Skid marks from Ungerwear

Utah State University

2011-11-06T23:15:00.002-07:00

Growing up, it was a fall tradition in our house. My dad would put on his BYU hat, grab his radio and plop down in front of the TV. He liked to watch the game, but he liked Paul James, the radio commentator better than the Craig Bollerjack or whoever the TV commentator was. Shortly after kickoff, dad would start out slowly with a heavy sigh or a “Come on!”. The jeers slowly ratcheted up from there. As a child I was convinced Lavell Edwards was the stupidest man on the face of the earth and every ref was a vindictive, deceitful, BYU hating turd that was picked on incessantly as a youth and had grown up a shifty, resentful jerk who could see no better than Stevie Wonder. Refs were useless and every play that Lavell called, my dad quickly labeled as the most ridiculous and asinine blunder since Custer strolled onto the battlefield at Little Big Horn. Everyone on the field was simply a huge conglomeration of blubbering buffoons who couldn’t pick a football out of a line up of sticks and garden vegetables. Every game was thee single most frustrating and aggravating ordeal the old man had witnessed. About the moment he would lunge forward at the TV and blurt out “Lavell, what the hell are you doing? Oh come on ref! Geez! No! No! No! NOOO!” I would slink out of the room for fear some of that frustration would be directed at me. Besides, who wants to see a group of nit-wit dopes smash around on a field when an otherwise perfectly good Saturday was wasting away. I never really felt like I needed a huge source of frustration in my life, so I never gave much interest to the sport. So, it is ironic that a BYU game would probably be the most life altering event in my life.

My brother Shawn was attending USU and he invited me and dad up to watch the USU/BYU football game. It was the day before Halloween, 1993. For anyone that is a USU fan, you know where I am going with this. USU has a solid record in football. They consistently lose year after year after year. BYU almost always does well enough to be ranked in the top 25. When BYU plays USU it is almost always a sad day for USU. I didn’t know any of this. I barely knew where Logan was. Shawn got us into the game and brought us to the USU student section. He kept leading us further down into the belly of the stadium, until we reached the second row on the fifty yard line. Dad was sure to be on his best behavior stuck in front of 50 or so drunk frat dudes who hated BYU only slightly less than they hated an empty keg.

The game got underway and the one thing I didn’t like about watching a live game, without the commentators telling me what was going on, I almost had no clue, what was going on. I get the quarterback, the running backs and the receivers. but then there’s this whole other mess of guys doing stuff and apparently doing things wrong that caused penalties. Without the benefit of the aerial camera views, I just watched the ball. Whenever someone made the ball go into the end zone, I know a score was made. That’s not to say I was bored or confused.

Being that close to the USU football players, you could plainly hear the words you thought you saw them say on TV. I will simply say that the USU players were displeased that the BYU players were alive, and they expressed a desire to remedy that situation. This was certainly entertaining to watch. Being in front of the entire student section I also had the luxury of hearing their cheers. That too was entertaining. Then I noticed the USU mascot Big Blue. I first took note of him when he climbed up one of the light poles and began shaking the whole thing violently back and forth. Security and police stood at the bottom of the pole ordering him down before he hurt himself or someone else. He climbed down and disappeared. Then I saw him sledding down the stairs. Then he was crowd surfing. Then he was darting over to the BYU side. There was no way this wasn’t going to be simply awesome. And it was. He ran up behind the BYU cheerleaders, grabbed one of them, tossed her over his shoulder and ran back to the USU side while she kicked and screamed. The BYU mascot wasn’t going to watch an abduction without trying to do something. He gave chase. When he caught up to Blue, Blue let the cheerleader go, grabbed his own tail and held it out like a sword and began sword fighting. I was more than entertained. My eyes were opened to the exciting world of truly great mascots. Something I never knew existed.

With every touchdown USU made, they shot off a cannon and the crowd ritualistically proceeded through a series of cheers and claps and yells. This game was turning out to be truly awesome. The game continued. The crowd got more vocal. The players in front of me became more energetic. by the end of the game, the entire stadium was searing. I had never been to a game where the crowd melted together into a unified mass. It was like watching a scripted riot where every person knew their part. and I was in the middle of it. I actually felt sorry for the BYU players and the fans. Like they had unwittingly wandered down the wrong darkened alley and were now surrounded by a mob with itchy club fists. I could literally see the fear in their eyes when the crowd jeered them. I imagined they kept one eye on the time on the Minutes Remaining clock and the other eye on the exit portal. When the game was over, I was sure they were going to sprint out of the stadium, race on the bus and scream at the bus driver frantically “GO! They’re coming after us!”
The game ended. The score - BYU 56, USU 58. BYU sprinted off the field and the USU band erupted with three long blasts of their horns that sounded like The Horn of Gondor. Then everyone burst into some song about Scotsman, thistles, something about blue, something something something, where the sage brush grows... and then they growled out some other song “ Something something something...Utah state, hey aggies all the way, go aggies, go aggies, hey, hey, hey!” and with one single motion, everyone poured onto the field. We slowly swam upstream and picked our way out of the stadium. Before we left I watched the pulsing crowd pull down one of the goal posts. I was completely marvelled. “So THIS is Logan?” I thought to myself, as a smile crept across my face. “This place rules!” (This was in 2010, but it gives you a good idea of the reaction)

Dad went home and left me with Shawn. I am sure he cried and cursed out that good for nothing Lavell all the way home. Shawn took me to eat at A&W. “You gotta get the Big Blue” he said with a wide grin. I ordered the Big Blue. They brought me out a burger the size of my head with three huge patties. Cheese dividing each layer of meat and smothered in slap-your-momma good fry sauce. The burger was balanced tediously on a huge mound of fries and it came with root beer float served in a chilled, frosty mug. Each bite, the juices ran down my arms and dripped onto the fries. Logan was quickly becoming my most favorite place on earth.

Afterwards, Shawn took me up to a cave in the canyon where we went spelunking. One of the most gorgeous things I have ever seen. at some points we were wading through standing water. Other times we were looking up at crevasses that extended hundreds of feet above us beyond the reach of our head;amps. And other times we were crawling through holes that were just barely larger than my chest.

I went home wondering how I had never heard of Logan where they obviously knew how to have a good time, knew how to eat and had spectacular recreation opportunities within arms reach in any direction. I would have to be as thick headed as Lavelle to not go to school at USU. And so I did. No idea where I would have ended up had I not gone to that game. I suppose I would be living in a van down by the river.

Chucky's back!

2011-09-25T01:56:00.001-06:00

I was sitting here in this very spot looking at a few classified ads, when something yellow, something hideous, something menacing caught my eye. I clicked on the ad and to my moistening eyes, appeared one of the most glorious visions I had ever seen. There he was, draped in sunflower yellow and looking as tenacious as ever -- my old snowblower, Chuck. My fingers began quivering as I opened the image gallery. This wasn't the exact Chuck. This one was covered in years of dust and dirt. But gleaming under that layer of filth and grime I could see decals that were in place that Chuck had long since lost. Bolts still in place where Chuck had years since lost his. Chrome still glistening where Chuck had began to rust. This wasn't Chuck. This was Chuck's younger, more hungry, girlfriend just left him because he lacked all sensitivity, looking for a fight, scrappy, brother. (And he's pissed that he's missed a few seasons) And better yet, Chucky was priced at a bargain basement price of $50. Even though it was late, I made the call to the seller as I was putting my shoes on and trotting out the door.

45 minutes later I was backing out of the previous owner's driveway, smiling to myself the way a bank robber would after a completely successful heist. I had done it. Purchased another truly spectacular snow blower for a completely reasonable price.

Old Man Winter I am sure is sitting in an ice cave somewhere in the Antarctic looking over a map of North America placing tiny pieces that indicate cold fronts, snow storms, ice storms, avalanches and bitter cold temperatures. Planning a strategy for this year's attack. At some point tonight I am sure a penguin will waddle in, salute and say "Wah wah" (Chuck's back) at which point Old Man Winter is sure to violently ask the penguin to repeat what he just said, Then sweep all of the pieces off of the map in a tantrum and then collapse on the floor sobbing silently to himself. He can cry all he wants. I will have winter in my yard under my conditions, strictly enforced by Sheriff Chucky. Hot turds on a tin roof! You hear me? Chucky's back!

Babies

2010-08-18T20:32:00.000-06:00

I got to thinking. It must be really tough being a baby. I am glad I don't remember my experiences. Aside from the obvious perks, sleeping all day and having the ability to just crap your pants whenever you feel like it and then have it magically just whisked away, the rest of it seems pretty rough.

First of all, can you imagine reaching your arms up and having your head so big that you can neither touch the top of your head or touch hands together when reaching around your head? So, now you got this giant head on this tiny little, weak neck. Your head is flopping all around. Strange people are picking you up and talking in annoying voices to you. You open your eyes to see what is going on and all you see are fuzzy shapes. Now everyone is laughing at you. While you were trying to check things out, apparently you inadvertently went cross-eyed. Laugh it up jerks. I got fresh poopie that I am sending into the diaper right... about... now! Kapow!

Now you are hungry. You are thinking some pizza sounds nice. Maybe some steak. Nah, you get a super duper big gulp the size of your giant head (that equates out to be like a 300,000 oz) drink of the nastiest thing on the planet... milk. Worse than that, there is a good chance it came from a powder mix, blech! Hey you big turd! I hate milk, so guess whose brewing a nice, juicy mess in the ol' diaper? That's right! This kid is! Kablow! Take that! I am so gonna wake up 10 times or more tonight when you are trying to sleep.

ER

2010-08-16T23:02:00.002-06:00

Last week Mandy and I had to spend the night at the hospital. It wasn't because either one of us was sick. The pediatrician just wanted us to spend the night at the hospital so that we could be there for every one of the twin's feedings all through the night, which are every three hours. I am not sure why. Perhaps so that they can make sure we know which end of the baby to put a diaper on and which end to plug the bottle into. Perhaps so that they can laugh at us as we waddle in on 2 hours of sleep and try to feed two kids.

At the hospital they have something called "Hotel stay". It costs $15 and you need a doctor's order to stay there. They stuff you in a labor recovery room or a broom closet. There is a couch that they claim you can sleep on, but it is too short for anyone except a midget. And then there is a hospital bed, with the side thingies and the buttons and everything and the plastic covered mattress. There is also a TV and a bathroom. The TV didn't work and the light switches were scattered in random places all over the room, so it took me about 5 minutes to figure out how to turn them all off.

Before they will let you stay, they want you to pay your $15. Because I was checking in at night, the only place in the hospital that can take your money is the emergency room. I am instructed to go to the other side of the hospital through several very dark and extremely creepy hallways of the hospital. I was actually more surprised that I did NOT see a ghost of a skinny old frail man in a robe towing an IV pole behind him pleading for my soul, than if I actually would have seen this.

Finally I make it over to the ER. There is a desk with two attendants. It looks like a regular admittance desk to see a doctor. There is a wood divider between the two admittance clerks, that affords a portion of privacy between two people if they were checking in at the same time. Just enough privacy that the two can not see each other, but can still hear everything each other is saying. As I enter the room there is a girl staggering towards the desk. She is in her pajamas, her hair is swirled and twisted like the sky on a stormy night. Her face is gaunt and her jaw is hanging open like a worn out handbag. When she reached the desk she collapsed forward and caught herself on the edge of the desk with her arms and her head resting on the desk. I paused and considered the situation. If I were her, I think I would just want people to A. Don't talk to me. B. Leave me the Hell alone and just get me a dang bed! So, I casually wandered up the the other admittance clerk and told him that I needed to pay for a hotel stay.

On the other side of the divider I can hear the other clerk "Can I help you" "Ug... I...ug...don't feel good..." Not looking up from her monitor the clerk kept asking her questions "What's your address?" The poor girl played along and jumped through the hoops that were asked of her speaking without pausing like every sentence was one word "eleven-forty-two-East-three-hundred-south-Logan-Utah-eight-four-three-two-one. Ug" Finally she began ending her sentences with barf. I didn't know what she was puking in, but I could tell it was in some sort of container and not the floor. The clerk was just getting warmed up and was not going to stop until they had all of her insurance information, contact information and emergency contacts. I completed my transaction and left.

As I walked away I thought "It is a good thing she didn't have a stab wound, a severed limb or stroke" mainly because I would not have been able to deal with blood or freaky symptoms less than I did with the puking. But because I couldn't help but think that if there is any place that should have the policy of "Let's get you comfortable and not dying or feeling like dying before we go through the minute details of something like "So, let's talk about how you are paying us, and then we will see what we can do based on what you tell us."

As bad as this sounds, I just couldn't see a government employee or agency sitting there being more attentive or more capable of helping. You know because I always get such wonderful customer service when I go to the DMV, call the IRS or need to go to the court house. I'm just saying.

Now watch this.

Drivers

2010-07-28T03:15:00.001-06:00

Tonight I was driving home and a car passed me. I saw it coming in my rearview mirror and it was changing lanes by just casually drifting from lane to lane without signaling. I said to myself "Self, hundred bucks says this driver is limp wrist driver" When the car passed, I looked over and I was right. I didn't have a hundred bucks, so I owe myself another hundred.

What is the limp wristed driver? How did I know? Can I learn to identify drivers too? Easy there Johnny! Stay with me and you too can be a professional driver identification personnel (or P.D.I.P) just like me. I have combined years of observation and hundreds of thousands of miles to form this very informative and highly stereotyping list (hopefully to the point of being offensive) of drivers, and what you can expect from them.

The first, not because they are the most heinous or prevalent, but because I had just mentioned it, are the Limp Wristed driver. The LWD drives with his arm propped on top of the steering wheel. This driver is so chill, relaxed and cool that he cannot even be bothered with the laborious task of gripping the steering wheel. His hand hangs limply from his arm over the back of the steering wheel. Thus the name "Limp wristed driver" This driver, does everything smoothly and lazily. a lane change is a smooth drift into another lane. signaling, is way too much effort. This driver just flows around like a breeze. He is chill. He is relaxed. He is usually scanning the other cars for the ladies. He may or may not be a catch. But to himself, he sure is. This is the type of driver that usually runs head on into a telephone pole while checking out a jogger. I give the LWD his space and don't follow.

Next we have the 9 and 3 driver. One hand is on the 3 O'Clock position on the steering wheel and the other is on the 9 O'clock position. This driver usually does not use the back rest of their seat. They are sitting straight up and looking intently on the road ahead. The visual scan that we learned about in driver's ed is employed here. Check the road. Check the speed. Check the mirrors. Check the road. Check the speed. Check the mirrors... This driver scares me. I figure if it takes that much mental energy, just to safely operate the vehicle, I fear what happens when something other than the ordinary occurs. Think of these drivers as a computer running at full CPU. When a new application starts. Everything freezes. This driver is usually the one that applies full brake pedal when a traffic jam is encountered. This driver is usually rear ended or else they might panic, swerve and dodge into on coming traffic. This driver is responsible for your skiddish and erratic driving patterns during rush hour traffic. Stay away from 9 and 3. Because they are usually going at or below the speed limit, this is easy to do.

The blue hair. While actually quite rare, we all know a blue hair. It is the old lady, or sometimes man, who all we see is the top of their head and their eyes peering between the steering wheel and the dash. They can't see the road, so they just guess based on objects they see whizzing by them in their side windows. They drive slow and bob back and forth between the lines. I make sure I pass the blue hair and get safely in front of them. They often will not see you and will run into the back of you while you are sitting at a traffic light or sign. Beyond that, the blue hair is basically harmless.

Mommy. Mommy is usually operating an SUV. Mommy usually has a DVD playing for her brood of children. Mommy's windows are smeared with sticky hand prints and the seats of her car have years of french fries stuck between them. Mommy is usually talking on the phone. Mommy is also oblivious to the fact that she is well exceeding any speed limits. Mommy usually tail gates because she can just ride the bumper in front of her rather than checking her speed. You may think Mommy wants to pass you, but if you get over to let her pass, she will slow down and drive next to you. Mommy can also veer into other lanes as she glances over her shoulder to say "WHAT THE HELL DO YOU KIDS WANT NOW? TIMMY STOP HITTING SALLY! BILLY GIVE JOHNNY HIS TOY BACK!" Mommy isn't that much of a threat. Mommy just has her attention divided amongst many things. Just speed up until you encounter another vehicle traveling quickly, get over and Mommy will latch onto the bumper of that car. Those two will sail on merrily down the road and hopefully find all the speed traps for you.

The Asian. I don't know what to attribute the Asian driver's habits to. Culture? Spacial ineptitude? Suicidal tendencies? The Asian can be intimidating until you understand his habits. You can easily predict the Asian's movements by asking "What would be the most dangerous thing they could do right now?" Once you identify what that dangerous stunt will be, sit back and watch the Asian perform that very stunt. Drive safely and defensively around the Asian and they will avoid you. Once you demonstrate safe driving practices, they will move on and look for a much more haphazard situation.

I also find every region of the country has their own driving "culture". If you find yourself saying "The drivers in Nebraska are crazy!" then you are failing to understand the driving culture of that region. Like the joke about the elderly woman who hears on the news of a driver on the interstate driving the wrong direction on the road. Panicked, she thinks of her husband who is out travelling in the same area. Quickly she calls him on his cell phone and warns him of the dangerous driver going the wrong direction, to which he replies "One car going the wrong direction? They are all going the wrong direction!"

In California I quickly learned that the roads there must be damaged by sunlight or something. If there was so much as a sliver of light between my front bumper and the car in front of me, someone would slide in and occupy that space. You just get right on that bumper and go. All traffic moves like a giant snake.

In Utah where I drive, everyone thinks of it as a race. People in the left lane are the elite. The competitors. The champions. The lane to the right of the left lane, those are the non-competitors. People who are only driving for the sake of getting to a new location. People in the right lane are merging, exiting or getting paid an hourly salary while on the road. Sometimes a non-competitor will enter the left lane. It thereby becomes the responsibility of the other drivers to teach the violating driver and display displeasure by riding their bumper. In California this is regular driving and therefore California driver's are seen in Utah to be rude, but in fact they are driving they way they were taught to drive, by not letting the road see daylight. If the offending driver fails to notice their fauxpaux, the drivers will pass on the right as fast as possible and then merge back into the left lane as close to them as possible without actually swiping off their front bumper with your rear bumper. Most driver's will take the hint and get over at this point.

As you can see, there are many other categorize, sub-categories and hybrid categories. But these are the most identifiable and the most easily dealt with groups. I hope you find this informative. Now get out there and drive!

Rnnin' just ain't no fun

2010-07-18T22:16:00.002-06:00

Today I started a new blog. Tomorrow I begin the journey

http://runningaintnofun.blogspot.com/2010/07/journey-begins.html

Checkit ooouuuut!

Mt. Whitney

2010-07-05T17:07:00.008-06:00

A week ago today I was just arriving to base camp on Mt. Whitney. Since returning I have had lots of questions about my trip. To address them all I have set up a little Q&A for all general knowledge regarding my trip.

Q. Where is Mt. Whitney?

A. It is in California -- it's this whole other country.

Q. How tall is Mt. Whitney?

A. 14,494 ft. above see level making it the tallest peak in the continental United States.

Q. How long is the hike?

A. 22 miles round trip. As far as time to hike? I am not sure. Somewhere around 11,000 feet the air becomes thin enough that reality becomes a swirling vortex of bright colors, abstract thought patterns and air gasping, mindlessly staggering about.

Q. Geez, sounds tough. Why would you do that?

A. Simply stated, bragging rights. When I die, I couldn't imagine myself looking back and saying "I am sure glad I passed on THAT opportunity. That would have been VERY difficult!"

Q. What if any, special preparations did you take.

A. That is a good question. I found that growing the common Friendly Mutton Chops (or FMC, for short) was sufficient preparation for my needs.

Q. How long after my milk's expiration date can I safely consume it?

A. Who submitted this? This has nothing to do with Mt. Whitney. Let me tell you a little secret. Rotten milk and fresh milk smell exactly the same. Milk is gross fresh or rotten. Don't ever drink it raw. EVER!

Q. Would you hike Mt. Whitney again?

A. The more the pains and aches of the trip fade, the more that answer shifts to the affirmative.

In summary, it was a great trip. It might be my ego talking here, but I think sweet lady Mt. Whitney took a liking to me. At one point on my descent I looked over in a small indention in the snow and pristinely nestled and preserved was a $5 bill and this little note.

Upon returning to base camp I also found a penny that was minted in the year I was born and found that marmots had visited, urinated and crapped in everyone's tent except mine.

Being at that altitude gives you a good idea how it will be for yourself if you jumped forward 40 years. Small hills that you would otherwise scramble up, present formidable and air gasping challenges. I felt like superman when I returned to lower elevations.

Here is what I wrote in the guest book:

Why did Captain Kirk climb the mountain?

Twins

2010-07-05T15:30:00.003-06:00

Recently my wife's twin sister moved in while she gets started in a new school program, finds a new job and gets on her feet a little bit.

After only a short time of this, I only have one observation... or reaffirmation. And that is that twins are crazy. Absolutely, undeniably insane. Individually, perfectly normal. Together, a set of twins will conjoin into a robot with a strobe light head, one chainsaw arm, one puppy dog arm a gumball machine midsection that shoots strawberry flavored moth balls that travels on a monster truck tire instead of legs.

This transformation seems true with any set of twins that I know. I am usually confused, entertained, scared, humored, and alarmed to varying degrees, that if monitored would swing about wildly like a tachometer on a rally car racing on some street course weaving through a sinewy old world township with cobblestone roads and frequent hairpin turns.

Let me illustrate with with a slightly (but not much) exaggerated situation. Our kids are with their grandma and grandpa for a week. Delighted by our recent release in responsibility, Mandy and I went on a date. We sat in the car for a few hours just talking about anything and everything we could think of. We came home and Mindy was just finishing a movie. Mandy started talking to Mindy. I sat on the couch with my brow furrowed. I couldn't figure out what Mandy was talking about. Mindy replied with a comment that seemed absolutely out of context from Mandy's. sort of like this:

Mandy: "One time I asked dad why the sky was blue"

Mindy: "My car has new tires on it"

Mandy: "I decided the sky was blue because blue is pretty"

Mindy: "Sometimes you can get used tires, that are just as good as new, but waaaay cheaper!"

Mandy: "Some lakes are really blue"

Mindy: "The word 'tire' is weird"

The conversation continued on like that and they started interrupting each other and talking louder. Their body language indicated that they were getting angry. I sat there staring, trying to figure out what was happening. Their conversations began to tighten and revolve around a smaller and smaller handful of topics. I tossed in a few thoughts about the dozen or so topics they seemed to be talking about then openly admitted that I had no clue what was happening. They both explained in unison what topic they were discussing and were both in perfect agreeance. It was like watching a Japanese game show... or tennis.

Did I mention Mandy is pregnant with twin girls? Can you imagine how much time I will be spending in the future with a confused scowl on my face watching interactions and wondering what is going on? Considerable amounts of time, my friend, considerable amounts of time.

New diet

2010-05-27T22:26:00.002-06:00

So I've been thinking. I hear all of this talk about diets and weight loss. Protein diets, vegetarian diets. Some guy says he's gone 70 years without eating.

Hear ye! Hear ye! I've contrived a new diet! There's two parts.

