Fish Hatchery

Hey guys. i'm still here.

2012-01-18T22:46:00.002-07:00

Looks like I'm returning from my hiatus with one of the stupidest topics about which I've ever blogged.

Every time I buy a product that has some sort of a price tag on it, and upon peeling it off, I find that said shitty tag has left white sticky crap on the item, I can't help but be angry that some company, somewhere, is still making tags like that. And that whatever company from whom I purchased whatever thing, is using these asininely developed tags.

The thing I find most frustrating, is that there exist tags that don't even do that thing. The technology for a non-stick residue tag exists, but many companies choose the ones that take up to an assload of seconds to scrape off. Common IKEA, I didn't spend .49 cents on this plate to have to spend more cumulative seconds than the pennies that plate costs to scratch at a sticky spot like I don't live in the United States of America. It just seems like capitalism would have rendered hard to remove, overly viscous sticker producing companies obsolete. Slay those companies with the mighty sword of the free market, o' ye capitalism!

That compelling piece of blog fodder out of the way, I suppose an explanation of my absence is in order. Because I'm sure that all 120-something of you have been checking this blog every single day over the last however many months, wondering why I ceased to enrapture you with such thought provoking material. The truth is, I just sort of forgot I had a blog for a while.

I found that between working as a new teacher, and finishing grad school, doing anything on the interweb besides researching shit and ruining America by stealing music was less than appealing. Also, most of the times when I have had the itch to write something, it has concerned the abominable cesspool of a Republican primary process that has been occurring.

And it seems like those who read this (or who did) would probably tire pretty quickly of my Newt-Gengrich-is-a-fatuous-puerile-narcisistic-out-of-his-damned-mind-crooked-sonofabitch rants. Or maybe how Andrew Jackson was probably also referring to Native Americans when he said, "What do Americans do with our enemies? We kill them." Take that, women and children. Good one, Newt, you slimy tub of lard.

Or maybe how much I hope Richard Santorum will have the opportunity to eradicate the abomination that is contraception, that the earth may literally flood with all the babies that should have been conceived since people figured out how to have something other than just business sex. Or how much I hope that he can stop all the homosexuals from destroying marriage with their pledges of fidelity. Or how much better off we will be keeping those same homos from sullying uniforms and bullets with their infectious gay blood.

Or maybe how the one sane, rational, reasonable Republican candidate just dropped out and endorsed Romney. Or maybe about how I've never know a Rick that wasn't a douche.

Anyways, THAT'S WHY.

xoxo

3 cheers for death

2011-09-13T13:13:00.001-06:00

Sometimes, conservatives, you sure make it hard not to halt my slide into wicked, wicked liberalism.

There were two very poignant moments during the last two GOP debates that further convinced me that the far right wing is a wonderfully hypocritical place to be.

I think that the far right of the republican party can safely be called the party of Jesus. To say that far right conservative views aren't heavily influenced by Christianity would be like saying that the far left isn't influenced by Socialist Jesus, which the far right conveniently forgets existed.

So, what could possibly be more un-Christian, than clamoring for the death of a hypothetical uninsured man, and cheering Richard Perry's execution record?

Last night, as Ron Paul was given the hypothetical question, "What do you tell a guy who is sick, goes into a coma and doesn't have health insurance? Who pays for his coverage? "Are you saying society should just let him die?" At this point, you sort of hear a rising grumble in the crowd, that turned into quite a few people yelling "yeah!"

I totally understand the idea and importance of personal responsibility. This hypothetical person (me) should definitely have insurance. And by not having it—if he [I] can afford it (I cant)—he is definitely unfairly putting society at risk for an undeserved burden. Should he have been responsible? Yes. Does he deserve to suffer the consequences (death) of his actions? Not for me to say. Should we HAVE to take care of him? No. But what is the right thing? Cheering for someone's death because it affects your wallet sure doesn't seem like the right thing, and I'm pretty sure it isn't what Jesus would advocate.

The other thing that blew me away, was the wild cheering that occurred during Rick Perry's first appearance at a debate, when he was explaining that over 200 prisoners had been executed under his watch as governor. Seriously, the audience was euphoric that Texas had put its boot down and euthanized over 200 (hopefully) terrible people.

I can't understand how support of the death penalty largely comes from the Christian right (even though, in our country, more people as a whole support capital punishment than oppose it). I am aware that the bible says, "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth." But the Old Testament also says a lot of other crazy shit. Which is why, if my memory serves, Jesus came along and stripped the gospel of a lot of crazy. And I guess added a bunch of other ludicrous ideas like "love thy enemy." "Do good to those who hate you. Pray for those who hurt you." Madness.

Can anyone give me one good argument FOR the death penalty? Just one really good one? Because if your argument is financial, you are dead wrong. It costs infinitely more to execute a human (because of the cost of appeals and whatnot) than to incarcerate one for life. Like, sometimes 10's of millions more.

Because they deserve it? Well, who are you to decide what anyone deserves? Does a human who maliciously killed another human deserve to be in society? Absolutely not. But do we have the right or responsibility to kill that human being? It seems like our ultimate responsibility to society is to keep it safe. That can be accomplished without capital punishment.

Does anyone honestly think that we get it right 100% of the time? That was the thing that first turned me off to capital punishment—knowing that our system is incapable of getting it right, 100% of the time. Can you imagine being on death row, knowing you are innocent, and knowing that nobody in the world believes you, and there isn't a thing you can do about it? All to perpetuate an unnecessary system? It makes me sick, thinking about that.

If the system euthanizes even one innocent human in 100,000, it isn't worth it.

When we euthanize a human, we are also making the ultimate judgement that such a person has no worth, and can never have a change of heart. We are essentially robbing from this person the opportunity to change—the very thing for which he/she is being executed.

Should a murderer with a changed heart be set free? Hell no. But by executing him/her, we are throwing away any opportunity for good that such a person can do for society.

Before a Utah state firing squad shot Ronnie Lee Gardner through the heart, he was working with at risk youth, setting a poignant example of where poor life decisions lead human beings. But, in order to satiate some visceral need for vengeance, we ended his life, and thus any good he could return upon society.

I just have a hard time imagining sitting down with Jesus, and having this conversation:

"Hey Jesus."
"Hey man."
"Who is going to win the Super Bowl?"
"Oh, you! Like I'm telling! But it isn't the Buffalo Bills."
"Oh! By the way. Check this out. There was this dude who killed like, 11 prostitutes, chopped them up, and shoved them under the floor boards of his house. Next week we're scheduled to stick a needle into his arm, and pump him full of chemicals that will render his heart, lungs, and brain useless, thus sending him straight to a fiery hell!"
- high five -
"Yeah! That dude TOTALLY deserved it. Trust me, I know. I've always regretted stopping that stoning a couple thousand years ago. I'm glad you guys are killing him, so you can speed up his judgement. God is just AGOG waiting for this one."
"So, make us some wine to celebrate?"
"You!"

I am not saying that there exists any perfect, political ideology. There is hypocrisy on both sides. But from the side that uses Christianity as an ideological building block—these issues—or at least the attitudes that accompany them—sure seem to reek of inconsistency.

Adults only

2011-09-05T21:20:00.004-06:00

Either I write a lot more about sex education than I remember, or my blog is way more pornographic than I thought.

I suppose it is fair that since this particular Mormon owned company eliminated in-room porn sales to insomniac patrons, the next natural thing would be to ban employees from blogs awash with lingerie and bikini photos.

I knew I shouldn't have gone that route.

The imprudence of postponing the removal of a cyst

2011-08-30T18:50:00.001-06:00

Member when I used to be a blogger? Those were the good days. A time when America was awesome. When I was wrapped up in an American flag, cradled in the American dream. The world was my oyster. Jobs were plentiful, and there were just so many damned oysters to get. Then, all of the sudden I got a HUGE INFECTED CYST.

The cyst is in no way related to jobs, American dreams, or oysters. Unless of course (not having) health insurance is part of the American dream. Then, I suppose, infectious cysts and the American dream are terribly related. Where do oysters fit in? I just don't know.

So I have had this cyst on my neck for the better part of a half of a decade. A doctor tried to remove it previously, and for whatever reason, failed in the attempt. I don't know, I guess his cutting tool wasn't sharp enough, or he got tired of spending 7 minutes trying to do it, or he had a tee time at the Nephi golf course, or whatever. The point is, the cyst came back over the next better part of that half of a decade that I previously mentioned.

Gordon Franklin Elliot, the little oyster in my neck, grew to be about the size of a small marble. Or an incredibly large pearl. And I mostly ignored it, and passively hated it. It wasn't huge and gnarly to the point where anyone talking to me would be rendered unable to make eye contact. Often, people would never even really notice it. Until, that is, Gordon Franklin Elliot became angry and enormous.

Within about a period of a month, GFE went from being a small, semi-noticible marble under my neck skin, to a glaring red pist off half of a golf ball.

Conversations, when I'd meet new people, went something like this:

"Hi, nice to meet you. I'm Fish."

"Nice to meet you too. I don't really know anybody here. Who do you knooooooOOOOOHHHH DEAR GOD WHAT IS THAT?!?"

"Just a writhing pile of cancer, festering in my neck, moments away from sending me into an early grave. Thanks for reminding me."

Sometimes Gordon Franklin Elliot was a goiter. Or a spider bite. Or a nest of spiders. Or a parasitic twin. Or whatever. I got pretty good at immediately drawing attention to him, so as to avoid the insta-disgust/shock when anyone noticed it organically. It seemed like immediately bringing it up, and then lying and/or telling the truth about it made it easier to swallow.

Once I lost full (most) range of motion in my neck, and the mound hurt like hell, I decided it was time to visit the doctor. I got an appointment at a clinic. When it was finally my turn, I followed the nurse back, and stepped on the scale, at which point the doctor came by. She looked at Gordon Franklin Elliot, and said, "I'm not touching that. You need to go to the emergency room, and you need to go tonight."

Well shit.

So to the emergency room I went, and sat there for about 3 hours before they took me back. It is always fun, mingling for about 3 hours with lots of people who probably aren't going to pay for whatever thing the ER is going to end up doing to them.

I was excited and terrified when it was finally my turn. Joy! Rapture! This neck ailment would finally be removed from my life, once and for all.

Only, that was not the case. Apparently, when something is "just about the most infected thing I have ever seen," doctors are more concerned with removing the infectious waste than with removing that which harbored it. In other words, you have to drain the shit out of the bathtub, before you can cut out the bathtub.

So about the time that the doctor finished looking at my neck and decided that it needed to be drained, and then left me there for 45 minutes, I started thinking about how much I wasn't going to like having a needle shoved into the thing down which I swallow air and food. I don't like needles in the best of circumstances, and the neck just seems extra scary. I was trying to think of worse places to have needle penetration, and the list was short: penis, finger webbing, beneath finger/toe nails, belly button, eyeball, and maybe straight into the nipple.

I asked for some valuum or some such calming drug. Instead of giving it to me, they sent me back into the shitshow that was the waiting room, complete with some dude with a really terrifyingly messed up eye yelling at his mom on the phone, people hacking and coughing, and a really large old woman with blood soaking through a rather expansive tract of pants somewhere near where the ass and back merge together.

I spend another half an hour or so out there, until I was finally summoned back for that which I simultaneously dreaded and anticipated. I was lead to another room, deeper in the belly of the hospital. The whole 5 or so hours of waiting started to make sense, as I was re-checked in- meaning they did all the same nonsense they did over an hour ago- asking me why I was there, to what I was allergic, checking my blood pressure, etc.

I reminded the new doctor that I was expecting some valuum, and could they please hurry the hell up with it, lest the needle go anywhere near my neck in a completely lucid, terrified state. She assured me it was on its way, and then left.

A few minutes later, in comes my savior with the entirely too tiny dose of valuum. The drug had slid down my gullet fewer than 3 minutes before the doctor came back, ready to bury a needle in my neck. "NonononononoNOOOOO! Not enough time!, I screamed in my head, while nervously tapping my feet.

"Um...I JUST took that valuum like, 3 minutes ago. Is there any way you can come back in a few?"
"Well, I can wait I guess."
"Does this mean that I will wait like, 15 minutes, or another hour?"
"I don't know. It might be a while."
shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitSHIT.
"Okay. Just do it."
"Okay. I will warn you, this is going to hurt. BUT, it should only hurt for a second, and then the numbing will kick in."
GREAT.
"Wait. Do you have to stick the needle in the middl of it, or just near it?"
"In the middle."
Shhhhhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiiiiittttttttttttttttttttttttt.
"Ugh. Okay. Well. Wait. Okay, just do it. No, wait. Ahh, I can't do this! Okay, just do it."

Oh, how I waxed cowardly.

But COMMON. A needle right in the middle of this enormous, infected, incredibly tender neck protrusion?

It is a strange feeling when you find yourself in a situation in which you have no choice to do something that seems like the worst thing in the world. When you have to be braver than you are. When you know you have to hold still while a needle parts the tender folds of your bulbous neck flesh, filling the protrusion with excruciating, fiery horror.

I'm glad that I didn't have some prescient knowledge of the excruciating, fiery horror part. I just assumed it was going to hurt. Not that it was going to hurt worse than any other thing ever hurt.

So I laid down, and said, "Okay okay, hurry, just do it."

She came over, popped the needle in, and I said, "Oh. That wasn't as bad as you said." At which point, she began injecting the numbing agent, which caused the whole excruciating fiery horror thing to happen. Seriously, like 1,000 wasps, stinging my neck all at once, for 45 seconds. I sweated. I writhed. I said some things that would probably make my mother, grandmother, and maybe Jesus cry. I didn't, however, move my neck an inch.

Once that was over with, I was abandoned again for about 10 minutes while my neck went numb. I thought, "alas, that sucked. But at least the painful part is over."

Again, a lack of prescience kept me from bolting out of the hospital, to die in the streets of a neck-to-brain-to-heart infection combo fatality. When the doctor returned, she looked like she was ready to operate upon a radioactive mutant covered in suppurating lesions. Face shield and all. At this point, Gordon Franklin Elliot felt hard as a rock. It seemed like one fell poke would cause a septic eruption never theretofore experienced on planet earth.

"Cool," I thought. "This will be over in no time. Poke, drain (explode), sew it up. I'll be home in time for the Daily Show."

