problems. In effect hobbling more their race horse. Because of this Detroit began purchasing as much foreign parts as their unions will allow them. Japanese manufacturers on the other hand have built U.S. Factories to increase their domestic parts content. They have done so with a non unionized labor force and therefore are able to remain competitive.

Every car sold today has a domestic parts content label on the window sticker. You can look and tell how much a car is made domestically. Ironically, If I were to go buy a mustang, 65% of it is produced in the U.S. A Toyota Camry is 80% domestic. Buying American no longer necessarily means buying a Ford, GM or Chrysler.

In 2002 on the 35th anniversary of the Chevy Camaro, Chevrolet announced it was no longer producing their most historical car citing lagging sales. That is when I was done with GM. For years they had produced lack luster and boring cars. I could almost hear them mumble in monotone voices "And for this year we are making a... (drum roll) a car. it has wheels. buy it." What did they expect? Almost as if they were punishing their loyal fan base they yanked away the camaro. One time I went with my sister to an easter egg hunt. At the end of the Easter egg hunt, my nephew had a huge armful of plastic eggs filled with candy and money. He got frustrated, began crying and threw all of his easter eggs down. Kids scampered from everywhere and picked up the now dropped eggs. He looked around at his disappearing eggs and began crying more. This is the mental image I have of GM. As soon as GM dropped the camaro, Ford hired on Carrol Shelby and redesigned their new mustangs. Carrol Shelby could spit on the floor and it would look awesome (and probably have 400 horsepower) I Absolutely love the new mustangs. Although they haven't capitalized on the idea yet, I think they are starting to get it.

In 1992 Dodge reinvented itself and began production of the Dodge viper by taking a V-10 truck engine, sending it off to Lamborghini to have them tinker with it a bit and them cramming it in a beautifully styled two seat sports car. The car turned a lot of heads and brought thousands of people to the Dodge dealerships with money in hand. I don't think much of those sales were of Vipers themselves. I think it was the idea of driving something that looked similar to the viper. Most of the new dodge cars had the same iconic four square grills. The trucks were redesigned and looked similar to a Mac semi truck. Car and truck sales turned the corner for Dodge. For a brief moment they got it.

Speaking from a completely biased and untested theory, as this whole entry is, I think Americans like our Japanese cars for what they are, fuel efficient, extremely reliable, good cars. That is what they have always been and that reputation is what is saving them now. in this market, that is what we want, a car that is cheap to run, sips gas and has a high resale value.

European cars take a small portion of the market, but will always maintain their status as a car for the more affluent. Such as Lamborghinis, Ferraris, BMWs, Jaguars, Lotus', Volvos and the Volkswagons somewhat fit in this category.

Korean cars are sure trying. They make a cheap car that is fairly reliable. Their reputation isn't quite as good as it should be, so they will keep trying.

When I look at ads for new American cars, the pictures are always somewhat ethereal. Panels and windshields are just a bit too shiny to be real. Backgrounds are blurred. Their are no distinguishing features between any of them. It is more monotone "Look here. It is a car. buy it. It has a steering wheel. buy it." They have forgotten what works. They have proved they can't or refuse to compete with Japanese reliability. So I say abandon that notion. Go with what works. Make some fantastically insane car that has a thousand or so horsepower. You will only sell a couple thousand, so what? People will come into the show room with dreams and aspirations of that juggernaut car. Send them out the door with a more affordable but well styled car. People will say "is that they new Ford Freakshow?" and they will say "Nah, it is called "my pretty pony" but it has the same shift knob as the Freakshow" and people will go "WOWWW! AWESOME!!!!" Americans love power. We have proved that with the SUV craze. They are totally ridiculous. larger than we ever need. 99% of them never go off-road and are ever used for anything more than a single occupant car. But we love them. Make a car that has some crazy capabilities that we will never use. It's the idea that we could do that whatever thing if we wanted to, but we probably never will. Make it amphibious. Give it panels that make it suitable for atmospheric re entry. give it a bubble and a turret where you could in theory, mount a machine gun. Make it transform into a robot at a push of a button... Blow our minds with fantastic and stupid things. We will all come running from our Hondas and toyotas like kids to an ice cream truck. We like to say we are civilized and want to save the planet and our money, but when offered a car that comes apart, turns into a riding lawn mower a massaging lounge chair a wood chipper a dishwasher a power sprayer a vacuum cleaner and a death ray gun. We will take the converting car... with the racing stripes please... oh and cup holders that preferably holds a 96 ounce drink.

But you blubbering, lazy self serving imbeciles in Detroit don't get it. You show up in Washington in corporate luxury jets asking for money on the tail end of a bank bailout... after representatives just returned from their home towns where they were grilled and blasted for giving any money out in the first place. Bad timing, bad form. I hope you all go into bankruptcy. I do. Maybe you can shed some of your unions, rethink your strategies and begin drawing up plans for that car a car that levitates and can radiate a shockwave that will blow out every window and cause short term hearing damage to everyone/thing in a one block radius.

Awful horrible shame!

Recently I was tricked into getting a Facebook account. Really! I was duped, scammed and suckered.

What happened was that I got an invitation from someone to join Facebook. I had NO idea who this person was. I could not see a picture of this person until I joined Facebook myself. I originally ignored the invite. Then curiosity festered. I scratched at it and picked at it until it was a gaping wound.

I couldn't imagine who this was, how they knew me and how they got my email. I signed up for an account and found out it was a friend of one of my nephew's.

Since then I have become Facebook friends with several people that I went to high school with, Jr. high and even grade school.

On top of that we had a new home teacher come over to our house. Through casual introductions he and I figured out we went to high school together and graduated the same year.

I pulled out the yearbook and looked. I remember his face from high school, but graduated with a class of 700 students. I didn't remember him.

All of this remembering back to high school and even before unleashed a torrent of memories. Some good, some bad, most of them sad with an overlying theme of embarrassment. Horrible, disfiguring embarrassment.

I was (am) so tragically awkward, most of my memories of school are humiliating to the point where I want to slap my head and self affirm my admittance into the all time hall of shame.