1. Only eat light stuff. Things like angel food cake, bread, whip cream, and Cheetohs. Because, you can count the calories all you want, but there's just no way you can put on more weight than you eat. That's just silly! You can't eat like 5 lbs. of graham crackers and put on 10 lbs. Your body just can't do that. It can't just make fat out of thin air. Plus fat is soft and white and smooshy and oily. something like Cocoa Crunch is dark and crunchy and not soft and not oily. Think of all the extra work your body has to go through to turn that to fat. Your body is lazy and it is going to wait until you eat bacon cheeseburger and turn that into fat... not that kettle corn you are working on.

2. Eat cold stuff. Just think how much energy (energy = burnt calories = weight loss) you need to bring a bowl of ice cream to body temperature. The more ice cream you eat, the more energy it takes to heat up that stuff so that you don't die of hypothermia. In my roughest of estimations, I'll bet it takes all of the calories in ice cream just to digest it. And then you are just left with milk... which is really good for you.

probably the most ideal food is ice cream cake. It is the best of both worlds. Plus you can have the bakery write your name on your cake, so that no one else will eat it.

Happy weight loss everyone!

Customer Service

2010-04-29T22:14:00.003-06:00

I like to shop -- for some things. I don't like to make purchases for items I know nothing about like well, lets just make a broad sweeping categorization and say feminine products, running shoes or wireless USB adapters. Until a few weeks ago I was only vaguely aware of a wireless USB adapters. They were like hairless cats. I had heard of them, seen pictures, and laughed quietly to myself when I had imagined owning one. But I had always figured they were not for me.

There I stood in Best Buy looking at cables and routers and wireless cards and yes, even USB adapters. Staggering, I wobbled around doing my best to look confused. I probably looked like one of those actors on an infomercial struggling to remember the proper steps to do something simple like breathing, while a voice over says "Tired of clumsily breathing on your own? Well now you don't have to!"

In hindsight, my acting skills might have been too convincing because when an employee approached me, he said "Can I answer any questions for you?" I said "Yeah, I just moved my computer and it is no longer within a cables distance to the router." He looked at me like I had just said "Breathing is soooo difficult! Do you have a paper that reminds me of the steps to breathing so that I don't die? Preferably with lots of pictures " tapping the side of my head with my finger "I don't read so well. Or... dare I ask? A machine that might do my breathing for me?" He reached down and tossed a USB adapter into my stomach and walked away. I still had more questions. Would a wireless card work? is it cheaper to run an cable through my attic? Why are some of the adapters more expensive? I no longer had the benefit of google at home to answer all of my inquiries. I stared at the price, looked at the adapter and finally decided there must be something better.

I wandered down the street a few doors from Best Buy and went into Staples. Most of the adapters that I looked at were less expensive there. An employee busied himself nearby straightening items and looking busy. I finally called out to him "Do you know if these are any good?" I raised an adapter for him to see. He shrugged and came over and looked at the adapters with me. He seemed to know about as much as I did about them. He did say that the Belkins seemed to get returned a lot and that if I had any problems I could bring mine back. Enough said. I picked up a Netgear adapter knowing that my router was a Netgear and if nothing else, they might play nice with each other coming from the same family right?

I took it home, removed the packaging, installed the software and installed the adapter. It worked great. I was happy. Several days went by and things started to happen to my computer. Bad things. It started crashing and slowing down. If you've read my last post you know my hard drive failed. When all of the dust settled from that fiasco my wireless adapter no longer worked. I tried to take it back to Staples. They told me the return policy was only for 2 weeks. I thought they were just joking around with me. I laughed. They restated their return policy, this time with more fervency. I stopped laughing. I didn't want them to think they were funny. Because they were not. I left knowing there was only one solution -- a call to Netgear customer service.

A few days later when I had strengthened my resolve, when I had steeled my determination, when I had explored any possible alternatives, I finally sighed the sigh of a man being led down the chambers to the execution room. I said my farewells and kissed my goodbyes and picked up the phone and began dialing. "Thank you for calling Netgear, your service is very important to us. A customer service agent will be with you as soon as possible. Please stay on the line and someone will be right with you!" slowly, sounds begin to queue up. At first I thought it was music, but then I realized it was just the sound of baby seals being tortured. The music/tortured wails of tormented baby seals faded "Our team of seasoned representatives is occupied helping other customers at this time. Please stay on the line and one of them will be with you as soon as possible."

I became very worried at that point that they were referring to their customer service representatives as "seasoned" I like to buy products from companies that have novice, beginner, or even bumbling buffoons that have never really had to deal with customer service issues. The kind that sit around playing solitaire and when I call they look at each other in confusion "Do you hear that? What is that? I think... well... I think that sounds like a phone?" and they dig the ringing phone out from under a stack of papers. They don't know how to use the phone and the first few seconds of the conversation is them saying "Hello? Hello? HELLO?" as they hold the phone upside down to their head. A co-worker makes a twisting gesture to indicate the phone is upside down and finally the customer service agent gets the phone figured out and the customer service agents mouth to each other "What do we do?" and they all shrug at each other. That's the kind of product I like to buy. Product from companies like that. Nope, I was the owner of a product that had "seasoned" customer service agents. I sighed. "This isn't going to be pretty"

The music came back. This time I thought I could hear the subliminal messages in the music. I could hear it echoing in my subconscious "You love our product. You love us. Everything we say makes sense. We are correct. You are wrong. You love that we are always correct. Do exactly as we say. Buy all of our products. Send us all of your money. You love us. We are always correct..." The music faded "Your call is important to us. All of our representatives are busy at this time... blah blah blah. We know you have invested too much time to hang up now. We are actually too busy flirting with our co-workers that are of the opposite sex. We used to care, but that was back when they promised us raises, and all of that was a very VERY long time ago. Please hold and perhaps one of our seasoned agents will possibly tire of hearing the phone ring and will rudely answer the phone, not really help you and get off the phone with you as soon as humanly possible. Thanks sucka!" and then the music faded back in. Now imagine this cycle happening 2 or 3 hundred more times. I was drifting into a coma, lost all hope for humanity and trying to decide on the best method to kill myself when I suddenly heard a click and a female say in a thick Indian accent. "Heddo, myie name ees Emily. How cun I be of service to you?" I gasped in horror. This was going to be everything I feared and quite possibly more.

Emily had me run through all of the setup that I had already done. When we were nearly complete Emily stopped in the middle of her script and apologized "Ieem soo very sorry sir" I don't know if one of her flirting co-workers smacked her on the butt or unhooked her bra strap, but her train of thought became completely derailed. She started over and yes, we went through all of the steps again. Finally she said "I cannot help you sir. You will need to uneenstall thee Netgear setup program and try re-eenstalling it. I am very confident sir that this will feeks your problem. Goodbye" Then there was a click and I was disconnected. I felt like I had just gone the entire length of an elephants digestive system and had been deposited somewhere on the Serengeti to fend for myself. I had already tried reinstalling the software. I tried again... just in case, I don't know. Probably because of a soft voice from my subconscious that said "You are never right. Netgear customer service agents are always right. You should send them all of your money."

Surprise surprise, it didn't work. I called again. This time I sat on hold for exactly one hour, where it kicked me out and sent me to an answering machine that asked me what number and what time to call me back. I left a message. They never called back. A few days later after I realized they were really never going to call me and I would have to be like a jilted lover and stalk them until they either resolved my issue or got a restraining order.

This time I was only on hold for possibly 20 minutes. "Heddo sir, myiee name ees Steve. How can I help you?" I recounted my entire adventure to Steve. When I finished explaining to him my plight, Steve said "Thank you for calleeng, unfortunately I cunnot be of serveece to you at theese tieeme. Please call 1-888-blahblah where someone will be able to better assist you." So, I had graduated from the first protocol of the customer service screening process. I had now entered the inner sanctum. I now had in my possession the phone number for the Illuminati. The Jedi's of customer service. If the people I had talked to before were seasoned. I was now talking to the marinated and slow roasted of customer support personnel.

I anxiously dialed. Someone answered imediately "What ees your customer service number?" I stammered. Customer service number? I didn't have a number? I could make one up! What if it was wrong? What if it had too many digits? They would know I was a fraud! "I um... I don't have one?" The agent shot back "Ees thees the first tieeme you have called sir?" They had me on the ropes. I didn't know what to do. I blurted out "To this number yes!" There was a click and I was routed back to the hold system. I immediately recognized its life draining pull, sucking my will out through my ear. Then... someone answered "How cun I help you sir?" I gushed out my entire story to him. He asked a few questions. What sort of router I had. What sort of operating system I had. If I could hook an ethernet cable up to my router. I was not close enough to do so. He laughed "Sir, how cun I help you eef you are not even connected to your router?" I laughed. "That is exactly why I am using a USB adapter, right?" He scoffed "I don't theenk you can expect me to help you unteel you are able to connect your computer to the router. Call back when you are able to do so sir."

I unhooked my computer, dragged it all back into the room where the router was, set it all back up and hooked an ethernet cable from the computer to the router and redialed my secret, black ops, upper echelon customer service number. My phone call was immediately answered and I gave the agent my customer number, that I had made sure I had received from my last call. The agent excused himself while he read the notes on my case and in a few moments he returned and asked if I was now connected via an ethernet to the router. I said I was. He proceeded to direct me through several operating system and router menus and reconfiguring options. Finally he told me to restart my computer. I did. When it had rebooted he asked "OK sir, does eet say you are connected to the router wirelessly?" I couldn't tell. so I opened the Netgear wireless program that came with the installation CD with my adapter. The program that every customer service agent thus far had wanted me to open. I told him it was not. At that moment he laughed a very irritated laugh and suddenly became very angry "How do you know that eet is not connected?" He shouted "Um, because the Netgear setup program says it isn't. It says is still scanning" "Well dat ees why you are not connecting to the router! Because you keep opening the Netgear setup program. Why deed you open that program?" "I-I thought that's what you - I thought that is how I could tell if it was connected. I mean didn't that come with the adapter?" "Sir, close that program eemeedeeutly. I do not want you to ever open dat program again! OK!" "OK!" I said. Then we ran through some more setup options and he asked me if I was now connected to the router wirelessly "I want you to open Explorer dees time OK! NOT NETGEAR SETUP!" "OK! I get it! Never-ever-ever-again" I muttered back.

Finally we finished configuring and he was satisfied that my problem was resolved. Before hanging up he reiterated "And never open Netgear Setup again sir" I laughed "I got it. Never open Netgear Setup" I have never opened Netgear Setup since and haven't had any more issues with it, so it must be happy again. Slowly my faith in humanity has returned and I no longer think about suicide. I still get a craving every once in a while to empty my wallet into an envelope and mail it to an address in India that I have no idea how I know. Instead I end up sending them my toenail clippings or whatever is readily available at the moment and I think my computer is somewhat happy again.

Electronics melt down

2010-04-24T00:02:00.002-06:00

This was a bad BAD month for electronics around the house. I lost our phone one day. I found it. It was in my coat pocket. The coat that had JUST been washed. Yeah, the phone hasn't worked properly since.

A few weeks later I lost my ipod. I found it. in the pocket of my other coat. The other coat that had just been washed also. The ipod never made so much as a whimper or quiver. It was just plain dead.

We also moved our computer out of our spare bedroom so that Mandy's sister could move in for a while. I hooked up a USB wireless adapter to the computer so that we could still enjoy the benefits of the world wide super interwebs. You know so, I can update this blog and make sure all of my friends are doing well on their Mafiaville Farm Wars on Facebook.

So I moved the computer and installed the software for the Netgear USB adapter. Everything works as it should and this little plastic doodad magically pulls the intersupernets right out of thin air. I don't know how it does it. It's all magic to me and I am thoroughly impressed and also satisfied with my purchase.

Then one day the computer suddenly dies. I get the blue screen of death. It tells me something about a driver conflict and some cryptic message on how to fix it.

Having me work on a computer is about like your redneck gunsmith who scratches his head with the barrel of your broken pistol, looks down the barrel and says "Huh, I dunno what's it could be? Somefin jis ain't right with it." as he stares into the barrel with one eye closed and pulls the trigger a few times. "If'n it wuz wurkin rightly my face woulda looked like swiss cheez ba now!" he says with a toothless grin.

I start removing and reinstalling drivers, the whole time restarting and cycling the power on the computer. Then one time when I restarted the computer the hard drive started groaning and grumbling like it was a garbage disposal and the computer would not boot. This is the hard drive with the book I am working on. The hard drive with all of our family videos converted from VHS. The hard drive with all of our family photos on it. The electronic device on the end of a series of tragically destroyed devices.

You know that instant when your knee jerk reaction is to pick something up and smash it? That was me at that moment. I wanted to break the computer. I knew it only make things worse if I did. So I sat there for a few seconds and imagined how satisfying it would be to ripe the mother board out and stomp on it. To see the resistors, chips and capacitors spraying off in shattered disarray. Instead I grit my teeth, leaned in real close to the computer and whispered through clamped teeth "You-are-NOT-dying-now! not-on-MY-clock!" and I left it sitting there to think about what it had done. I did not return until several days later when I had some advice from a coworker that sometimes... maybe... if the moon was in the right position in the sky and the prevailing winds came from the right direction and the right speed and the humidity was perfect and the ambient temperature was within the area referred to as "The Golden Temperature" you can flip a decrepit and expiring hard drive over and it MIGHT work if just for a few seconds. I tried it. It worked. It didn't sound pretty but it was booting.

It took a long time booting. I left it and went and ran some errands, cut my toenails, brushed my driveway off with a mascara brush and tentatively checked back on the computer. It was just finished restarting after what it was calling a "recovery" Which I learned at that moment meant. Erase everything and reinstall windows. I sat silently for a few more seconds as I imagined how satisfying it would be to hear the computer crunching and crushing under the weight of the car. I sighed and produced the other half of my two pronged attack. A new hard drive. It came with a program that copied everything, bit for bit over to the new hard drive. I ran the program. Checked to make sure the new hard drive had all of the whatever was left of the information on the old hard drive and then I unplugged the old hard drive and took great satisfaction in taking it apart and showing Walker what the guts of a hard drive look like. I still have the disks from the old hard drive. I plan on showing Walker what the insides of a hard drive look like when they interact with a projectile from a high caliber rifle.

The new hard drive works great. To end on a happy note, I found the old files from the old hard drive before the "recovery" buried deep in the file structure of the hard drive. I found our videos. I found our pictures and most of all, I found my book. But now my USB wireless adapter no longer worked. Join us next time for the exciting tale of me Vs. tech support in India. You don't want to miss it. I get yelled at. Until next time... Hasta

March

2010-03-31T22:44:00.003-06:00

March. Such a strange month. If March were personified I am convinced it would be a pimply faced, squeaky voiced, pre-teen. Jr. high was a horribly, disturbing and awkward time of my life. It stands to reason March would be in Jr. high school. Probably gets stuffed in his locker by a bully... named Old Man Winter.

You see, December comes around and we are all excited for Winter. It's the Christmas season and you can't have Christmas without snow. It snows in December and we all jump around and shovel our driveways and make snowmen and have snowball fights.

Then January comes and we still sort of smile because the snow is so pretty, even though we have to put on coats and it makes our feet wet and we track slush all through our houses.

Then February comes. The snow is gray. The sky is gray. our summer tans have faded and we are all gray. It is freaking cold outside and we are tired of staying inside. We ate way too much candy and we wouldn't mind running around outside and melting off a few pounds. We put a holiday in the middle of February to not make us not feel bad about cuddling under a warm blanket, preferably with a significant other and eating more chocolate, which naturally releases endorphins and makes us feel better about the otherwise gloomy month.

February fades and now we have March. A March is what? An extended begrudging and rhythmic walk. A method to arrive at a desired destination. Spring! Warm weather! Sunshine! Vibrant colors! Anything but gray and dreariness.

Yep, Old Man Winter pretty much shows up when he wants. Leaves when he wants. Sometimes he leaves and then pops his head back in the door to make sure no one is trash talking him after he leaves. People hide inside and peek out their blinds and whisper to each other "Shhh! don't go out there! Winter's out there! You want him to bite your nose and nip at your toes?" Winter even scares away the sun, and the sun isn't a regular ol' pushover either. Big ball of burning gas. Really hot. Gives you sunburns. Get too close to the sun and you die. That sun, is afraid of Winter.

By about mid to late March Spring arrives. Starts to set up camp. Winter says his goodbyes and pretends to yawn and then he ducks behind a tree. Spring rolls out a beautiful tapestry of daisies. There's a tap on Spring's left shoulder. Winter cackles in a withering and crackly laugh and runs around Spring's Right shoulder and quickly defecates a layer of slush on the daisies. Spring slaps her forehead. She can't believe she fell for the same trick again. Just like the past 128 years in a row! Spring sighs and it appears as if Winter has left. Hopefully for good this time. Spring carefully sprinkles out green pastures and thoughtfully places tender flowering buds on the trees. The sun sees Spring's progress and mumbles sheepishly "Well... I really should stop by and see what you've done this year Spring" But just as the sun comes skipping around the corner Winter jumps up from a ditch he was hiding in. The sun is startled. Not only does he stop. He runs cowardly away. Poor Spring always becomes so disappointed when this happens.

I'm so glad it is April now. April is such a refreshing and zesty month. I personally think Winter is a bit afraid of April. I heard once that Winter and April dated for a few years. But then April dumped Winter. Some say April and Spring had a fling (that's where the term 'Spring Fling' came from you see) and that April dumped Winter for Spring. I think this just adds to the uncomfortableness Winter has for April.

Sometimes Winter will stay out late drinking with his crony Jack Frost. Sometimes, when winter and Jack get that glazed look in their eyes and they start sloshing their drinks around and slurring and stumbling. Sometimes Winter will say "Hey Jack!" and then he will look around like he doesn't remember what he was about to say. Then he will continue after a few seconds "We should go 'nta town and just freeze everything. ah'm talken' snow... and... icicles and the whole bit!" and then he will mumble under his breath "Show that April what kinda man I can be!" and Jack will laugh in his fast pitched, giddy laugh. "Yeah! Let's go!" And so they do. And that's why sometimes it snows in April. Because Winter is an ass, and a bully and a drunk and I don't like Winter anymore and I wish he would just go away. I want sunburns and to walk outside and feel sweaty and sit in the shade and sip lemonade. That's what I want. Maybe I'm just saying all of this because it just snowed on the last day of March

New Facebook

2010-02-14T20:26:00.003-07:00

I just love the new layout of Facebook. (Shaking my head "no" and with disgust)

It is like this:

At work we have a small Men's bathroom. It's a one seater and has standing room for one. It is generally occupied when you need it most. But it could be worse. I have visited restrooms that when the door is opened, everyone in the hall is allowed to see your... um, performance.

A few years ago, the restroom had a plastic soap dispenser. It broke. It became plugged up. Rather than replacing the old dispenser with a replica a new style was installed. This left a gaping hole in the wall where the old dispenser was. Not really feeling like patching a hole the right way, a metal plate was screwed into the wall over the hole left by the old soap dispenser.

After years of service the "new" dispenser developed congested arteries. Layer upon layer of soap built up in the pump of the dispenser. The amount dispensed, diminished until this soap Scrooge stopped giving anything at all. Most of us, myself included resorted to angrily slamming the button on the dispenser hoping soap would be awarded on merits of frustration. It really only needed a clean out. a pipe cleaner run through it and it would be fine. A solution was finally found when some poor restroom patron finally resolved to bring in a bottle of hand soap from home and place it next to the sink.

This offering was accepted by the bathroom gods and a new-new dispenser was installed... above the old one. So now there is the hole in the wall covered by the metal plate from the old dispenser. The old-new dispenser that died of congestive heart failure and the new-new dispenser.

Next to the sink is one of those stainless steel, in-wall towel dispenser and garbage can combos. I'm not entirely sure why but the bathroom gods deemed this process either too cumbersome or too expensive, but it was abandoned. a new motion activated towel dispenser was bolted right to the old stainless steel dispenser.

Eventually the batteries died in the new towel dispenser. It was then decided that a new-new towel dispenser would be a better solution, rather than new batteries in the old-new dispenser. The new-new towel dispenser was stuffed in the corner directly over your right shoulder when you are using the sink. Being motion activated it would spew out a length of towels every time you moved your shoulder while scrubbing your hands. By the time you needed towels there was an eight foot length of towels piled up on the floor next to the sink. The new-new dispenser went through towels REALLY fast. This was solved by adjusting the amount of paper towel it dispensed to 6 inches. By the time you needed the towels, there was a good 3 feet for you. New problem with the new-new dispenser. It was now going through batteries really fast. This was solved by putting batteries in the 0ld-new dispenser.

Now we have the new-new towel dispenser that is plagued with problems. So when that one dies, you fall back on the old-new dispenser that only had the problem of needing batteries, that is bolted onto the old-old dispenser that did not have any problems.

Next to sink we have the gaping hole from the original soap dispenser and the old-new dispenser and the new-new soap dispenser that is doomed to the fate of the original two because it is always filled with cheap soap that has too much wax or glycerin in it.

With the new version of Facebook, I can't find a way to shut off all of the Farm Wars, Mafiaville, and "Ralphie Pencilarms took the 'how much can you bench press?' quiz and found out he would loose a fist fight with an earthworm. " notifications. I only like to see my friend's status updates so that I can make peanut gallery comments. Wading through all of the crap, is becoming surprisingly mundane. I participate less. I can see other people participating less and to be honest, I just want to take my potty break and get back to my life without all of the extra features that don't work.

That's all. This gripe session over. Insert your comments here ->

100

2010-01-31T22:37:00.006-07:00

Last week was Walker's 100th day of school. To mark the even they centered the day around activities involving the number 100. One of the activities was to fill out a book about 100. I enjoyed his book so much I thought I would share.

I wish I had 100 arms and hands.

That would be awesome! Forget walking! I would just roll everywhere I go. When people looked at me strange, I just say "That's the way I roll"

I wouldn't want 100 zombies

There are a lot of things that I don't want, but 100 zombies ranks right up there with Nancy Pelosi as a neighbor or getting in a fist fight with a 100 armed man.

I can make 100 germs.

It's true! He can! Sometimes when he can't get to a booger with his index finger he will switch to his pinkie for better depth.

Having 100 monkeys could really be a problem.

I think this is a good call. Owning 100 monkeys would be hilarious for the first 10 seconds until one of them flung some poop and hit you in the face.

I can lift 100 germs.

I know he can lift a lot more than just 100. It is where he puts them that keeps me up at night.

I could never eat 100 brains.

So very true... again. I can't imagine brains tasting very good. They are grey. That is most likely why zombies are groaning most of the time.

I can eat 100 chocolate chips.

I've seen him eat 100 chocolate chips per handful. I wonder how he would feel about 100 chocolate brains? Mmmm! chocolate brain!

First grade journal

2010-01-17T21:34:00.021-07:00

It could be argued that I led a sheltered life. I never did drugs. Was completely unaware of anyone doing drugs when I grew up. I was never offered drugs, never saw drugs or for that matter did not know where I could have found drugs if I did want them. This is a good thing. I don't know if I could have handled loosing any more brain function than I already lack from. I come by this naturally. Until last week I merely hypothesized this. Yesterday I found out I have always been this way.

I was cleaning out my closet and came across a journal I had kept in first grade. I would like to share.

Today is Monday. We have no heat in our room and it is foggy outside!