There was a poke. There was a squirt. And then soooooo much squeezing. And, accompanying the squeezing, soooooo much pain. And, thus, more writhing, sweating, and swearing. It took about 8 minutes to drain that sonofabitch. During which, she said, "I bet you wish you took the oxycodone now, huh," as I had previously refused it, for fear of becoming nauseated, due to not having eaten any food in a ton of hours, mostly because I had been in the damned ER for tons of hours.

"Yeah. I guess I do."

Once she was finished, she sent one of her minions away to fetch me some opiates. I lay there sort of trembling, thinking as the world thought after the holocaust, "never again."

So, for the last couple of weeks, Gordon Franklin Elliot has been packed with long, ribbony gauze, which has been so tenderly removed and repacked on a daily basis by my dear friend Adam, and lately another dear friend Susan. God bless them, for saving me from daily visits to the hospital. Instead, we do the dreadful repacking in my kitchen. It is almost all the way healed up, and the sepsis seems to be gone, which means I get to go in for round two- absolute and final extraction of Gordon Franklin Elliot.

And after weeks of having gauze shoved into a hole in my neck with tweezers, with blood running down my chest (in the early days) in my kitchen....bring on the neck needle. My fear has abated.

Sad shins

2011-07-15T12:19:00.002-06:00

It's sort of disconcerting when you wear shorts to work for the first time (casual Friday, obvi) and you urinate in the urinal in which you have urinated for the last 6 months, and you realize that the particular angle in which your stream has been contacting the porcelain (in no way irregular) has been, apparently, sending urine ricocheting back into your shins, probably every time.

The non-internal narration went something like this:
"What the? Wait, what the hell? Oh. ah man. Well, that sucks."

I think sometimes in life, you piss on your shins for a really long time, without ever knowing it.

I want to be where comrades are

2011-06-07T19:33:00.002-06:00

Contrary to what may be popular belief, I was not raptured. I am simply more busy than I've ever been in my life.

Sometimes, for some reason, I get the Little Mermaid song "Part of Your World" stuck in my head. Honestly, what isn't to like about that song? It is incredibly catchy.

I also have the habit of talking to myself when alone, which I believe I wrote about years ago on this blog. Living alone has merely exacerbated this phenomenon. It isn't as though I sit and have conversations with myself. I simply sometimes narrate what I am doing. Like a real asshole.

So, I have found that lately, when the this song gets stuck in my head, I have begun to, rather than sing it, say the words, but in a Russian accent. I've realized that imagining that I am Joseph Stalin, whimsically saying the words rather than singing them, is really funny when you replace certain words with other words.

For example:

Right before Ariel breaks into song, she says this: "Maybe he's right. Maybe there is something the matter with me.
I just don't see how a world that makes such wonderful things could be bad."

Now, imagine Joseph Stalin, sequestered away from the common folk of the Soviet Union, in either an underground compound, or whatever (this definitely works best if you imagine him underground, for obvious reasons). And you HAVE to imagine this in a russian accent. "Maybe the comrades are right. Maybe there is something the matter with me. I just don't see how a world that makes wonderful things could be bad," says Comrade Stalin, as he wistfully imagines a country not raped stupid by communism.

"Look at this stuff...it is not neat? Wouldn't you say my arsenal is complete? Wouldn't you say I am comrade...comrade who has...everything? Look at this trove...stockpile untold. How many warheads, can one compound hold? Looking around here you think...sure...this comrade has everything.

I have gadgets and gizmos a plenty...I've got whose-its and whats-its galore. You want thermal bombs? I have twenty (said, as he waves a disinterested, dismissive hand in the direction of said thermal bombs) But who cares? Is no big deal. I want more....(said in an intense, sinister whisper.)

I want to be where comrades are. I want to see, want to see them marching. Standing around in those--how you say?--food lines. Riding around underground compound in party leader issued red Benz you don't get too far, a comrade must use legs for marching along on those--how you say--streets?

Up where comrades walk, where comrades run, where comrades toil all day under threat of nuclear fire storm...wandering free, wish I could be, part of that world..."

You get the idea. I think that maybe had Stalin been able to see the Little Mermaid, he'd have taken the Soviet Union in a different direction. He'd have realized that he and the little mermaid were the same person--just cooped up, misunderstood comrades, waiting for their chance to break free from King Triton/Communism's oppressive clutches.

This is where your mind goes, and what it produces, when you teach history, live alone, and are an apparently unsalvageable nerd.

My final post

2011-05-20T09:59:00.012-06:00

As I woke up this morning about 4 am to a literally unbroken, 30+ minute peal of thunder, I couldn't help but think, "Did I totally blow it? Did the rapture come almost 38 hours early? I only maxed out one credit card. Dammit."

I guess I've just always felt like, should Jesus come, it would probably be sort of a surprise. I figured I'd probably be in the midst of reading some bullshit fantasy novel, and suddenly the walls would melt around me, and my shame would be made manifest to the whole world. Only, everybody's shames would be being made manifest in that moment, so I guess most would be less than likely to notice me reading a book with whimsical creatures adorning the cover.

When the walls melt around closet Magic the Gathering players, the world will truly writhe with shame.

The billboards announcing May 21, 2011 as THE Judgement Day, have been around for a while. It's been hard to see them and not inwardly chuckle, and outwardly say, with a slight head shake and a tone rife with sarcasm, "the Rapture. Common."

But as the day draws nigh, it's hard not to wonder—what if the Rapture comes, and I don't even get raptured? Because it seems like, to their standards—they being the people who have been running a very ineffectual warning campaign—I probably won't be raptured. In fact, I don't really know of anybody who will be.

When I was driving home from Erda on Monday, I passed a Winnebago covered in warning signs of God's impending drop kick of earth into a fiery volcano of misery. Shit totally got real right then. I thought, "Wait. So that's THIS Saturday? What am I even supposed to do? It is apparent pretty much everybody is screwed—an even larger ratio of screwed than what most religions typically predict for humanity—but is there some way I can avoid the embarrassment of not being raptured?" Damn Winnebagos and the inherent aura of credibility and seriousness lent to any message draped thereupon.

None of these signs really tell you what to do, but rather merely guarantee destruction. So I started brainstorming. What are the sorts of things I could do, to make apparent my faith in the impending Rapture? How can I get raptured, should this tiny portion of humanity be right, and our, in theory, loving Father is really going to, without a second thought, flush most of His children down the toilet into oblivion? All because they didn't believe some crazy, nonsensical numerical theory that some old doomsdayer concocted from reading, what amounts to be, the most tampered with, re-translated concoction of literature ever compiled on the planet?

Maxing out all my credit cards, and eating as much cheese, cream puffs, and creme brulee as I could possibly shove down my gullet came to mind.

Cleaning my house is out the window. I mean, what's the point? If I only have limited hours remaining before either being raptured, or not raptured, why waste even one of those hours doing something so mundane as washing a dish? I've just been throwing them (dishes) in the trash can after use, and then dumping the trash out the window.

Of course I have stopped paying any bills. Increasing my rapture points is worth possibly getting the water shut off for a few days.

I'm glad that, even though he believes America is going to be blown to hell for totally different reasons, Glen Beck gave me the idea to convert all of my assets to gold, via Gold Line (a company in which he SURELY has no financial stake). Because, obviously, for those unfortunate souls (most) who aren't raptured, gold will of course become the currency. Or human teeth. It's hard to know.

If you are wondering what is going to happen should you not be raptured: "And to them it was given that they should not kill them, but that they should be tormented five months: and their torment was as the torment of a scorpion, when he striketh a man." Revelation 9:5

Scorpion stings for 5 months. That sounds horrible. I would say that, if I don't get raptured along with the rest of you, we can all take comfort in the fact that we were left behind together. But get real. I won't be thinking that at all, suffering those awful scorpion stings for 5 months.

Here are some images that I imagine capture the essence of Judgement Day, for those who don't get beamed into heaven.

I just want to be raptured. I guess this is goodbye?

Fighter jet wake boarding and swimming with babies

2011-05-11T09:55:00.007-06:00

Now that facebook has become inundated with advertisements, besides just those for hot, single, large breasted scantily clad Christian women waiting for me with a secret message, the ad ideas are growing increasingly interesting/wonderful.

I guess saying "now that," in regards to facebook's deluvial advertisement bar is incorrect in implying that such a thing is a recent development. I think that the diversification, however, is something that is actually a newer occurrence.

My favorites are the ones which involve a specific numerical amount of things that one must do in Salt Lake City, sometimes before one dies. This is made apparent either by referring to said things as a "bucket list," or by more subtly saying, "(some amount) of things to do before you die."

I think I finally was clued into the fact that these are a scam when I saw one that involved a bunch of babes drinking, with palm trees in the back ground. I mean, there are not girls who drink in SLC.

But at the same time, there are some that seem like they could totally be happening in SLC. Such as these that follow:
This might be my all time favorite.

Now, I've done some searching, and I haven't quite been able to find the company that let's one wakeboard, towed behind a fighter jet. Honestly, I can't think of a single more bitching thing that could ever exist in this world. I'm not sure how one avoids being incinerated by the jet engines clearly powerful enough to create, what seems to be, about a 50 ft wake. But who am I to question science?

This next one, I discovered today:
Due to being unable to enlarge this image in anyway, I have to go with my heart, which tells me that this is CGI. If that is the case, then it would appear that some company has developed a virtual simulation (or maybe just a Wii game?) where you get to be underwater with an infant.

AWESOME.

The real question is, does one have the option to be both the infant and the mother, or just one or the other? And if one is playing the infant, what does this entail? Must one wave the Wii wand in a certain manner to keep the baby holding its breath for a maximum amount of time? Or to flail the limbs, and avoid sinking to a point that it is out of mother's reach? Maybe one plays from the point of view of the infant, but is controlling the mother, and directing mom (via Wii wand and nun-chuck) into a watery, life saving embrace. Like guiding a plane into an aircraft carrier.

I also imagine that, should the baby drown, it's like when Mario drowns on Nintendo 64. If you are wondering what this looks like, http://youtu.be/UXCzeszG-I0. Skip to the last 15 seconds or so. I'm pretty sure this would be about spot on.

I don't know, this seems like it would only be fun like, 70 or 80 times.

Maybe this is a real life thing, where you get in a pool, and they (the baby-pool experience company, maybe called the Baby Pool Experience Expedition Adventure Miracle) toss you an infant. It would probably be sort of like a climbing gym, where you have to sign up for a membership and get training before they will let you lead a climb. In other words, if you want to be solo in a pool with a baby (not yours, company owned) you have to be a member/have some formal training. Otherwise, it is like skydiving- you have to be strapped to an expert if you want to play with an infant underwater.

The Baby Pool Experience Expedition Adventure Miracle shares similarities to a whole slough of recreational activities.

Even being a groupon, it's still probably just cheaper to find a pool, and BYOB. But since I (and a lot of other people) don't have our own babies to throw in a pool, here's to hoping it really is a video game.

¡Cinco de mayo!

2011-05-05T23:42:00.006-06:00

Incase you were wondering whether or not that was the upper half of a Dora the Explorer piñata strapped to the back of my motorcycle...go with your instinct.

In the Spanish class that I "teach," the girls asked if we could do something fun for Cinco de Mayo. So I decided that making a homemade piñata full of awful Mexican candy would be a great thing to do. After searching for a Mexican market in west Salt Lake, we stumbled upon one sort of by the train tracks, almost under the freeway, behind a bunch of buildings. The only entrance was through a big bay door with thick strips of plastic covering it. Like sometimes you see in the back of a grocery store, indicating areas where normal civilians aren't supposed to go.

After browsing through the candy section, and checking out the staggering selection of piñatas, Colin talked me into splitting one with him, for a birthday party we were going to later on. He surmised that, after we beat the hell out of it, we could probably patch it up, and I could refill it with all of the candy that presumably, as adults (and given the nasty nature of Mexican candy in general) we wouldn't likely eat.

So I agreed, we strapped Dora to his bike, and off we went.

Because we ended up clubbing Dora around midnight in a friend's living room—who happens to live above a terribly grumpy old woman named Shirley, who does nothing but wander around the complex in a bathrobe, bitching about this and that all day—the piñata sustained pretty minimal damage. Nobody wants the wrath of a Shirley in a bathrobe at midnight because of a noise violation. Ultimately, the legs and crotch region were a total loss, but the upper torso area maintained a great deal of structural integrity.

So I packed up the remaining candy (which was most of it—one only needs to eat a single strawberry flavored hard candy with a salt-chili powder packed core to realize that he or she never wants to do that again) and took Dora home, and did some patchwork. I mostly just had to close up her gaping torso, which rendered her as good as an almost new, upper half of a piñata.

Albeit clearly a second hand, wind ravaged piñata, the girls were thrilled at the prospect of destroying a candy packed Dora with a cane, instead of studying subjunctive verbs.

The second thing that made Cinco de Mayo great, was a text I received from a mystery person, to which I decided to respond, due to its emphatic nature. (My responses are in the green.)((Also, "Can you," followed by 8 question marks, was the very first message I received.)

61 questions marks, in case you were curious.

And then I died. An infinitely better result than I ever could have hoped for.

I hope he/she found the Drake. I also hope the Drake gets kicked in the crotch for standing up a 9 year old. And on Cinco de Mayo of all days. FOR SHAME.

The morning after the morning after the night i found out

2011-05-03T10:58:00.004-06:00

I think that the ubiquitous Osama updates on facebook are the only thing I have ever seen trump, in sheer volume and magnitude, all of the "I'm in Utah, it's snowing, and I'm bitching about it," updates.

According to Wolf Blitzer, before it was officially announced, it was going to be one of those things that when people heard it, they would always remember precisely where they were, forever till infinity.

Sometimes when I am laying in bed, trying to fall asleep, and unable to fall asleep, I look at facebook for a moment on my phone, in hopes that I will grow utterly bored, and accidentally fall asleep. It was about 12:30, and I was noticing an abnormal amount of "AMERICA!" and, "I'm proud to be an American!" and, "Why is one network spelling it 'Usama,' while another is spelling it 'Osama?" updates.