When this life is over for me and I sit before that judgement seat and all of my actions are replayed in high definition, surround sound with subtitles and directors comments turned on, I have a notion that through most of it I will have to hide my face in shame while I mutter "Why did I wear tha-- oh no! There's a clean pair in the drawer! IDIOT! Your gonna pick that aren't you--OH GROSS! NO DON'T WIPE IT--! NOOOOO! I guess that explains why those girls didn't like you. Dude! You got some broccoli stuck in-- you can't... you can't hear me... I am not going even bother. NO! Don't say that! Do realize how stupid that sounds? What were you thinking? OH! I am sorry I asked... Is this movie over? Do you have the remote? Can we just fast forward through this Jr. high bit? "

Surrealism

On my commute I take the new Legacy highway. For those unaccustomed it seems ridiculous, but for reasons unexplained gets me to work faster. Legacy parallels I-15, meanders along like an inebriated snake and has posted speed limits at 10 miles slower than I-15.

I can also count on plenty of sweet roadkill raccoons, laying face up, legs splayed out and bulged like over inflated balloons.

Less commute times and more awesome scenery. It's a win-win.

Today as I was wandering my way back home, I hummed around a corner and saw an unexplainable sight. I have put the scenario to much consideration, but have yet to devise an answer to why things were the way they were.

My attention was first drawn to the flashing orange beacon blinking a caution to drivers from its perch on top of a UDOT incident management vehicle. In front of the incident management vehicle sat a tan Toyota Celica with its hood propped open. I waned close and could see a middle aged woman and a UDOT employee standing in front of the car. I noticed they were not looking at the engine or the car. They were facing a fence. The fence runs both sides of the parkway and separates the road from a walk way/ bike path that also runs on both sides of the parkway.

Standing on the opposite side of the fence, ears perked attentively, neck careened over as far as it could extend out, stood a horse. He seemed to have a keen interest in what the people were doing and they likewise had an interest in him. It didn't look like the regular sort of interaction you would expect like the people having an apple and cooing "Oooh! who's the pretty horsey? You want this apple? The cutesy wootsy horsey wants an apple! don't ya!" The horse staring intently at the apple muttering to himself "Shut up! Just give me the frickin' apple. Ya bi-ped freaks!" No, it wasn't that sort of interaction. It looked more like the horse was listening intently and the people were saying "It just started sputtering and then it died. It has plenty of gas and I just had a tune up and an injector service done last week... Wilbur has taught you a thing or two about auto mechanics hasn't he Mr. Ed? What are your thoughts?"

Laying on the ground next to the horse with a lethargic and bored look was a dog. There was no one attending the dog or the horse. How they got on the walkway is mysterious and a bit in congruent too.

I might have dreamed the whole situation up too because on the same drive I thought I saw a sign that said gas was $1.83. I better stay away from those poppy seed muffins.

Good Brother

Last night, I was getting Walker and Shelby for bed Shelby already had a bath, was in her jammies and Walker was just getting out of the tub.

Walker and I began our dual of creative wits. Walker creates diversionary and delayment methods to prolong the moment he actually gets put to bed and I think of new and ever more excruciating or horrifying threats to persuade him to go to bed.

I was reading the news online, Shelby was playing with her dolls next to me. She had lovingly and gently placed two dolls in a tiny red wagon, positioning them so that they faced each other. Then she neatly folded a blanket and placed it over them to keep them warm. Singing them songs she pranced around the house taking her dolls for wagon rides. Walker came in the office/guest bedroom hopping on one foot, still soaking wet from the bath and a blue towel draped around him. He plopped on the bed, holding his foot "OW! Ow! ow!" he cried. I recognized this for what it was, a tactic. A poorly played tactic. My turn. I played the uninterested and unsympathetic card. I kept reading "Mmm, that's too bad. Now go get your jammies on" There was no way he was winning tonight. Walker's turn. "I can't walk! I think my foot is broken!" he said. I kept reading "How did you break your foot?" I asked, then cursed myself. I just let him score a point. We both knew if he could lure me into an inquiry conversation, bed time was getting pushed back. "I don't know? I think I must have stepped on it with my other foot! Ow! Ow! ow! I can't walk on it!" I reverted back to my original tactic to see to see if I could regain control of this match. "Get your jammies on." I mumbled.

Shelby hopped into the room pulling her dollies, Walker was laying on the bed face down. his legs hanging off the bed. Shelby came over to the bed, leaned over so that she could look into his face and then she picked up a pillow and I said "Yeah Shelby! Hit him with that pillow! He's not minding me." She stopped and glared at me like I was pure evil. "NO!" she shot at me "He's a GOOD brother!" she said. I watched her curiously as she pulled her dollies out of her wagon, put the pillow on the wagon and helped Walker into the wagon. After she had him situated she pulled him in the wagon to his room so that he could get his jammies on. Just before Walker disappeared with the wagon around the corner he flashed a smile at me as if to say "I win!" I flashed a smile back. One day, I am hoping I will learn to be the grown up in these situations.

Ladies and Gentlemen! I give you CHUCK!!!

Saturday I put the last finishing touches on the latest mechanized mayhem residing in my garage. I apologize for any confusion I may be creating by renaming a previously named object. But I have settled on the name Chuck. These machines come with a predisposition and tendencies that you really can't determine until you first hear them run. The name Reginald was suggested and I liked it. However, the name Reginald holds a certain heir of nobleness, pride, properness and hoity toityness. Someone named Reginald probably wears a silk jacket at home, swills wine around in a crystal glass and can identify the year and vineyard the drink originates from. Reginald probably has a butler named Jeeves that conducts his ordinary affairs and Reginald has initials embroidered on his linens in a classy serif font. This snow blower did not seem to hold any of those attributes.

From the first pull of the pull chord, it sputtered and then settled into a horrifying rumble that sounded a lot like a war chant. It is a no frills, brute strength, no complaints, get it done and move on sort of snow blower. My brother suggested Chuck. I liked it. Chuck it is.

I took it out of the garage and took it for a few test runs down the driveway. Chuck is a monster. You have two controls- speed and a clutch. To engage the clutch you squeeze the left handle. You just better hope you don't fall down. It stays engaged unless you squeeze the handle. Left engaged it keeps churning in a straight path chewing away at anything in it's path until it either ran out of gas or dropped off a cliff. Even in the slowest speed, letting the clutch engage results in Chuck either popping a wheelie, or if you pull up on the handle bars, it will peel out until it gets up to speed. Chuck is not messing around. Chuck is single minded and Hell bent on clearing your driveway and Chuck is NOT safety conscious. Safety items were obviously developed between now and the time when other snow blowers like Chuck were made and probably developed because of snow blowers just like Chuck. There are at least 30 different ways I could loose, a finger a limb or my eyesight by using Chuck. I wouldn't have it any other way! If it isn't dangerous, it isn't worth doing.