Apparently this is DYNAMITE! with my teacher. Perhaps she was trying to plant ideas into my fertile brain that if I were to blow up the school the tight wad school district would have to build a new school with better than sub-standard heating.

From the moment I picked up a pencil I knew how to endlessly ramble about nothing. I still have no clue what this says. It reads:

ICOTFISFRUMMYGRAPOTHAOORSmoLI SaSd tnnwodritwosdgauthaorFunuithywEFrsh

in.

I think it says something about fishing and grandpa. I was right. Some grandpas do smell like rotting fish.

Today is Friday. Last night I usnpewinmy mom said wieorGoenswmin.

I think my teacher was starting to work on spacing between words. Still I think I confused the both of us. There are a lot of question marks here. but hey! I spelled "said" correctly! This afforded me another stamp on my paper and a hopeful subconscious suggestion to dynamite the school. My mom said something about going swimming. Mankind will never know what exactly she said though.

Today is the last day of January. I think the fog stays here because it likes to stay.

I think I had issues with the fog.

Today is Jerry's birthday. Tonight the fog.

I make it sound so ominous and foreboding. like a zombie attack. Today is a good day because it is Jerry's birthday and we will have cupcakes and sing happy birthday! But don't get too cheery because tonight the fog will come, and steal all of your happiness away and make you dark and gloomy, just like the fog.

Today is Friday. It is snowing hard. Tomorrow I want to get the snow and spit in heaven.

Um... OK? Maybe this repels the fog?

When I grow up I want to sit in space.

Oh yeah! Sitting in space is where its all at! Really, who doesn't want to grow up to be a couch potato that just happens to do all his couch potatoing in SPACE!

Last night it snowed. It is snowing now. Today we will eat marmalade jam. We think my fish is going to have babies. I got my finger slammed in the door.

That's a rather strange collection of sentences. That was a busy day for me, a lot going on. Snowing, (thank goodness it isn't foggy!) marmalade jam, pregnant fish and a crushed finger. I don't know how I had time to pencil all this in.

Mrs. Parker brought sea horses to school. They might die.

WHAT??? Did we kill the sea horses? Why did Mrs. Parker stamp "GREAT" After I said they might die? was she going to kill them? Was the fog going to come in the night and murder them? Oh, those poor sea horses! They just wanted to gallop around in the ocean or sit in space and now they were sentenced to death!

Today is Monday. I got new shoes. one of my fish that was going to have babies and it died this morning.

Aren't Mondays the worst! Yeah, new shoes definitely rock and you can run so fast in new shoes and WHAT??? My pregnant fish died? First the sea horses and now my pregnant fish? Is there no end to my aquatic misery? At least in space I won't have to be troubled by such heinous things like fog and fish pandemics, I can just sit there... and float.

Let's move on.

The leprechaun keeps knocking on the door.

Was I the only on that saw this leprechaun? Add leprechauns to the list of things that won't bother me in space.

Today is the first day of Spring. I like Spring but when summer comes you get stung by a bee.

Were bee stings like a right of passage into summer? I sure was pessimistic about spring. Spring is great, but Spring leads to summer and that's when the bees attack you and sting out your eyeballs and then after summer comes winter and then the fog that steals your happiness and murders your fish. I am going to go sit in space where none of this happens.

I don't like G force. They think they are a hero, but they aren't.

I don't remember what G force was, but I thought they were hero imposters.

Today is Tuesday. I got a kite. I can't find the string.

You see in space you don't need string. Kites just float. You can just sit there and watch them float.

Substitute Judy is talking too much. Hat.

Long winded substitutes are ruthless! I don't know what "hat" had to do with anything. Maybe it was one more thing I was going to add to my list of things I didn't have to worry about in space. My list must have been pretty long. Add substitutes that talk too much.

Space is going to be so great. I can't wait to grow up.

One more thing

2010-01-04T23:02:00.003-07:00

I can tell you are a person of superior intellect and extremely web savvy. How do I know this? You are here, reading this silly. Deductive logic dictates that you are sharp witted, classy and possess an affinity for the finer things in life as all of my readers are.

I however wish I were more like you dear reader. I am slow witted, often become confused and distracted by shiny lights and sparkly objects and am plagued with frail thought processes.

Last week I detailed a few things I do not like. Allow me to add another item to my dislike list. Drive-thrus. Let's explore a typical drive-thru experience for me.

Driving down the road in the car. From the back Walker says "Dad, I'm hungry. Can we go to McDonalds?" to which Mandy replies "No, you didn't eat anything last time I took you there" and I add "Besides that, you just want to go inside and play in the play area and that McDonald's doesn't even have a play area AND I HATE McDonald's food"

Suddenly there is a whining noise that sounds like a wind-up siren on an antique fire truck "DaaaAAAAADDDDDD! I'm zursty" (Shelby's way of saying "thirsty") I look over at Mandy "What do you want to do?" She portrays the most realistic look of despair that she can manage "I don't know? I'm pretty hungry too. Do you want to stop real quick and get something?" Then she begins bouncing in her seat so fast it is almost like a vibration as she claps her hands "And maybe -- we could get some ice cream!" Her eyes flare really big like the heavens were parted and she just caught a glimpse of an angelic choir serenading her. The smile stays fixed on her face like someone sprayed it with super-mega-ultra hairspray, that was designed to hold up the 80's wing style and standing bangs hairdos.

"All right, where do you want to go? We could go to oh -- nevermind, there goes Wendy's. How about Taco Bell?" Mandy says "No, there's nothing there the kids will eat." "Well, Walker has somehow lived to the age of 8 on just scraps of candy that he could beg off of strangers and tubs of yogurt." I add. "Well there's..." "No" Mandy interrupts. "Or there's..." "Uh uh!" I reply. Finally we decide on a destination. Joe's dead animal grill and/pet salon. Home of the free burger with every doggy bath.

As usual we are pressed for time, so the drive-thru is the only option. The car hasn't completely rolled to a stop and I am frantically scanning the menu for something edible. "Welcome to Joe's would you like to try a dead meat burger with a side of fried mange clippings?" Of course the answer is "No" but there is that awkward social moment where I don't know if I should acknowledge the question or just pretend they asked me if they could help me. I sigh and reply "No I would not like a dead meat burger with a a side of mange clippings" The autonomous speaker in the menu garbles out "Would you? Could you? in a box?" I shake my head angrily "No! I don't want a burger, or green eggs and ham or fried mange clippings! Just ask me if you can help me and we can get on with this!" Slowly the speaker in the menu says "Can I help you?" Or at least that is what I think it said. It sounded more like Charlie Brown's parents than anything. Having waded through the formalities of the process I proceed to my next step. "No you can't help me! I haven't even looked at the menu yet! How's somebody supposed to just drive up and know what they want? Do you honestly get that many return customers that they have your menu memorized and know what they want before they even veer into your drive thru? Are there that many sadistic and wantonly suicidal people out there that consume your food on a regular basis?" The voice behind the menu is silent for a few seconds "Go ahead and order when you are ready" "Thank you!" I reply. "What was that? You want a number 2?" the speaker says "NO! I said 'THANK YOU'!" Another pause from the voice "Sir" The voice continues in a nasaly drone "I have every right to refuse you service for talking inappropriately to me" "NO!" I giggle with a frustrated twitch "I said T-H-A-N-K YOU!" Another pause "Sir, you don't have to talk so loudly. I can hear you just fine. Are you ready to order?" "No, I haven't even looked at your menu! Give me a minute please!"

By this time 3 cars have pulled up in line behind me. I can see the driver of the car behind me glancing at his watch. He looks nervous and tense like he only has 30 seconds to eat something or he will expire and deflate into a lifeless goo on the floorboard of his car.

Nothing looks good. The number 7 looks palatable. But for $8.99 for the "value" meal? I look at the price of the sandwich alone, the toasted toenail clippings that come as a side, and the price of a drink individually and add them up to see if I can just save money by ordering them separately. "Have you had a chance to decide yet?" the menu says to me "No, just one more minute" I can hear the person with the headset taking orders say quietly to another coworker "This guys like taking forever! What kind of moron doesn't know what to order? Just look at the menu and order something!"

I glance in my rear view mirror. There are 12 cars lined up behind me. One of the cars has Jack Bauer and McGyver in it. They both have ticking bombs in their laps and are looking hopelessly at me because apparently the only way to disarm their bombs is with a dead meat burger, no onions, extra mustard. The gravity of the situation begins to weigh heavily on me. I can feel the fate of the planet is weighted on my prompt decision here. Nothing looks good, so I spew out the first number I think of "42!" The menu asks "What drink would you like with that?" In my frazzled state of mind I had neglected to even read their drink menu. I scan, scan again and yet a third time. I don't see any drinks on the menu. I stammer out "Uh... the red one!" I secretly hope it is a fruit drink, artificially flavored fruit drink or even flavor that is inspired by fruit flavor. I curse myself because I realize you can get Coke anywhere, even at Joe's dead meat shack and pet salon.

Satisfied I prepare to pull forward until it occurs to me that I am only 1/4 the way complete with my order. Fortunately Mandy usually knows what she wants. There are usually strange requests with her order and I try to talk her out of them because I don't think they will do it, and I am usually wrong. "Um, I would like, um, a steamed squirrel salad... and some Fettuccine sauce... on the side. In a mickey mouse cup" I glare over at her and whisper "They won't have fettuccine sauce and they certainly won't have a Mickey Mouse cup!" She bats her eyelids at me and simply says "Just ask" And so I do and they respond like everyone that comes through orders that.

Then I move on to the kids. They look around like they didn't even notice we were at a fast food restaurant. "What? Can we go inside and play in the play area?" They ask. "No! They don't have a play area! Now do you want boiled foam shaped like drumsticks that are lightly breaded or do you want the hot dog that I am afraid is really dog meat?" "What toy does it come with?" They ask "GR...pft...IKGHT..." Is all I can say. By now my face is bright red and a vein is bobbing to the beat of my heart on one side of my head. There are now over 37,000 cars behind us waiting. They guy right behind us has died and Jack Bauer and McGyver have left their bombs in the car and can now be plainly seen running each in different directions as fast as they can before their bombs explode.

The menu says "What else can I get for you?" "And I'll take two orders of the kids chicken couch foam thingys, both of them with Sprite" I say "We don't have Sprite" "7-up?" I plead "No" "Fine just give me the clear carbonated stuff that has lots of sugar in it. The kids will like that" The menu replies "OK, so that's our Kaboom high potency energy drinks" I look over at Mandy "Is that the drink that has more caffeine than 163 cups of coffee?" She shrugs back. I look back at the menu "Uh, yeah sure, whatever" "OK, that'll be $187.34 at the first window" I look back at Mandy as I put the car in drive "Did he just say $187.34?" From the back seat I hear "I don't like chicken foam drumsticks!"

Things I like and don't like

2009-12-27T16:46:00.002-07:00

Things I like: (not all inclusive)

- The sounds to be heard in a grove of aspens.
- A good bike ride
- The way my clothes smell after a bike ride (besides the sweaty zones)
- Sugar sludge in the bottom of my bowl of cereal
- Four-wheel drive
- Substituting the word "Squirrel" for "girl" whenever possible
- My dear sweet squirrel Mandy and my little squirrel Shelby.
- Sunday naps
- The way my hair feels after a haircut
- A warm shower after working out in the cold
- Watching a summer thunderstorm roll in
- The smell of rain on dry pavement
- Tax returns

Things I don't like

- Mornings
- Running
- Donny Osmond
- Plain milk
- Country music
- Glitter
- nose hairs
- Seeing myself on camera
- Getting eaten by an alligator

This is just a list of things I do and don't like. If you have things on your own personal "like" list that I have on my "don't like" list. I don't think any less of you. Let's say for example you were to tell me that your dream day would be waking up really early, going for a run with Donny Osmond, drinking a tall glass of milk, while listening to country music, then getting showered with glitter as a film crew records your lush forested growth of nose hairs and then you getting eaten by an alligator. Then I say "Good for you!" This is merely a list of items that I have for either logical or completely irrational reasons collected.

Donny Osmond for example I can't explain. He just embarrasses me and I think he is too -- um, smiley? He makes me want to do something to him that would make him not smile. Like feed him to an alligator. Country music. I don't know? It just grates on my senses. (However, for reasons I can't explain, I like bluegrass music) Milk. Tastes like the smell of cows -- which I happen to not like the smell of.

A few weeks ago Shelby started coming into our room early in the mornings and climbing in bed with Mandy and I. Formerly, Mandy would snuggle with the child that came in to our room at night for a bit and then put them on the floor with a pillow and a blanket. A few weeks ago this stopped. I was forced to confront my morning with elbow jabs, head butts, kicks to the kidneys, slaps to the face and "Dad, I'm hungry!"

A morning is something you have to ease into. Kind of like getting onto a moving freight train. You can get onto the front of the train by standing in the middle of the tracks and waiting for the gap to close or you can ease into it. Run along side, get yourself going the same speed and grab the hands of one of the hobos cheering you along. In a sense I was getting kicked, punched and slapped onto the tracks. I haven't been very happy about it.

I quizzed Mandy about her recent change in policy. She dismissed my questions with a half baked excuse. "I don't want to accidentally step on her when I wake up in the morning!" "Hmm..." I grumbled. Later we were travelling together in the car, I was flipping through the radio channels. I stumbled across a country station. Mandy blurted out "NO! STOP! I like this song!" I grumbled loathing mutterings quietly to myself as a song twanged along and the singers voiced creaked out the lyrics. "Let them sleep in the middle" I looked over at Mandy and she was gazing sentimentally forward. She had that look like tears were bubbling very close to the surface. Somehow she had found a connection to this song. I receded back to my happy place where I was plucking Donny Osmond's nose hairs out one by one and he was not smiling. When the song was over I quickly changed the channel before another one of Mandy's favorites might have come on. and said "This is why you let Shelby sleep in our bed now? Because of a song? A CoUnTrY song?" Mandy looked suddenly ashamed. "Well, it's such a sweet song" she pleaded.

I hate it when items on my dislike list combine forces. I sigh with a tinge of gratitude that my dislike list is not so lengthy and complicated as it could be. I mean -- somebody, somewhere out there wakes up to the stark reality that they in fact, live next door to glittery and persistently sparkly personality that just won't go away that we all know as one Mr. Donny Osmond.

Women

2009-12-20T21:41:00.004-07:00

You hear it all of the time, and we laugh that men just don't understand women. In all honesty I am wondering, what are you girls thinking?

I recently overheard some people talking about being single and dating. Holy crap am I glad I don't have to worry about that anymore. I am truly, deeply, DEARLY, sorry for those that do.

My dating career was as short as I possibly could manage, yet still fraught with countless embarrassing and confusing moments. Dating is a lot like being dropped in a department store in just your underwear with the objective of picking out a pair of clothes that you like, and every three feet there is someone standing with a cattle prod who gets to zap you when you come into their reach. That is a bad analogy though because after you made your selection, you have to hope your selection chooses you also. I am happy to report that I came out of the ordeal having made a great choice.

Here was the confusing part. I thought I was pretty understanding, caring, funny, good looking and most of all humble. One of the blessings of marriage is that you later find out, those things you that you thought you were -- you aren't. (Well, because your spouse is silly!) In short I thought I was a good catch. I wasn't really, but I knew guys that were. I and them received some attention but the moment some guy strolled into the room with a guitar and started strumming a single chord and singing out of tune, the girl's eyes glazed over and they fawned around him like he was the pied piper. The rest of the guys and I would roll our eyes at each other and grumble "Who's the knob with a guitar?" We all knew it was game over at that point.

Another time I was standing at a street corner on campus waiting for the light to turn so that I could cross. There were some girls standing next to me and a dude with a motorcycle rolled up to the light. One of the girls stepped out of the crowd and shouted at the motorcycle rider "Hey! Can I have a ride?" He smiled and said "Sure!" and she hopped on the back and off they went. He could have been Jefferey freakin' Dalmer. She didn't care.

There are others, but those two seemed to mystify me the most. Dudes with guitars and motorcycles. They just seemed to put women in a trance.

Looking back, I am not sure why I didn't get me one of either of the two. If you are a single guy out there, I would encourage you to learn how to play the guitar while driving your motorcycle. Just learn one chord and sing about any ol' thing you want. "I'm playing my guitar! ridin' my broken down crappy Suzuki! It's really hard to steer, with my hands off the handle bars. And when all of these women are throwing themselves at me! Oh, I'm playin' my gee-tarrrrr! Drivin' my bike that says rarrrrr!..." It really won't matter.

If we look at the selection process, on it's most basic levels, I can honestly see why a female would choose a male that is tall or short. black or blonde haired. Brown or blue eyed. Has money, influence, charismatic, muscular, or even as frustrating to me at the time... can throw a football really far. They all show certain ability to produce or provide for offspring.

I think I know the answer now, but it doesn't mean I understand. I know now, but I'm not any wiser. It boils down to one thing. Emotion. Making a decision based on emotion seems so foreign to me, I have little concept of how it works. Which is why I am grateful that I have Mandy to help me out there. I am truly appreciative of the fact that she has that ability. She has a marvelous talent in making an emotional decision and then explaining it to me logically. I am also glad she can make a decision based on pity, because that is surely the reason she chose me even though I don't ride a motorcycle or strum a stupid guitar.

Casey Needs your Help

2009-12-18T10:50:00.003-07:00

Hurray! Bonus post! well, kind of...

So, I come before you the reader with my hat in my hands and on bended knee. I need a favor to ask of you kind sir or madam. I have a friend (hard to believe, but it's true) that needs your help. He so desperately needs your help. Casey suffers from a rare condition called "gotta-git-outta-dodge-itis" symptoms include fidgetyness, twitchyness, irritability, staring longingly out the window and intestinal distress. There is no real cure for his condition, but there are treatments that afford poor Casey temporary relief. One of his treatments is a vacation. A vacation anywhere he wants to go. Casey recently entered a contest to win just such a trip. but he needs your help. Only you stand in the way of Casey getting the help he so desperately needs. All you need to do is go to http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i7-Jv3-DZR4 or click here and watch Casey's video. It's only 59 seconds long. You certainly have one minute of the hundreds of thousands you have to watch his video. Besides, it is a good video anyway. I am positive you will like it anyway. Then you simply need to log onto your account at youtube.com (certainly you have one by now don't you?) click on "Favorite" to add him to your favorites and give his video a 5 star rating. That's it! That's all Casey needs from you. Then sit back in your chair, look up at the ceiling and smile to yourself knowing that you done a good deed today. It will make your day better, it will make Casey's day better and will make this world of ours a better place too. So, go there now. Together we can make this a better world to live in. Also, Casey has agreed to bring you back a shrunken head if you vote on his video. Thanks friends!

Indignant Offspring

2009-12-14T23:40:00.005-07:00

Saturday I mustered enough fortitude to cart the broken down snow blower project out that has been sagging in the corner of my garage for several months now. I put new bearings on the auger blade, Checked the timing and the gap on the points. Cleaned the spark plug and cleaned the carb out a bit. piled next to the snow blower there was a pile of shrouds and guards and shields that I had no clue how they fit back on to it. After twisting them around and holding them up to the snow blower I finally figured out how all of the puzzle pieces fit back together. Several hours into the project I stepped back and admired the assembled product. Then I reached down and gave the pull chord a mighty tug. The chord snapped off and I almost fell backward after my herculean yank.

Less than an hour later I was back with a new pull chord. I installed it, shortly admired my work and gave the chord another tug. "ZWING!" said the snow blower as the recoil spring snapped inside. Less than another hour later I was back with a new spring. I installed the spring and apprehensively gave the pull chord another tug. The 4 hp Briggs and Stratton engine jumped to life. I wheeled it out the side door of the garage and attempted to test it out on the fresh snow that was falling. When I activated the auger, it made a dull "POP" noise followed by a grinding grumble. Grinding is rarely a good sound with machinery. I turned it off and wheeled it back in the garage.

All of the calamity in the garage alerted Walker and soon he was out in the garage asking what I was doing. "Fixing the snow blower" I said. He looked bored "Hmm" he said and shrugged his shoulders as he plucked a snow ball out of the gaping mouth of the stubborn snow blower. I pulled the chain shroud off of the side and found the auger drive chain had come off. Walker peeked over my shoulder "Why did it do that dad?" I grumbled "I dunno, The stupid chain is probably too loose" I reinstalled it and made sure it was really tight.

This time when I started it, and activated the auger I would like to say I fixed it. If I couldn't claim that, then I would at least like to say that the chain stayed on for a bit longer than it did the last time. It didn't.

I went through this routine 3 more times. Each time just as unsuccessful as the previous. Walker seemed more than happy to occupy himself by tossing snowballs into the chute and watching them come splatting out the front. I sat on my work chair with my wrench in one hand and scowled at the chain lying like a dead snake on the ground and the two stubborn sprockets that kept throwing the chain off. I wiggled them to see if they were loose. It all seemed good. Walker bent down to pick up another snowball and quickly peeked over the side of the snow blower and said "Oh dad, I get it" I said "What?" expecting answer like "This thing takes snow from the driveway and puts it on the lawn!" or "This thing is like a transformer and if it had a laser gun it could shoot a hole in the wall!" instead I heard him say "These sprockets aren't lined up exactly, that's why the chain keeps coming off" I didn't even think he was paying attention. Now with a quick glance he had summed up the scene and solved the riddle.

That's what is wrong with kids these days. No respect for their elders. You gotta help people, not do everything for them. Give a man a fish and he is fed for a day, teach him to fish and he is fed for a lifetime sort of stuff. I sat there trying to figure out a way to make it sound like that was my idea. Nothing came to mind so I pretended like it would never work. "Yeah? You think so do ya? Well if your so smart how do I get them to line up? Huh?" He rocked forward on his one leg and pointed at a bolt. "That loosens up the sprocket. See. Then you can slide it in or out" Then he picked up a pry bar and placed it behind the gear "This one is perfect. Then you can pry like this Then you can pull it out. Then you can take goosey (that's what he calls the air hammer, because he says it sounds like a goose honk) and push this gear in until they line up! Easy!" and just like that he was back to throwing snowballs. I mumbled to myself and stared in amazement "Pfft! That'll never work! you can't just adjust these gears around like this. I'll bet I have to take the whole thing apart and adjust the auger in a bit... somehow" While doing this, I loosened the bolt and adjusted the gear, tightened it up. Used the air hammer and drove the auger gear further on to the auger, put the shroud back on and said "Lookout! I'm starting this and I doubt it works!" I secretly hoped it didn't. I started the engine and activated the auger. The auger sprung to life and merrily churned away, clawing for snow.

KBack in my day we might have known the answers that we could see our parents struggling for, but we respected them. We were elusive with the answers and gave them subtle hints. "What does that bolt do?" "Do you think the gear can be adjusted in or out if you were to say... loosen that bolt?" and then when they did it, we would pat them on the back and say "Dad! you're so smart! You fixed it! Why don't we celebrate with some ice cream!" Dang kids! I could have fixed it without any help. Probably.

My dad, part II

2009-12-07T22:22:00.003-07:00

If you are just joining this story then you need to go back and start from the beginning to get the proper introduction to this material. If this is you, click here.