I checked the NPR app I have on my phone and, sure enough, uncle Osama had been dispatched to, presumably, the deepest pit of a ham lined hell, via a bullet through the orbitofrontal cortex.

I think my main reaction was something like, "Huh. I guess they got him." And then I rolled over, and promptly fell asleep.

When I woke up the next morning, or "The Morning After" as I have named it, facebook was absolutely inundated with American pride, and lots of digital interweb fist pumping. As one would expect, the conservative radio waves were a similar frenzy of chest pounding and double high fives, in spite of the fact that it was that commie bastard Obama that finally got him.

Which, I guess, I understand. America has been looking for Osama for a pretty long time. A lot of people have died to come to this culmination. But I guess the thing that sort of makes me feel weird, is the absolute frat-party-douche-bag atmosphere that was outside the White house, and elsewhere. Call me un-American, but I feel like all of the cheering, and dancing in the streets, shooting silly string, and getting wasted is a weird way to respond to a death, regardless of how vile and wretched the deceased happened to be.

I didn't know a single person who died in 9/11, so maybe that is what makes me lack the instinct to want to tear off my shirt, pour beer all over myself, and run around in a circle with roman candles in each hand. But I don't think so. I think that if, God forbid, my mother, or father, or a sibling was horribly murdered by someone, and 10 years later that person was executed (which I would actually oppose, because I think the death penalty is wrong, which is an argument for another day) I think going crazy in the street is the last thing I would be doing.

I realize it would be a different situation, because there would not be a massive, national, collective investment in the death of someone related to me. I think, however, that the principle is the same. It seems like the somber satisfaction and relief that comes with justice, is very distinct from the jubilation that comes from revenge. Justice incites closure; revenge is rarely satiated.

There was also an element on facebook that was advocating the idea that maybe being totally stoked on the death of a (albeit terrible) person was, perhaps, wrong. And the more I thought about it, the more I started coming to a similar conclusion. I do, however, think that looking upon Americans with disdain for celebrating is too idealistic at best, and at least a little unfair. I understand the country's emotional investment in this. I think rather than saying that American's reactions are wrong, I would rather say that I wish they were different.

I don't expect everyone to think like I do, or feel like I do. Everyone is different, and we all have distinct world views. I saw this quote pop up several times: "I mourn the loss of thousands of precious lives, but I will not rejoice in the death of one, not even an enemy.* Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out… hate: only love can do that." - Martin Luther King, Jr.

Did something need to be done about Osama Bin Laden? Absolutely. Was the best answer killing him? It's hard to say. But was the best response, upon his death, one of exuberant, euphoric celebration?

I think we are better than that.

* I found out this evening that the part of the quote proceeding the * is actually falsely attributed to MLK. Jessica Dovey actually said the first part, and followed it with the MLK quote. Somewhere amidst the ka-trillion reposts on twitter and fbook, the quote marks were shifted to give the impression that MLK said the whole thing. Which, ultimately, is irrelevant anyway. I think it would be in the spirit of something he would say, and it is a powerful idea regardless of who said it.

No more eating on the moon

2011-04-15T12:35:00.003-06:00

"...and thus saith the Lord, grad school shall be thy bane, devouring thy life. Shouldst thou peradventure survive the scouring fires of high learning, thou shalt inherit kingdoms, principalities, and 401K's, worlds without end." -Bible

There once was a time when I was not finishing up grad school, flying to different states for 3-4 days per weekend, and absorbing equal parts wisdom and horror while observing a middle school class for hours per week. Such was a time when this blog thrived. Thrived, I say.

There is good news upon the horizon. Firstly, being that I only have 3 more classes where large quantities of assignment must be turned in. Secondly, I shall not be student teaching in the abysmal, miserable pit of the deepest hell, which is middle school, but rather at the boarding school where I have been doing the other, infinitely more pleasant half of my observations. Thirdly, student teaching shall be accomplished over the summer, rather than next fall, and therefore I shall enter the hiring pool during the dreadfully difficult first of the year, rather than the horrifically impossible middle of the year. In reality, no time is a good time right now, but at least the fall is better, to a degree.

My time, over the last 3 months, as an ersatz photographer, has been interesting to say the least. I've come to despise airports and flying, which I never thought would happen. I have come to view them as giant dens of disease, filth, discomfort, and absurdly overpriced bagels and gummy bears. I have gotten sick at least twice during the last 3 months, which i attribute to being exposed to all manner of nefarious, foreign pathogens, with which I'd have probably not under normal circumstances come into contact. And charging 4 dollars for a bagel with cream cheese? Get real airport, this isn't the damned moon.

I hate the roll of the dice when you get on the plane, sit down, and wait for the person who is going to sit next to you. Nervously observing and scrutinizing each person as they make the long walk down the aisle, ever nearing your seat. Will it be the babe with the short hair and spectacular boots? Or the 432 lb man behind her? Will I get a screaming baby? A smelly person? The drunk guy on his way to the Nascar races in Vegas, who yells at his friends in other sections of the plane, informing them about how stoked he is, every time he gets stoked? Which is ever few minutes? So stoked, that guy.

I never got the babe with the boots. I did, however, on several occasions, have a panniculus contending for all of my arm space, and at least half of my seat space. And the smelly guy. And the nightmare baby. And the Nascar imbecile. Just never that babe. The Gods of Southwest airlines, or as I called it "The Peoples' Plane," ever conspired against me.

Sleeping in many different motels of varying degrees of shittiness also gave me anxiety. I feel like the bed spreads in cheap motels are nothing, if not veritable semen depositories. And even though I always remove the DNA blanket, I still feel like trace remnants of X and Y chromosomes have certainly taken refuge upon the remainder of the "clean" sheets.

I don't even want to think about the showers/tubs. I mean, no way are those in any way adequately cleaned. If I were a motel cleaning engineer, I'll be damned if I would do anything more than run a clorox wipe over everything. I've found that clorox wipes do not dissolve orphan pubic hair forsaken by the previous host occupants, and said motel cleaning technicians do not seem to go out of their way to gather them up. A large den of rats could build a fairly sturdy nest, with all of the abandoned hair I have found in bathrooms during the last few months.

Anyways.

Even though there were aspects of the job I enjoyed, I'm glad it's over. Although, this means that over the summer, I'm probably going to have to return to the true bane of my existence...the soul rending destroyer of all hope and happiness, killer of good moods and attitudes....

Serving.

Obama save me.

You're welcome

2011-03-31T15:04:00.002-06:00

The ratio gap between girls who date me, and then immediately marry the next guy they date, VS girls who date me, and then sink into a terrible depression, forever after wandering the earth, ever seeking an elusive something, and that something being, probably, me--is staggering.

It's like, several-zero.

Which makes me wonder--what is this power which I apparently imbue upon ex's, which makes them suddenly appealing enough that any given guy is ready to forever cast in his lot (or at least until the nasty divorce, *fingers crossed*) with this person, this dear ex of mine?

Lest I be crucified, the fingers crossed for the divorce was a tasteless joke, bred of something close to the most mild bitterness that one can espouse, putting one on the cusp of being a tiny bit bitter, and not giving a hot damn. In other words, I didn't mean it. I wish divorce upon no one. Except for a few people. But to none of whom this blog would apply. I typically only cross my fingers for divorce when someone I care about married someone who sucks the worst.

Anyways.

At this point, I do not have one single ex girlfriend that isn't either married, or engaged. And a great majority of these females indeed DID marry the next beaux that got past the 14th date.

I think, perhaps, that I need to seek out my female wizard counterpart (or witch, as it were) who also has this unfortunate ability to magically force ex romances to marry the next person who can coax them into dinner and a movie. If I find this person, perhaps we can cancel out each others' power, or we will simply bewitch each other, and marry whomever comes next.

That would make for some intense pressure, those post wizard/witch relationship dates.

TSA sanctioned molestation

2011-03-17T16:07:00.001-06:00

When one has gained between 7-10 lbs, depending upon the time of day, it is a bad idea to dry one’s jeans on high heat, especially be they of the skinny genre.

Working for this photography company on the weekends has ruined my health. Where once I could be found eating fast food maybe once a month, I have digressed to the American norm of mass convenience consumption. I feel like my metamorphosis over the last 2 months provides a most cogent paradigm of everything that is wrong with America.

Seriously. I have gone from being able to furiously pedal for an hour straight with a healthy body weight, to having to pour myself into jeans, getting winded up 2 flights of stairs, and watching the scale present me with 10 lbs more than I have ever had to witness in recent recorded history.

All in a matter of a couple of months. And there are people who eat like this...indefinitely. I have a kangaroo pouch between my neck an chin, without even the benefit of actually having a baby kangaroo in there. Catching a profile view in the 3 way mirror is depressing.

I got molested at the airport because of this.

2 weeks ago, while flying to Vegas, I had the privilege of showing the outline of my genitals to the TSA, via one of those digital x-ray cocksticle exploration capsules. Which is fine. If that keeps me (potential terrorist) from wrapping a bomb around my penis and blowing a plane to hell...great. Have a look. I’ll give you a complimentary pelvic thrust and a shimmy, if you like.

However, I thought that going through said “humiliation” (for some) would in turn, exempt one from having to have ones body groped by a less than eager TSA grandpa(ma). The eve before the Vegas event, I made the mistake of drying my jeans, and being 10 lbs overweight. Upon exiting the voyeur machine, the TSA grandpa instructed me to wait. He then asked if I had anything in my pockets. I looked at the very clear definition of my thighs, and stated “Nope.”

“Are you sure?”
I looked down again, and could but see the outlines of my pockets, which were unfortunately more pronounced than usual, due to said heat/fat.
“Yep.”
“I’m going to have to feel you to check.”
“Okay.”

At which point, I got super annoyed.

Do I really care if part of this guy’s hands end up brushing my lower genital region? Not really. However, what in the HELL IS THE POINT of those ridiculous machines, if not but to avoid a potential pat down? It makes perfect sense to me, if one passes through a metal detector, beeps, and subsequently requires some groping. I get it. But this stupid machine that is the bane of Sean Hannity and good, modest folks everywhere, is supposed to find the sort of thing that the TSA grandpa CAN’T find with a thorough groping.

The following week, a terribly normal looking woman passed through the sexy-machine right after me, was stopped, and informed by the TSA that a boob examination. Seriously. The TSA lady had to grope all around her breast to look for....explosive breast implants? I’d have been LIVID, had I been this woman. Again, what is the point of this machine, if one still has to go through a rather invasive groping anyways?

At least getting through airport security more quickly is a good motivation for losing weight. I am DETERMINED to melt away this neck pouch over the next 2 months. Perhaps, I shall begin a photo journal, documenting the progress of thwarting this extra chin/neck that is attempting to take permanent residence on my chin/neck.

“Man was meant to have but one chin/neck. Be ye warned.”
-Christian Proverb

Getting jimmered way hard

2011-03-03T02:07:00.003-07:00

I think the only really great thing about this BYU coug getting kicked off of the team for honor code violation, is the fact that the event has most certainly turned the obnoxious word 'Jimmered,' (-verb [gym-erd] 1. to get one's ass kicked by Jimmer, a rather high scoring BYU point guard, 2. to get one's ass kicked in anything, really e.g. "Dude, that team like, totally got Jimmered tonight!" "Dude, you totally Jimmered me at Tekken just then!.") into a wonderful euphemism for any "accidental" sexual act, e.g. "Davies totes shouldn't have Jimmered that babe." "After 7 minutes of intense zipper sparking, Davies Jimmered in his pants, thus disqualifying (*see also Jimmering) him from future basketball endeavors."

There are several sad things here. 1, being that this Davies guy possibly gets to go down in history as the guy who couldn't keep his Jimmer in his pants, and therefore Jimmered his team's chance at a #1 seed, and maybe a championship (see how that works? A myriad of uses exist for that one, wretched verb, all thanks to fortunate/unfortunate circumstance.) 2, being the fact that this situation even exists.

Let me first say, that I am glad that BYU is sticking to their holy guns, and not making an exception for a beloved athlete. However, I think that the fact that this situation even exists is completely absurd. Let me also say, that I couldn't care less about college sports. I am in no way affected by the fact that Davies got suspended. But I do think that ultimately the honor code is a coercive system which removes a critical element of agency from those who must adhere to it.

I completely understand that students who wish to attend BYU are well aware of the existence of said honor code before they ever decide to attend the holy university. But the honor code creates a system of "obedience through fear," and spiritual vigilantism that seems antithetical to the nature of the faith espoused by the university. Or, rather, that founded and to this day runs, the university.

Is forcing adults 18-30+ to be away from the opposite sex by the stroke of midnight (or 1 am on the weekends) teaching self control, or forcing obedience? What, exactly, is encouraging students to report the sins of their neighbors to honor police teaching them? I fail to see how such a principle coincides with the religion I was raised in. What about secular punishments for moral crimes? Or engendering fear in a person who would like to 'fix' or 'repent' for something, but is too afraid of getting kicked out of school for attempting to do the right thing?

I think perhaps the most obnoxious thing of all, will be, should the cougs win, all of the inevitable testimony bearing and church lessons built around the story of God blessing the BYU cougs to win the championship, because one player had the integrity to be honest about his zipper sparking at the dawn of March Madness. As though God in any way whatsoever cares about which college team wins the final 4. As though God is going to make one team play worse, and lend another greater skill because some fans pray harder and pay their tithing to a truer faith.

The truth is, BYU Jimmered itself on this one. All for a rule set that those attending the school should, (for the most part - no beards and a curfew? get real) in theory, be following anyway.

Pervs and bitter regrets

2011-02-09T16:43:00.001-07:00

Sometimes, a fun thing to do, is browse the "Men seeking women" section of Craigslist. Either, you find your boss soliciting himself in an attempt to find someone just desperate enough to be, somehow, interested in World of Warcraft, 2 pitbulls, and this:

Or, this:
Because everything about this is pretty much the best thing, I will just start with most best, and move through least best (but still pretty best.)
Most best: "Want to get on my massage table tonight," in conjunction with creepy photo in a dark room.
Next best: He is not only in a dark room, but also shirtless in a bathrobe.
Third best, barely less best than the first two bests: "I am very trained well. You need one after a hard monday? Table is heated as well." This actually might become first best, if you read it with a Russian/Slavic accent.