As you may have noticed, we were fore casted for snow all weekend long. I didn't even see a flake fall. When it comes to winter, I think the best offense is a good defense. As soon as I wheeled Chuck out of the garage I heard a grumble way up North as Old Man Winter took notice, recalled his plans and tried to come up with a more sustainable attack. Naturally I was disappointed.

Glitter, just say no!

Today when we went to church we were a good 20 minutes early. As usual in our ward, 20 minutes early still doesn't afford you a seat on a soft bench. That's frustrating, because Ungermans on time is a shocking event. Ungermans 20 minutes early is apocalyptic in scale. A feat we have pulled off several times recently which is even more amazing.

We nervously strolled down the aisles to find every empty aisle reserved with books. Finally we found an row unoccupied with one single caveat, it had apparently become the victim of a senseless glitter bomb. There was glitter everywhere on the bench and on the floor. We reluctantly took the seats knowing that the rest of the day we would be sparkling like a diamond necklace. Or at least our butts would be.

The incident punctuated my contempt for glitter. I have a friend who used to clean a school. The teachers out right banned glitter because it is worse than cancer. It gets on everything and the next thing you know, you are standing in the shower picking glitter out of your belly button saying "Now-- how did glitter get in there?"

In today's legislative laden society, I think we should outlaw the public use of glitter. In my opinion, it is worse than public farting. It spreads quicker and the effects are much more damaging and long lasting.

If you gave me a choice between an IRS audit and a letter with glitter in it. I would pick the audit every time.

Fort Knox. Allegedly one of the most secure areas in the world. If they really wanted to protect all of that gold, I would think all they would have to do is sprinkle the stacks of gold with glitter. and go ahead and leave the place unguarded and the front door wide open. Thieves would walk in, see all of the glitter and mutter in disgust "Oh! They have glitter everywhere! It isn't worth it! Let's go! If we get this U-haul back before 6:00 maybe we can get a partial refund."

Fantasy Basketball

I joined a Fantasy basketball league last week. The Fantasy Basketball League (or FBBL for short) draft was today. Maybe if I am bored I will wander over to see what happened.

I follow sports about as closely as most people follow advances in the ball point pen industry. I picked my draft list simply by how reading the players names made me feel. For example. Carlos Boozer, as his name suggests, might be an alcoholic. Probably misses a lot of practices and the ones he does attend complains from suffering the effects of a hangover. Not a good player.

I figure I picked my players as good as either a monkey pulling names out of a hat or by throwing darts at a board with player's names on it. Or possibly the combination of the two. So, let's just say a monkey throwing darts at a board with names on it. A lazy eyed monkey. So, that is my team name. Lazy eyed monkeys.

Go team! Yep, that's my mascot-- the one throwing poop at the crowd.

Candy!!!!!!

I am tossing out a general question Halloween related. What is every one's least favorite candy?

I sat here and thought about my least favorite candy I had received while trick or treating as a child. Necco wafers topped the list. I still don't know what they are made of. They have little if any sugar in them, look like they might be antacid pills and have no distinguishable flavor between the colors. They might be pressed dust for all I know. Never cared for smarties or pixie sticks or candy corn.

We used to go to an old lady's house that lived at the end of our block. She gave out whole cans of Shasta pop. She was born with no hip joints and would slowly waddle to the door, her upper body swaying wildly back and forth like a child getting tossed about on a bumper car ride. She smoked constantly and her house reeked of smoke. Even as you turned down the path towards her house you could start to smell the smoke. She was something like 180 years old, was covered in deep wrinkles, had no teeth and her speech was garnished with a rattley southern accent. Her house was completely covered in vines and weeds. All that was visible from the road was a small porch light shining through a thick growth and a dim glow from her living room shining behind her screen door that seemed to say "Enter-- if you dare! Mwa! Ha! HA! HAAAA!" It was always a spooky house, but particularly ominous on Halloween. The vines and trees transformed in the dark to ghostly figures hunched over and leering. in order to get to her front door you had to pass through a gate in her fence. the gate had an archway over it and the entire fence and gate were draped in crawling vines. Passing through the gate, the branches and leaves groped out at you like zombie hands. I always just closed my eyes and ran through. Once you reached the door you could see inside her house. Bubba, her son was always sitting on the couch in nothing but coveralls (wish I were making this up, but my siblings will verify the validity of this haunting tale) Her dog Butch, a black and white bulldog would come barking and snorting to the door. From deep within the house over the blast of the TV you could hear Mable scream "Butch! Git over here!" and she would emerge from into view, the living room light creating a silhouette of her swaying waddle dance. She would open the door with the promised Shastas in hand, but hold them hostage as she yammered on about crazy people putting razor blades in candy and people poisoning kids with Halloween candy. 30 or so minutes later she would conclude by explaining that this is why she gave out sodas. Because you can't poison a pop. This is what I believe she said anyways. I only picked up every 4th or 5th word because she talked in that funny lippy way people do with no teeth, and the whole time I was just thinking "Give me the pop lady, so I can dart back through that scary gate and go home and put myself in a sugar induced coma!" After we got the can of soda, the can always made our candy bag smell like smoke. Looking back, I am not sure why I didn't skip that house.

I don't think I was ever a very smart child. It might even be easily argued that lack of intelligence has carried over into adulthood. My mom however, was smart. Every year for Christmas she would bake treats for the neighbors. For whatever reason at the time, she could never take the plate of treats that she had just made, down to Mable's house. And for whatever reason, "You are the youngest" "Can't find my boots" "Your legs are younger than mine" "You are closer to the door" "Just Swing on by real quick" and I always ended up taking the treats down to Mable's. Several hours later I would return, frozen and full of lippy, slack jawed meanderings. One year I lucked out. When I ran down to her house I noticed her purple AMC Pacer wasn't home. She was out either restocking on cigarettes or out for her morning coffee. She didn't answer her door. I pumped a joyous fist into the air said "YESSSS!" and put the plate of treats down on the porch and ran like Hell home for once delighted that I was back in less than a minute and having not endured any conversation.