I have adjusted everything on this devil contraption that masquerades itself as a chair to somewhat conform to my poor posture. It still bites and scratches at my back side like it was a disgruntled chihuahua. In my second attempt to finish what I have started here I shall try to endure another episode of its maniacal harassment.

My first memories of my dad are all sort of jumbled. I'm not sure chronologically which event pre-dates another. They are all sort of haphazardly filed in a certain era of my life. Brilliant flashes of time perfectly preserved in my head with no context or surrounding information. Like looking at a bunch of photo slides that are unlabeled. There are certain events that he told me about that I have no recollection of. When I was about 1 year old my family moved from Butte Montana to Farmington Utah. I don't remember anything of our Butte house. When we had lived in Farmington for a year or so, my dad ran for city council. He tells me he took me door to door with him asking for the people's votes. No memory of that. I remember playing at a friends house. I must have been 6 or 7. My friend's mom asked "Is your dad running for city council again?" I stood there absolutely confused. I had no idea he was on the city council. I stammered "Um... I... I think so?"

I remember him working long hours. Being gone early in the morning and coming home after it was dark. He also served in the bishopric and was constantly at church meetings, city meetings and work meetings. that is most likely why my earliest memories of him are so random. Time spent with him was probably intermittent.

He called me "little buddy" or sometimes "buddy" for short. Sunday nights I would sit on his lap and we would watch Nature on PBS. Don't tell the folks at KUED, or KBYU that this is one of my first memories. They will surely use my story on a pledge drive as an example to why you should contribute. Actually, if it gets more contributions, and they reach their goal sooner and that gets them to shut up and stop trying to guilt me (notice how I said "trying") into contributing. Then please do let them use my story. I remember he loved his back to be tickled and he would tell me to go get a hotwheels car and drive it on his back. 10 or 15 seconds into the exercise, which seemed like hours to me, I would say "Is that enough?" and he would wiggle his back and say "No, keep going" 10 seconds later I would urge again "Is that enough?" which he would say "No, keep going" When he finally grew weary of my requests he would say "OK". Sometimes he would give me a dime to rub his back with one of his parker pens that he always carried in his shirt pocket.

I remember riding in the Cadillac that he drove. I loved to climb in the back window and fall asleep. or lay across the hump on the floor in the back seat, feel the warmth from the engine and let the hum of the driveline whizzing thousands of RPMs, inches from my face separated by a thin piece of shaped sheet metal, lull me to sleep. Things were definitely different then. We never got hurt. If there was ever an accident, my mom would stick out her arm and prevent me from face planting into the dash. we were totally safe in those days. I don't know if my recollection serves me correct, but I remember dad pulling our trailer with the Cadillac... which was a company car. My siblings would have to confirm that memory.

I don't think it is custom anymore, but for a time, he was the ward clerk at church. The ward clerk would usually sit up on the stand at a desk on the left side of the chapel. I liked to go sit up on the stand with him and color. There was 2 wooden chairs up there and the top of the desk was completely impractical. it had a bumpy texture to it and it made my drawings look like I had Parkinson's disease. My dad was left handed and I almost wonder if they didn't ask him to be the ward clerk and sit up there so that everyone could be humored as they watched him write. Every south paw has their own technique for writing and he said he had developed his from writing with a quill pen and an ink well. For the most part his hand hovered above the paper and he hooked his hand around so that his wrist was almost directly above his pen tip. He had learned to write like that to avoid running his hand across the wet ink.

I remember camping in our Terry trailer. My uncle sold trailers and we actually drove to Washington to pick the trailer up from the factory. It's sole decoration was a Styrofoam pineapple that was ornamented with dozens of plastic beads that were threaded with pins and stuck into the Styrofoam. Then it had a plastic plume on top.

When we were camping I would awake to the smell of my dad cooking bacon and eggs outside on the metal griddle. I swear that was one of the best smells ever. They tasted just as good as they smelled. The eggs were crunchy on the perimeter, yet the yoke was still just soft enough that you could dip your toast into it. Bacon crunchy and never stringy. Steroids and preservatives must affect the flavor of bacon we have now, because it has been 15 years or more since I have had bacon and eggs as good as I remember them as a child.

I remember one time camping, my dad asked me "What do you want to do?" and I thrust my finger out and pointed to the tallest point I could see, a craggy out cropping of rocks on a peak and said "I want to hike there!" to which he smiled and said "OK, let's go." When you are small your whole perspective of dimensions is on a completely larger scale. I remember the peak looming some 20 miles or so over our heads. I had tossed out the idea sort of like you might say "I'm going to be an astronaut!" or "I'm going to start a business in my garage around these things called computers and then I will be a multi-billionaire and I will blow my nose on million dollar bills." When he said "Let's go" I gulped in surprise. It seemed to me like it took the better part of the week to get to the summit. In reality it probably took us an hour to get to the top of the small hill I was calling a summit.

When we got there we found a little spring trickling out of the base of the rocks. There were aspens and fir trees all around us. The aspen trees seemed to whisper gleefully in the sun and the leaves fluttered and sparkled in a cheerful wave. We drank from the spring and sat and admired the view. Then he said "Do you know what we do when we admire such beautiful scenes like this?" I said "Um, no?" What I was thinking was "We roll rocks down the mountain to see how far they roll? We pound our chests and make ape noises? I don't know." Then he said something that still surprises me today "We kneel down and thank our Heavenly Father" and so we both knelt down and he offered a prayer of gratitude that seemed like it was 15 minutes long, but in reality was probably 30 seconds. I remember opening my eyes during the prayer and watching a chipmunk burst out of an opening in the rocks clutching a cone and perch up on a small ledge. It looked around in the jittery over caffeinated way that chipmunks move and bite off pieces of cone and dropped them around him. At the final utterance -- "Amen" he darted back into the recesses of the rocks. After we drank one last time from the spring, we made our way back to camp. My mom was sitting in a camp chair reading a book by the fire, that had died out.

I remember lots of "Whisker kisses" where he would rub his whiskery cheek against mine. I remember lots gentleness, and feeling like my dad was proud of me and supportive and that I could do anything I wanted and he would back me up. I am the youngest of 8 children and 5 years separate me from my next oldest sibling. Looking back, I am sure I was spoiled. I remember feeling like anything I wanted to accomplish in life, I could do it. I felt safe and secure. I knew I was loved and my opportunities were countless. That I would always be backed up and supported. That summarizes how I remember feeling during the first era of my life.

My dad had a terrible temper. I don't know if I didn't notice or if I was protected that much, but I really had no clue he could get so angry. One day when I was about 6 I strolled out to the garage to see what dad was up to. He was working on the car. Things were not going so well. He completely shocked me when he turned around and threw a wrench as hard as he possibly could have at his work bench. sockets and wrenches sprayed all over the ground like shrapnel and he screamed "DAMNIT!" I slowly backed up to the door and slipped back out of the garage. When I returned back into the house I must have looked terrified. My mom immediately asked "What happened?" I said "Dad said 'DAMNIT' and threw his wrench" she pursed her lips and glanced toward the garage. Later that night when dad returned from the garage mom barked "Sterling tells me you have been using naughty words" He glanced over her shoulder at me and launched a scowl at me and somehow telepathically transported his words into my head, because I was certain I heard him say "Don't you ever come in here and tell your mother on me!" I learned not to tell on him and he learned to watch his language more around me. There was another time I was in the garage while he was working under the car. Something wasn't going his way again. Again he threw his wrench. It went skidding and clanging along the ground and smashed into the wall. He filled the silence that followed with "SON OF A..." and then realizing I was there and pausing to think about it, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind "SEAHORSE!" I learned that laughing at his tirades only fanned the flames of frustration, so in my head I gave him a hearty chuckle and a 10 on artistic execution and creative impromptu.

There is a website called www.thereifixedit.com I laugh every time I go there. because most of the "creative workmanship" seen is typical of his home repairs. He rarely took the time to do something correct. It is no wonder he had so many things to be upset about. I would be frustrated too. "I just fixed the water heater! Spent $150 for a new one, another $32 for duct tape and JB Weld to get it hooked up and now it's leaking!" "Damnit all to Hell" was his war cry that he would whoop when his tower of tapes and epoxies, and putties and wire would crumble in his hands. When I was younger I didn't think much about the idea of fixing a leaky radiator with a bottle of radiator repair. When that didn't work, watching him add another bottle and when that didn't work, adding a third bottle and when all of that plugged up and blocked up the ports for the cooling chambers in his engine. He solved that by pouring Drano in the radiator. Well, when that didn't work he had to drain his radiator, spilling it on himself and the driveway. When the Drano started to burn his skin he jumped up and muttered "Sonuvabitch!" and sprinted for the faucet so that he could wash the Drano off. Now he was soaked, burned, the rubber hoses were now ruined and needed to be replaced, the engine needed to be disassembled and all of the ports cleaned. The radiator wasn't fixed and he had spent all of that money and time on alternative methods.

I don't know why... she swallowed the fly. But now that I am older and can look back. I shake my head and wonder "Wh...wha...what was he thinking?" This wasn't an isolated case.

I remember him changing the oil and just draining the oil on the driveway without bothering to catch it in anything. He changed the oil in my sister's car. She started driving home and heard a terrible clattering under her hood. When she had it checked out, she found he had left a 3 foot pry bar under the hood. I still don't know what the pry bar was used for.

We had a leak in our roof so he would just get up there with a bucket of tar and start pouring it where he thought it was leaking.

we had a leak in our ceiling. It kept leaking after he tried to repair it. So he patched the ceiling with a panel held in place by Velcro so that he could get to the leak faster.

Another time my sister was having a party at the house and we had a leak in the wall. The girls were watching a horror movie. My dad was working on the leak on the opposite side of the wall from the living room where they were watching TV. Most people would use a utility knife, or a punch saw. Maybe try to keep quiet to not disturb the girls watching TV. No, he fired up the chain saw and cut a hole in the wall with that. Scared the Hell out of the girls watching the horror show. Then he was mad because they were screaming.

I could go on and on here. It is getting late and I need to get on with this. to spare you the details, just go to thereifixedit.com and see the genre of work he was in to.

It got to the point where he was in such a foul temper all of the time that I hated to be around him. As soon as he came home I went to my room. When he left I would emerge with a sigh of relief. Possibly the most irritating trait was to see him put on his public face. At home he was "grumble grumble" step outside and he was laughs and jokes and hand shakes and pats on the backs. Step back inside, kick the dog and "Damnit to hell". People would tell me all of the time how great my dad was. I am sure they were surprised when I simply replied with a careless "Hmm".

When I was 16 my parents divorced. People would often pull me aside with a concerned look on their face "You doing OK? You need to talk? Can I do anything for you?" To be honest, I was doing great. I didn't have to hide in my room anymore. I was enjoying the freedom of having my own car. I didn't however, like the special attention I was getting from people. I didn't like the feeling I had that I was from a broken home. I wasn't sure if there was hall I was supposed to hang out in. If there was a club of kids at school that I was supposed to join, who all went home to cold and empty homes. waited for their moms to come home exhausted from another long day at work. Listened to their mothers cry themselves to sleep every night. It seemed like the world was full of happy people that came from healthy homes and they were all normal. That part sucked, everything else seemed great.

I made it through high school. Life evened out and I figured out that every one else has just as many problems as I do. Nobody is normal. If you can show me someone normal, then I will show you someone you don't know very well.

I also learned something else very quickly about my dad. I could be angry at him. I could pick him apart so easily. I would feel so justified in loathing him. Hanging on to that bitterness would be so sweet... if I wanted. I could also jump into the bear cage at the zoo if I wanted. Only I think the bears would tear you apart just a bit slower than hanging on to the bitterness would. Be angry only as long as you need to be, then let that son of a seahorse go!

For the rest of his life I could only take enough of my dad until he started to put away the public face and then emotionally I withdrew back to my room.

This last October I had the opportunity to go elk hunting with my dad. Shawn (my next oldest brother) agreed to go along. He does not live in Utah and didn't want to have to get an out of state license. He agreed to come along and cook and clean make the hunt a overall more enjoyable experience.

From the moment I agreed to go, I felt excited about it. Something felt different and I was like a little kid waiting for Christmas to come. I had the dates wrong in my head and we actually showed up for the hunt a day early. My dad seemed more relaxed and at peace with the world than I ever remember him. He seemed more interested in talking with us rather than just telling us what he thinks.

The night we all arrived we talked late into the night like a group of old friends would. In the morning my dad and I drove around, looked at places we might like to go hunt in the morning and we drove down to a gun range off the side of the freeway just outside of the closest town. There were several other people there sighting in their guns. On a normal occasion, dad would have been hovering over my shoulder banging on my scope with a rock and calling it a "Stupid son of a gun" and for once, his slander would be more accurate than slanderous. I was totally surprised when he sat back by his truck with his binoculars and watched the target I was shooting at. He stood back and let me do what I knew how to do. When I was all done and we got in the truck, he simply said. "Well that was easy! And your groupings were excellent." verbally and non-verbally he had let me know that I was trusted. I was doing a good job and once again I felt supported and backed up by whatever I was doing.

The following morning we went out hunting. I hiked along the back side of one of the mountains and met him on the point of the mountain where it spreads out into a long valley that races up between two horizontal mountain ranges. A river trickles through the valley and hugs the edge of the range furthest from where we were hunting. The river is shrouded by thick stands of Aspens. By this time of year the aspens had changed to a brilliant palette of red and yellow. the leaves in their waning days still flutter and wave, but their stems are more stiff and when the wind blows they seem to crackle more than whisper. Instead of waving their movement changes to that of a nod.

I met dad where he was waiting for me in his truck. He was listening to General Conference and he told me he didn't want to walk far from the truck because his chest was hurting. That was the first time I had heard anything about his heart problems.

He drove out over a ridge and we sat there glassing the fields below us for any elk that might be moving for the safety of the thick pines behind us. We sat there listening to conference. I watched a rabbit bounce from behind a sage brush, nibble on some grass. Then it stood up holding perfectly still, testing the air with its nose. Satisfied that there was no threats around it bounced and disappeared behind another sage brush.

When we returned back to camp dad asked me what I wanted to do. I knew what he was thinking and it was what I was thinking too. There were so many hunters out there that any elk still in that country was now dead or in an area so gnarly, you would wish yourself dead before you got the elk out. So, we spent the rest of our time talking, eating, napping and listening to the BYU USU football game. In the morning we broke down camp and went home. That was the last I saw my dad as he normally would be.

A few weeks later I received a phone call from my sister Heidi. Dad was going in for open heart surgery in the morning. Mandy told me I had better call him that she didn't think he was going to make it out of this. I didn't call. I figured he would want his rest more than a call from me. Besides, I hate talking on the phone.

Things didn't go well. 11 hours in surgery. 8 bypasses and he arrested several times in surgery. My sister Lori was incredible through the whole ordeal. She made it up to the hospital every night with only two exceptions, to visit him and then she posted his status and any developments in a blog for all of us to read.

The first time I went to see him, I was scared, I didn't want to go. I think I went more for Lori than for myself or for dad. Although I did get light headed, it wasn't as bad as I had imagined.

On November 14th I went to see dad. I walked in the room and announced that I was there. He didn't open his eyes but his left hand bounced up and fluttered a cheerful wave. Mandy and I talked to him and he would try so hard to open his eyes and focus on us. The best he could do was nod. "Are you tired?" nod. "Are you in pain?" head shake. "Love you dad, get better" nod. Something changed in me that day. Seeing him like that. Completely submissive. I can't put it any better than Lori did. in her blog:

"I know it has been a journey to our family's heart. Our hearts have all had at least 8 bypasses on them as well. In the end, our hearts have grown, healed, loved, shared, and rejoiced. Our hearts have been knit together in love for our Father and for each other. Our Father went in for surgery, but we were the ones who were saved.
This journey has been a sweet experience for me. Heavenly Father gave me 6 beautiful weeks to hold my Dad's hand, to tell him everyday how much I love him and to learn of the inner strength of the man that I call Dad. I was able to look into his eyes when he could not speak and see a beautiful and strong spirit. I came to love him in a way that wouldn't have been possible without this journey. I was able to read him letters from his loved ones, and see the love radiate from him. He taught me more in the past 6 weeks than was ever possible in normal circumstances, all without uttering a word.
I have a new hero in my book. Dad I love you more than words can ever express. I know you are near us. I feel your sweet spirit and your strength. I know you are rejoicing with those that you have missed for so many years. I know that when I see you again, you will have lots of great stories for me. I look forward to that day Dad. Thank you for being MY Dad. I will still need you from time to time, so don't go too far."

There Lori, I hope you are satisfied. I can't say that I didn't cry now.

Now it is well into December. When I look out over a grove of aspens it is now silent. the branches are stark and cold. There is usually a stream nearby carrying the flutters and whispers away. The trees stand dormant and empty. However, it is still easy for me to imagine -- and I look forward to next spring when the rain will bring back the vibrant hues and sparkling contrast of the shimmering leaves. and I can lay down in the grass and listen to the leaves and watch them drift.

My dad

2009-12-06T22:52:00.002-07:00

What a strange and freakishly bewildering roller coaster ride this last month has been. Saturday morning I got a call from my sister. She didn't have to say anything. The fact that she was calling that early on a Saturday morning said it all. I didn't even need to see who was calling, I knew what they were going to say. By the time the phone had rang a second ring I had already picked up. "Hi Ster, this is Lori" she said with her voice that indicated to me that she was on the other end with a red face, furled brow, quivering chin and wiping a tear off of the corner of her eye. "We lost dad this morning." She continued. I knew this day was coming. Too many events had transpired recently that were too perfect to be chalked up to coincidence. Too many things had been said at seemingly random moments for this news to not be arriving to me on Saturday.

When I got off the phone with Lori I laid in bed for a while. I don't think clearly when I first wake up. Hell, I don't think clearly half the day. My mind is like a freight train. extremely slow and lethargic at first. Things are creaking, popping, whining, squealing and puffing. To the bystander it doesn't look like much is going on. My eyes are glazed over and there might be a dab of drool dipping off the edge of my bottom lip. But that is when there is the most exertion happening. My brain is working to get all of that mass into motion. By about noon things are picking up speed. a trotting horse can keep pace with me. By 9:00, 10:00, 11:00 P.M... Wow! We are making up for lost time! There is a steady buzz, things are clipping by like blurry wisps. I am chewing up track and barreling on to the next destination. That is why every night it takes all the concentration I have to bind it up into submission so that I can get some sleep.

Saturday morning I needed some mental clarity. Concise, agile and complicated thoughts needed to be processed. Nothing affords me those moments as well as physical labor. Mindless and solitary labor. Arduous enough to get blood pumping, but not so much that it might wear me out. I sat up, threw my legs over the side of the bed and put on my work clothes. The garage needed to be cleaned out and I had nearly a dozen little projects there that needed to be completed. By the end of the day, I had most of them completed. Do you ever experience that moment when you are driving down a road and you think "I know there is a STOP sign back there. I have no recollection of stopping... did I actually stop or did I just breeze through?" It was one of those days. I don't have very many specific memories of accomplishing many of my tasks but evidence shows I did.

Through out the day I replayed thousands of memories of my dad. Over and over again. Organizing them. Analyzing them. Wondering what effect that had on what I am today. I even put some thought into what I wanted to write here in this blog. Just as much as physical labor brings clarity to my thoughts. Writing them solidifies them, organizes them and assigns more meaning to them.

Tonight we had a family meeting. While I was there Mandy asked my brothers Kimball and Shawn if they had cried about the passing of their father. Shawn asked if I had, and I said "No" He looked a bit surprised by my answer. Come with me as we peel back the years and take a very intimate journey into my past and find out who my dad was to me. He was a very unique person and he had different meaning to each person. The other thing I have discovered from talking to my older siblings is that he was a different father to them than he was to me. I hear about their stunts and I have no doubt why.

Actually, at this current moment I am going to cut this blog short. I have a rickety old chair that I truly plucked from a garbage heap. It's exterior identifies it as an office chair. After sitting on it, you quickly realize its true purpose was as an interrogation chair. It can magically make you hurt and jab you in tender spots you never knew you had. It stabs, prods and rams you into a perfectly irritable state, such that I am absolutely convinced you would spill all of your most valuable information for a reprieve from the stabbing embrace of this wicked contraption. I have a new office chair in the garage waiting for me, but I have to wait for the formalities of Christmas and acting really surprised (however, gestures of excitement will be legitimate) when I open it up and put it to much yearned for use. Join me here tomorrow for the next edition to "My dad".

IKEA

2009-11-29T22:47:00.002-07:00

I don't know where to start today. I have so many lame ideas to bore you with, that I don't know which one has the most, least potential. Lets throw a dart and see where it sticks... IKEA it is!

The day after Thanksgiving Mandy and I went early morning shopping. Came home took a nap. We had never been there, so I then suggested IKEA. Gotta see what all the hullabaloo is about right? If all the other sheep are bleating about something, you gotta see the experience so you can bleat about it too. Here I go... BaAaAaAahH!

Things look fairly normal on the outside. Giant blue building that says IKEA on it. I've seen similar. They usually say Costco or Sam's Club on them. No big whoop. Entering we found a day care and free lockers for bulky items that you might not want to haul around the store. Did they think I was going to Sweden to look at this stuff? Pfffft! I'm no rookie. 45 minutes tops we were going to be out of there. I am not the dilly dally sort. I walk in. See what I want. Buy it. Go home. I know the game. The longer I am in a store, the more expensive it is to get out.

We rode the escalator up. I found maps, carts and a living room set up like I imagine you would see on a TV set. This living room was full of people. There were people stretched out on the couch, lounging in chairs and plopped in lounge chairs. They were all watching TV. Maybe they thought they lived there. I don't know. I swear there was a woman baking in the kitchen and another serving hors devours. "This is a strange introduction" I thought.

On the other side of the wall from the IKEA squatters was another living room set up. I wouldn't say I really have a style, a particular genre of design that I completely subscribe to, but I suddenly realized I liked a large portion of what I saw. The kids came running into this little room and bounced on the couches. I started slowly gazing around the room at each item. looking at the price, reading about everything. I spent a good 10 minutes in the first room. The kids busied themselves bouncing on every couch testing for comfort and deeming each one their new favorite based on merits of squishiness. Shelby came running by, tripped on a rug and fell right on her face, narrowly missing a coffee table with her head by a few hair widths, bounced up and said "I'm OK!" off to test the next couch.

We spent the next 2 hours snaking through the displays. The kids tested every chair, bed, pillow, sheet, door, surface, texture and color, labeling each one with their different levels of approval. The ones that met the highest standards were brought to our attention. "Mom! Mom, mom, mom, mom, mom, DAD, dad, dad, dad, dad, mom, dad, mom, dad, mom!" Until we relented "WHAT??????" "Um, look at this. This is so awesome!"

Finally we got to the end. There was a woman there painting faces and making balloons for the kids. Walker had her paint flames on his face and make him a monkey balloon. As we all know, fire is cool and monkeys are funny. Shelby got a butterfly painted on her face and got a cat balloon. The cat had a mouse in it's paws, but Shelby insisted it was a tiny baby cat that was pink, had big cute ears and had a long skinny tail. It was her balloon, I figured she could think what she wanted. Besides, my interpretation was so barbaric.