Speaking of pervs, it is pretty hard not to feel like one, when wandering around workshops at a dance competition, making short video clips for a b-reel of girls 8-18 dancing around in what amounts to be sports bras and hot pants. Which is what I did all weekend, at the behest of Joe the homosexual vampire, director of this particular dance competition. I spent several hours, weaving in and out amongst young, dancing females, and then sifting though, editing, cutting, and moving 100's of clips to create a fairly pointless 3 minute video, so said females could scream and point when they saw themselves pop up on the screen for 3 seconds, at the end of the competition.

Over the weekend, I found myself filled with deep regret that I didn't somehow have an innate desire to be a dancer as a young lad, in conjunction with incredible resilience to homosexual jokes and the persecution which would inherently accompany any male child being a dancer in the 90's (and probably now.) Regret, because I think that when young, manly boys (boyhood me) are shunning all thoughts of dance, they (I) are not thinking about the fact that, while dancing seems naturally feminine, this isn't a bad thing--because one (me) will be constantly surrounded by females. Females that see you (me) as a novelty, being in the 3% of dancers that are male.

45 year old guy would not be having to lure females into massage traps via Craigslist had he been a dancer.

Oh, the bitter, burning regret.

Throwing in the towel

2011-01-31T01:10:00.004-07:00

My life is about to get very complicated.

But, quite possibly, infinitely more interesting. Which is good news for blog.

While I was in Super Target on Saturday, 2 things of note occurred. The first, being the intensely obese woman I saw wearing the shirt with a cat on it that stated, "Cute but dangerous." Which reminded me of how much I love those kinds of shirts, and how they are typically worn by a pretty particular demographic. My favorite such shirt of all time, being the 3XL white T with an angry marching duck with a ball cap turned backwards, stating "I'm the boss."

This one, in fact. It is remarkable how this nearly verbatim image was pristinely mummified in my mind for the last decade or so, being that is how much time I am fairly certain has passed since I have seen one of these draping a human torso.

The second pretty great thing that happened, was I received a call from a man friend in New York, petitioning my advice about a date he had with a 55 year old incredibly wealthy dude with a house in the Hampton's. While I found this to be flattering--my advice being sought at the attempted genesis of a very awesomely taboo relationship--I also felt like the only advice I could give, was to do probably exactly the opposite of everything I EVER DO IN A RELATIONSHIP. Or, rather, concerning the attempt to begin one.

He gave me an all too common scenario--he felt like the date went well and great and lovely, but then at the end, Rich Man seemed indifferent and aloof, and left Man Friend with a feeling of, "WTF just happened or didn't happen and how did I do something wrong when everything seemed right, and not even a little wrong, except for the apparently unperceived wrongness at the end of so much right?"

At which point, typical overzealous me probably frets, and then subsequently attempts to pry and probe for possible reasons and motives of disinterest, or I make my thoughts and feelings way too obvious or available. I told him that I hate playing games, and I just like to be genuine with my feelings. Which, apparently, is the WORST THING TO DO.

It would seem members of the opposite (same)sex do not desire clarity and transparency, but rather are drawn to horrible games, reticence, and indifference. This, apparently, fosters interest. Or some such bullshit.

After a time, I began to realize that he and I think the same way about relationships and dating. So I implored him to ignore his every instinct, and do the complete opposite of whatever his heart told him. Because his (my) heart is an IDIOT, and does not know how the (fe)male heart functions. Or, rather, most other hearts, be they male or female.

I think I'm ready to try the asshole card.

Which, I now realize, in the context of this post, sounded like it meant something entirely different than what I meant.

I'm just going to be an aloof, reticent asshole, utterly disinterested in you (girl), devoid of all feelings, to see if that works for me (you).

If that doesn't, I suppose it is never to early to start my collection of 3-4XL Big Dogs and other sundry animals saying clever things shirts, for when I finally decide to throw in the towel and let obesity whist me away into a comfortingly happy existence as a McDonald's acolyte.

Death by wolves or death by creed. coin flip.

2011-01-20T15:46:00.004-07:00

I'd say the following qualifies as a not only an early 2k11 miracle, but also as an important lesson. http://gizmodo.com/5739091/how-creed-saved-a-norwegian-boy-from-a-pack-of-wolves

In case you don't want to take the time to read that article, basically there was a Norwegian lad who was walking home from school. Apparently, a pack of wolves found him and contemplated devouring him. His mother, born of a long line of good viking stock, had taught little Walter that, if ever attacked by a (pack of) wild beast(s), running away is the worst thing that one can do. This apparently lets the wild beast(s) know it is okay to then attempt to devour the escapee. If one merely holds one's ground, and maybe plays CREED REALLY LOUDLY, the wild beast(s) may have second thoughts.

This is apparently what happened, when little Walter stumbled into the midst of the pack of wolves.

First, my mind is slightly blown that, of all things about which a mother must warn her child, what to do if one encounters a pack of wolves is at the top of the list. Man, but American moms are overly paranoid. Can you imagine, having to worry about your kid getting chewed to death by wolves while walking the 2 blocks home from school? I suppose they should have wolf guards, instead of crossing guards in Norway land. Dressed in the skins of beasts (mostly wolves) and wielding a wolf carved scepter hewn from the tallest tree in Norway in one hand, and an axe made from the cold bones of ancient Inuits in the other, s/he (they) would be the envy of all Scandinavia. And certainly local children would need not fear being eaten by wolves, or other sundry carnivorous creatures.

I certainly can't say that I am surprised that Creed served as an effective ward against a pack of blood thirsty wolves. I think that is the lesson we can learn here--whether faced with a pack of wolves, a pack of unwanted friends, bullies, Nazis, illegal immigrants--its a pretty small demographic of douchebaggery that is somehow immune to the repellant musical horrors of Creed.

I'd rather be consumed by wolves than to suffer even a small moment of Creed induced eardrum rape. Shame on that boy. He may have spared himself a violent death by chewing, but he has shamed himself in front of God, the world, and the animal kingdom.

Dirty finger nails and weird shit drawn all over the hands. That seems about right.

Satan is a tea party liberal

2011-01-10T14:02:00.003-07:00

Sometimes I feel like the politics in this country are a festering lesion on Thomas Jefferson's illegitimate son's club foot.

Whenever national tragedy occurs, the analytical cogs immediately begin turning in the heads of political pundits and politicians, seeking the best ways to exploit and manipulate horror into a positive outcome. And they aren't even subtle about it anymore.

So many articles over the weekend began targeting (I better be careful, as the word "targeting" may have to be stricken from the political arena, since it be a word that could incite violence, obviously) the vitriolic political rhetoric coming from conservative talk radio, the tea party, and Fox news as fuel for violent and radial acts.

On my way home from trying to undo an entire month of sedentary, gluttonous damage, I tuned into Sean Hannity for about 5 painful minutes as he began his show. Immediately, he went on the offensive, pointing fingers, and playing quote after quote of negative, semi-violent rhetoric from the mouthes of liberals. I mean, all of his little cronies must have spent every waking moment from the time the first bullets penetrated flesh, till his Rocky Survivor theme rolled across the airwaves, scouring the archives for "violent" liberal quotes.

Why can't tragedy bring out the best in people, rather than a load of acerbic criticism and acrimonious rhetoric? It seems as though in politics, everybody thinks that the only way to make anything better, is to utterly vituperate and ultimately destroy the other side, and thereby prove that one's own side is infallible.

I am fairly certain, if this crazy asshole came out and said, "The night before I decided to kill the Congresswoman, Lucifer Satan visited me in a dream, and told me to do it. Also, to always buy local." that the political world would immediately begin discussion and speculation as to which party or faction Mr. Lucifer belonged.

Surely, the Dark Lord would be a liberal Democrat, since all are baby hating abortion loving morality despising mongrels. Or maybe Lucifer is a right-wing Conservative, since they are all greedy, gun loving and therefore murder promoting selfish capitalist scumbags.

Perhaps the Son of the Morning is a Tea Party activist, since they are all violent racists, seeking to violently and racistly overthrow the government. Or maybe Satan is a Muslim, since all those people do is strap bombs to their chests, and blow people to hell (home.)

Maybe the Dark One is actually a Christian, since he loves to hate people who are different (which would be everyone) and he thinks everyone is going to hell who doesn't think like he does (which is everyone.)

Shame on everyone who is trying to turn this event into some sort of a political advantage. But, I suppose, that is business as usual.

I think, ultimately, we have to remember or come to the realization that we don't live in a completely benign, sterile society. There will always be people who do despicable things, in the name of one cause or another. We can't and shouldn't stop people from saying what they want to say, acting how they want to act, living how they want to live, believing what they want to believe, simply because it rubs us the wrong way. Or because, occasionally, someone takes a specific message to the maximum, crazy degree, and acts out violently.

Even if this guy did happen to be a staunch, tea party activist--SO WHAT. If he was a left wing commie, WHO CARES. Christian, Muslim, Jew, Jedi Warrior. 99.99% of people aren't incited to violence when they hear so-called "radical rhetoric." Unfortunately, living in a free society means occasionally we have to deal with that really shitty .01% that are.

Dressing gay

2011-01-07T07:49:00.008-07:00

Typically, when accused of being gay, the assumption is made by one of two parties, and for two or three reasons.

The first party, being extended family members. The second, young children in minivans leaving 7-11 in the summer time with mom. In the little bigot in training's defense, I WAS wearing incredibly short shorts, on an extremely hot day, riding a bike. Which, in case you weren't aware, makes yelling "faggot!" out the window totally called for. And 9 times out of 10, the little shit might be right.

I imagine the conversation in the van went something like this:

"Denton (pronounced Deh-uhn), roll up that window, air conditioning isn't free!"

"Ah, but mom its haw......Whoa, lookit! FAGGOT!"

"!Deh-uhn! Roll up your window! Don't ever draw their attention, you might catch the gay."

Anyways.

When accused, whether vocally or non by party numero uno, I think there are two main reasons. One, being the fact that I have somehow inexplicably been a complete and utter failure in the marriage arena, despite living in Utah Valley for way too many years. 28.5 year old men in Utah are obviously either mentally unbalanced, or gay if they aren't married.

The second reason, compounded with the first for an unprecedented level of possible gayness, is that I dress well. This, more than any other thing, bothers me. I don't care that my heterosexuality is put into question because I missed the 21-22 1/2 year old marriage bus. But what I DO care about, is being thought gay because I dress well, when in reality, I've never actually known a gay man who dressed better than I do. With the possible exception of ONE.

I don't know if this is a Utah phenomenon, but the stereotypical well dressed gay man is a mythical creature that is totally screwing all us straight dudes over. Not in the sense that being thought gay is something terribly (or even remotely, in my opinion) offensive, but because (most) Utah gay men dress, from what I've seen, atrociously.

Last night, I was in Smith's. I encountered 4 gay men, in 2 separate couplings. As I pulled a gallon of Kroger 1% out of the cooler, I stopped in mid removal and simply stared at the man next to me. American Eagle hoodie, which I guess isn't the worst thing in the world, and a pretty standard "I don't give a shit" piece. But coupled with flare jeans, and high heel clog boots? Ohhh girl.

Now, it wasn't as though he was going for a tranny look. He just somehow missed the memo, along with a lot of other Utah babes, that FLARE JEANS AREN'T A GOOD IDEA. I immediately wished that the gallon of milk in my hand was heavily carbonated, and that I could shake it mightily, stab the knife I wasn't carrying into the top, and spray his awful ensemble with milk, yelling "Stop dressing like a BYU coed!"

The other two dudes in the checkout line just looked like a couple of slobs. One guy in baggy jeans with frayed bottoms and a Mossimo shirt, the other with one of those awful olive green canvas belts with the 2 metal hoops at the end wrapped around come puffy tan cargo jeans, circa Aeropostale 2001. Common guys, step it up a notch.

I've let a few babes drag me to a gay club dancing in the past. On the way, I thought, "This could be great for 2 reasons. Certainly, I shall be in the straight dude minority, and there will most definitely be a lot of straight girls in attendance, looking for some non-threatening male dancing counterparts. And secondly, most of these gay men will probably be so poorly dressed, that the females shall veritably flock to me like the children of Israel to Moses in the desert."

Maybe I am getting different memos than the Utah gay man community at large, but I'm not sure why so many homosexuals think that wearing the tightest shirt into which one can feasibly pour oneself is a good idea, regardless of body type. I guess this would be the standard I'd assumed most of the world understood: If the shirt does not reach the top of one's pants, and one must have the help of 2 or more people to slide one's torso into said article, one should discard the offending article. I just don't know why gay dudes with bad bellies and love handles think they are exempt from this rule. NOBODY IS EXEMPT.

Silk shirts, shirts that button up the front with dragons or tribal designs, polos with popped collars, anything with a logo, in reality. COMMON! Rise to the stereotypical standard!

So I guess what I am saying, oh ye people who accuse me of "struggling with same sex attraction" due to the fact that I know how to put together jeans, vests, blazers, sweaters, and pocket watches in a multitude of ways that "work," is you don't really know what you are saying. I don't even remotely dress like a Utah gay man.

4, incredibly straight, well dressed doods.

THIS is the only one that I think offers up a good argument for "gay."

Utah gay men, you can do better.

How to make 2k11-infinity a better place

2011-01-03T23:09:00.009-07:00

Every time a new year begins, I can't help but think of all the things I wish would go away permanently, thus making all years hence forth and forever a little bit better.

Sometimes, I wish Facebook would go away. But then I think, "Who am I kidding? I love Facebook. Don't strike me dead or delete my account for that blasphemous though/status update, Mark Zuckerberg." I think, rather than wishing for the annihilation of Facebook, I'd just prefer the banishment of certain features.

First, being the inane "check in's" that are constantly occurring. "Reginald Bojangles checked in at Bill's Taco Barn." While I would probably be typically interested in 98% of what a person named Reginald Bojangles would be doing at any given moment, I just can't care about where he is. Unless the update with the little red pin said, "Reginald Bojangles checked in on the Moon," and Reginald actually checked in on the moon, I don't give a shit. I don't care about when you check in at church, school, restaurants, massage parlors, whore houses, or Yosemite. STOP IT.