Another time we did a neighborhood service project at her house. We all showed up and started clearing all of the weeds and vines off of her house. Just off of her porch there was always a metal lawn chair. While I was clearing an armful of branches, I turned around and saw her sitting in her chair watching the flurry of activity in her yard. She had a cup of coffee resting on the bottom of her foot and her leg was twisted all the way around backwards so that the bottom of her foot was just below her chin, making a nice resting table for her cup. I guess when life gives you bad hips, you make a convenient go-everywhere coffee table. And then one day she just died. I was astonished. I was convinced she was immortal. I was told the missionaries had killed her. That figures. They had been teaching her for quite along time. They challenged her to quit smoking. In less than a week the poor old thing was dead.

You know, Shasta doesn't taste the same when the can isn't covered in a thin veneer of smoking film.

Halloween Hyundai

One of my favorite things to watch on TV is "This old house" A PBS show where they remodel a historic home.

Usually about two thirds through the show you see the homeowner proudly walk into the house and look around at the demolition as they explain "We only had budgeted $2,000 to replace the porch light and the shutters, but we found termites, when treating the termite damage, we found most of the electrical was damaged from a previous homeowner. When we were replacing the electrical we found that most of the pipes were cast iron and some of them were even clay pipes! Can you believe it! Clay pipes! Now we are looking at a bill of $250,000!" The homeowner explains as a fake smile beams across their face and a tear runs down their face. "And that is just the price of the demolition! The contractor says we are looking at about a million to get it back together! In the mean time we have been living in my in-laws linen closet with a Rottweiler." At this moment one of the hosts walks into the scene holding a skull and is followed by a policeman who is jotting down notes. The host explains in a thick Maine accent "It looks like we just found the remains of a human under the master bedroom. Looks like we are going to have to exhume the corpse and excavate the entire west wing of the house Norm." I would laugh and slap my knee because I knew it wasn't me footing the bill. Besides, the thought of them living in a closet with a rottweiler did strike me as humorous.

Last week on my way home I smelled anti freeze in the car. I watched the temperature to see if it was going to overheat. Nothing.

I got home and found the car was making a small puddle of coolant. I wiggled hoses, shined a flash light all around, but I couldn't find where the leak was coming from. I took off the hoses to see if I could find a leak in them. Nothing. Removed the cooling fans and the radiator. All looked fine. I figured I might as well replace the hoses because the car had 150,000 miles on it and they were original hoses. They were definitely getting soft. Perhaps one of the hoses was just leaking. As a safety measure I took the radiator to a radiator shop and had it pressure tested. They called back later that evening. There was a split running the whole length of the top tank. They could fix the tank or for $12 more get me a new radiator. I went with a new radiator.

When I was pulling out the radiator I noticed the timing belt was glazed. In some cars (not mine) when a timing belt breaks the pistons collide with the valves and causes catastrophic engine damage. These are called destructive timing belt failures. Luckily in this car it has a non-destructive engine. but a broken timing belt is still a huge pain to repair once broken. I decided it was time to replace that.

While removing the A/C compressor I noticed the A/C belt was cracking and missing some pieces. Time for a new A/C belt. I also found the alternator belt was unraveling and was missing some cords. Time for a new alternator belt. After taking the water pump out I noticed there was some coolant stains and heavy crust build up around the weep holes on the water pump. Time for a new water pump. I have it all torn apart. noticed it needs an oil change too. Unfortunately I am out of money. The water pump and the re assembly is going to have to wait until I get paid again. This all comes in the same month that all of our cars need to be registered and several other bills are due.

I am sitting here with a fake smile beaming on my face and a tear running down my cheek. Just flooding the market with my own little economic stimulus package.

Stalkers Unite!

I write this blog for my own amusement, but I welcome any viewers although I don't blame you for not sticking around. However, I have seen on several blogs a new item called "Followers". It made me curious "Who actually reads my stuff?" The only way I know is if you post comments. Until now. If you actually read this casual, meandering, dribble I write, not just have read a post or two, but all of them, then sign up as a follower. Because if I get the most followers I win a new car! Well not really. But I will give a free car away to a random follower!!!! Nah, just kidding. Well, maybe I will give you a Toyota.

Dude! You're freaking me out!

I know I have joked about this stuff, but last week I found myself securely fastened in the center of one of my own remarks of jest.

Sometimes the occasion is required that I utilize a restroom at my workplace location. There are four urinals and all of them were vacant at the time. I strategically placed myself in front of the end one in case someone did enter the restroom, that left three of them to my left open and hopefully they would pick one that was at least one stall away. I have a comfort zone and when using a urinal, that comfort zone expands. Sometimes you get a social pee-er someone that despite having distanced locations, picks the closest station to an occupied one. You hope it never happens, but sometimes it does

Co-worker enters the bathroom I am thinking "Don't pick the stall next to me, don't pick it, don't pick it, don't pick it... oh great! a social pee-er!"

As he walks up to the stall next to mine he says "How's it going?"

I think "Oh no! not only is he picking the stall next to me... but he's a conversationalist! What's he gonna do next? put his arm around me?"

I glance over quickly to see if by chance he is talking to someone else. No one else is in the bathroom. He is staring intently at the wall in front of him. "Fine." I mutter out quietly.

Silence. Other than him picking the stall next to me when he had the choice of two other better locations, I calm myself as I assure myself that his socializing has ceased.

"How are things in recurrent going?" He suddenly blurts out

"I... uh... um... I am not working on any recurrent training courses for you right now." I stammer out.

He looks over at me like I am interrupting. I look back with a surprised look thinking "Well, you are the one talking to me!" Luckily I finish and turn and walk over to the sink. He begins talking again. This time the subject has deviated off to a new topic that I don't know anything about. "Who is he talking too?" I wonder. I look into the mirror and I see the bluetooth earpiece cradled on his left ear. "I'm an idiot! How embarrassing!" I growl under my breath.

Later that day I had to head over to the airport to get a new security badge issued as mine had expired. I parked in the employee parking lot and got on the bus that would take me to the terminals. The bus had two levels of seating. near the front of the bus there were two rows of seats with their backs to the exterior wall of the bus facing inward to each other. on the row of seats behind the driver there was also situated a large luggage rack for the crews to put their luggage on. On the upper level of seats in the back of the bus were 3 rows of double seats on either side of the aisle and one long bench on the very last row of the bus. A few ramp agents were seated in the back and a Delta flight attendant sat right behind the bus driver.