The kids were getting hungry. We decided to go cafe that was located downstairs. There was one upstairs but had stuff like meatballs and salad that didn't meet the approval ratings of the kids. We took the elevator down and I realized something. We had only seen half of the store. The upstairs. There was still an entire level that we had not seen. We double timed it, sped past the kitchen stuff, past the group of people that were actually Swedish. One of them pointed to something and sounding just like the Swedish Chef on the Muppet Show said "Yah! a gorkensporgen!" and they all laughed. One of the men from the group stepped forward and holding his arms out in front of him in a hoop shape like he was lugging an invisible 55 gallon barrel, and repeated "Yah! Gorkensporgen!" as he laughed. We continued on to the checkout stands making the second half of the store in one hour. Start to finish 3 hours.

At the cafe we bought the kids a hot dog meal that was only $2 for 2 hot dogs, bag of chips and a drink and a cinnamon roll that was only $1. Now here was my favorite part (other than the Swedes laughing about the gorkensporgen) the meal came to $3 even. Either they didn't charge me tax or they have figured that into the cost. My brain loves even dollar amounts. That's why I spend the extra 30 seconds meticulously jabbing the gas pump trigger until I get a nice even dollar amount. That' seemed just like something IKEA would do. Make a nice clean dollar amount, because it is simple and who really wants to search through their pockets for 32 cents for a gorkensporgen?

The Christmas Speed Bump

2009-11-15T21:35:00.003-07:00

Of the short list of things I dislike, I hate, loathe and despise Cache Valley radio stations. They range from sadistically arduous to listen to, to horrifically annoying. Country is off that scale for me. Although, for reasons I can't explain, I love Bluegrass, which is like the redneck, Southern, inbred, kinfolk to Country.

Occasionally I will stumble across a song on the radio that I like. A glimmer of hope slowly kindles within me and then the next song comes on, I shriek in horror, yank a fist full of hair out of my head and quickly turn the station. In process of trying to find something on the radio last week, I stumbled across something I liked. It was the glassy smooth vocals of Frank Sinatra. I ignored the fact that he just happened to be singing a Christmas song. I hoped it was just a coincidence. I hoped to hear a song by Sammy Davis Jr. or I wouldn't even mind a Michael Buble, something more of that genre. The faint gleam of hope flickered to life inside of me. I smiled and listened to the song to the end, held my breath for that brief second before the next song came on, and -- JINGLE BELLS!!!! This time I ripped out two handfuls of hair from my head and quickly changed the channel. It is a good thing the kids were not in the car. I would have certainly startled them when I shouted "JINGLE BELLS? WHAT THE HELLS?" (incidentally, if you can rhyme a rant, it makes you feel nearly twice as satisfied) Don't get me wrong. I love Christmas music probably more than the next person, but come on! The corpse of this years Halloween hasn't even cooled. We just finished patting down the last shovel full of dirt on its grave and I turn around and there's Jolly old St. Nick? Shove off blubber butt, you've been eating too many chocolate chip cookies and now you are starting to crowd out the best holiday ever known to man -- Thanksgiving. You got the WHOLE month of December to yourself, you don't need to be elbowing in on my turkey day with your sweaty palms and your Ho-ho-hos.

Those pilgrims might have dressed funny and shot funny guns, but to their credit, I hear Calvin Klein was very much into wearing belts on your hat that year. They sure knew how to make a tradition. Thanksgiving has everything. First, you get to have a big dinner with all of your family. Not only is "turkey" a fun word to say, but it is delicious. Then you have mashed taters, olives that you can put on your fingers, pumpkin pie, sometimes you get ham. top that off with a nap in front of the TV playing some football game, wake up have some more pie, shove celery sticks up your brother-in-law's nose who is still sleeping on the couch, until he wakes up and screams at you and says he hates everyone and he wishes he would have never come to this family's thanksgiving dinner and he slams the door as he storms out and we all laugh, because his keys are still on the couch where he was laying. You just don't get better than a holiday centered around eating really good food with your family and naps. That's really the best life has to offer.

You will have to understand when I see Santa hip bump a pilgrim to the side as he settles up to the Thanksgiving table, that I don't hate the jolly old soul, I am just afraid that if he gets near that pie, there won't be any more for me when I wake up from my nap.

In a lineup of the holidays, Thanksgiving is much like it's puritan founders. Simple and neat. Christmas is the same holiday just pimped out and blinged up. You gotta warm up for something as grand and spectacular as Christmas. You can't start out full stride on a marathon like Christmas. You gotta practice. Get your pacing right. Get a feel for the eb and flow of things. You gotta make your brother-in-law apologize before you put his name back on the Christmas list... or before you give him his keys back.

You don't have to be funny

2009-11-08T23:44:00.002-07:00

"You don't have to be funny" was the only thing Mandy said to me when I told her I needed to think of something to blog about.

She is right. I don't always have to be funny. I just got back from the hospital where I went and saw my father in ICU. I just took a glance at my funny-o-meter and it is dipping way down in the red area where it has a picture of a sad clown.

Why fight it. I am just going to shoot from the hip and pour a little bit off the top of whatever is swilling around in my head.

A week and a half ago he went in for open heart surgery. A little less than a week and a half ago, he planned on waking up and saying "Son of a bitch That hurts. Someone bring me a Mountain Dew before I get cranky." A week and a half ago, the doctors lost him three times on the operating table.

I went to see him last Saturday. He looked horrible but I was optimistic. Today when I went to see him he looked better, but I am less optimistic. He has made progress every day. Baby steps of improvement. But, baby steps on an escalator that is moving in the opposite direction. For every day that he lays in ICU he atrophies a bit more. He looses more strength. The road to recovery becomes longer and more perilous. If by Thursday, he still needs to be intubated, they have no choice but to give him a trachea tube.

Tonight he looked pained and weathered. His brow was furrowed. When my sister and I walked in his room he twitched his feet and he shrugged his left shoulder so far forward, that I almost expected to see him sit up. Yesterday he was opening his eyes when visitors came to see him. Today they have sedated him beyond that point.

The thought has re-occurred to me several times that while he was on the operating table, the veil between this life and the next, most certainly became very wispy if not completely withdrawn. I am sure his parents and his sister were there to greet him. I am sure returning back to a badly damaged and pained body is difficult. A transition, I am not convinced would come without a lot of hesitation.

I no longer know what to hope for him. A recovery that means he spends the rest of his life being cared for in a nursing home or having 24 hour hospice care. I don't know if I want that for him. I know how he feels about that. My sister who is a nurse went to visit him last week and mentioned the long recovery that would possibly involve rehabilitation in a nursing home. at that utterance all of his monitors went off. He did not, and does not like that idea at all. That man loathes any indications that he was aging. He turned 79 last Saturday. He spent the day sedated, with a breathing machine doing all of his blowing in and out for him. There's a good chance he had no clue it was his birthday.

A week and and a half ago, I had no clue he was going in for surgery. He didn't call us to let us know. My sister found out and had called us. A week and a half ago I also wasn't as patient with my children as I am now. A week and a half ago I didn't listen as closely to other people as I do now. A week and a half ago I didn't stop as long to admire a cloud formation or notice how crisp the morning air is.

I don't know what is the best thing for my father. I don't know what the future has slated for him. The best I can do is hope and pray. The best I can do is see that tomorrow I am a better person for what I have seen today. The best I can do is give my funny-o-meter a few rapid succession taps on the glass, to see if we can get it back up into the green area that has the picture of a dancing clown, because he has been set on fire by a circus chimp... because, as we all know, chimps and clowns on fire are probably the funniest things known to man. Well, that and fart jokes.

Halloween Horrors

2009-10-25T22:42:00.003-06:00

I was recently reading a comment of a friend of mine on Facebook that said something to the effect of "is at the lingerie store...oh wait the Halloween store. Same thing." She was making commentary on something I hadn't really noticed. Well, I had noticed, I just wasn't thinking about it. To my friend's caption, I commented "Lingerie stores will have more modest clothing."

Then Walker wanted me to look online for Halloween costumes. A few seconds in and I felt like I had to cover both of our eyes. So I began to wonder where did this trend suddenly derive from. I think I have it figured out.

At the risk of sounding like a grumpy old man with nothing better to do than sit on my porch and yell at kids that step on my lawn, I am going to say "Kids these days!" OK ready? Kids these days! Can't spell so good. Now I am not talking about kids in elementary school. Teenagers. I don't know if it comes from spending the whole day staring at a cell phone screen, frenziedly jabbing in LOLs, OMGs and :) Now, I hate talking on the phone more than just about anyone, but 30 seconds into a text and only having punched out 2 letters, even I just gave up and called the person I was texting. I realize that this neurotic phone jabbing, forces you to consolidate words, misspell, abbreviate and use acronyms whenever possible. Which, I fear is causing a loss in the art of spelling and face to face communication.

Back when I was a kid, we greeted each other with high fives and said "Hey dude! What's going on?" "nothin'- how bout you?" "Uh... nothing" and then we stared at our shoes. Shuffled uncomfortably and then said "Well, good seeing you. Take it easy!" "Yeah, you too man!" I fear that valuable skill is losing ground. Kids these days! Can't strangle them though, cause who's gonna spoon feed my banana pudding to me in the nursing home when I am old and decrepit? I am sure I will have to request they do so in a text though.

One day, I am positive, a gum chomping Paris Hilton wannabe was standing around smashing buttons on her phone when someone said "Hey you want to go to a Halloween party?" (oh wait, I forgot my character here) Actually she got a text that said "LOL, OMG wana go 2 a holoween pardy :)" and she smiled and texted back "4 shur LOL ;)" and then she texted "wats the theem?" and then she got a reply that said "gools and horrs" So, she thought to herself "Like omagosh! Like, I don't even know like, what a gool is... like! Like, I'm totally goin' as a whore! Like, I don't even have to even change my clothes!" and so, she went. Every guy there ogled her and every girl there was jealous of her attention and the next year... not to be out done, all the girls dressed like whores. And so, horror in a terrible swirl of word confusing events, became synonymous with whore.

Now as guys (lumped together in one smelly, hairy, Neanderthal-like stereotype) we wont' put a stop to skimpy clothing. Take for example, bikinis, mini skirts, thongs paired with low rise pants and low cut shirts. We will just pretend not to, and be trying not to stare. So, we have dressed as ghouls and let the girls dress like whores. I am sure I speak for myself only when I say -- Please stop, You don't know what you are doing, and if you do--shame one you! Besides, aren't we all forgetting the reason for the season?

I got nothin'

2009-10-19T21:48:00.002-06:00

I recommitted myself to blogging recently. One day I stood straight up from my chair, jabbed my fore-finger into the air as high as I could reach and declared with a loud and echoey voice (because I like to sit in the shower on a chair... and just think) "I promise from this day henceforth (I paused for dramatic effect and admired the sound of my voice reverberating off of the walls) ...to blog every Sunday night!" and then I quickly mumbled something like "Unless I am taking a nap or watching a really cool show, out of town, cutting my toenails, watching the SWAT team out my front window (which doesn't happen nearly enough since moving from Logan) or training my parrot to say 'Help me! I'm Michael Jackson trapped in this parrots body!' (should I ever happen to buy a parrot).

But this Sunday came and went and I didn't have any peculiar stories to relay or interesting observations to pass on. My kids love it when I tell stories. Bless their hearts, they are too young and innocent to realize I am a pathetic story teller. Not sure if it is my voice that is so monotonous it actually cures hyperactivity and insomnia... or if it is my side tangents that make my tales look more like mazes than a linear series of thoughts from point A to B. I can do OK writing a story, but Lord help us all, if I have to tell it. So, I fumbled around in my bag of childhood stories and procured one at random. Hope you enjoy!

At the time of these events, I must have been 8 or 9. It was winter time, fridgid outside and the cold and cough season had thrown her stuffy, mucus cape over the community. It was Sunday morning and I woke up with terrible sore throat. I hate colds and I was committed to turning this one in its tracks and back out the door before it could saunter in, turn on all of the faucets, plug up the drains and plop its heavy self down in the crook of the most tender parts of my sinuses. In my finite understanding of the medicine world, I had imagined Popeye living in my immune system and Vitamin C was like spinach. And if a little bit of spinach was good... more was better.

For breakfast I had a tall glass of orange juice, scrambled eggs, 2 grapefruit and 4 vitamin C chewable pills. My throat felt better already! The whole family got ready and we went out to the car. Everyone except for Lori. I couldn't understand how she would be the first one up and still be late. Hours were devoted in front of her mirror, curling, brushing, painting, spraying and moussing. I look back now and see the hairdos she wore and understand that it was a small feat of nature to get her hair to maintain that shape. One time I was at the beach and we had some KFC for lunch. As I picked the last bits of meat off of a bone I saw a seagull coming in to land by us. I coiled my arm back and launched the bone at the bird. End over end the bone sailed right at the bird. The bird saw it too. The bird and I could see that it was on course for a mid-air collision. It flared out it's wings and tail. Even its feet and beak were stretched as wide open as they could go. Just like opening up an umbrella or a parachute, the bird exploded in size. If you could take that bird and freeze it in time, coat it in lacquer, and put it on your head, that might give you an example of what kind of hair my sister-- and the other girls were wearing at the time.

As a result, Lori was always late for church. The ritual went as follows. Mom stood in the kitchen and shouted "Come on! we are leaving!" In essence "All aboard!" We would all gather in the kitchen and mom would shout down the stairs "Lori! We are LeAvInG!!!" or "Last call!" Lori would shout back "OK! I'm coming!" we would all wander out to the car in the garage, wait the complimentary 30 seconds and then leave. Lori would then show up at church 10 minutes later.

This morning was no unusual event. Mom shouted her customary boarding calls and we left. In our church, the building was built in several stages over many years. The primary for some reason had all of the classrooms upstairs. I trudged up the stairs that at the time seemed like they were 100 or so feet long, and went and sat down in opening exercises with my class. I sat on the furthest seat in, next to the wall. Everything seemed great. We started with a prayer and began singing. Suddenly my hands felt clammy and I felt beads of sweat accumulating on my forehead. My mouth began to get really moist and I felt a clunk in my stomach as the production wheels came to a stop. I muttered to myself "Oh no! not now!" and slumped over and rested my head on the wall. The cool glossy white painted wall felt good on my burning face. I felt a gurgle in my stomach "NO!" I muttered again. But my pleadings went unheeded. I could tell my stomach was none too happy about whatever was floating around inside of it. and it was making plans really quick to purge the system. "Uh uh!" grumbled and pressed my arms into my gut. It groaned back and I could feel the pressure building. This was code red! An alarm went off in my head followed by an alert "aaoooggaa aaooggaa!" I was shocked at how quickly we had gone from all systems normal to reverse thrust.

I scooted past everyone sitting on the row as quickly and politely as I could and as I passed my teacher on the end I muttered "I don't feel so good". Unobstructed I began a full trot to the nearest bathroom. Out the primary room, around the corner, down the 100 feet of stairs that now looked like 300 feet, down to the bottom of the stairs around the corner! I just had to make it past the cultural hall and the wall with all of the coat racks on it, around ONE more corner, just a few more steps to the bathroom and then just a few more to the toilet! "COME ON! WE CAN DO THIS!" and "Who the HELL decided to put the bathrooms way over here!!!" I rounded the second to last corner at full stride. Paul Revere wasn't as hasty as I was now. But already I could feel the warm, burning flow of shame rushing up my throat. I pursed my lips and covered my mouth with my hand. My lips braced like they were playing Red Rover with the Devil himself. my fingers backing the whole operation. My legs churned like the pistons of an Indy car on the home-stretch checkered flag run. The stinging flow smashed into my mouth with the pressure of a fire hose. my tight lips and clenched fingers only gave the stream of puke more distance. As I ran past all of the coats I am sure I sprayed every last one of them with a fine stream of fluid just as toxic as sulphuric acid. Still it was hardly a concern of mine. As I rounded the last corner I dropped my shoulder and smashed through the bathroom door.

There was a man standing at the urinal. He gaped at me like I was wearing a gorilla suit and a tutu. I breezed past him, crashed through the stall door and halted directly over the toilet. A tiny dribble of spit was all that remained in my mouth. It seemed to giggle as it fell from my tongue into the water, as if to say "That's all you got into the toilet!" The man at the urinal stood there like he didn't know what to say. He stood there staring at me, as if waiting for me to do one final stunt. Finally he gathered some of his wits back about him and asked "Um... who... who is your dad?" I told him and he stood there still looking at me "I'll... um... I... I am going to go get him for you." I waved him away and groaned "Yeah"

I shuffled over to the mirror and looked at myself. There was vomit in my hair, on my face, on my hand, all over my shirt, on my tie, splattered on my scriptures, sprayed down the front of my pants and chunks were resting peacefully on my shoes. My dad came in and took me home. I slowly made my way up the stairs and into the house. I wanted to clean up, get into some clean clothes and go to sleep. I swung the door open to the house and there stood Lori just leaving. Her eyes lit up, she covered her mouth with one hand and pointed at me with the other and just started laughing. She laughed and laughed so much she stumbled around and had to brace herself against the kitchen counter to stay on her feet.

I felt like I been run through a paper mill and now I was being laughed at. I tried my best to look miserable and I felt worse now that I was found to be such a funny sight. Yet I couldn't help but smile. I groaned past her to my room. And I heard her snorting and giggling all the way out to here car. She told me when she got to church the bishop was in the hall with a rag cleaning up my puke.

Time heals and now I can look back and laugh. But to this day, you can still see stains on my old set of scriptures where they were sprayed. The moral of the story kids, There is too much of a good thing. Vitamin C overdose is very real and even Popeye can have too much spinach for his own good, but if you are looking for a quicker method to getting out of something on account of being ill than eating Beto's, I might be able to give you some pointers.

Dear Tongue

2009-10-11T21:17:00.003-06:00

Dear Tongue,

I am writing to inform you that your relentless reign of terror is over. Gone are the days lounging in a hammock whilst being fanned by maidservants with palm fronds and clapping your hands and ordering up whatever your hearts desire like you were a Roman Emperor. "I want you to bring me a 32... 44... no 64 Oz Coke, with a splash of artificial vanilla flavoring, and I want a Kit-Kat. But not a regular Kit-Kat, a king size for a king size appetite like we have! And I want double stack from Wendy's. And since they are $.99, bring me two of them... no THREE of them! and then I want an egg roll with some of that spicy mustard. And to finish it all off, we better eat something healthy, so that our annoying conscience doesn't annoy us. Yogurt is healthy right? Bring me a platter of yogurt of the frozen variety drizzled with chocolate and sprinkled with gummy bears. And then we will see how we feel after that"

After marching in lockstep with your relentless orders for nearly 3 years, I have found myself shellacked in a liberal coat of fat. About 30 lbs of fat. The fiddler has arrived and he has an outrageous invoice in hand demanding payment.

Thanks to you, the rest of me is going to have to spend countless hours exercising, toiling, laboring and sweating (but not to the oldies... Sorry Richard).

Consider this the mutiny. The uprising. The angry mob with pitch forks and torches demanding justice. From now on we are replacing the soda with it's puritan cousin water. No more fries. No more pre-bed snacks. No more buffets.

Tomorrow you will be reassigned to your regular duty of talking and aiding in food consumption. We don't really care what your whimsical requests are. You are an egotistical gluttonous monster. Thanks to you, we get winded getting up off of the couch.

If you choose to disobey our demands, the teeth will be ordered to lock you in. Should you try to escape the teeth will have permission to bite you with deadly force.

sincerely,

The rest of the body

P.S. We have all known the whole time that you were imitating the stomach's voice and telling the rest of us what he wanted. We didn't mind... until now. Please disavow yourself of this wretched habit also, or we will ingest a cup full of steaming hot cocoa.

Grab bag

2009-10-05T23:06:00.004-06:00

Here's a grab bag of thoughts and stories from this week:

Last weekend I went elk hunting with my dad and my brother. I got a late start and didn't turn off onto the dirt road to the mountains until it was dark. As I was merging onto a dirt road and crossing a cattle guard, I saw something out of the corner of my headlights. It was a small animal and looked like it was fairly long. It was waddling along the side of the road like an aimless vagrant. I turned the car towards it, so that the headlights were shining directly on it, so that I could identify what this was. Turns out it was two animals. a pair of, how should I say... amorous porcupines. I'm not sure how that works. "Hmm..." I muttered to myself and continued on.

I think everyone has their own super power and their own arch-nemesis. My arch nemesis is Donny Osmond. I watched him on Dancing with the Stars. For reasons I can't explain, he embarrasses me... and... does he sort of look like a pigeon? Maybe that is it.

I was telling this story to my brother and he had never heard it. It's a good one, and unlike most of my other stories is all true and requires no extra relish or spice:
If you were driving into the culda-sac where I grew up in at the top of 200 North in Farmington, my house would be situated on the right side. On the left side, there was our neighbor's house. The property our house was set on, was about 5 feet higher than our neighbors. separating the houses was a gentle slope across the paved road. As kids do, I was engaged a competition to see who could make the longest skid mark on their bikes. I rode The most horrible yellow bike with a big, black banana seat. The steel on this bike seemed to be as thick as my arm and weighed something near what a Buick sedan might have. It was clunky, awkward, trashed and old. I hated it, but it was also my bike. A source of freedom, camaraderie and sport. I hated it, yet I loved it. The chain had an annoying habit of falling off without warning. It was slightly too large for me and if I dismounted with both feet, I came to a rest on my pinto beans instead of my feet. All of that extra weight played into my favor as it could lay the longest skid marks in town.

On this day I found within myself an extra helping of determination, energy and an evil plan to put to rest this banter and show once and for all who was the king o' the skid mark. I opened our garage door, requested the neighbors open theirs, and placing my back wheel on the back wall of our garage I pointed my battle hardened war machine towards the landing strip. I stood up and smashed the left pedal down as hard as I could, the bike lurched under my weight. I followed by mashing down with my right foot, then my left... right, left, right, faster, faster, FASTER! The pedalling grew so rapid I had to sit down on the seat and keep pumping my legs as fast as I could. The wind in my ears grew to a deafening roar. It was like the howling applause of a hundred thousand people come to watch me! I was blasting down the incline at unheard of speeds, this was sure to be my finest moment. This was it! The moment I was brought into this world for!

Disaster has a sinister sense of humor. my pedal strokes suddenly became easy. Too easy. Failure of the most tragic nature had struck me. The chain! HOLY CRAP THE CHAIN!!! Not now! NOT NOW!
Facing tragic moments of survival a brain can calculate nearly impossible outcomes, 3D renderings and damage control in only a few nano-seconds. I played them all out in my head and imediately relinquished all hope of accelerating and considered my alternatives for deceleration. It took maybe a full second for my body to realize there was no exit plan. We were on this crazy train - destination Painsville, with no stops. It was now time to minimize collateral damage. I frantically tested my route and discovered I had sweeping array of points of impact all located on the back wall of my neighbor's garage. I chose a spot on the wall that I seemed to look the softest and set my aim, braced myself and prepared for impact. From that moment on, time sped back up to normal time.

I remember picking myself up off the floor. My crotch-region painfully pounded like it was detonating with every heart beat. I had apparently taken a major collision in that area by the handle bar stem. Next, my head, body and arms slammed into the wall. I slowly picked myself up and stood my bike up. realizing yet another punchline from disaster's joke. I noted that my bike was broken nearly in half. The top tube had snapped completely free from the stem and the down tube was hanging on to the bottom bracket by a small sliver of steel. "Sweet! I can get a new bike!" I thought. I don't remember even being in pain anymore by the time I got home. I ran in and excitedly told my mom that I needed a new bike... I busted my old stupid bike!
She hauled it off to the welding shop that was a few blocks away and within a few days I had my crappy old bike back again. Never since then have I been so disappointed in the old adage "Fix it up, use it up, or do without."