I really dislike, nay, abhor relationships that are more obvious via Facebook than the info section saying "Rodrigo is in a relationship with Don Julio." And some pictures together. But a constant relationship wall to wall, status to status cute-fest is nothing short of nauseating, if not completely repugnant. I am happy for your happiness, and like, totally interested in how much you love each other and shit. But maybe you could just like call me on the phone and tell me about it for 3 hours. Or blow my brains out. Either way.

Status updates about an omnipresent horrific weather condition. Even if I never emerged from my house EVER, I would be keenly aware of every cold, snowy, rainy, or otherwise blustery moment of the wintertime, due to the incessant bitching that occurs on Facebook, each time global warming takes a break from boiling us in our own carbon emissions. Unless an icicle falls from your roof and pierces your chest, I don't really care how cold and snowy it is. And please don't "check in" at the hospital.

Any Facebook statuses involving feces. Or flatulence.

I wish people would never send "Happy/Merry-insert holiday" mass texts. I don't need my phone vibrating my pocket 27 times on Martin Luther King Jr. day with generic "black power!" texts. If the text isn't personal in some way, it is annoying, rather than thoughtful. "Hey Fish! Black power bud!" is a text worth getting.

Over the last few weeks, I posted a series of statuses addressing some of these issues, using quotes from viable, authoritative resources to prove my point about some of the aforementioned items. Most of these were in the spirit of Christmas.

Some things not related to Facebook.

Newborns posed in everyday items in which one would never expect to encounter a newborn, e.g. buckets, boots, flower pots, ammunition boxes, etc. I know my mother (and probably most mothers) absolutely adore an infant wrapped up in a confederate flag and stuffed into the end of a civil war cannon, but I just find all such pictures creepy, unless I know the infant. I think if it were my infant, or a family infant, I might find such things weirdly cute. But I just want Anne Geddes to stop.
Would anyone care to explain to me what isn't creepy about this picture? Are the liver spots on the hands somehow endearing? Or is it the claw like fingernail on the left index finger with enough length to make Dracula, or a coke addict jealous that tugs at the heart? Or the fact that an infant which seems to be premature by at least a trimester and a half is gently sandwiched between said hands?I DARE you to try punishing baby Hitler. Too cute!

I think maybe just newborns in general, I am not a fan of. I wish they emerged from the womb as 8-10 month olds. I realize this would require considerably larger wombs, and even bigger birth canals, but I think we can all agree that skipping the lolling neck, spitting up, way too fragile phase would be well worth it.

I wish the Westboro Baptist Church would just go away.
Actually, going away isn't quite good enough. I wish Jesus, Buddha, Allah, Vishnu, Boba Fett, and Santa Claus would get together and strike the WBC from the face of the earth. Preferably, in a way involving fire, lasers, and maybe a huge mudslide full of glass shards, liberalism, and homosexuality, so it be an ignominious death.

While this post has a slightly negative tone, despite the previous items, I actually liked 2k10. And am looking forward to 2k11. I just think the United States would be a better place if, rather than wasting time bickering about the economy, healthcare, and the Mexican invasion, Congress would address these paramount issues.

A year in books, food, movies, and music.

2010-12-29T15:09:00.004-07:00

Here are some great things that I loved in 2010, but weren't necessarily birthed in 2010:

Books that captivated me this year:
Everything is Illuminated: Jonathan Safran Foer
Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close: Jonathan Safran Foer
The Lies of Locke Lamora: Scott Lynch
Red Seas Under Red Skies: Scott Lynch
The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo: Stieg Larsson
The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy: Douglas Adams
Pygmy: Chuck Palahniuk
No Country for Old Men: Cormac McCarthy
1984: George Orwell
Towers of Midnight: Brandon Sanderson and Robert Jordan
The Road: Cormac McCarthy
Eating Animals: Jonathan Safran Foer
The Way of Shadows: Brent Weeks
The Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy: Tim Burton
Gardens of the Moon: Steven Erikson

Music that moved me this year:
Sufjan Stevens: Age of Adz
Arcade Fire: The Suburbs
Blow: Paper Television
Bob Dylan: Biograph
Crystal Castles: Crystal Castles
Decendents: Milo Goes to College
Discovery: LP
Hot Chip: Made in the Dark
Jurassic 5: Quality Control
Justice: Cross
LCD Soundsystem: This is Happening
M.I.A.: Arular
Mates of State: Re-Arrange Us
MSTRKRFT: Fist of God
NOFX: Coaster, The Longest EP
Passion Pit: Manners
Phoenix: Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix
Ratatat: LP4
Starf*cker: Jupiter
Vampire Weekend: Contra
Royksopp: The Understanding

Places that fed me:
Brugges Liege Waffles
The Park Cafe
Mazza Mediterranean
Sage Cafe
Vertical Diner
Desert Edge Pub
Sawadee
Red Iguana
Bay Leaf

Movies that blew me (mind):
True Grit
There Will be Blood
Inception
The Town
Scott Pilgrim vs the World
127 Hours
Shutter Island
Kick-Ass
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
Waiting for Superman
Black Swan
The Cove

2k10, a miracle for every man, woman, and young(wo)man

2010-12-29T14:08:00.008-07:00

For those of you who have pissed away an (but not limited to) entire year of your life reading this blog, you may recall that I dubbed 2k10 as the year of the miracle, due largely to a laundromat coin machine accidentally giving me 14 quarters instead of the customary 8 one would receive in exchange for 2 George Washingtons.

Since the end of the year is but a day away, I feel like an update as to the miraculous state of 2k10 is necessary. In reality, only one miracle I was expecting actually came to pass.

The first miracle I expected, was the acquisition of a grown up job. Not only do I not have a grown up job, but I was actually fired from the job that I had, thanks to a little fbook mishap. Turns out, after this guy
was "transfered" in lieu of a deserved firing, posting this:
was a poor life decision. Facebook privacy; too little too late. (A comment asking "what about Frank?" Frank, being the above photographed shitthead, is missing. This photo, taken from his craigslist female companionship solicitation, no less.)

So, rather than receiving the expected grown up job miracle, I took it upon myself to create my own miracle, by returning to school for a masters degree. Now I am hoping that 2k11 will be the year of the grown up job miracle.

The next miracle was that of acquiring a wife. This did not happen. I think I'm just going to go ahead an broaden my expectations for that miracle to occur sometime between 30-40. I mean, it has to. Right?

I expected that during 2k10, someone would acquire the internet nearby, and that I'd be able to steal it from them, instead of having to rely upon the laundromat, and the Salt Lake City Library Homeless Shelter for interweb browsing. I patiently waited at least 3 months for 2k10 to provide me with said miracle, but finally had to give in and pay qwest. The only bright point, is that I got to name my network "Interwebmachine3000," which is certainly the envy of all area networks.

The one miracle that actually did occur, was that 2k10 was a golden year for Javier. Nothing broke, no expensive parts failed, he only ran into the back of 1 Mercedes Benz, and killed fewer than 2 animals. I might wash him in 2k11.

I was hoping that during 2k10 the cat lady would either give up smoking or die. In that order. Neither miracle occurred, but lately she seems about as close to death as one can be, and still live alone eating enormous pizzas and drinking a 24 pack of Natty light weekly. All things are hastening her demise.

She did, however, lose Smokey the cat (to lung cancer, I suspect) a few months back. So now I only occasionally hear her yelling for 2 cats to get back in the house, instead of 3. And no more dead mice in the entry way, as apparently that was Smokey's specialty.

Even though many of the miracles I expected didn't come to pass, 2k10 was still a pretty good year. Here are some reasons:

Macbook pro
Jonathan Safran Foer
Sufjan Stevens in concert
Vancouver backpacking
2-3 times weekly summer mt. biking
10 lbs lost
10 lbs regained
Bosch mixer
The Walking Dead
Cooking skills
Summer birthday ropeswing picnic friend adventure
New nephew
New friends
A niece that loves me and can kind of say my name
3.9 in masters college
Bread baking skills
I like people I didn't used to like
Inception
Great books
Don't ask don't tell repealed
Brugges liege waffles
Park Cafe
The plant I mostly forget to water lives and thrives

So, even though every miracle I hoped for didn't come to pass, one thing is again certain; I love a lot more people this year than I did the year before. Which, I think, is the best measure of a good year.

Chrismis

2010-12-24T12:17:00.003-07:00

I miss Christmas as a kid. I miss pouring over the humongous toy catalogue that came in the mail from Toys R Us every year, trying to find the perfect Medieval Lego set priced well under $100 dollars. I miss new Nintendo systems coming out, and begging for months to have one, and never really expecting one, but then actually getting one.

I miss the futility of attempting to sleep Christmas eve, and the pre-bed negotiations about the hour in which it would be legal to arise and acquire our stockings. I feel like my parents typically acquiesced to 5 am for the stocking retrieval, and then 6 am for present time.

I miss my parents saying, throughout the entire month of December, that times were tough this year, and Christmas probably wouldn't be as good as previous years. And then Christmas always being just as good, if not better than previous years.

I miss getting the absolute shittiest of presents that my siblings purchased from the Secret Santa Workshop at school. So shitty, in fact, that I can not recall a single one. But it sure made them feel like they were able to maintain an element of surprise in their gift giving, which is most of the fun.

I miss the year that I woke up about 4 am, and decided to pass the last hour watching cartoons. My room was directly adjacent to the TV area. I surreptitiously crept out of my room, sat on the Lazy-e-boy, and turned on the cartoons, keeping the sound above barely a whisper. Within moments, most of my siblings had sensed an animated presence in the house, and had themselves materialized upon the couches surrounding me. And then my mother, sensing the un welcomed AM cartoon invasion, and the premature arousal of her children, came downstairs and thwarted our efforts at arriving at legal Christmas wake up time via a quick, Nickelodeon diversion.

I miss having unmarried siblings with nowhere else to go.

I miss telling my best friend that I found out that Santa wasn't real. And then him telling his little sister that Santa wasn't real. Then his mom bitching to my mom about her telling me, me telling him, and he telling his sister, that Santa wasn't real.

I miss Santa being real.

I miss those 25 days till Christmas calendars with the little cardboard doors with the serrated edges that hide 25 dry, nasty chocolate treats within. I miss the tole painted elf with the little wooden squares that dictated how many days till Christmas, and taking turns with my siblings, changing the number each night.

I miss John Denver and the Muppets Christmas album being a Thanksgiving-December 25 staple.

I do not miss the year that my mother made us go see Voice Male.

I think I most miss really getting into the spirit of Christmas. It is difficult to do so, I think, when one lives alone. And when one is really busy with work and school, and living alone throughout most of December.

Merry Christmas, friends. Enjoy it with people you love.

Perspective

2010-12-15T14:45:00.002-07:00

Pass it on.

A very epic maxim christmas bro!

2010-12-08T11:21:00.005-07:00

There are few things on this planet that make me feel more simultaneously baffled and happy.

I can scarce contain my childlike wonder upon imagining the douchbaggery that will be present at this party beer bonging funnels of egg nog. Dude after dude, slamming redbull after redbull, minds abuzz with copious amounts of caffeine, ginseng, and taurine, clouding all judgement and landing them in the Bishops judgement seat on Sunday morning for excessive zipper sparking.

"Dress to impress from casual to glam but don't show ur assets at this Killer Maxim Theme Holiday Mansion party!!!" What? what does that even mean? And is "Killer" part of the title? Apparently "don't show ur assets" (it is somewhat painful to even quote "ur") is a hip way to say dress code. Which seems wholly unnecessary, since this isn't Halloween, which is the only certified BYU Mormon skank holiday.

I imagine the bro writing this was constantly pumping his fist in the air, after each "sentence." I'm pretty impressed that he used the correct "their," in reference to the female glory that would be in attendance. I am, however, concerned about "You into Boys? We got some crazy ones of them too!" Avant garde sentence structure aside, this question seems to be geared toward men, and therefore gay men. I think he should have been a little more clear and said, "Yo ladiez, you into boys..." This would help stem the tide of homosexuality that will probably mistakenly descend upon the party, drink all the fruit spritzers, realize no alcohol is involved, and storm out in a flamboyant rage, leaving with half the ladies who just wanted to dance and were sick of all the attempted bro crotch grinding.

I guess when I read these sorts of things, I am amazed that EVERYONE isn't having the same incredulous/embarrassed/hilarious reaction that I am. Incredulous, because how can this guy possibly be serious? Embarrassed, because...how can this guy possibly be serious? And hilarious, because...HOW CAN THIS GUY POSSIBLY BE SERIOUS??

I guess I fail to take into account the endless droves of dudes who purchase Ed Hardy shirts, whose main goals are at least 5:1 man to babe hot tub ratios (as opposed to the usually 20:1), finding the most epic killer top 40 grinding parties, and selling enough alarm system or Direct TV accounts to score sick H2's and beamers. And the true religion donning hollister babes that are like, so into that.

THANK YOU.

Blizzard jihad

2010-11-24T11:18:00.003-07:00

Yesterday, Utah was brought to it's knees by a merciless testicle squeeze from the local weathermen and the media outlets for which they work. That was an inadvertent rhyme.

While I was hunkered down in a cold, dark basement next to a 50 gallon drum filled with wood, wadded up toilet paper, kerosene, and consequentially fire, a 72 hour kit strapped to my back, a rifle clutched in my cold, nervous hands, quick shallow breaths leaving visible evidence of my terror in the air, I thought, "maybe I'm overreacting."

As was the rest of Utah.

As I was browsing Facebook 'liking' all kinds of shit after waking up at about 11, I began to notice a lot of buzz about some blizzard that was either apparently ushering in the zombie apocalypse, or the second coming, depending upon what you believe/hope for. So I started doing some homework, and tuned into the radio. (The homework was unrelated to the radio, if that sentence confused you like it did me.)

Every few minutes, radio people were frantically updating an eager Utah about the certain death that was blowing in via Wendover. From what I could gather, by 2pm, Wendover had already been completely destroyed and had descended into anarchy. The citizenry had divided into vicious packs of survival gangs, burning all remaining tooth brushes, looting homes and businesses, and slaying local animals in order to make new clothing.