I sat down on the empty row across from the flight attendant. The ride was quiet except for the hum of the engine as it lurched the bus forward and the squeal of the brakes as they grappled the bus to a stop. Suddenly the flight attendant sitting across from me blurted out "Mmm hmm, I am on the bus right now" I looked around to see who she was talking to. She was staring out the window across from her. Up until that point I thought only crazy cat ladies talked to themselves. She did not look disheveled, hair seemed manicured, didn't wreak of cats and I didn't see a shopping carts nearby. She obviously had enough mental wherewith all to be gainfully employed as a flight attendant. Maybe she forgot her meds this morning. her conversation with herself stopped. Then she started talking about where she was going, a birthday party for her brother and Warren Buffet. She even paused as if she were listening to responses to her comments. She yammered on and on. I was so confused. I kept stealing glances at her to see if she was going to do anything more crazy or bizarre. She kept staring out the window. Then I saw something blink under her hair that was pulled down over her ears and I saw her phone cradled in her hand resting on the seat next to her. She was obviously talking on her bluetooth.

I am wondering if these bluetooth earpieces shouldn't have a giant orange flag that pops up when being used. You people don't know how confusing you are to other people. Of course you don't realize that, you are too busy talking on your phones.

The winter battle has begun!

As I stood in the driveway and waved good by to a beaten and tattered Chudleigh, earlier this summer, I am certain I heard old man winter having himself a good chuckle. I felt his icy cold breath that sent a shiver down my back. I sniffed back a tear and detected the slight pungent odor of shame and vengeance in that billow of Winter air. I knew he had retreated to his summer fortress in the North. But had since spent the majority of his time pouring over maps and studying strategies. thoughtfully sliding tiny icicles, snowflakes and blue thermometers over a huge map splayed out on a table, he would giggle and jot down notes as he carefully planned this year's attack. He hated Al Gore tauting about global warming and receding ice caps. He despised the theories that he was faltering in his... old age. He hated furnaces. He hated snow shovels. He hated ice melters. But most of all he hated Chudleigh. Seeing him pawned off like a three legged mule made him giddy. Giddy like a little school girl in love. He immediately returned back to his maps with fresh courage.

As I write this it is currently snowing outside. Sunday October 12th. Yesterday, Winter made a preemptive strike by turning down the temperature and peppering us with a light snow. Summer was putting up a good fight for me this year and we have had unseasonably warm weather up until recently. Or perhaps this was part of Winters plan. Lull us into a false sense of security. Make us think it was an endless summer and then when we were all lounging about our pools in speedos and bikinis, sail in and freeze us mid stride as we rushed inside to fetch our winter parkas.

Do not tell old man Winter but while he was making preparations for this years winter season I have been building a secret weapon in my garage. I have been rebuilding my newest snow blower. It has been completely disassembled, inspected and put back together with the newest and best parts as time and money allowed. Friday night I put some of the last bolts on the engine and got everything hooked up as it should be. I pulled on the chord and it puffed out a small hiccup. I pulled again. This time 3 hiccups. The third time I pulled on the chord it hiccuped, belched, farted and sneezed and then roared to life. I shut it off, and tried again. This time it eagerly jumped into action. I tried again yesterday and it started with no problem. Not bad for a 40 year old engine. As I have gone through this snow blower I cannot believe how great the condition it is in. Everything is built strong, out of solid chunks of steel and metal. Nothing is plastic. Nothing is shabby or flimsy and everything on it means business.

The body of the snow blower is being repainted. and I am having new skids made for it. They are being made out of old, thick leaf springs. I also still need to order new bearings for the rear wheels and then I will be completely ready. When it is all put back together I will post a video of it

Bring it on old man! Show me your ugliest face, and when you do... I will punch that face with an iron fist!

Paying respects to the rain gods

There is a tradition that occurs every week amongst my children. When we walk to church we pass a large concrete vault with a steel grate on top. If you were to peer inside you would see and hear a torrent of water gushing through it. Every week we do the same thing.

Shelby stops and I say "Don't pick up a rock!" Shelby picks up a rock. I say "No! don't..." As Shelby tosses it through the grate. Then she looks back at me like "I am sorry, I couldn't stop myself, it just happened!" The following week we repeat.

Then the thought occurred to me that we had formerly been in a then-getting-serious drought a few years ago, about the same time my children started offering sacrificial rocks. I wondered if it wasn't similar to the offering of a virgin to the volcano to appease it's fiery belchings. I wondered if I couldn't convince them that they had helped. I decided that I would stop bothering my children about this, because if there is one thing I want my children to learn is a bizarre and unfounded system of intricate superstitions and hopefully a healthy fear of inanimate objects.

I also realized that children will also do exactly the opposite of what you tell them to do. So, they will probably stop throwing rocks in the grate and... we will enter into another drought.

No Sleepy

Here it is October 1st, 3:00 A.M. I am wide awake.

Last night I came home, made dinner and became so sleepy that I found myself in bed by 9:00 and out cold by what must have been 10:00. (This is uber-early time for me to actually be asleep)

Then I woke up about 30 minutes ago wide awake.

As the final wisps of my dream wafted away, I snagged a few pieces so that I could share them. I dreamed that I had written a book called Adiagnosense (No clue what meaning that word would even have) The cover of the book was high gloss and was completely black. The title was written in Times and was white. Below the title there was a thin white line and then there was a bright red apple emerging from the shadows. The apple was shifted off to the side, towards the spine of the book and also emerging from the shadows was a snake and it was biting the apple. Obvious iconology, if even a bit cliched.

Inside I had written several hundred poems that went something like:

Systematic happenstance

Casual melodrama shatters the aqueous biosphere.
writhing in sedated monotony.
Fresh off the grill,
the fog drains the contorted symmetry.
Lazily beckoning,
abrasive comforts,
vibrant indulgence,
sudden elusiveness,
hallowed trechor,
erroneous reprieve.
calamity awakens the newborn ninja.
hush...be still, for tomorrow we sleep.