General retail outlet observations

2009-09-27T19:56:00.003-06:00

Last week Mandy got a fix-it ticket in our car. A head light and a tail light were out, and truth be told, because it was just her and Shelby in the car, they were probably listening to Hannah Montana and swerving to the beat. Because she was at her mother's house running her day care, while her mom was on a Twilight (the movie) Pilgrimage to Washington. I had to fix it last Saturday at her mom's house so that she could have the ticked waived.

I propped open the hood and stared helplessly. No tools. K-mart was the closest thing I could think of that would have tools. Off I went in a quest for a 10mm socket and ratchet.

I pulled into the parking lot and wondered if I hadn't made the wrong turn into Chernobyl. a lone tumble weed bounded merrily end over end across the parking lot. Checking the clock I found I was there at regular business hours... but I was the only one there at regular business hours. Apprehensively I stepped into the store. The lights were on. A soft elevator song played quietly overhead. A cashier was standing at her register. Leaning over, resting her arm on the counter and her head propped up on her arm. She slowly and lethargically wandered in and out of consciousness. The motion of the door alerted her senses. She stood up quickly, grabbed the phone and dialed in one swooping motion. Standing straight up and staring right at me with large eyes, she tried to whisper into the phone but was so excited I heard everything. "Sir! A customer! Yes, right now! He just came in now! Yes, I still remember the training! I gotta go I think he is actually coming in to shop!" I rounded an end display and turned to find a clerk dusting merchandise on the shelf. He did a double take and looked at me in horror. For a few seconds he stared at me as if he was expecting me to hurt him and then suddenly snapped into awareness "Welcome to K-mart" He blinked "Can I help you find something?" I breezed on by him "nope".

The manager appeared in a brisk walk before I entered the tool section. He had his head down and he was muttering "Please, please, please buy something!" He almost ran into me. Looking up he stopped and said "Good morning sir! Please buy something!... I mean, what can I help you find this glorious morning?" I said "No, I am fine." He continued to follow behind me as I gazed over their tools. I noticed that as I would reach out to something he would begin mumbling "Yes! Yes! Yes!" If I withdrew my hand he would continue to nervously chew on his fingernails. If I picked something up, he would say "Oh, that is a very lovely choice sir!" When I put it back he would spit out a chunk of fingernail and mutter "CURSES!" Finally I selected a 10 piece socket set and started walking towards the cash register. He jumped up and down and began clapping his hands exuberantly together. He picked up a walkie talkie from his hip and said "Look alive everyone! We got a paying customer here!"

I made my way to the cash register and the cashier asked me "Will that be credit or debit?" and flashed a smile to the manager as if she was anxious to prove that she had remembered and been rehearsing what to say. When I left I looked back in time to see the manager sniffing and cradling the receipt and a crowd of 4 or 5 employees celebrating. What's the deal with K-mart. Doesn't anyone shop there anymore?

Yesterday we were shopping at Sam's club. Saturdays are sample days. I like to watch people. I like to observe my own actions. I noticed that when it comes time to take a sample a line usually forms. The person at the front of the line takes a sample, tastes it, raises their eyebrows, shakes their head in approval and says "Mmmm! This is good!" Like the person giving the sample cares. Like they aren't just there to collect a pay check and dole out tiny samples of food that we have all had. Whether you have had the the sample or not, it is the rule that you have to gingerly pick it up and look at it briefly in wonderment, like you are unsure what to do with it. Then take a tiny bite offer up praise and then you are permitted to eat the rest of the sample. Because, I am sure we are aware if the sample person hears negative comments they will immediately fold up their table, toss their food in a cart and say "Well! If you don't like my food, then I'm going somewhere will they WILL like my food!"

After we sample, the sample person tells us how much the item is and where it is located. We all nod to each other like that is an insanely good deal and slowly we wonder off in that general direction like we fully intend on loading up several cart fulls of said product. Then when we feel the sample person isn't looking anymore, we say to people shopping with us, "GO!" and we duck down an aisle towards the next sample table.

Then there are the sample bombers. The people who sneak in while the sample person is explaining to the person at the front of the line that this product has no MSG and only has minimal amounts of horse meat. The sample bomber tip toes in hunched over and says "I'm just gonna..." and they reach out with their index finger raised, snatch a sample and shrink back into the crowds thereby circumventing the homage and proper respects one must pay to take a sample. One sample table ran out of samples and while a new batch was being cooked an impromptu line formed several rows back for samples. Everyone stood reverently and attentively like they were waiting to receive sacrament from their Priest.

In an earlier trip to Sam's I was making my way down the aisle to get some soap. I was trapped behind an elderly couple. They took turns, one pushing the cart, the other walking next to the cart while looking at EVERYTHING like their lives depended on it. I tried the usual tactics, trying to nudge my cart in, clearing my throat, saying "Excuse me!" They could not be persuaded. They were fully engulfed in their shopping experience. Then they parked their cart in the aisle and they both stood next to it blocking traffic in both directions and stood there staring at the vast array of metamucil, Centrum Silver or Depends... I don't know. By this time there were two people bunched up behind me and a lady coming the other way down the aisle who were all just standing there waiting for these people to move the Hell out of the way! The lady who was coming the other way and I exchanged looks of amazement, frustration, humor and uncertainty about the situation. We were both trying to nudge our way through and they were completely oblivious. Finally the old lady stepped down the aisle allowing a path between the old man and his cart that one could slip their cart between. the lady coming the opposite direction snuck her cart through and then I slipped through. I looked back and noticed the old man had stepped back and plugged up the lane again. Old or not, boo! to oblivious shoppers.

Also, if you want a really great website about our fellow shoppers, specifically those of The Walmarts, Check out http://www.peopleofwalmart.com/

"I smell famous people"

2009-09-20T22:34:00.003-06:00

Saturday we were given tickets to go to the state fair. I like to go and count mullets just as much as the next guy, so I was all in. We met Mandy's family there. The fact that we all arrived there within 10 minutes of each other means that we are all either growing up or Mandy's sister Katie is finally having an influence on all of us with her quite persistent nagging. Symbolically you could think of her as the goat herder and the family as goats. Goats that are more like cats, or turtle cats, or turtle cats that are easily distracted by shiny things. Whatever animal that is, is what the family represents. Think of Katie back behind a herd of turtle cats, a constant barrage of obscenities, intermingled with a few directions flowing steadily from her lips. A 20 foot whip masterfully guided in one hand that she sends, cracking over our heads when we stop to look at a pretty shiny thing. Her other hand is scratching her pregnant belly. Usually we are all pitifully late, so this is why I pause in this tale to make note of this rather remarkable event. Actually, now that I think about it, I think Katie was late too, which might have made this event possible, but let's forget that and just marvel at the sheer wonderment of the Larsen clan collecting at a specific point all within 10 minutes of each other. That's monumental. I think the event is actually listed as one of the signs of the last days. I would do some repenting if I were all of you... or sinning. Whatever is on your agenda.

So, we all meet at the entrance to the state fair. I found a spot near the middle of the herd, Katie's whip has a harder time finding you in that area. Mandy's brother Seth was on one side of me and Mandy's sister Melanie was on the other side. We hadn't made it too far in maybe 200 feet or so, so my mullet count was only in the low hundreds when I notice Melanie off to my right stand straight up like she was in roll call for inspection by the General. Her nostrils flared slightly as she sampled the air with a few quick whiffs, and then her head began rotating on a scan like it was a radar tower. She mumbled "David?" as her head rotated to the 7 o'clock position "David...Archuleta?" she said quietly. Then she blurted out "DAVID ARCHULETA! HEY GUYS! IT'S DAVID ARCHULETA!" I glanced over and saw someone walking briskly with their head down, darting in and out of the crowds. I laughed. If Melanie is anything like her sister, my wife then this was definitely NOT David. I scoffed at her. "That's not Dave!" I can't keep track of how many times I have heard Mandy say "Hey look! It's Michael Jordan!!!" and I said something like "Mandy, that is a fat, mid-aged white guy with a Laker's jersey on" and she says "Oh..." By the time I had issued my pessimism to Melanie she had already sprinted ahead about 30 feet through the crowd and was coming up fast on who she thought was David Archuleta. My brother-in-law Seth leaned into me in disgust and offered "You know, it's jackasses like Melanie that make celebrity's lives so miserable." I watched waiting for the uncomfortable moment when Melanie would get this poor fellow's attention and realize it wasn't who she thought it was. Well, turns out she was right. It was David. David was polite enough, but he was very nervous about creating a scene, excused himself and continued his brisk walk. I am sure he just wanted to get in there, get a look at the 2 ton Jersey bull named "red" pick up a blanket from one of the booths there with a picture of a wolf howling at the moon and get out of there.

Then Katie tells Melanie "remember that time we saw David's cousin?" Now they had my attention "You saw his cousin? How did you know it was his cousin?" She said "Because he told me he was his cousin. I asked him 'Are you related to David Archuleta?' and he said he was, that he was David's cousin"

I am baffled. Can they just like, smell the fame in the air. I wonder if they have ever walked up to someone and said "You smell like you are famous. How should I know you?"

I made sure to tell Melanie that I thought she was a geek. But what I was secretly wondering was if this was some sort of sixth sense. Could the paparazzi follow behind her in LA and have her point out celebrities darting in and out of crowds and store displays. Like some sort of celebrity blood hound. Celebrities like Nick Joaquin Phoenix would be muttering "Damn! I even dressed like a homeless vagrant so no one would recognize me! But she sniffed right through my disguise!" and someone who overheard him might say "I knew you were Joaquin, but I didn't know that you weren't a homeless vagrant?!" Still, I am sure it his hard to find work for a turtle cat, that is distracted by shiny things, no matter how good their celebrity sniffer is.

Little Pigeon

2009-09-13T21:22:00.004-06:00

A while back I was in Los Angeles for some training. For lunch some colleagues and I were walking around LA by the Staples center. I saw some pigeons strutting around. They brazenly strolled back and forth in front of me, heads bobbing like they were listening to some reggae that I could not hear. They pretend to be smooth as the breeze they float on, but their twitchy head snaps reveal their nervous and paranoid inner fears. I have found them in every city I have been to. I suspect they enjoy the tall buildings, dank and putrid alleys and the allure of smelly grey bearded guys pushing shopping carts full of aluminum cans, quietly muttering nonsense to their selfs.

Do you ever notice within yourself a quiet desire to do something that suddenly wells up in a usually unexpected time that derives from generations of self preservation or predisposition? Some people might grow angry in a tense situation when they might not otherwise be an angry person. Maybe you see a baby with fat cheeks and feel a desire to pinch. You might be driving by a lake on a hot summer day and feel like bailing out of your car and running head long into the open embrace of the cool blue waters. Perhaps you find yourself suddenly afraid of snakes when you see one in real life. I like to say that is why I don't skydive, bungee jump or go on roller coasters. hundreds of thousands of years of selective genetics has pre-programmed me, hard wired me... if you will, to not want to just jump off of a bridge.

One such desire I have that gurgles up to the surface whenever I see a pigeon is to run up and just punt that little guy way up into the sky where he came from. I am not sure where this want comes from. Especially when I see a big round pigeon strutting broad side to me tantalizingly close. I just imagine in my head the intense gratification of connecting with my toes, hearing the deep, hollow "THOOMP!" sound and watching the bird sail up 15 - 20 feet in the air, spread its wings and flap away. I just know it would be the greatest moment of my life.

Maybe it is the glint or the intensity in my eye, or their own set of self preserving dispositions that make them stay just far enough away from me that I can't actually take that long stride and swing my foot and boot them skyward. Perhaps that is the other reason they like cities because there are too many people watching that I suspect would take issue with me kicking a bird. But so help me, if I find myself in a quiet alley, a fat pigeon strutting too close, no one watching that would call the ASPCA, Humane Society, Child Protective Services, police, gasp in horror or think it would be nothing short of exhilarating to see me in my aviary field goal practice, then I am so lifting that leg back and swinging for the moon.

The 4th

2009-07-16T20:06:00.004-06:00

Following tradition we headed up to Evanston Wyoming for the 4th. For those unaware, the residents of Evanston take the 4th as an open challenge. Almost as if someone told them that they thought they (the residents of Evanston) could not set the sky on fire. And the residents of Evanston responded by raising their fists into the air and replying with an exuberant "Oh yeah!" and so they try... and make a pretty good run at it.

We started the evening while it was still light by launching water rockets. It is important to warm up to events such as lighting up the midnight sky with pyrotechnic wonderment. launching water rockets stretches the neck muscles used to stare skyward at your bombs bursting in air. It also improves your trajectory tracking response. very necessary for admiring the rocketing tinders of Hell attempting propel themselves into heaven.

Ultimately the best metric for judging a home firework display is the "oooohhhh!" to "Oh SH!#!!!" ratio. and we did have a handful of them. You see, I made the mistake of buying the cheap fireworks from Jolly Roger's firework emporium and used tire shack. And My nephew Riley made the mistake of lighting fireworks that were beyond their expiration. We started with the expired firework. When you can't light a the fuse on a mortar, there is probably a reason... a good reason, probably divine intervention even. With much tribulation we finally got the fuse to light. The mortar shot about 5 feet in the air and blew up right in front of us. our first "Oh SH!#!!" Then I tested a bargain basement mortar that allegedly launched a parachute with a strobe. It launched about 30 feet in the air, took a look around, found a target and when the strobe parachute "deployed" it launched itself in a straight line for the trampoline in my brother's back yard. Shawn has cat-like reactions and almost ethereal intuition when it comes to fireworks. He moved so fast he nearly met the firework at the trampoline. He kicked it off before it could do any damage.
Later my nephew Trevor placed a "cake" a battery of mortars on a bucket and lit the fuse. We were thoroughly impressed by the show, but even more so when it fell off of the bucket. Once again Shawn was on the double and willing to risk setting himself on fire for the sake of our safety. The blur in the picture is Shawn.

And finally, I tried another cheap-o parachute mortar. this time it shot perhaps 10 feet in the air, spied another target, this time a homemade blanket, that had been completed the previous day and shot directly toward the blanket and set immediate fire to it. The Blur shown in the picture is Mandy and I rushing to extinguish the fire.

My final observation of the evening was my brother-in-law who is usually a flurry of activity, fluttering from one activity to the next. He usually has 20 irons in the fire and is tending to all of them. I watched him walk to the crest of the hill that overlooked town and stand there motionless and simply say "Wow!!!" You will notice in all of the pictures that there are fireworks exploding in the background. That is because any direction the camera was pointed, there were fireworks exploding... in a daft attempt to light the sky sans solar, Evanston style.

Done!

2009-06-27T21:55:00.002-06:00

I am done! I finally finished this evening with my project. The salty taste of sweat and sweet after taste of victory still lingers on my lips. I had offered my abilities on a side job re-shingling a house in Salt Lake. When I bid on it, I had no idea the rainy monsoon weather was barrelling down the pipeline right for us. At least it was kind enough to not start raining until we had removed the all of the shingles.
Shinglinng stinks in the heat. It is just as miserable in the rain, with the exeptioin of being much more demoralizing. How was I supposed to know spring was on its way... in June?
As a sad result of my attention being drawn into the roof job, I haven't done anything exciting, accomplished anything noteworthy or really seen my family in about a month. So, I am going to go say hello to them... see if I can figure out what their names are again.

Let's get out of here!

2009-05-26T09:46:00.002-06:00

I am slumped, blurry eyed in front of the computer holding my stomach with one hand. I caught something that is making me feel a bit ill.

Mandy and I went to Houston over the weekend to celebrate our 10 year anniversary. We didn't know where to go. We tossed thousands of ideas around, and I insisted that we go somewhere new. We found a cheap 4 star hotel in Houston, so I booked the hotel, the flight and the car and we were off. So, if you are concerned that I might have the swine flu. Don't worry, I have done the math and statistically, I have more probability of a dyslexic albino with grape colored hair to come running out of the forest and chop my nose off with a 13th century samurai sword made by a guy named "Jon Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt" whilst screaming "ooga chuga, ooga chuga, I got a feeling!..." and then run off again never to be seen or heard from again. So, I am fine. Really! I am fine. Besides that is not the reason I post.

Yesterday Mandy and I took the kids shopping to Maceys. We also decided to eat there. I can't think of anywhere where we can all eat for $8. After our meal we all got ice cream cones. We all ordered small cones. They are only 57 cents, so I was expecting a tiny cone with a small dab of ice cream on top. Instead, we all got these towering columns of dripping ice cream perched on a regular cone. They were all about 4 feet tall. When you pile that much ice cream on a cone, it instantly becomes an eating challenge. In order to preserve your hands from a heavy, sticky coating, you must maintain a constant vigil for rogue drips. I kept a heavy patrol around my ice cream and survived without any public humility.

I expected the kids to fare much worse. They did good. Walker finished his and Shelby got all of the way down to the cone when she handed it over to me and said "I am done" By this time the cone was soggy and had melted into the napkin wrapped around the cone, so that it was a single gooey form. I was feeling full and was not up to a new ice cream challenge. As The ice cream started to drip around the edges, I frantically searched around for a garbage can. Walker said "I'm going with dad." and followed behind me searching for a garbage. Finally we reached the front of the store. "AHA!" I thought "Bathrooms! They have garbages" By this time, the situation was dire, the structure of the cone was beginning to fail. It was caving in and toppling over. I thought "I must act quick!" and I darted into the bathroom. Before I entered, I turned around to open the door with my back. Walker looked at me and said "Uh, dad... What are you doing?" I didn't have time to explain "I just said "Bathroom has a garbage can!" and I disappeared in the bathroom. He stood outside in vigil.

I dropped the cone in the garbage can and washed my hands. As I stood there, I thought "Well, since I am here, I might as well use the bathroom" (are all of my blogs about peeing?) I turned around and inspected my choices "Hmm, no urinals. Well that is weird!" I chose the one on the end, closest to the door and began peeing. As I was standing there I noticed something else strange about the Macey's bathroom. They had small metal garbage cans attached to the stall walls.

Do you ever have a realization that aligns a series of strange events? I did. The metal garbage cans, the lack of urinals. Walker's horrified wonderment about what I was doing. I had gone into the women's restroom! "At least no one else is in here!" I thought. "If I can run out of here with no other bathroom attendees, there is no foul done." No sooner had the thought crossed my mind, then the door burst open and someone entered. I froze with my hand on the door latch of the stall. I waited. The person entered the stall next to me. No sooner did I hear the door stall close than I made an expedient exit, this being the best excuse I could ever think of for not washing my hands. Walker was still waiting. I said "Walker! I just went into the Women's bathroom!" He looked at me and laughed and said "I know! I was thinking 'does he even realize that he went in the wrong bathroom?' " Then he said "Oh man! You HAVE to blog about this one!" So, despite the repercussions of confessing to such a blunder, I offer this story for your entertainment. Enjoy!

Ancestral insight

2009-05-21T22:12:00.003-06:00

Every so often I have a moment of insight. Granted those moments are spread far apart and happen so infrequently I can barely mention they happen with any regularity without feeling a bit dishonest. For the interest of this story, let's just say it happens a lot.

As I was mowing our lawn I started pondering my ancestral line. Somewhere along the line I am related to Luke Johnson, one of the early leaders of the church. Yeah, the relationship is quite distant as you can easily determine.

I thought about the statement I have often heard thrown around that the early pioneers of the church would not trade their struggles with ours despite our seemingly endless supply of luxuries and advances in technology. I came to an understanding regarding this. I imagined myself leaning over the lawnmower detaching the bag and preparing to dump it in my green waste garbage can. my attention is drawn to a small bright light gathering in the middle of the air, near my driveway. The light grows brighter. bursts of light rays begin shooting out as if testing the area around. Small sparks emerge and flutter around and fade out. The light grows and opens up revealing a figure dressed in old style clothes. He steps out of the light as it closes behind him with thump, like a cork stopping up a bottle "thoomp!" The figure walks briskly toward me with a warm smile and offers his hand.

"Greetings! I am Jedediah, I am from the past. I have come here to inspect the doings of my children's, children's, children's, children's, children's... er what people of the future do to earn their keep"

Me: Welcome to the future! feel free to look around and ask me anything you want!" I wipe the grass off on my shorts and offer him my hand.

Jeb: Very well! May I ask sir, what you are doing?

Me: I am cutting my lawn

I explain proudly

Jeb: Your... lawn? You mean this lush grass?

Me: Yes. I use my lawnmower to cut it

Jeb: How do you keep it so green?

Me: I apply fertilizer and fluids that choke out weeds. I water it and pull weeds. I trim it back and gather up all of the clippings and aerate it.

Jeb: I am rendered nearly speechless! how do you water it?

I show him the sprinklers and show him how I turn them on. He jumps back like he has seen an evil apparition.

Jeb: You can make rain whenever you want?

Me: Well... yes, except it turns itself on at night with this timer, except I have to tell it how long I want it to stay on.

Jeb: Marvellous! And you use this Lawn harvester to "cut" it?

Me: Yup.

I start the lawn mower and he hides behind me in fear.

Jeb: Are you not frightened of this machine that howls like a thousand angry bears?

Me: No, it is just the engine... it's the exhaust... because the gasoline is burn... It is magic.

Jeb: This is astonishing! where do you find this fertilizer?

Me: I just go down to the garden store and buy it. It only costs $15-$30 a bag.

Jeb: Great gopher goblins! That is more money than I made selling my house when I moved out west!

Me: Ha! Ha! Ha! good one! Oh... you were serious. I was... never mind. Perhaps you would be interested in seeing my horseless carriage. It can go as fast as 2 miles per minute. Some of these are built to go 5, 6, 7 and some as much as 8 miles per minute.

Jeb is now speechless, his mouth is now dangling wide open, his jaw slowly moving up and down. His eyes wide open like he was staring at death right in the eyes.

Me: You like that huh? Well remember that trip you made across the plains. Took you 6 months, you lost most of your family and you lost all of your possessions on your trip? Yeah, I can go back East in less time than it would take you to walk from one end of this valley to the other in a mechanized tube that shoots through the air 30,000 feet above the surface of the earth.

Jeb, still speechless and growing pale.

Me: Pretty neat huh?

Jeb: Indeed! So amazing in fact, I nearly soiled my trousers! Next you are going to tell me that you have some sort of machine that can automatically clean those! But I digress. Do tell me kind sir, if you spend so much time away from your family and money that you have labored so diligently for to produce such a marvellous crop of grass. Surely, you have some wonderful purpose and design for your harvest. Do tell me what you do with this grass that you have gathered so curiously into this bin?

Me: Well, I put it in this can, that is called a garbage can and it gets hauled away. Probably gets used as compost or something.

Jeb: Hauled away? garbage? Compost? Surely you don't mean discarded as refuse?

Me: Well, sort of. I mean, I have to pay for them to come take it away. And I think they use it for... compost.

Jeb: You pay to have it removed?

Me: Oh yeah! some people pay other people to come and cut their lawn and take it away so they don't have to. Well, if you don't the city will fine you.