Schools everywhere were shutting down by 2pm, because a blizzard jihad was to be descending upon us within the next...4 to 5 hours. I could vividly imagine parents on a mad dash to get to school, some mom in her pink Bebe sweats in an Escalade, seat warmers cranked full blast, driving over the curb and onto the grass, running over 5 or 4 kids before skidding to a halt in front of the main entrance, rolling down the windows and screaming for her child. I imagined this sort of thing was going on at public schools all over Utah. Under slightly overcast skies. The wind seemed threatening though.

My school was the last higher learning edifice to bow to the hubris of the blizzard media. I was already at school when I found out that I was being deprived of my 3pm class. In lieu of being educated, I would have plenty of time to buy a lots of gallons of water, fruit snacks, dehydrated fruit, and jerky to get me through the impending doom. When apocalypses happen, one should be less than fickle about omnivorous responsibility. Nutrients are what's important.

I headed to Smith's to get supplies (milk, cereal, and ice cream, in reality) and there was literally no place to park. I walked into a mad house of people buying big boxes of bottled water, and tons of toilet paper. I guess I should have taken toilet paper into account; if the water system goes out, there goes my bidet. Certainly, Smith's was having record sales of flash lights and 50lb sacks of rice.

I got home, got my gun, and waited for the Jesus to come.

By about 8:30, there were a few inches of snow on the ground, and it had pretty much stopped falling out of the sky. In my frantic search throughout Smith's for 100 hour candles, I didn't consider the fact that maybe I was going to have a terrible hankering for a frozen pizza about 8:30. So, back to Smith's I went. Salt Lake City was a literal ghost town.

I went with a Di Giorno cheese stuffed crust 5 cheese pizza. And a veritable medieval broadsword of an ice scraper, as mine had broken near the end of last years snow season.

As soon as I took the first bite of the pizza, and was overwhelmed by the pungent taste of cheddar, I knew I'd made a huge mistake. I bit into the "cheese" filled crust, and my tongue was violated with none other than what seemed to be squeeze cheese out of a can. I have never wanted 5 dollars and a treacherous drive through snowy roads back so badly.

I am simply amazed by the media's power to utterly shut down the state, all because of some greenish blob on a radar screen. I will never trust reports or anarchy coming out of Wendover again.

There are some weathermen feeling very smug, or very sheepish today.

Indications

2010-11-16T21:41:00.003-07:00

I wish that notifications on facebook were called "indications," because I believe that the quantity of one's so-called notifications really indicate just how good one is at friendship. If one only has a few notifications a week, this would obviously indicate that one isn't very good at friendship. Indications.

I recently had an experience in the rain, and I'm not sure what this indicated of me.

I was in dire need of some rice paper wraps for spring rolls. I had all other necessary ingredients chopped up and ready to go, yet somehow forgot the most crucial part. I entered my car, and ventured forth into an awful deluge from the heavens. I've never owned an umbrella, despite thinking every time I have to walk anywhere in the rain, "I wish I had an umbrella. I'm going to buy one next time I am in an umbrella store."

Every time, I think this. And I never think to buy an umbrella when I'm in the umbrella store.

I tried Smith's first. They didn't carry rice paper wraps. They did carry milk, which I also remembered I needed. As I was returning to my car (still in an unbelievable downpour) I received a phone call. There was a guy waiting for me at my car (unrelated to the phone call, though the previous sentence structure indicated that he might have been). Being distracted by the rain, the phone call, and just generally not thinking clearly, I put the jug of milk in the trunk of my car, where I typically put groceries. This gave the man the opportunity to approach me.

"Hey, um, I know you are on the phone. But can I ask you something?"
"Well. Okay. I guess so. But make it quick, it's raining like hell."
"OH. Okay. Well. Um. Say, that's a nice bike rack (referring to the one on my car). I used to have a bike."
"Yeah yeah, what do you need?"
He was talking very slowly. It was raining very hard. I was losing the patience that I never really had.
"Um, well, okay. Um. I used to be in this mission, and like um they used to help me out with some different things, and um well see, the thing is..."
"What are you getting at here? Money? You want money? Are you asking me for money?"
"Um, well, see the thing..."
"Here homes, here is a dollar. God bless."

I'm not really certain what that indicated.

Upon entering my car, I consulted the God Phone, and found an Asian market nearby called Southeast Supermarket. As I approached the street upon which it was to be located, I saw on the corner, through the rain, "Southeast Supermarket" in green letters on the front of the building. So I pulled in the parking lot, parked my car, finished my previous conversation, and re-entered the rain. There were a few "hipster" looking kids sitting at a table under the roof awning, barely out of the downpour.
"WTF are there hipster kids hanging outside an Asian supermarket in the pouring rain?"

As I approached the doors, I could see through the wall of windows lots of little tables inside, and lots of bags of coffee on shelves along the wall. "What the? Did they put a coffee shop in the Asian market? Where the hell am I?"

So I backed up to look at the "Southeast Supermarket" sign, and it turned out to say "Salt Lake's Finest." Somehow, between the S in Salt lake, and the est in Finest, my mind constructed Southeast Supermarket.

This would indicate that I'm blind AND stupid.

One more slice of faith in humanity lost

2010-11-11T22:40:00.004-07:00

Today in my iGoogle page, the top "news story of interest" was about Lil' Wayne, a rapper who is actually (physically, anyway) a grown man, despite the confusing nature of the adjective antecedent to his name. (I realize most of you know precisely who he is; however. this blog is confoundingly prolific when it comes to acquiring mom-aged readers, and therefore Lil' Wayne may not be recognized with absolute ubiquity.)

This "top story" indicated that Lil' Wayne was worried that he might have some imminent legal trouble brewing from a woman claiming to have produced a fifth illegitimate child. The previous 4 were all with different women, 2 of which were born about 2 months apart. Classy.

How does this happen more than once, let alone 4 times? He certainly can't blame Catholicism, Mormonisim, Utah public education, nor extreme right wing Christianity for that level of contraceptive ignorance. He is apparently finding out the hard way that a girl-on-top can still get pregnant. Someone needs to clue him in. Although, making a gazillion dollars a year probably makes one less worried about child support bills, and therefore contraceptive measures. I don't even want to imagine the WayneTD's that guy is farming out.

Behold, your role model.

The glories of technology

2010-11-07T21:43:00.003-07:00

For my teaching and technology class, we have this book that is apparently sort of a didactic joke. So our blessed teacher decided that it would be more helpful if we each picked a chapter, gleaned the most important points, and posted them to a Westminster wiki for reference purposes.

I realize that this may be funny only to me, but this was the result of that assignment. I might fail. It's hard to know.

For those who may not know, I am attempting to accrue massive debt amounts for a masters at teaching, in order to acquire a modest pay track bump, and to have the ability to look upon fellow inferior bachelors degree teachers with at least a minimal amount of credible disdain.

I spent at least 8 or 7 times as much time doing this assignment as what would have been the case had I not done it in such a ridiculous fashion, so I post this here with hopes that I didn't waste that much time so between 7 and 4 people would read it. Nay, I am hoping to double, possibly triple that number.

Anyways. Enjoy, or don't.

The National Council for Accreditation of Teacher Education (NCATE) has created a base of standards for schools which basically state that all teachers must: understand diversity; teach lessons that incorporate diversity; connect instruction to students experiences and cultures; be culturally sensitive and sensitive to gender; classroom equity.

This chapter focuses on how to accomplish this with the glorious blessings of technology.

Technology is a means by which students who suffer with disabilities can express themselves and participate in classroom experiences and assignments when they otherwise may not have been able to do so. Technology can provide voice for those who can not speak, mobility for those who can not move, and many other glorious possibilities.

Students with disabilities such as cerebral palsy, who may lack the ability to manipulate a writing device, can use technology to veritably negate the rather antiquated craft of writing with one's hand.

Other students with disabilities, while having the ability to participate in activities such as brainstorming, may often write illegibly, and therefore find frustration upon attempting to read what they have written. Word processing programs may excoriate unnecessary frustrations from the learning process.

Word prediction software may also be used to promote writing victories for students who struggle with typing speed. After the first few keystrokes, the supercomputer software program divines the most likely word, thus increasing speed and spelling accuracy.

Custom dictionaries are also a superglorious function of some word processing programs. If, for instance, a student is writing with much frequency about a Scutellosaurus, which is an absurdly long and tedious word to write with multiplicity, the custom dictionary can learn this word, and insert it upon request. Also, the custom dictionary allows one to write such seemingly made up words with spell checker impunity. This causes the spell checker to seem less supercilious and fickle, and eliminates red underline ubiquity.

Talking spell checkers, besides being a valuable source of robotic companionship, allow students to make spelling selections based upon a phonetic suggestion, which is at times helpful when writing in this grammatically and vernacularly nonsensical language we call "English."

While these technologies may be invaluable tools in a teacher's digital tool belt, it is imperative that these tools not become as a prosthesis--a new limb, as it were, replacing the old worn out limb of "teaching." While the talking spell checker may be an admirable tool, it should not take the place of regular instruction. Tenure does not give the teacher permission to acquiesce control of the class to the talking spell checker.

Reading is another area of learning where technology has abundantly bequeathed upon teachers many invaluable resources. A High interest-lowlevel book, rather than simply converting text to sound in a dreadfully androgynous voice, dramatizes text with character voice distinction, thus creating an entertaining dramatization that is deceptively educational.

Scan/read systems, seemingly developed by mighty Zeus himself, allow users to scan any text existing upon planet earth, which is then (possibly via divine intervention, or extra terrestrial technology) converted into auditory output. As the mighty computer utters the text, the corresponding words are highlighted upon a screen, bestowing upon the reader an auditory/visual experience, unsurpassed by any Veggie Tales in existence.

Teachers who are lacking in skills of proper auditory projection may use Assistive listening devices in order to be heard and enjoyed by all students. Poor acoustics and quiet demeanors are no match for a personal amplification system, worn by students as earbuds. Sound amplification systems (external speaker systems), while also opening up the possibility of holding a successful Megadeath concert in the classroom, also create an environment where even the most soft-spoken teacher may never fear miscommunication, nor development of a hoarse voice from incessant yelling. However, with Sound amplification systems, one must be wary of profane utterances muttered under one's breath at every moment.

Expanded keyboards, mini-keyboards, and customizable keyboards, rather than referring to varying models of Casio music devices, are distinct typing units that exist to help students with various word processing needs. For students with limited range of motion, mini-keyboards may be of more practical use than a full sized keyboard. For those who struggle with precision, expanded keyboards may be the "cats pajamas," as it were.

Students gifted with minds immeasurably greater than those of average mortals, may also be blessed though educational technology. Rather than wallowing about in irrelevant, simplistic curriculum, they may use the "internet" to delve into more advanced realms of knowledge, not heretofore known in the public school system.

Technology, we must not fear. Educational technology is the door through which all students should pass, receiving a complementary gift bag of relevant technology, and bumper stickers with intelligent slogans on the way in. Why stand by, O fellow teachers, and let the technological fear train pass by, on tracks of digital wonder and achievement? Nay, let us employ all technological gifts imparted upon us as if from on high, that we may help--nay--usher our students into a new world order of quality, effective public education.

I'm sorry. This was self indulgent.

All things go...except me sometimes

2010-11-02T12:27:00.001-06:00

There is a bathroom related mental disorder that I think is pretty universally referred to as “stage fright.” It seems that the extent to which people suffer from this affliction varies in degrees of intensity. Essentially, stage fright means that one is rendered unable to urinate when in the immediate vicinity of others. For some, a relatively small buffer zone between oneself and another fellow urinator is needed−perhaps a thin protective physical barrier between 2 urinals is sufficient. Or maybe, in a situation where multiple urinals line a wall, if the urinators are staggered by intervening empty urinals, bladder evacuation may successfully occur.

I once knew a guy that couldn’t even make it happen if there were someone else anywhere in the entire bathroom. On an 9 hour plane ride down to Argentina, he was unable to urinate the entire time. That guy was severely disabled.

If my bladder is above the 50% capacity threshold, I can typically successfully go, regardless of the bathroom occupancy/urinal layout situation. Below 50%, it gets iffy.

I don’t really understand the mechanics of the disorder. I don’t think it has anything to do with shame, or embarrassment−I suffer from neither. Basically, the feeling is thus; when I peel open my pants and get down to business in front of a urinal, if there is somebody really close by, the pressure, or physical urge to urinate depletes by about 50%. So, if I was at the 75% threshold, it diminishes to about 25%, and evacuation can be successful. However, if I am at like 35%, and just trying to avoid having to eventually be uncomfortable in a movie...I guess I’m probably going to end up uncomfortable during the movie.

It is an awkward feeling, standing there, sandwiched between 2 pissing dudes, and being unable to make it happen. On the rare occasion that this occurs, I feel like an explanation is probably necessary. Like I need to tell these dudes why I seem to be just hanging out in front of the urinal, instead of doing anything practical.

“Really guys, I’m not just hanging out here, hoping to catch a peripheral view of your genitals, sizable and impressive though they may be. I just can’t piss. Seriously.”

Plus, if one is standing there in a busy bathroom, while 2-3 people cycle through on either side, in my mind, it starts to look really suspect. Or at least I think that people are thinking that I am looking really suspect. Honestly, I doubt anyone is even paying attention. But these thoughts probably add to the mental urination block.

Last night, I was at Kingsbury Hall at the Sufjan Stevens concert. I don’t have words for how gloriously, spectacularly, wonderfully beautiful that experience was.

I decided, previous to Sufjan taking the stage, that I didn’t want to wish at any point during his set that I had urinated. I was only at about 25%. But I didn’t want that, over the ensuing 2.5 hours, to rise above 50%. So, I ventured down the the bathroom.

There was a line of about 10-15 urinals along the wall, all but one of them occupied. They were pretty damn close together, those urinals; broad shouldered men would be pret-ty cozy. I moved into the unoccupied urinal space. I tried to think watery thoughts, and to imagine I wasn’t practically bumping elbows with 2 other guys with exposed genitals.

At 25%, I didn’t stand a chance.

I glanced over my shoulder, and there were about 4 dudes waiting to fill in any vacancies. Double the pressure. “Common little guy, I can’t just keep standing here. It is getting awkward,” I told it. The guy on the right finished, flushed, and left.

Dammit.