It was obvious that I had written the book to mock those that gather in dark, candle lit rooms, thickly adorned in a heavy smattering of black attire and perch thick, heavy rimmed glasses on their faces. That assemble together to read poems to each other in hushed tones and overly dramatic pauses. That scour the words for meaning and derive life direction from a series of loosely strung together words. But, I was at a book signing and they whisked me away to a room that was dark, candle lit and had heavy black curtains in it and the very people I was mocking began showing up and gushing to me about how meaningful and poignant my words were for them. It was taking a lot of self control to listen to them without laughing.

I once took an interpreting literature class that I thought was somewhat interesting, but some of the ideas that were thrown out during class made me spin around in my chair and look at the commenter and think "WHAT???" I walked away from the class with a realization that there is no absolute correct interpretation of what you read. It changes depending on your perspective.

As one of the final projects for the class we were given an assignment to pick a poem or short story, research what several "professionals" had interpreted it as and then we were to write our own interpretation. I don't remember what poem I picked, but I was happy to find that with a short amount of research I quickly located several in depth interpretations, that I put into my paper. I added my own interpretation that I pulled out of nowhere... completely bluffed my way through and to my delight, actually assembled a very persuasive point of view. And then I found an interview of the author where she was specifically asked the meaning of the poem. She basically said "Um... I don't know... I just liked the meter of the words and how they sounded next to each other. I didn't pay much attention to context."

I felt duped. I felt like an archaeologist who found something mysterious at a dig. I had inspected it, analyzed it, speculated and theorized it. Then to have my studies interrupted by a colleague saying "You done playing around with my chicken club sandwich, cuz... I kind of want to finish eating it now."

Here's an art exhibit idea for any art students (if it hasn't already been done... which it probably has) create a 3D sculpture and place it in the center of a round bubble maybe 10, 20 or 30 feet in radius. paint the inside of the bubble white and the outside black. Leave random slits in the bubble to peek in at the 3D sculpture. Make sure that every slit in the bubble reveals a completely new feature to the sculpture so that it almost looks like a different object from each slit.

On a more serious note, I would comment that this is a metaphor of how I think life is. That is the reason I will never get in an argument about ideologies like politics or religion. From my view of the sculpture I could be standing here yelling at you that I see a hammer and from your view of the sculpture you are standing there yelling at me that you see a pink flamingo. If you ask an orphan, a war veteran, and a college student about either of these topics, you will get a varied array of answers. I think there are absolute truths that the author, sculptor, and the creator know, but I also think that is the beauty of art and scripture, your interpretation can change almost by the minute depending on what your current perspective is. Your interpretation is enlightening, relevant and hopefully beneficial and then your perspective changes. Wow! sorry, that was a deep and thoughtful post. Here is yet another glaring example of the ill effects of insomnia.

EWWW! Is that your clean car I smell?

This morning on the way to work, my driving activity was distracted by a yellow light on my instrument panel. Fuel light.

I pulled into the gas station next to an empty pump. While stepping out of the car I reached down and tugged on the fuel door release handle. The fuel door swung open like a baby bird's mouth eagerly waiting for its mother to regurgitate a throat full of worms.

The crisp air was refreshing and enhanced any sort of smells or scents in the air. I could smell the exhaust of cars passing by. The sweet, tangy smell of a nearby elm tree. I strolled up to the pump and stared at the one armed cyclops. It coldly stared an unblinking glare back as if it was looking through me at some distant object. Emotionless and robotically it demanded I swipe my card.

I have been through this routine a few times. At first I would stare in unbelief, which melted away into rage as I watched the dollar amount rocket way beyond any figure I considered fair price for a tank of gas. Then I developed a detached and blank stare. I assumed the pump might not get as much satisfaction out of its heist if I seemed indifferent. It didn't seem to get any more or any less joy out of sucking my bank account dry.

Now I have accepted the fact that I am about to exchange an empty tank for an empty bank account. That's life, so I better just get on living or spend my time continuously outraged. I now spend my time fueling with activities that will distract my attention. I wash the windshield. Check the tires. smile in the side mirrors to see if there is any broccoli stuck in my teeth or wander around the car looking for change, so that I don't feel completely broke when I pull out of the gas station.

I put the nozzle in the car and started the pump. The windshield had a few bugs splattered on it. I removed the squeegee from the bucket that was mounted to the side of the garbage placed next to the pump. I took a brief glance at the pump and saw the numbers ticking by so fast I couldn't decipher one from the next. I cringed and returned my attention back to cleaning the windshield. Using the squeegee as a scrubber I scoured the bugs off of the windshield. I began to smell something peculiar. It started out faint but the stench grew stronger until it was an all out assault on my nose. It smelled like the back end of something that had just suffered some serious intestinal distress. *sniff* The back end of something - dead. Something that had been dead*sniff* - for a LONG time. I squeegeed all of the water off of the windshield and wondered if there wasn't a nearby sewer treatment plant. None that I knew of. Maybe there was something or, someone dead nearby. I checked under the car to see if I had run over something and had perhaps snagged the carcass under the car. Everything looked good.

The pump snapped off after finally deciding on some sinister amount to damage me with. I stumbled back a few steps, gulped and marched over to the pump to remove the nozzle before it decided to charge me more for a drop or two that might fall off the end of the nozzle.

The smell still seemed to hang in the air. I looked down at the squeegee dangling upside down in my hand. It seemed to be smiling back at me mischievously. I wondered what it was smiling about. I quickly tossed it head first into the bucket of water where I had found it. It merrily splashed and came to a rest. The stink grew even more foul. I could almost see the squeegee laughing out loud at me. "What are you laughing at?" I scowled as I smelled my hand - WRETCH!!! My hand smelled horrible! It was the squeegee! The water it was marinating in must have been horrifically stagnant! It must have thought this whole window washing experience was hilarious.

Ashamed and offended I jumped back in the car. But before I could close the door I heard the gas pump let out a deep and hearty chuckle. I grimaced at the pump. It was the only thing I could think to do. I pulled out of the gas station, steering with one hand while holding the offending hand in mid air not touching anything with it like it was covered in tar. I could not get to work fast enough, so that I could wash my hands.

It is a good thing I did not have a drink in my mouth. I surely would have spit it out and drenched my computer.

I still don't get it. Maybe someone much wiser than I (admittedly most people are) can explain this to me.