Jeb: The city will fine you? What about the poor, the elderly, the widowed, the infirm?

Me: Yeah, they have to keep their lawn green and cut too... or they get fined.

Jeb: If you will please excuse me, I think I have grown ill. I must go back to where I came from so that I can destroy the time machine that I invented so that no one will ever know of how deranged and maniacal the people of the future have become! Please! Speak to me no more of your magic harvesters, your devil drawn carriages your mystical flying tubes in the heavens! Your damned green lawns! Cease your crazy talk!

and with that he disappeared with a giant flash of light.

It was then that I realized the carb on the lawn mower was leaking fuel and I was catching huge gasps of raw gas. I really need to fix that.

Blood host and butt scratches

2009-05-18T20:10:00.006-06:00

Yesterday during sacrament meeting Walker is laying on the bench next to me, when suddenly he says "Ooo!" I looked at him confused and shoosh him. He looks back at me with a creeped out look in his eyes and says "There was a spider in my hair! There it is!" and he points on the bench. I could see a little insect that wasn't a spider, so I pick it up. It was a tick. I frantically shook it off and resisted the urge to stand up on the bench and do the pee-pee dance, shake and wring my hands and scream like a frightened little girl "Oh my gosh! ohmagosh-umagosh-umigosh! OH-MY-GOSH!!!" By now it was waddling around on the ground and I smashed that little bastard with the heel of my foot down to Hell where it undoubtedly came from. Yick! It's OK to smash ticks into the carpet at church, just not glitter.

I forgot about it and life went on. Then this morning I am standing in front of the toilet evacuating my bladder and while I am doing so, scratching my lower back and hind quarters, when suddenly I feel this funny little flap on my back right in the middle of my waistline. "What the heck is this?" Is it a skin tag??? so I yank on it and bring it around front to inspect. A TICK!!!!! YIKES!!!! This time, being in the privacy of my own home, I violently shake it off my fingers, do the freak out dance and and wring my hands as I scream like a frightened school girl. That thing was sucking my blood! I felt violated like I had been robbed or something. In general I just felt freaked out about the whole experience. I stood there retracing my actions over what I had done by just plucking it off my back and it dawned on me. I think I stand in front of the toilet every morning relieving myself and scratch my back. I think I always do this. Why? Is this abnormal? Is it bred of generations of man sleeping in tick infested grass matts? Who does this and why? As Seinfeld would say "What is up with that?"

I love you radio!

2009-04-26T11:22:00.003-06:00

Yesterday when Mandy was getting ready for work, she turned on the radio. It was the Jim Brickman show. I had a question for anyone that has had the chance or listens regularly to Jim Brickman show. Does Jim Brickman ever turn on the mic without saying "Jim Brickman" less than three times?

"Hi! I'm Jim Brickman! You are listening to Jim Brickman, stay with us after these words from our Jim Brickman sponsors. I'm Jim Brickman"

I sort of wonder if he doesn't use his name like a smurf does. Smurfs were often saying things like "smurfy" in replacement of "good".

I am picturing Jim Brickman sitting in his house at the dinner table and sampling a plate of pasta. He sits up straight, smiles and claps his hands together in giddy delight. "Mmmmm! This pasta is so Jim Brickmany! I'm Jim Brickman. And this is is Jim Brickman's Jim Brickmany pasta!"

On that note, I had another question. Is Dalilah and Dr. Laura Schlezinger the same person? I can't tell the difference between their voices. Other than Dr. Laura's voice is full of angst and impatience and Dalilah sounds like she is riding on high from a fistful of relaxers.

I imagine Dr. Laura finishing her show, sighing, throwing back a large glass of wine and gulping down a handful of percocet, and saying "Mmm! Those percocet are so Jim Brickmany!" Sighing again. Melting into her chair and with a wry smile and half mast eyes saying into the mic "Hi you are listening to the Delilah show..."

My sweet precious little angel

2009-04-21T19:34:00.002-06:00

My little girl is the epitome of girliness. She likes to dance and sing and play with her dolls. Pink and purple are her two favorite colors.

Sometimes she just looks at me and for no apparent reason you can see the joy and giddiness surge up inside her that causes her to beam a giant grin, tilt her head to one side, do a little jig dance and then run up as fast as she can and give me a big hug.

One of her favorite past times is drawing. She has a magnadoodle pad that she draws on. She likes to take post-it notes and draw on them. When it is warm she takes chalk out and draws on the sidewalk. Many of her drawings are done so well, they do not even warrant the question "That's beautiful! Um... what is it?"

Her subject material stays in the realm of things she loves. Her family, flowers, unicorns. Girly stuff.

A few Saturdays ago she came inside and was very proud of her last drawing. "Come see what I drew dad!" she said. I stepped out on the porch and looked at what she had drawn. "Who is that?" I said. "It's a dead guy. He's bleeding!" she said proudly.

I am thinking her brother just gave her his first art lesson.

True Love

2009-04-19T13:48:00.002-06:00

I like kids because they are honest. They will tell you what they are thinking, what they said and sometimes what others said.

Friday, Mandy went with her friends to the "What women want" conference. I told them it was just a bunch of booths with my picture glued to bulletin boards. But, they wanted to go anyway.

She left the kids in my tender care. With promises of pizza looming over their heads they helped me clean the house. As promised, I made good on my pizza promise and we sat around the table eating pizza. The conversation was pretty slow as we all chomped on plain cheese pizza.

Walker broke the silence. "Hey dad, do you want to know why mom said she married you?" How could I refuse the answer to this question? I prepared for a "ah! That's sweet!" moment by readying a napkin to dab away my tears of tender appreciation. "What did she say Walker?" He gulped down a bite of pizza and said "Because you can always eat her leftovers"

Well, everyone has their talents that make their spouse appreciate them, and that is one of mine.

Men's restroom

2009-04-08T22:13:00.004-06:00

For those of you who might read my stuff with any sort of regularity -- I do have an update on my experience with people using bluetooth earpieces while using a urinal next to me. I am regretful to report that almost this exact same thing has happened to me not twice. But three more times.

Luckily for me I have avoided uncomfortable moments by adopting a strict no talking at the urinal policy. Unless I am ABSOLUTELY positive I am the one being addressed.

There are plenty of reasons I am grateful I am male. I wouldn't enjoy the time spent doing hair and makeup. Fashion is an awful lot more fickle for women. A guy can buy a shirt and wear the same haircut for a decade or so and remain in fashion pretty much the whole time. Then you have Extra hormones, cramps, child birth, being attracted to stinky guys -- to name a few. But you can all be thankful you have seperate stalls in your bathrooms. Feel free to debunk me, but I understand some of your bathrooms have couches?

I can't imagine a world where guys would not completely mess that up. I have done my fair share of janitorial work and therefore seen the comparison between men's restroom and women's restroom messes.

I have used urinals and noticed urine on the wall at my eye level. I can't imagine, (nor do I want to) the scenario where some guy ends up peeing on the wall as high as high as his face.

On the opposite end of the spectrum there is chronically the puddle on the floor in front of a urinal in almost every men's restroom. Do that many men overestimate themselves?

Most urinals have so much "personal" hair in them it looks like someone dropped the floor sweepings in there after Don King got a buzz cut. Apparantly some men are experiencing hair loss in places other than on top of their head.

That's just the urinals. The toilet stalls are just as bad. I have seen turd splatter covering the entire inside of a toilet bowl. Once again, I can't imagine (nor do I care to) the situation where you achieve that sort of spray pattern. You would have too... nevermind, I don't want to think about it.

moving your attention over to the wash area there is splashed water all the way up the mirror. countertops so wet it is pooling and dripping on the floor. Guys, the sinks are for washing your hands, not bathing your German Shepard.

I say that with the utmost reservation. I don't want to discourage any hand washing that already doesn't happen. My silent fear is that the guy whizzing up on the wall is probably the same guy not washing his hands.

Twilight

2009-03-22T22:29:00.003-06:00

Saturday Mandy threw a Twilight party at our house with all of her sisters. They all showed up. I had to discontinue a perfectly manly procedure of installing a transmission to go see what all the swooning was about Edward.

Fortunately my brother-in-law was there for moral support as we watched the movie. He had a shirt made for me That says "H.A.T." on the front. Under that it says "Husbands against Twilight" As founder of the HAT club he established some ground rules before starting the movie such as: No singing along to songs. No saying lines along with the actors. No saying "This is my favorit part!". No anouncing to everyone what is coming up next. There were multiple warnings, infractions and requests to leave the room, yet the ground rules went completely unheeded.

I didn't mind the disruptions much other than it interrupted my complete befuddlement of the female persuasion. I have started to write a book and I initially considered tossing in a slight romantic side story to it. Mandy talked me out of it. Probably because she knew I don't have a clue what women think is romantic.

I had been hearing how gorgeous Edward is. I had heard him described as "Hot", "Cute", "sexy" and well, I don't know how to describe what my sister-in-law Katie thinks of him. Needless to say, I was not mentally prepared to witness her roll her eyes back in her head as she thrust several hip bounces around upon seeing Edward. It was these reactions that made me want to observe the character of Edward to see what it was that made these women go crazy.

The first time we see Edward in the show, his reaction to seeing Bella is to cover his mouth and look at her as if he is about to hurl, then dismiss himself and we see him trying to check himself out of the class where he has to sit by Bella. A few days go by and Edward doesn't show up for class. When he does show up he does nothing but stare at Bella like he is resisting the urge to not pop a giant zit on her nose. Then he scoots a microscope to her with the back of his hand like she might suddenly reach out and infect him with cooties. When he does talk to her he scowls and talks slowly like he might be holding back some gas. Finally we see Bella awake at night and she catches a glimpse of him standing at the foot of her bed staring at her.

In high school I was terrified of girls. They reacted to me by "pretending" to be repulsed by me. Silly me, I always assumed that by showing signs of becoming physically ill by the sight of a girl, and then sneaking into her room and watching her sleep always seemed a bit, socially unacceptable, awkward, strange, illegal and would probably end in some sort of restraining order. How was I to know that girls would appreciate this attention?

Thankfully I have been taken off the market almost 10 years ago when I married my sweet, darling wife Mandy. I don't have to worry about the bizarre subtleties of swooning a partner. However, I realize just because I am married it does not mean I stop courting my wife. So I tried these techniques on Mandy. During the movie I looked over at her and pretended to gag in my mouth, then I spent a good 2 or 3 minutes just staring at her like there was a huge pimple on her cheek. She took a few nervous glances at me, laughed nervously and finally told me to stop it. I replied slowly with a scowl like I was holding back the gastric gaseous emissions of a 1 lb. can of chili. She didn't seem to appreciate it. I don't get it. I have come to grips with the fact that I will never make a woman do hip gyrations. I think I am OK with that. REALLY OK with that. I think I get it that women are crazy. They have to be. Or else there is no way on this earth that they could look at a stinky, hairy, sweaty, guy and think "I'd like to kiss that!" I also will stay out of the romantic writing genre, because I will obviously get it wrong. Horribly, disfiguringly wrong.

Pyro

2009-02-25T19:21:00.003-07:00

I posted this story elsewhere and thought I would share it with you. I had originally stated that I had lost my eyelashes three times. Upon reflection, I have only lost my eyelashes twice, but lost hair on my head many more times.

In my defense I come by this tendency naturally. My own father has lost his eyelashes at least as many times. I was just imitating actions I have seen demonstrated for me. When I was very young my dad went hunting. He came home with a deer which he butchered at home in the garage on a long fold up table. the byproducts of butchering produces an entire garbage can full of scraps, bones and hide all of which maggots love to feed on. To his dismay, the garbage man refused to take a garbage can full of rotten carcass. He saw no solution other than purging the ecosystem by fire. He poured the bulk of the contents of a gas can into the garbage can, followed by a lit match which he quickly chased with the garbage can lid. Now, if you think about it, gas is really intended to be combusted, which creates compression, the energy of this compression is harnessed through a moving piston and transferred into the crankshaft which compels your car to move forward. It thrives in compressed environments.

My dad didn't thoroughly think this through as evidenced by his complete alarm when the garbage can lid disappeared from the top of the garbage can and proceeded in a trajectory several hundred feet in the air followed by a volcanic eruption of cinging, Hell derived, scorching flames, licking out in all directions like a thousand molten snakes. As an occupant of the garbage can lid launch pad and blast zone he was engulfed in the explosion which left him mostly unharmed with the exception of snatching away any exposed hair, a few micromilimeters of skin and any pride he might have had at the moment. as the fire died out and the smoke wafted a way, the lid came crashing down next to him signaling the completion of the performance. This is the example I was raised on. This is the genetic pool I derive from.

The first time I lost my eyelashes was in a strikingly similar experience. My parents were on vacation and I was left home alone. Being bored I started conducting science experiments. Being 10 years old, my scientific inquiry centered around fire. I began my experiments by trying to ignite small amounts of various liquids that I thought might be flammable. things like spray paint, rubbing alcohol, and brake fluid. I found a can of "Deep Woods Off" insect repellent. The can brandished a strong warning about the dangers of exposing it to flame. Since Danger and flame were what I was testing, I sprayed some in the garbage can, leaned over the garbage can and dropped my match in.

I don't know what would happen if someone were to stand behind a jet engine when the afterburners are turned on, but I know it wouldn't be pretty and I am pretty sure I have a good idea what it would look like to the person standing behind the engine.

Flames shot straight up out of the garbage can in a column and transformed all of the hair on my head into tiny little, stinky nubs. The first thing that crossed my mind was "My mom is going to kill me!" Your first instinct is ALWAYS accurate.

The second time was just after I had replaced the transmission in my car. In process of removing my transmission, I had removed the distributor from my car. Whenever you remove your distributor, the timing gets thrown off and you have to find the "sweet spot". somewhere between top dead center and 6 degrees after TDC to get the car to start. After it starts then you can use a timing light to hone it in. The best way to find that spot is to slowly twist the distributor, while someone cranks the engine. listening to the engine sputter you can get a pretty good idea of how close or far you are. Kinda like play "hot or cold" with your engine timing. Once you get it close enough, the engine should start and then you are home free.

I assigned a friend of mine to sit in the driver's seat and do the cranking while I did the distributor twisting. In process of doing this I evidently found the point somewhere before TDC. the point where the spark plugs are firing at the exact moment the intake valves are opening igniting the fuel as it entered the chamber and also all of the fuel in the intake. As discussed before, when gas burns, it expands. This time being no exception. It expanded straight up and back out the carburetor. the flame that belched out of the carb curled up and shot along the underside of the hood. My head just happened to be resting against that same underside of the hood as I extended out trying to reach the distributor. Hearing the pop and seeing a giant fireball, my friend jumped out of the car and said "Sterling! Are you OK?" but as soon as he saw me he started laughing "Your... Ha! Ha! Your hair!... Ha! Ha! It's gone! Ha! Ha!... Your hair is ALL gone!!!! Ha! Ha!" Fire does not make a good hair dresser and hair can sometimes take a long time to grow.

Vegas the conclusion

2009-02-24T17:48:00.005-07:00

I know... I know, you have all been waiting for the exciting conclusion to Vegas. So, we had walked past the bunny and saw more of Pete Rose and our feet. Off we headed down to see the rest of the shopping area. We stopped at FAO Schwarz (the big toy story featured in Big) and yes... they did have a giant piano that everyone gathered around as if waiting for Tom Hanks to come out of nowhere and start playing Chop sticks on. I am sure for the right price Pete Rose would have.

Then we headed down to the end of the shopping center where there is an animatronic show depicting the fall of Atlantis. The Vegas.com website states it best when it describes:

The story unfolds as King Atlas tries to determine which of his children will rule Atlantis. The siblings try to destroy each another, poisoning the kingdom with their greed. Finally, the gods decide to step in and settle the dispute, launching the Fall of Atlantis. A 20-foot winged beast appears from behind Atlas' throne and watches over the destruction as Atlantis is consumed by fire and then flooding water.

During the show I looked at Mandy and laughed. It was embarrassingly shoddy. The first thing I noticed was that the sound system was so echoey all I could hear was "Warwa wa wa wa woo way weh..." I thought Charlie Brown's parents were actually narrating. The next thing that stuck out to me, was the herky jerky motions of the robots... excuse me, animatronics. They were so erratic and abrupt they made C3PO look like a smooth moving Rico Suave. I also noted that King Atlantis' mouth was broken and did not move. From what I could gather from the herky jerky gestures and the "wer wa wa woo wa" was that this king had two kids and they were fighting over the city of Atlantis. One of the children had control over water or maybe ice... possibly both and she was threatening to make sure all of her brother's TV dinners were always frozen and never warm in the center and the son had power over fire and had a sword of fire that he frequently waved around and I think he threatened his sister that her popcorn would always be either unpopped or burnt to tiny puffs of charcoal. Their father... perhaps the king listened to them a while and finally grew irritated and yelled "That's it! I've had it up to my crown with this squabbling! I am sinking this place and retiring in Fort Lauderdale!" and so he sunk it and bought a nice condo with the insurance settlement. For some reason there was a giant pterodactyl behind him. For his sake, I hope it wasn't his wife, because the communication barrier in that relationship would be a monster. As King Atlantis I am sure he was always "War wa wa woo way wooweh!" and she was always "Screeeeeecchhhhh! Crrrrrrraaaaaaaawwwwwwww!"

The other hokey part about the "animatronic marvel" was that the robot for the guy with the sword of fire... his hair/wig thing was all cinged. It sort of set the cherry on top of the whole ball of cheesiness. I seriously think the animatronic show at Chuck E cheeses is better coordinated. But, as one of my friends reminded me... It's free!

After seeing the animatronic marvel we were growing weary from not eating in the past 30-45 minutes... so we all lethargically staggered down the strip and put our famished selves in line for one Hell of a good buffet at the Paris. (After a short jaunt over to the venetian) More on that after this little tangent. Vegas is a strange place for many reasons one of which... the people standing on the strip shoving, snapping, waving cards in your face for call girls, or whatever they are. I found that by completely ignoring them, they pretty much left you alone. Vegas is a strange place because they allow this to go on all of the time. Now here me out on this. I am sure the litter problem from these people is a huge problem. Maybe Vegas doesn't care OK fine. But, I have thought about taking my family to the mirage and eating at the Carnegie Deli, but I am sure I am not alone in being very apprehensive in exposing my children to that, because I am sure one of them will try to pick one up, I will have to stop them and then comes the questions I don't really want to answer "Why is that lady naked? Why are they passing out cards? What are they for? Who is Pete Rose?" and so I probably won't take my family to Vegas which is a loss of revenue for them. So, maybe Vegas isn't Disneyland and maybe it isn't a place to take a family anyway. But I thought about the opposite end of the spectrum. I wondered what would happen if there was a preacher standing with them snapping pamphlets and handing out tracts. I can only imagine the public outcry and the huffing and puffing that would occur around such an event. Not that I want to see either one of them standing out there passing me literature. It just solidified the concept of how surrealistic Vegas is.

Back down to the Paris Casino we went to Le village buffet. The buffet has different themed stations. I think there were five in all. dessert station with creme brullee (I am sure I will slaughter most of these spellings) tiramasu, pecan cookies, cheesecake, pecan pie, peach pie, flan, and chocolate chip cookies. the salad bar had salads, crab legs, several types of cheeses I had never tried before, rolls and breads. The grill station had chicken, beef, lamb, grilled mushrooms and even grilled egg plant. There was a crepe station where each crepe was made to order and they had salmon that was great some pesto pasta steamed mussels and soups and prime rib and shrimp that I was too full to even try. The atmosphere was set up like you were sitting in the streets of an old town Parisian village. I kept expecting someone to step out on one of the faux balconies and start dusting a rug. My pants now fit a bit more snug thanks to that place.

That night a few of us went back down to the casinos on Fremont street, watched the light display and lost our money. Leaving we found we had parked in a parking lot that was only validated by a bar. My niece strolled into the bar, told them a bald faced lie that she had eaten there and forgot to have her parking validated and then we went home. In single night Vegas turned us into a pack of gambling, over indulging, lying, cheating, bar going sinners. Oh let's be honest... Vegas didn't turn us into what we already were.

Sunday we lounged around on the red couch like frumpy royalty who get fanned by servants with palm fronds while being hand fed plump grapes. As my mind threaded in and out of consciousness I dreamt of Elvis wielding a fire sword who used it to grill us up some more pastrami sandwiches. I awoke and found my leftovers from Carnegie and cherished each succulent bite knowing that it could be a while before the Carnegie and I crossed paths. Not that I was planning on not coming back, I am simply a realist and understand that life picks up steam and pretty soon you are going clickity clack down the rails of life while the things that you enjoy go whizzing on by in flashes of brilliant color, barely distinguishable from the scenery, the smoke and the cinders lofting down around the fading objects behind.

Monday we made our final hurrah by enjoying $1.99 breakfast at Binions again (sorry, no one dressed in white jumpsuits just a guy that looked just like Dick Cheney eating alone at a table behind us) and then we were off to the airport and our Vegas vacation over, out of surreality and into reality.

Vegas Part II

2009-02-19T21:07:00.007-07:00

In the Mirage there is a beautiful place to eat. It definitely ranks on one of the top 10 things you should do before you die... and it just might kill you.

The Carnegie Deli. There are only two locations. New York and Las Vegas. (Don't ask me why it isn't at the New York Casino)

The food is enough to feed two people with large appetites like mine for two days. I ordered a "Jeff's Tatalah" for Mandy and myself. Before they brought out our food they brought out a plate of pickles. There were two types of pickles. One had a light, natural flavor with a hint of onion. The other type was sharp and had a zip to it and tasted strongly of garlic. I like garlic, and therefore liked both pickles. Someone who is not a garlic fan could easily not care for one of the pickles.

Then they brought out our food. HUGE! Enormous mounds of food of all delicious varieties. My food was a layer of seasoned potato mash covered in a layer of peppered turkey and then covered with a thick layer of pastrami, which had swiss cheese melted on top. On the side was a creamy Russian dressing to drizzle over everything. I expected every bite to just taste like pastrami. I anticipated growing weary of pastrami flavor and then becoming fatigued of my meal. However I found that each stab of the fork resulted in a new variety of ingredients in assorted quantities that made each bite new and wonderfully flavored in a completely unique way from the previous bite. By the end I finally leaned back in my chair, my tongue felt betrayed by my stomach's lack of room. It was sooooo good! It was delicious and I loved it.

Back at the Elvis ranch we prepared for the next day. After some sleep we awoke and Kimball and Cheryl made a crepe buffet and then we were off to Ceaser's Palace to walk around the shopping area. Most of the shops were not really my type of shops. For the most part, they were upper end stores with names that I doubt I could pronounce properly, let alone finance a purchase from. Some of them advertised great deals such as 3 shirts for $299... and no they did not leave a period out there. Call me naive, but I don't see much difference from a hundred dollar shirt to a $30 shirt.