A new guy cycled in. Finally, after another excruciatingly long 20 or so seconds, I decided it was time to give up. But I was also torn about what to do. I felt like I needed to say something, explain my failure. Explain that I wasn’t really just a penis spy. I did have to pee. Just not quite enough. I decided it was time to try something different, something other than just slinking away in shame.

I sighed. “Too much pressure. Can’t do it.”

The guy to my right absolutely cracked up. “Too much pressure. Oh man, that’s funny.” I zipped up, and walked away, dignity somewhat in tact.

In the restroom, honestly, apparently, is the best policy.

A good night for a fight

2010-10-28T19:51:00.005-06:00

I've been thinking about fighting a lot lately. How fighting is such a meaningful activity, and how I'm really sorry I have been mostly deprived of the experience of feeling my fists pummel a kids face, or having the wind forced from my lungs by the knee of an opponent. Obviously, there is something really really great about fighting. I'm just not entirely sure what it is.

I think I have been sort of a coward for a lot of my life. I've never been a big fan of confrontation, which unfortunately happens to be an integral part of the fighting experience. I just don't get riled to the point where I think the only answer is to deal pains and injuries and bruises with my fists. I am typically okay with the idea of dealing out verbal mockery, and shaming a person into submission, rather than hitting.

I think, over the last several years, I have been under the influence of the thought that "I'm an adult, and it sure is embarrassing when adults fight." But secretly, whenever I am with a friend who I know beyond a doubt could protect me from just about anyone, I always secretly want someone to pick a fight with us. Then I could participate, but not be counted upon to deal the major damage. But it never happens.
In fact, I have only been in four fights in my entire life, three of which occurred in the second grade. There was this kid named Chad. He had some older friends who were coaxing him into battling me. He then attempted to punch me in the face. I ducked, quick as a quail, and followed with a few feeble pops to his cheeks/forehead. At which point, he crumpled to the earth and yelled that he had had enough. This happened thrice, and, feeling rather full of myself, I told my mother that I was sick of beating him up. We had a nice pow wow with my teacher, and all anger issues were resolved. Really, I should have continued kicking his ass every day for as long as possible, as the next time I would fight, I would take a rather stellar beating.

As soon as Wesley’s fist met my upper cheek/eye, and the back of my head consequentially slammed into the locker, I knew that not running away had been a poor life decision. Again, this fight had been utterly pointless, and caused by older guys putting him up to it. For like, three weeks he had been asking me when we were going to fight. And, for three weeks, I had managed to avoid the conflict. I had begun to carry around a small Old Timer knife, under the delusion that I would just pull it out and threaten to cut his head off if he managed to get me cornered. For some reason, things just never quite play out as you expect. Especially involving knives and threatening to cut someone’s head off.

“So, we gonna fight today Fish?” I was getting sick of that question. “Hold on. Let me put my bag in my locker.” At least he was a gentleman about it. As I slowly entered in the combination, I realized in horror that I had forgotten my blade. So much for threatening to decapitate him. I threw my bag in the locker, and turned around. About twenty people had gathered. Heart in my throat, I sort of squared up and put my fists about chest level, as the “Kick his ass Wesley!” chants began. And then my neck was snapping back, and I was wondering whether I could get away with punching him in the dick. After two or three more well placed blows to my facial region, I sort of flailed my arms at his face in a desperate attempt to inflict come sort of damage. I think I slapped him in the ear. He then proceeded to pummel me twice more, and then a teacher walked around the corner. At that point, everyone dispersed, and I reopened my locker. I did a pretty good job of holding it together until I entered the locker room and cried like a baby bitch. It was my pride more than anything that had been wounded.

So since that time, I have been very hesitant to re-enter the world of fighting. I just remember thinking, as fist met cheek bone, "Holy shit. So that's what this feels like. This is about 75% worse than I expected."

I thought I came close recently. I was with a friend late in the eve in the Beto's drive-thru line. The line seemed forever long, and I needed to urinate. So I decided to exit the vehicle, run around the corner in an apartment complex parking lot, and piss on a wall. Upon rounding the corner, and undoing my belt and unzipping my pants, I noticed a guy walking out of a parking garage in my direction. There was an alley way about 10 yards away from me, so I jogged over to it.

Upon entering said alley, the guy yells, "Hey! What are you doing!"

I yelled, "Is there a problem?"

He yelled back, "What are you doing back there?"

I thought, is this my chance? Will this turn into a fight? Am I willing to push his buttons over a great place to urinate? Do I really want to fight with a full bladder? What if I get punched in the lower abdomen, and I pee?

I decided to push a tiny button. "What the hell is the problem?"

"I'm a deputy sheriff."

"Oh." Whoops.

So I walked over, and he asked what I was doing back there. I said, "Well, honestly, I was looking for a place to piss. Seemed like a good idea at the time."

He said, "Oh. Well. People are back there some times. I'm really tired, I've been working 72 hours."

I said, "Oh. I just need to pee."

He said, "Well, if you go back around over there, there are some rocks. You can pee back there."

"Thanks deputy."

I'm glad we didn't fight, because the reality is, I'd have probably ended up with a couple of black eyes and pants soaked in urine.

Great ideas

2010-10-24T12:50:00.005-06:00

I've spent a lot of time lately thinking about things that land people in really unfortunate life situations. Or how those situations and lifestyles are perpetuated.

The more I study, the more I realize that poverty begets poverty. If one's parents are poor and uneducated, it is often likely, without the intervention of a good school and quality teachers and parental pushing in an education oriented direction, that one will also end up poor and uneducated.

Hence, places like the projects exist. Neighborhoods in Harlem and the Bronx, and in every major city churn out generation after generation of impoverished people. White and black. Immigrants and natives. People with similar brain capacity, but dissimilar life opportunities. Contrary to antiquated belief (and still some right-wing-ultra-conservative-belief) stupidity and ignorance aren't hereditary, strictly speaking (obviously I am not talking about hereditary mental illness, or other disabilities caused by biology or genetics, nor did I mean to just call people with mental illness stupid...you get what I mean).

Here are a couple of things that I don't understand.

I get that sometimes kids are going to school, and what they are being taught seems pretty irrelevant. They feel like teachers don't care about them. That school is hard. They are falling and staying behind. The thing I don't quite understand, however, is at what point it ever seems like the best idea to just quit. How the most logical thing becomes dropping out.

"I think its time to really take charge of my life and quit school forever. Education? Get real. Fast food is where it's at. Americans are only getting fatter, and therefore I shall be entering a solid industry, with plenty of room for growth, and spectacular job security."

I mean, there are many schools in the country that have drop out rates of 50% or higher. Which means, there are millions of kids who somehow think that quitting school is a good life decision. Which I find wholly baffling. Perhaps, I simply have forgotten about the severe irrationality of youth.

I forget that I EVER thought it was a good idea to wear studded belts and army cargo pants. I remember convincing myself that science was bullshit, and that math was the PURE science (slightly ironic, since I can't even remember how to do long devision, and simple algorithms totally befuddle my mind). Because how did I know scientists weren't all liars? (the obvious irrationality of that thought does not escape me). Like take a nucleus for example. If scientists had never before seen a nucleus, maybe it wasn't real. I realize now that it was entirely possible that scientists had actually seen a nucleus, but my rural education misinformed me.

I actually still don't know if scientists have ever seen a nucleus. Thanks, college.

I am the American science/math failing statistic.

I understand that kids drop out for lots of reasons: the family needs more income, pregnancy, drug habits, drug selling incentives, and whatever. Anywhere from 8-10% of high school students drop out per year.

The other, I suppose somewhat related thing that I wonder about, is hardcore drug abuse. Such as meth. Or heroin. How exactly does ANYBODY ever even try that stuff? At what point does one think, "You know what? I think I'm just going to go ahead and give meth a shot. I've certainly heard a lot of success stories surrounding meth, I hate my teeth and wish they were rotten, I enjoy open sores, and I'm really ready for the emaciated look."

NOBODY doesn't know that meth way sucks. I mean, I understand kids giving weed, psychedelic drugs, and even coke a shot. But man. Meth. That doesn't ever turn out well for anyone. Designer drugs can be passed off as glamourous. Just look at Lindsay Lohan and the Olsen twins. But do a quick image search of "meth addict," and "coke addict," and you get very different results (please, PLEASE don't take this as me giving coke the thumbs up. Just saying that I slightly understand people doing coke, whereas meth just blows my mind). I realize that most people probably aren't starting with hardcore drugs. Obviously. And that people are seeking the most intense, cheapest high possible. But meth?

I guess every now and then I consider removing the breaks from my mountain bike, and bombing the steepest, fastest hill I can find. Which I guess is sort of like meth. And I suppose thinking about throwing my $3k mt bike off of a cliff, and buying a Walmart Schwinn is about like quitting school.

Never mind. I get it.

Merely animals

2010-10-19T19:32:00.007-06:00

I think nature is beautiful.

I am bothered by how we treat some things in nature, specifically animals. I have written before about my thoughts on zoos. I recently went to the aquarium in Sandy with my family. Little fish in big tanks, I don't so much care about. However, a 20 foot long, 10 foot wide, 1.5 feet deep figure 8 shaped pool full of stingrays sure did bother me. Why do they have to be in there? So a bunch of fat Americans can shove their fat hands in the water and poke them? Why does ANYBODY need to be able to poke a stingray? It seems wrong.

In the age of high definition television and the existence of Planet Earth, I think we need not keep creatures in absurdly small cages in order to be able to have a "real life, animal experience." Well, it really isn't a real life, animal experience, because they aren't real wild animals anymore.

That, however, isn't what this is about.

Let me preface this with the idea that I don't, on some levels, have a problem with hunting. For instance, because we, as stewards of planet earth (and in this instance, the west) have basically eradicated wolves and many of the other large predators that historically kept deer populations in check, we now have the responsibility to maintain those populations, in order to avoid mass starvation and disease epidemics.

I also am much more okay with a deer or an elk living out its existence in the mountains, or wherever, and then being hunted and eaten by people, than the so-called living done by animals in factory farms previous to slaughter.

I noticed a friend had changed his facebook profile picture to one of him with a slain elk. Turns out, this photo had been uploaded to an fbook site for a bullet company. Upon clicking though some of the pictures, I was astounded by (and reminded of) the absolutely alien, completely unrelatable world in which rednecks dwell. The completely senseless nature of the killing that is applauded in the world of bad grammar, camouflage hunting brand hats, and humongous trucks.

For whatever reason, on planet redneck, small creatures are of little worth, beyond providing "fun" target practice. Even more disturbing than this photo, were the comments included therewith.
Kyle: "Yeeessssss I love it...lol"
Seriously? Kyle loves this? And is loling? Wtf is the matter with this guy/people? Why is blowing the guts out of a fat prairie dog funny, or thrilling, or awesome to anyone? On a similarly grotesque photo of another prairie dog's bullet induced visceral explosion were some other comments that really built my faith in humanity. Not only did 3 people "like" the photo, but Roger said: "Never knew what hit him ! lol" Again, the loling. One can not help but wonder what sort of chemical brain imbalance is required to induce maniacal laughter at the sight of a marmot that has been eviscerated by a bullet.

Pretty damned funny, don't you think?

Then there was this: Why does anybody have to kill one of these? Have you ever seen a mountain goat in the wild? They are unbelievably beautiful, and it is an amazing thing to watch one climb up the most impossibly steep terrain. From where does the need to destroy beauty stem? This mountain goat, stuffed with whatever the hell taxidermists stuff dead creatures with, set upon a fake mountain in a hunting store, or in some guy's office, or its head on some wall, will never come even close to invoking the feelings of awe that encountering one alive in the wild would.

Nobody is eating a tough old mountain goat, so don't try to use that as an excuse.

Lastly, why does anyone need to kill this? 2 of the comments that went along with the picture were the most bothersome:
Lane: "Well that is one beautiful bull. The trophy of a lifetime! Congratulations."
Ken: "WOW Beautiful animal You better have high ceilings to mount that guy on the wall."
That this bull's head is going to end up on some redneck's wall is nothing short of a tragedy. Ken and Lane were right. It WAS a beautiful creature. The trophy of a lifetime. But for what point? So Mr. Redneck can feel good about the size of his package every time he enters into the room and stares that bull in its dead, glass eyes? So that he can prove to all who see it that he was man enough to shoot it, rip out its guts, and cut off its head?

My father has no animal heads on his wall, nor has he ever slain a "trophy." He is certainly no less a man for it.

Killing for the sake of killing just seems wrong, even if they are merely animals. When one shoots marmots, or rabbits, or other small creatures that one is not going to eat (which is most small creatures) one is killing because one enjoys killing.

When one kills a large, inedible creature because one desires for said creature to adorn one's wall, one is killing because one enjoys killing. One is creating a monument to killing for sport.

That. Is. Wrong.

Showering with strangers

2010-10-12T01:03:00.006-06:00

I think that there is either a creature, or a homeless man/woman that lives in the crawlspace of my house.

When turning on the shower, not much is worse than, upon turning the water knobs, getting shot on the crown of the head with an unexpected, cold shot of water. So extremely unpleasant. In order to avoid this reoccurring scenario, I always make certain I turn off the middle "shower activation knob" when I end the bodily cleansing process. I swear I always do it. I hate the cold-water-head-shot that much.

What I think is happening, is the homeless person/creature living in my crawlspace is coming out when I am gone, and using my shower. Which seems a little antithetical to the nature of a homeless person. I'd have expected he/she/it to consume my foods and maybe sell my clothing now and then. But apparently this is a clean homeless being. Although, if this being is dwelling in my crawlspace, technically it isn't homeless.

I really am bothered by this.

One time I think homeless being got careless, and turned off some lights while I was in the bathroom showering. I suppose it might have been in anger or frustration. Maybe there was a homeless ball, or some other such homeless activity that homeless being was attempting to attend, and he/she/it needed a shower, but was unable to since I was showering. It was an eerie feeling, opening the bathroom door to unexpected darkness. I'd be okay with this parasitic relationship if homeless being would simply remember to turn off the middle knob, because it sure as hell isn't me forgetting.

I google image searched "homeless shower creature," to try to get an idea of what I might be dealing with. I thought these were the 2 most likely and relevant results.

If it be the former, I'm probably going to let the issue slide. However, if it be the latter, I'm kicking Zac Efron's ass if I suffer another cold head squirt. I'm pretty sure I could.