I received an email from Utah Power proudly explaining that I could purchase "blocks" of renewable energy. Blocks represent 100 Kwh for the unbelievable price of $2 per block, per month. The average home uses 800 Kwh, the email continued to explain and would only cost $16 a month... plus the money I am already paying for my useage to purchase these blocks.

I know they will not come out to my house and run a cord directly to a wind turbine, so my power still comes from X coal powered power plant in Podunk Somewheresville. The extra $16 will be magically whisked away in a recycled container, stopping by every tree on the way so the trees can tearfully embrace it and offer gratitude, whereby it will continue it's journey to a energy company tycoon's mansion. As it flits in one of the giant stain glass windows where the tycoon Juggernaut lounges sleepily on a throne. Richly adorned in a dark suit with perfectly aligned, thin, vertical pinstripes. a pair of brilliantly shined shoes reflecting back the world around them like two blackened crystal balls. A tuft of blazing white napkin, neatly arranged in his pocket. The suit covering his bowling ball shaped body and a tiny rosy cheeked head emerges from the suit. puffing, heaving and chewing on a cigar made of $100 bills, he chuckles heartily as my $16 sails in. "Put it in the vault... with the others!" He barks to his servant standing sentinel by the door.

The part I do not understand, the part I need explained to me is that I pay the power company to deliver energy to my house. They take that money to support overhead costs. Costs of line maintenance. Cost of administration. Cost of technical issues etc. However I assume the bulk of the assessed fees goes to buy energy sources (fuels) to make more energy that I immediately consume.

With renewable energy sources, the fuel is free. Put a windmill in a field, the wind for the most part will always be there. Put a solar collector somewhere. The sun will still come up every day.

Once the infrastructure is in place, the overhead costs are almost nothing. So where does that extra money go?

Forgive me for portraying the energy company as a rich slob. I am by no means a chain-myself-to-tree environmentalist. All of my energy reduction measures have been for cost saving measures only. I have put thought into putting solar panels on my roof and a windmill in the back yard not because I dream someday of having clearer skies and purer streams trickling out of the mountains around me... but because I dream of someday not sending a check into the utility company every month.

With this mindset, this whole notion of paying extra for a source of a renewable energy seems a little... stupid.

I pray this notion does not catch on or the next time you go to the store you might see a sign for tomatoes that are not actually there and twice as much as the other tomatoes. The sign on the empty tomato cart explains by purchasing these tomatoes, no pesticides were used, no illegal migrant workers were employed to harvest them, no fuel was used to get them to the store and they are fat, sodium and cholesterol free! By purchasing these tomatoes you are supporting the environment, America, your health, the rain forest, the rare three legged, stickle back, tree cow and your political candidate of choice! Additionally, the warm feeling in your heart from your purchase of the tomatoes and energy blocks will grow so intense, a rainbow will form around you. People will be so impressed they will just give you money! The more I ponder this notion the more I think I can actually spin this. Anyone have an extra tomato cart they are not using?

Am I a thief if I am not sure if it is theft?

At the beginning of every week I throw enough lunches in my bag to sustain my lunching needs for the week.

This week when I left for work I left under different conditions.

1. It was Walker's birthday.

2. I was meeting a co-worker at the Ogden Front-runner station at 7:00, ride the train to Woods Cross and then take his commuter car to work.

When I left the house I forgot several important items. My badge - no entering restricted areas of the hangar. My Cell phone - what if I miss the train, delayed or need to contact Joe and let him know I am late? I'm hosed! My ipod - no life sustaining, sanity keeping music and podcasts. I'm hosed again! No lunch! Triple hosed! This was promising to be a long day.

Luckily I did not need my badge for anything that day, no delays or problems getting to the train station and I managed OK without listening to anything. Disaster diverted! Phew!

However, around lunch I started to get mighty powerful hungry. Sometimes I get taken out to lunch for business related occasions. On these days, my lunches go uneaten. I thought I would go check the freezer in the break room to see if I had any in there. Right in front, in the middle of the freezer there sate a Marie Calendars Chicken dinner. I kind of, sort of almost remember buying one and I sort of remembering bringing it to work the week before, but I did not go out to lunch the week before and why was it sitting in the middle of the fridge like it had just been placed there that day?

I thought about taking it and heating it up. But then an uncomfortable scenario popped into my head where I was pulling the meal out of the microwave just as someone was sticking their head in the freezer, retracting their head slowly with a quizical look while commenting "Hey! Where did my lunch go?" There would be that moment of silence, the look of disgust in their eyes, the look of shame in mine as we both stared down at the steaming plate of chicken and potatoes. I quickly discarded the notion and returned to my desk.

I tried to concentrate on work, but my stomach began to gurgle. I tried to tell myself I could go without lunch today. That is when my stomach seized control of my legs and walked myself to the fridge, commanded my arms to retrieve the meal and then made me go stick it in the microwave. I had to heat it for three minutes, open the plastic, stir the potatoes, put the gravy packet in and heat for an additional 3 minutes. The timer on the clock seemed to go so slow that I could count to 100 between each tick of the second timer. At one point it started messing around with me and actually reversed time and started adding time back on. I glared at the clock and nervously tapped my toe and stole nervous glances at the door. At any time now someone is going to stroll through rubbing their hands saying "AGH! Rough day at work today! It's gonna make that Chicken dinner I have been saving ALL month, taste even better! Today is my birthday! and I told my wife that's all I wanted! Yep! Chicken dinner! I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE IT!!!! YUM!" and then there would be the moment of dread when they silently stood in front of the freezer staring at the fridgid void in unbelief.

Finally the meal finished heating. I scampered back to my desk like a monkey who had snatched a banana from a three year old. I hovered over it and gobbled it down as if I was nearly famished to death, like it was the only meal I had eaten in a week and a half. After I had cleaned the plate I tossed everything in the garbage to remove any obvious clues. I sat at my desk quietly listening for an enraged coworker to come storming out of the break room asking who ate their lunch. It never happened.

When I got home I found the Marie Callendar's lunch that I had bought was not in the freezer at home. It was in fact my lunch and I had just pointlessly snarfed down my own lunch and given myself a stomach ache from eating so fast and thinking about someone quietly starving in their cubicle at my expense. Isn't senility fun?!?