We passed a sports novelty store that had Pete Rose inside signing autographs. Across from that store was the Playboy store. The Playboy store had a Playboy bunny in the store signing autographs and posing for pictures with customers. I saw the store and the bunny, but I was embarrassed and I quickly looked away. Mandy saw the store and the bunny also. For reasons and motives I have yet to determine she began to say "Ooh look, the Playboy store Honey! Look! There is a Playboy bunny in there! Isn't she cute? Do you want to go and see?" I responded "Oh yeah! Uh, I mean... what? I don't... what are you talking about? I don't know! Whoa! Look!... Pete Rose!" I don't know if she was having fun watching me blush, if she was testing me, if she was teasing me or using reverse psychology on me. But let's just say I reacted in a totally non-heterosexual Male way. I walked away with a quick glance at a Playboy bunny and a really good look at Pete Rose and the ground in front of me. Mandy truly is mentally superior to me. This is proof.

Then we walked down to the strangest thing I have ever seen in my life. Join me tomorrow for the exciting conclusion to the Vegas trip.

Vegas Vacation

2009-02-18T23:40:00.003-07:00

I have been so disgustingly tired recently as evidenced by my lack of activity in the land of blogger.

Tonight is no different other than I came home and fell asleep on the couch. A few hours later I staggered into the bedroom and fell asleep on the bed... on the wrong side, still dressed in work clothes.

I woke up several hours later when Mandy came to bed. Now I am awake and can't sleep. Tomorrow's gonna be fun!

Have I mentioned I am a night owl? I think my condition is chronic when I am plowing through my third day in a row on 5 or less hours of sleep and I can't go to sleep until 11:00 PM, as was my situation several times in the past month.

Mornings hit me like a mafia thug trying to wax me with an aluminum baseball bat. They literally hurt.

I did get some recharging last weekend in the form of a vacation. Vegas.

My brother rented a house in Vegas for a getaway vacation for the siblings in the family.

We flew down on Thursday after work. I didn't think it would happen, but we pulled it off. We were flying standby and the flight was full. Thursday I checked the status of the flight and found out the plane we were taking to Vegas was delayed three hours coming out of Newark, NJ.

We showed up at the airport and I fully expected to wait in the airport three or four hours and then be told we couldn't be put on the flight. But, the ticket agent told me they were pulling a spare plane and scrambling a crew for the flight. (thank goodness for the economic slowdown and as a result, Delta sitting on a few spare aircraft)

After a short wait in the terminal we were cleared and assigned seats. We were even given exit row seats with the extra leg room. We were in an older Boeing 737, but the interior had recently been revamped. I had not yet flown in a plane that had a screen in front of every passenger. I found my screen extremely entertaining. They had music stations to listen to. Entire CD's to listen to. Cable TV to watch and games that had you compete with other passengers on the plane. One was a movie trivia game and it showed you the seat location of the other passengers playing. I also liked the map you could display that showed where the flight was originating, where it was going to and a yellow line showing the flight path and a giant icon of the plane showing where the plane was at on it's course. It would also tell current location, elevation, speed, and tail wind speeds. When I go on long trips I am hoping I get a plane with these monitors. It made the already short flight even faster.

Once we arrived and got there and figured out how to get out of the airport Via the shuttle tram, my brother picked us up and took us to the house he had rented. It was awesome in a funky sort of way. It looked like it had been plucked out of the 60's, packed in moth balls and preserved until a year ago and then updated with wifi and flat screen tv's in every room. Even the couch was a red velvet couch with white piping around the edges. I expected to see Austin Powers perched in one corner, smile at us and say "Grrr! baby GRRR!"

The bedroom we stayed in had two king size beds, a two person jacuzzi tub, a shower, a toilet and a sink. There were three little walls that divided all of that up. but the tub was completely open to where the beds were and you could see through to the sink and the toilet from the beds. From the toilet, the shower was directly in front of you and the shower was open to the tub. So that from either three of those stations you were completely visible and within reach of the other two. Very convenient, but not so much private.

There were a few shear curtains that could be drawn to block the view of the bathroom facilities to the beds, but the house was definitely built in the era of free love. We just learned that if you needed to use the bathroom or shower, you had to lock the door to the bedroom. I liked the house and felt it helped me connect with the old style Vegas. Like Elvis might stroll in at any moment with gold rimmed sunglasses and a white, rhinestone adorned jumpsuit and announce "I'm da kang bay-ba! Now how's bout you fix meh a peanut butter naner sam-wich... ah'm starved!"

Speaking of food and tha kang... we did eat like kings. Friday morning we went to Binion's casino. They offer a $1.99 pancake breakfast or a $3.99 steak and egg breakfast. You can't find them on the menu, but the wait staff all know what you are talking about when you order the pancake or steak and egg breakfast. I ordered the steak and egg and Mandy ordered the pancake and we split them. Filled us both up. For $3.99 I was expecting a boiled shoe tongue. The steak actually ranked somewhere up on the top 50 best steaks I have had. I was pleasantly surprised.

Friday we skipped lunch and when my brother Shawn, his wife Nicole, My sister Heidi, her husband Terrell, My niece Larisa and my Sister-in-law Cheryl showed up we headed straight to The Mirage. We followed Shawn's logic that if we ate here first we wouldn't need any more food the rest of the weekend. The Mirage has a place to eat that is... wow! I don't know where to start to describe it. It is epic, it is delicious, it is monumental, it is historic and it is life changing. But, That will have to be more for tomorrow's post as I really, REALLY need to go to bed. Tune in tomorrow for the exciting conclusion to the Vegas Vacation!

Gratitude

2009-01-29T20:17:00.003-07:00

There are times in life when you need something and you don't have it. Things you take for granted. Things you didn't pay particularly close attention to until you have felt the jolt of anxiety when they were not there. These moments make you prioritize your life and put value on things that you otherwise would not think about.

This was my experience twice this week. Once when I was sitting on the can, reaching to my left and finding an empty roll of toilet paper. The second time, moments later stepping out of the shower and noting that there were no towels.

Super!

2009-01-25T16:55:00.001-07:00

There is a setting on our washing machine labeled "Super Wash". Now, I have no idea any more than dirty pig what that means, but I always make a point when I put in a load of wash to make sure that button is pushed. When you consider the alternative to super wash which is just a plain old regular wash, the choice is an easy one.

I was talking to a friend who was telling me that she went to Olive Garden and the waiter asked if she wanted a super salad. She had no idea what a super salad was, other than the fact that it was super. Given the choice of super salad opposed to... no salad, she opted for the super salad she proudly responded "Yes!" The waiter stopped taking orders and stared at her and said again "super salad?" Unsure of herself based on his reply she said again with less enthusiasm "Y-yes?" He looked at her and said it slowly this time "Soup OR salad?" As the mirage of a super salad faded away in her mind she slowly answered "salad"

I don't know what makes a super Wal-Mart more super than a regular Wal-Mart.

What makes the Super Bowl more super than just the bowl game.

What makes Super Mario Brothers Better than regular Mario Brothers.

Given the choice I would rather have Superman defending my city rather than Man defending my city.

For reasons unexplained we seem to be drawn to this ubiquitous adjective like bird poop to a freshly detailed car.

If you will excuse me, I am off to make a super salad.

oh lament!

2009-01-10T15:40:00.003-07:00

I am feeling discouraged. If I were a drinking man, I have a suspicion I might be looking for the bottom of a strong beverage.

On weekends I help supervise a group of families constructing their own houses. While I was gone to work one of the guys in the group came over and borrowed my snow blower... yes, Thee Chuck. I shouldn't really comment on whether this individual is one of more favorite people in the world, because I would lie and say he was.

When I came home I went to use the snow blower and found it was out of gas. I had just filled the tank. A quick search around the garage resulted in finding both of my gas cans empty. Went to the gas station and bought more gas. I was now annoyed. Came home filled up the snow blower. Snow blower started but sounded horrible. I checked the oil. Empty. I wondered how long the engine had been running without oil. I wondered if the engine was ruined. I was now upset. Put more oil in it. It seemed to be running fine. I calmed down a bit.

I started to clear snow with it. being a self propelled snow blower it crawls its way into the piles of snow and gnaws away at anything in it's path. However, whenever it found any substantial piles of snow it would not go any further and started grinding and popping. Somehow the gears were slipping. I was angry again. I found one of the bearings was worn broken. I was convinced that if I replaced it, All would be well. Well, it's not. Something is horribly wrong with Chuck. I haven't had time to tear into it to figure out what.

I also have a coworker whose transmission went out in his car. I told him I would fix it. Last week I drove down to St. George and towed it back. and it is currently sitting in my garage waiting anxiously to be fixed.

This morning Mandy went to start our Durango. It won't start and it is back firing through the intake. I have no idea what is wrong yet. I'm not too optimistic about that either.

I like to be busy, but this is a bit out of control.

My life is starting to sound like a country song.

As a side note, don't you think Billy Ray Cyrus is the bastard child of the music industry? Anyone that professes to like country, I like to sing "Don't break my heart, my achy breaky heart!" and they ALL turn red faced and scream "Billy Ray is NOT a country musician" With a name like "Billy Ray" and his twang exclude him from the rock category. No one else seems to want to claim him. Who does he belong to? Someone must pay child support for him. And what does that make Hannah Montana? Something that probably has the words "evil" and "experiment" and "Semi-gelatinous" in it's description and probably is the root cause of my problems, your problems... all of our problems.

If you will excuse me, I am going to go mope a bit and then get cracking on one of the aforementioned projects.

What a great family

2009-01-04T18:46:00.013-07:00

I am sitting here considering the topic to write about and I am finding myself waxing nostalgic. I recently received a copy of an autobiography my grandpa wrote. He passed away when I was 5 or 6. I have vague memories, but I never really knew him. I found what he had written riveting. I couldn't stop reading. I learned about his family, his life, some of his concerns and life lessons and discovered a person that I might enjoy sitting down with after this life and getting to know better.

As this being a new year, I am looking back at the past year. It was a year ago that we were returning home from Montana. My family was (and is) reeling from the loss of my nephew. I got the call from my Mom informing me of what had just happened in the middle of the night December 27th. It set the tone for a turbulent year that I am recalling with mixed emotions. The circumstances that brought my family together a year ago were less than ideal. However, once everyone was there I still marvel at how well each person automatically assumed roles that seemed to mesh so well with each other that it appeared to me to almost be pre-destiny. It was like seeing puzzle pieces fall out of a bag, bounce on the table top and click into place to form a beautiful picture all by themselves.

I have the exceptional benefit of being the youngest of eight children. By the time I came along, there was nothing that I could do that would surprise my mother.

I love watching people. People watching always proves to be humorous, insightful, educational and a great way to pass the time when waiting for your flight at the airport. I have watched all of my siblings and learned something from each one of them. Starting with the oldest, Dave:

Dave has a very unique laugh. It is comparable to thunder eminating from a mid summer tempest. It starts out low and quickly builds to a booming rumble that fills the whole room and makes things on shelves shake and tremble. To tell Dave a funny joke or story is a horrifically rewarding moment. Dave is great at listening, but even better at talking. I have marvelled at his ability to tell a story. He gets his eyes and arms involved and great voice inflections at the perfect moments and suddenly you find yourself sucked into his tale like you were there. His stories are so animated, children love to hear him tell stories. He finishes each story by rolling back on his heels and howling out his huge laugh. People like to be around Dave.

Dave has always amazed me with his craftsmanship. He always has a project. When I go to his house, I always get him to show me some of his latest projects. All of his projects are extremely robust, well thought out, clean and have a touch of artistry to them. He showed me a trailer he had restored. He had replaced several things on it, the propane tanks, some panels, refurbed the interior. It was a late 50's trailer and then he had purchased a bunch of post cards from that era and framed them and put them on the walls of the trailer. It looked great. They seemed to fit in so well with the trailer, I was almost convinced they were post cards from places the trailer had actually been. Dave has taught me to be a better craftsman, better listener and a better communicator. Although I couldn't tell an exciting story to save my skin, I at least know what it takes to be a great story teller.

Even though my sister is the worst offender when it comes to being a morning person, she still has plenty of other great characteristics for me to list. She is well organized and planned. Somehow she seems to have acquired all of the artistic talent in the family. By profession I am a designer of sorts. Some people get designers and artists confused. Big difference. By my definition, a designer is someone who knows what looks good and assembles art into a pleasing arrangement. An artist creates beautiful things rather than just assembling it. I am afraid I can't even draw a stick figure character. She has exhibited ample talent in almost every medium of art. Somehow Tami has figured out both ends of the spectrum. Your stereotypical artist probably lives a cluttered and unorganized life. Tami is perfectly organized. I am sure Stephen Covey ripped all of his ideas off of Tami for the Franklin Day Planners. She is also active and continuously doing something. Her husband teases her because when she is watching a movie with him, she is knitting, widdling, painting, gluing, sawing, welding, casting, typing, carving, bending, folding, smoothing or fixing something.

Tami is easy to talk to, is quick to laugh and like all of us enjoys laughing at other people's follies. Don't ever fall down the stairs at an Ungerman family reunion. You will receive no sympathy, just a room full of hysterical laughter and years of "Remember that time you fell down the stairs? Classic." Tami is also very patient. It comes from teaching jr. high and raising twins. I don't see much rattle here anymore. Tami has taught me to be more organized, inspired me to draw stick figures a little more life like and to be more patient.

Kimball. Where do I start with Kimball? Kimball is the spiritual leader of the family. I find it ironic that he does a perfect imitation of Yoda. Kimball also has a keen sense of humor. One time we were waiting to meet someone at a 7-11. It was at the base of Big Cottonwood canyon. There were several skiers entering and leaving the store. Outside there was a man using the payphone. Kimball suddenly started making up a dialogue for the man on the phone. The man on the phone seemed to mimic the actions that would go along with the dialogue he was making up. He seemed to grow agitated and nervous at the right times or laugh or seemed to be listening at all of the right moments. We both found it so funny that he could not continue because we were both laughing too hard. Kimball is also very good at encouraging me at whatever pursuit I am engaged in. When I was in high school he gave me a camera and gave me a demonstration on photography, what all of the dials and knobs are for and how to frame a picture. Most of what I learned led me directly in to the profession I am in now. Two years ago he took me to a screenwriting class that ruined my life. I have since yet to be able to sit through a movie without analyzing the writing and thinking of suggestions that I would tell the writer to improve the movie if I had the chance. From Kimball I have been given a great spiritual example and counselor. I have learned to laugh and enjoy myself wherever I am. And I have been instilled with a greater sense of self confidence.

Doug is similar to Dave in that he can listen and communicate very well. Between the both of them, I think they took all of the scraps of the gift of gab and by the time I got around to picking from the genetic gene pool there were a few tiny crumbs, but nothing you could call anything left over. I throw this out as a humorous scenario, but I would not be surprised if Doug could or has done this. If Doug were to be pulled over by a policeman, you could easily lean over to him before the officer arrived to the window and say "Betcha $20 you can't get that cop to rip up this ticket and whiz all over it." 10 minutes later you will be forking a $20 over to him as the patrolman strolled back to his car leaving a freshly urinated on shredded ticket on the ground. Recently he bought a car and told them he was not paying the dealership fees. They said "Well, most people have to pay those fees." He said "Well, I am not most people." The sale person phoned her boss and the fees were waived. If I tried a stunt like that, not only would they decide to not sell me the car, but they would bill me $2,000 for wasting their time and being ridiculous.

Doug also is an extremely fast learner and excels at anything he tries. I still remember the room we had in the basement absolutely packed with trophies he had won from motocross racing. If it is mechanical he can fix it. One time our dryer stopped working. He came and got me and said "Come help me fix the dryer" As he disassembled it I asked him how he knew what was wrong with it. He explained "You just need to take it apart and look at it. You will see what is wrong and then you can fix it" It sounded overly simplistic at the time, but that statement has helped me out in almost everything I have done in my life. Another time I was driving my car and the clutch pedal went soft. It began woring intermittently. I nursed it home and called him frantically. I expected him to tell me he would come out and fix it. I was disappointed when he told me I could do it. He told me some things to check, but once again he said "You just need to look at it, you will figure out what is wrong and you can fix it." I moped out to the garage slide under the car and almost immediately I noticed a cylinder on the side of the transmission that was leaking fluid. I took the part off and took it to an auto parts store. A few minutes I came out of the store with a new, what they told me was called a "slave cylinder". I took it home, put it on and the car worked again. From that point I on I always had enough confidence to say, "I can fix it" knowing that if I just take it apart and look at it, I will see what is wrong and I can fix it. I have yet to be led astray by that philosophy.

If Doug and Dave took all of the gift of gab genetics, then Heidi took all of the being able to see blood-and-guts-and-be-fine-with-it genetics. One time I was hiking, I slipped and fell. I caught myself with my hand, but in doing so, put my hand on a large sharp rock that punched a little triangle shaped hole in my hand. As soon as I pulled my hand up in front of my face to see why it was hurting, I saw the blood. Everything started spinning. I felt nauseous and detached like I was floating out of my body. I was going into shock from seeing a bit of blood on my hand. I sat down and waited for the trees to stop twisting around me. I couldn't look at my hand because I would start feeling sick again.

Heidi is a nurse and has seen all sorts of nasty, vile and gory things that would have me out cold on the floor. she even says it is "cool" and "interesting". Paired with her ability to view all things "blech", she has a natural compassionate disposition. One time there was a family of raccoons living in our attic. They had made a hole in the roof and they were raising a litter of babies in all of the insulation. Animal control dropped off a trap and soon all of the raccoons and the babies were captured. Animal control was called and they said they would be by to pick up the raccoons so they could be disposed of. Heidi took compassion on the babies and took it upon herself to hand feed them their last meal. Like all of us, Heidi is quick to laugh and has a good sense of humor. From Heidi I have learned that blood is just like motor oil, it's just a fluid and even though I want to freak out when I see it, I really shouldn't. That raccoons are people too and when life gives you lemons, feed them to other people so you can laugh at their reactions.

Lori, my tragic sibling. Tragedy befalls her on every move. The two have formed a companionship like Laurel and Hardy. Luckily she has the sense to laugh at herself, roll with the punches and keep her fists up. I have rarely seen her get bummed about anything. If she does, she doesn't show it. I could share experiences, but they happen so fast to her, It's like hopping on a runaway train, there is no getting off once you board. So, I will share some that I am familiar with and are neatly contained around one subject-- her car. Right after her divorce she needed a car, but didn't have much money at all. I browsed the papers and we went and looked at one in Salt Lake. It was a horrifically ugly, silver, four door Mazda GLC. One side of it had been repainted with a silver can of spray paint. The guy selling it barely spoke any English, but it was cheap and it seemed to run fine. She bought it. At the time she was living in our neighbor's basement apartment. They have a long sloping driveway that is a couple hundred feet long and connected to the top of the culdesac that we lived in. Dividing our property from theirs was a long row of poplar trees. Lori Brought her daughter out who was 3 or 4 at the time, and ran back in the house to grab something. When she came out the car was gone. After a few seconds of panicking she saw it at the end of the driveway buried in a stand of bushes. Her daughter being the active and curious child that she was had pulled the car out of gear and then stood up peering over the back of the driver's seat in horror as she watched through the rear window the car careen down the driveway out of control. Some how it weaved in between two trees and ended up in the bushes. The rear wheel spindle was damaged. The good thing about owning a clunker, is that there are ample parts at junk yards. I found one and replaced her bent spindle. Then her car started sputtering, I identified a cracked carbon canister. replaced that. Then she had a total electrical melt down. One of the fuses had been replaced with a fuse that was rated over what it was supposed to be. Whatever it was, shorted out and melted a huge wiring harness together. After the plastic insulation melted on a few wires, some wires began touching other wires and soon nothing worked and everything was shorted out. One by one I went through and began matching wires that entered and exited the melted snarl of electron chaos. I then snipped each wire and patched in a segment of unmelted wire. This was all under the dash, so I spent most of one day laying on my head up against the pedals, my back resting on the edge of the seat and my legs sticking up in the air like an awkward set of strange looking twins. I guessed right on 90% of the wires. It was the other 10% that made driving the car from then on interesting. Things like the windshield wipers didn't work unless you turned on the defroster. You couldn't honk the horn unless the radio was tuned to AM 1020, the left turn signal on, your right leg placed out the passenger window and you had to be traveling at exactly 27 MPH. From Lori I learned to smile when things get rough. To stay positive and enjoy what you have.

Shawn, as my friends growing up would always tell me, looked like John Cusack. Not sure where I came from. All of my brothers have darker complexions, black hair and are quite handsome. I am blond and blue eyed and a little more rough on the eyes. I imagine it worked better when they had me in public and they could deny any relation to me without much acting and still present an undetected lie. Speaking of lying, Shawn was a master. One time he went camping. On his way home he called from a pay phone. Lori answered and he started telling her this long story about how he had caught this huge fish and all the time and effort it took to land the behemoth and then he told her that when he cut it open it was full of bologna, just like this whole story. Lori was believing everything up until that point. Shawn also used to like to call up people and act like he was mentally challenged. One time my sister got a phone call from someone who was asking for money for a charity who truly was disabled. Tam interrupted them and said "Nuh-uh! Who is this?" They started over again. Tam interrupted again "Shawn knock it off, what do you want?" They started again and Tam began to realize that maybe this wasn't a joke. Another time Shawn's family was out of town. He called me and said "I am sick, can you come and make me some dinner?" I said "Uh, OK what do you really want?" He said again "I'm sick, can you just come and heat up some soup or something?" I paused "You are serious aren't you?" He groaned "Yes, I am serious" I went over to his house half expecting him to jump up from the couch and say "Nah! I am just kidding I got a new video game. Do you want to play it with me?" But, when I saw him on the couch, I could tell he wasn't kidding. He really was sick.

I really couldn't have asked for a better older brother. Some of his favorite things are teasing, joking about farting, joking about pooping, joking about burping and if you can tease about farting, pooping and/or burping that is even better. Despite his teasing, and when I was young, his alleged contempt towards me. I have always known he had my back, would do anything to help me succeed and would always have a fart joke on hand in case I needed a pep.

So there you have it. What I have learned and am learning from my family. If I were to be found in possession of any good attributes it would be because of them. So thank you for blazing the trail. I am glad I am the spoiled baby of the family. Possibly the best part about being the youngest -- getting old and seeing all of them get really old. Crotchety old geezers peeing their pants and forgetting where they put their canes.

Public confessions of serious misdeeds.

2008-12-28T22:22:00.005-07:00

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

2008-12-21T07:24:00.004-07:00

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

2008-12-17T00:25:00.003-07:00

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

2008-12-14T17:37:00.002-07:00

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!!!!!

2008-12-13T22:37:00.002-07:00

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?

2008-12-09T23:20:00.005-07:00

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?!?!

2008-12-08T03:40:00.000-07:00

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

2008-12-02T20:57:00.004-07:00

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

2008-11-30T21:30:00.004-07:00

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?

2008-11-25T21:07:00.002-07:00

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!

2008-11-23T23:30:00.000-07:00

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

2008-11-19T23:51:00.003-07:00

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

2008-11-12T21:32:00.002-07:00

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!!!

2008-11-09T20:19:00.003-07:00

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!

2008-11-02T22:28:00.003-07:00

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

2008-11-02T21:22:00.003-07:00

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!!!!!!

2008-10-31T01:22:00.004-06:00

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

2008-10-30T00:44:00.003-06:00

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!

2008-10-20T22:18:00.002-06:00

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!

2008-10-16T18:48:00.003-06:00

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!

2008-10-12T08:26:00.005-06:00

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

2008-10-06T18:40:00.004-06:00

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

2008-10-01T03:19:00.002-06:00

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?

2008-09-24T21:48:00.003-06:00

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.