Walker's birthday

Tomorrow is Walker's birthday. 7 years old. I am not sure what is going on here. He is almost as old as me now. I don't even think Mandy and I have been married that long have we? WHAT? Ten years this May????

Walker is now old enough that I can easily think back to when I was his age. I can easily collect dozens of detailed memories from that age. I remember hours slowly ticked by, days were giant chasms of time. Weeks were unbearable to endure when looking forward to new events and Months fell nearly as infrequently as when the earth would shift on it's axis and lob itself and it's inhabitants out into the dark recesses of deep space.

Last Saturday we went to the Brigham City Peach Days Parade. At one point a car drove by advertising a local funeral home. After it slowly idled by, I saw someone chasing the funeral home car. It was the funeral home director. He had been handing out candy but had run out of candy and needed a refill. People started clapping for him. He smiled, waved, pointed to his car and said "It's all down hill from here!" The thought occurred to me at how great of a slogan that would be for a funeral home. "At Ernesto's funeral home and tattoo parlor we understand... because, It's all down hill from here!"

Now that I have ratcheted down the track a few miles I notice the scenery is getting more blurry, not only because my vision is probably degrading but things go by quicker. The wind is picking up and low hanging branches come at me a lot faster than I remember them.

I was getting excited to get out there and enjoy my summer this year. I ran and grabbed my beach towel and my sandals, realized I was out of sun block so I ran to the store real quick. I was immediately confronted by racks of back to school items. After I waded through the clothes I saw end caps full of Halloween candy. I was a little upset that they were breaking out the Halloween stuff so early, but when I saw the Christmas stuff on the way to the checkout stand I was irate. I thought about submitting a complaint to the store manager or at least giving him a leery look. But when I stepped outside I discovered summer was over, and most of the fall too. I stood there shivering in the brisk autumn weather next to the Salvation Army Volunteer slowly ringing a bell (Each ping of the bell seemed to mark the passing of another hour of my life) wondering what just happened... and where the Hell did I park?

OK Guys! Time to fire up your power tools! We got some territory to reclaim

** WARNING** I will be saying some stuff here in the next two posts that will have you wondering about my gender orientation.   I will explain it ALL, if you just read to the end. 

I like to cook.  I like to sew.  I like to vacuum and clean and I like to do the laundry (except folding).

There are some very specific reasons why I enjoy these activities and I think as a gender and as a historically gender specific roles, I think we men have missed the boat on some very entertaining activities.  As a gender we typically engage ourselves in smashing, hitting, exploding, burning, demolishing, and creation activities.  We historically and typically like to hunt and shoot things and build things like houses, buildings, cars and airplanes.  We like to club things and hit things and smash things.  We like to shape things and mold things and transform our surroundings.  Best of all, if we can use a power tool we will invent one that does the work for us or invent a use for a power tool.  (do I hear a Tim Allen "argh! argh!" there?) 

Why do we like to do what we do?  Why do I spring out of bed at 4:00 A.M. on a cold winter's morning when it is storming outside?  Not because I like to be cold and wet.  Not because I like getting up early.  I like using a power tool.  A snowblower that effortlessly lofts the snow dozens of feet away and off of my driveway and leaves neat, carved banks in the snow around the driveway.   Why do I like mowing the lawn.  Not because I am into yard maintenance all that much.  I like using a gas powered lawn mower. Typically, guys like using grinders, welders, sanders, air nailers, power saws, electric drills and power washers.  Because it involves... POWER tools, right?  

How is vacuuming much different than mowing? True,  the vacuum doesn't have a gas engine on it, but if it did, I would bet more guys would vacuum.  Sewing machines are amazingly complex, have lots of shiny parts and mechanisms that work harmoniously together to create things.  I learned to sew for a very manly reason.  I was re-upholstering my car.  Sewing is much like building a house.  You follow a pattern (sometimes) and use various materials, fix them to each other to create other things.  Sewing doesn't have to be about making dresses and pajamas.  It can be making a holster for your chrome plated .50 cal desert Eagle, or making a spike studded leather coat for yourself for when you are on stage playing in your death metal band or making your superman costume for your comic book convention... if you are into that sort of thing (which I am obviously not). 

Cooking.  We like to club the food and drag it home.  When did we stop cooking it into something tasty? When did... OH!  I answered my own question!  The french ruined it! The ruin so many things, and they have ruined cooking for men.  But look guys, cooking has so many cool tools you are just going to have to look past the creepy and strange sounding french words that litter the art of cooking and intimidate you so.  For example, food processors and blenders.  How did we miss out on a household appliance that has a button labeled "liquify"???  Where else can I take a solid substance and put it in an appliance and it liquifies it? Got your interest? Yeah! how about open flames!  Burning, skin searing oil that with one false move could seriously disfigure you?  Sound tantalizing?  How about mixers with so much torque they could take off your fingers or yank your arm from the socket?  a device in you sink drain that can chew up and ingest everything from watermelon to chicken bones. Where has all of this dangerous machinery been hiding?  In your kitchen!  I know most of you are familiar with barbequing.  Just take that knowledge inside and try it out on the range!  You will find it really is fun and rewarding!

Washing.  Come on!  It's a machine that churns and swooshes and magically turns your filthy underwear into a clean fresh smelling pair.  That's awesome!

Cleaning.  While not as compelling, there are in fact many cleaning chemicals out there that if used improperly can ruin things and if mixed with other chemicals can be very harmful and even fatal.  This one is my most wimpy explanation.  I just like simplicity and cleanliness. 

Now I realize that this may sound like the most sexist post you have ever read.  I want to clarify that I am speaking in the most general and historically gender specific household roles.  I realize that many men have discovered... as I have, these hidden in plain sight power tools that can be used with just as much recklessness and just as dangerously as we do the power tools found in the garage. 

Now, on with the sexism! I was planning on reserving these thoughts for another post, but here goes!  I also still think you women have absolutely lost your minds.  You are crazy!  All of (well most) of you!  I still don't understand how you can look at a hairy, stinky, sweaty, crude, basive, carnal, rudimentary and slow witted people that we as the human race classify in the Male gender, and say to yourself "Oh!  He's cute!"  Whenever I hear that, I squint, rub my eyes and blink a few times to see if I am not seeing clearly.  I will just have to agree to disagree, because I see exactly the opposite.