I hope my towel isn't being used.

Beware the walmart nip slip

2010-10-08T14:36:00.005-06:00

Why does choosing a toothpaste have to be such a complicated, difficult decision? The situation is infinitely worse when you hate most flavors of mint. Which I do. I'd rather get karate chopped in the throat than put a hard candy mint in my mouth. The only mint flavors I like are spearmint (some, in gum form) and wintergreen (all, in every form). Toothpaste does not exist in the former, that I have ever seen, and I have only ever found one paste in the latter. Crest has a whitening expressions wintergreen flavor. The problem--it exists only at Walmart.

I'd rather get karate chopped in the throat by a leper than go to Walmart.

Walmart may be one of the most depressing places on the planet, next to a dog pound, or maybe an orphanage that got half burnt down, so some of the kids have to sleep in the kitchen, or in the game room that has actually zero games. Maybe just like one edition of Candy Land, but most of the cards are missing, and 2 of the corners are chewed off.

Every time I go to Walmart, its like a pall of sadness descends upon me. Like I see the guy with the ultra-massive baggy jeans, a mesh top shirt, black fingernails, various hooks and chains connecting straps to other hooks or chains, super long greasy hair, neck tats and eye makeup, and for one second my heart is warmed. Because who the hell else would hire this guy? But then I get immediately depressed again, because how could they hire this guy?

As I find myself glad that goth guy's mesh shirt nipples are ate least barely covered by his blue vest, I am immediately depressed by all of the basically immobile folks hauling way too much ass around on the motorized carts, packing the baskets with frozen corn dogs and hostess cakes. I'm bummed out by the path they have taken (whether pushed onto, or voluntary) that has brought them to the motorized-cart-transfat-processed-food-Walmart-run. And I want to teach kids to avoid that path like maybe they should avoid goth guy. And then the philosophical, multicultural, supposed-to-be-non-biased teacher guy in me feels bad for thinking that.
But then I recall the time when I saw goth guy in line at the self checkout at Smith's, and heard him on the phone telling his friend how interested he was in serial killers and Charles Manson.

Kids should definitely avoid goth guy.

All of that, just for a tube of toothpaste.

This morning I squeezed the very last vestiges of the wintergreen toothpaste from the tube. Not one more iota of paste was left. I'd been putting off this trip for days. On my way to Walmart, I passed by Super Target, and suddenly remembered that Super Target existed, and also remembered that Super Target is at least 100% less depressing and 175% cleaner than Walmart. The risk, however, was whether or not they would have wintergreen toothpaste. I decided to risk it. No leprous drop kick to the chest for me today.

Once I finally navigated myself to the toothpaste aisle, I tried to make sense of the 400 different options available. One thing was immediately clear--no wintergreen. DAMMIT.

This is where it gets hard. HTF am I supposed to know which will be the least nasty mint? There are about 90 different flavors that end in mint, each flavor as arbitrarily nondescript as the next: smooth mint, radiant mint, long lasting mint, clean mint, fresh clean mint, extreme herbal mint, minty fresh mint, cool mint, refreshing mint. What a bullshit marketing strategy. They probably all taste roughly the same, yet pricing is slightly different all around. Plus, they all claim to serve differing functions. One is tartar control, another is cavity control. Why the hell can't tartar control AND cavity control be combined, along with super whitening power, and enamel booster, to create one hell of a super paste? It's all a gimmick.

The only mints with which I am immediately familiar, are ones that actually have names that refer to something specific--spearmint, and wintergreen. EVERYBODY knows what those taste like, but I'll be damned if most people are aware of the subtle differences between radiant and clean mint.

The only other flavor I could recall being somewhat able to stand was "regular paste." I swear they try to make you feel bad for buying the cheapest tube of toothpaste by calling it "regular paste." In fact, they probably add sugar to it as a punishment for not spending the extra 43 cents to get minty fresh mint. Or maybe sand. Maybe they should call it "sucker paste."

Pro-life vegan athiest

2010-10-01T14:16:00.002-06:00

I have a friend who doesn't believe in God. Which doesn't make me sad, because this person isn't sad. Or lost. Or a bad person. I find the more I learn about what other people believe, the less I believe that my faith has any sort of a monopoly on happiness. In fact, I don't believe that in the slightest.

I believe that the ability to find happiness doesn't come from any singular source, that people can choose to be happy and good, whatever their state may be. Whether it is Mormonism, Catholicism, Islam, or cooking Liege waffles that makes you happy, that is your prerogative. It isn't my place to tell you what is valid. There are certainly things that inherently bring unhappiness, but I'm not going into that.

Christians may argue that the source of all happiness is God, or Christ. Which is fine, and doesn't disprove what I am saying in the least bit. If all happiness comes from God, (Christian God) then the happiness that people of different faiths (or no faith) feel ultimately comes from that source--but it is just simply labeled differently. Still, it boils down to a choice.

As I was thinking about this friend's non-belief in a God, some interesting philosophical questions cropped up in my mind concerning atheism. First, concerning abortion. It would seem to me that a person who believed that there was no God, and that there was no life after this one should be strongly opposed to abortion. If, when we die, we really really die, then any sort of practice that prematurely ends the life of another human should be looked upon with the greatest of abhorrence.

In the case of abortion, the possibility of existence would be completely and utterly canceled. I think that with a pre-life/post-life paradigm, it is possible to think that, if an abortion takes place, whatever God in which one believes could potentially "replant," for lack of a better word, the aborted spirit or soul elsewhere. Or, barring that, at least there is an afterlife. Existence isn't destroyed, merely postponed. Or shifted.

I also think that an atheist could conscionably be nothing but a vegan. The same idea applies--if there is only one existence, how could someone in good conscience unnecessarily cause the death of a living thing? Some may argue that an atheist has no conscience because an atheist, lacking a God and potential judgement, has no motivation to be a "good person." Which is totally bogus. It is a sad concept, thinking that people are only good because of a fear of God. People should be good, because being good is the right thing to do. Because being good makes one feel good.

Now, I realize that "being good" is somewhat relative. "Being good" means different things to different people. But I think that most, regardless of [no] faith can agree on a basic concept of goodness.

I realize this post doesn't flow with the regular tone of this blog, but I'd like to know what other people think about this.

Roasted

2010-09-24T18:11:00.003-06:00

This was GLORIOUS.

Almost as hilarious as the statement itself, is the response of all of the conservative pundits, i.e. Beck et al. They are all raving that this was some huge mockery of the system, that Colbert was making light of the very important immigration issue, and WTF were the democrats thinking?

First of all, if you/they listened to that and only saw a comedian making light of the immigration problem, I'm sorry that satire completely escapes you. And you are WRONG.

Secondly, if all you heard was Colbert making a mockery of the system...then you were SPOT ON. I think he very poignantly illustrated the fact that the system is a complete joke. That nothing gets done. The conservatives are all pist at the democrats for having him, but he made the democrats LOOK STUPID. A.) For inviting a comedian as brilliant as Colbert to speak to congress, and thinking that he was going to do ANYTHING but exactly what he did. B.) He flat out made fun of them. To their faces. And C.) he highlighted the ineptitude of Congress, which is chiefly run by democrats. Republicans, you should be smiling.

Except for, of course, the fact that he made you look stupid as well.

The point is, even though it was a joke, he made a very simple point. Nobody works together, nobody gets anything done. Picking beans and cherries sucks. The immigration issue is difficult and serious, and it is going to take some real live decision making to fix this issue--something our congress seems a bit incapable of doing. Perhaps they needed a public roasting to prod them into action.

Rather than doing this on his show, he did this to their FACES. I hope there were a lot of sweaty collars in that stuffy little room, because Steven Colbert punked them all.

Accidentally inappropriate shower songs

2010-09-14T14:24:00.004-06:00

Turns out when you don't bike for almost 2 weeks, but instead train for employment at an italian restaurant, and eat massive amounts of pasta and cheese, it doesn't just end up being 2 weeks of carbo-loading, preparing you for the ride of your life. Rather, you gain about 5 lbs, and sweat and wheeze up the hill like it was the beginning of the season. Or something like it.

During the post sweat to death shower, for some reason I got the song "Beat It," by Michael Jackson stuck in my head. Upon writing that, and thinking about what I just wrote, I realize that the previous sentence inadvertently sounds REALLY SUSPECT. Honestly, just a coincidence.

Eventually, that song morphed into the Weird Al Yankovic parody "Eat it." Which unfortunately happens to songs, when there exists a Weird Al version that I listened to in my youth. And also, because I don't really know the words to Beat it. But I'll be damned if I don't know just about every line to Eat It.

There was always this one line in Eat It that I was unsure of. It went: "Your table manners are a crying shame, you're playing with your food is this some kind of game? Now if you start to dance, you'll just have yourself to blame so eat it." I never really knew what he was saying there, but it sounded like "now if you start to dance," which makes not one bit of sense. But for years, that's what it was in my mind.

Until I was standing in the shower, fairly annoyed that such a stupid song was going through my head. Upon arriving at that line, I stopped scrubbing my arm pits and thought about it. "Now...if...you...start...to...dance..." And then it clicked. After 20 years, it finally clicked. "Now if you STARVE to death."

Stupid.

Sometimes, when I get a song in my head and I don't really know the words, my mind just makes some up. Like the song, "Baby Come Back." The part where it says, "Baby come back, you can blame it all on me," for some weird reason becomes "Baby Tourettes, don't you blame your shit on me."

No idea why. But I'm not mad that it happens.

Throwing things a little kids

2010-09-09T22:49:00.005-06:00

For college today, I had to go to this place in Liberty Park called Youth City. It is an after school program for kids whose parents want to conveniently get rid of them for 3 hours after school, racking up a grand total of 9 or 10 hours of kid free time on a school day. Smart parents. A far cry better than letting them be latch key kids, that's for damn sure.

Anyways, after 2 hours of orientations and whatnot, we all went outside to play some dodgeball hybrid, involving different colored balls, which accomplished different things. I was somewhat hesitant at first, because I wasn't really in the mood to run around with a bunch of kids 8-14, throwing balls around. Plus, I felt like maybe I would feel weird throwing balls at kids half my size, and (for some) 1/3 my age (shit.)

However, as the team captains were picked, something happened to me that never before happened in my life. I was picked first. Granted, I was a pretty damn obvious choice for a first pick, being the second hugest male there. But nonetheless, I went from being mostly indifferent, to very invested in who we were going to be picking for the rest of our team mates.

"No, June, don't pick him. He looks weak."

"Seriously June? Roger? You picked Roger? Did you not notice that he is slightly favoring his right leg? What happens when he can't pivot to avoid a grenade throw? Then what? Well, I'll tell you then what. Roger, his game leg, AND whomever is standing closest to him--gone. Dammit June, use your head."

For whatever reason, as soon as we started playing, I immediately snapped into "way serious dodgeball mode." A mode I wasn't previously aware that I had. I was entranced. Thoroughly invested. I was all over the field, blocking throws from weak arms with a ball in one hand, and then creaming the thrower with the ball from the other hand. Heads, bodies, arms, legs, stomachs. I can't aim worth a damn, so I hit whatever I could. I was ruthless. Effective. Deadly.

I think it finally dawned on me that I was being totally ridiculous when I drilled a kid right in the crotch with a mustard gas ball, and he curled up in the fetal position on the grass for 3 minutes. I think in the end, we both thought it was a pretty good joke.

Turns out, my team kinda sucked. When it came down to me and about 3 other kids, I let my guard down and got pegged right in the eyeball. I sat on the grass in shame, hoping someone would catch the purple ball so I could reenter the game. I tried to sneak back in unnoticed, but some 9 year old called me out.

Ultimately, my team lost. But I'll be damned if it was my fault. It was ROGER'S fault. He was the weak link. I told June. But she didn't listen.

And that, I think, was the lesson we were supposed to learn. Your war ball team is only as strong as your weakest Roger. So don't pick Roger.

Give the guy a break

2010-09-06T22:46:00.004-06:00

Somehow, for the first time in the history of my life, I have managed to avoid acquiring even one mosquito bite this entire summer. Not ONE. It isn't that I have been lazy, or stayed indoors. Quite the contrary; I have been backpacking, camping, mountain biking multiple times per week, running, trail running, rope swinging, pond swimming, lake Powell dwelling, bicycle riding, summer sun laying, lawn mowing, bbqing, motorcycle riding, and many other things. Much of my time out doors was spent shirtless, in shorts that hit the mid thigh at best, leaving ample tracts of skin from which mosquitos could harvest vast troves of blood.

The truth is, I really haven't seen or noticed many mosquitos this year. And I'm going to go ahead and thank Global Warming for that.

I feel like global warming gets a way bad wrap, ALL THE TIME. I mean, he (we're going to go ahead and refer to Global Warming as a he, since mother nature gets to be a she) catches all kinds of shit for melting ice bergs, polar bears drowning, crying baby penguins, super intense hurricanes, massive floods, and extra sweaty fat people. He even gets blamed for things which contradict each other, like unseasonable heat, or record breaking cold, flood causing precipitation, or drought induced fires. Negative negative negative. How would you feel if you were global warming, and because mother nature bitched and moaned in front of the right people, Al Gore came and took your kids away?

Well global warming, whichever unseasonable, and contradictory phenomena caused there to be seemingly fewer mosquitos, and thereby made it possible for me to go through an entire summer without one single itchy lump on my skin--thanks for that. You are doing a bang up job.

Squirrel killer

2010-09-03T18:05:00.004-06:00

Yesterday, I murdered a squirrel. Also, just now, it took me about 7 tries, and finally giving up and control-clicking the word to actually be able to spell squirrel. It started with squirell, and went to squiril, and up to 5 other moronic renditions including, but not limited to squrill, and squirril.

Anyways.

It was totally an accident, but I felt, on a scale from 1 to I-just-lied-to-my-grandmother-and-called-her-a-whore guilty, probably around a 5. It was weird, because my friend and I had been having conversations about squirrels earlier. It's like our topic of conversation was a mental tractor beam that just drew that little guy right in.

While driving up the canyon to go mountain biking, I was noticing an inordinate amount of squirrel activity. Like, they were running all over the place. I mentioned out loud to my friend, "There sure are a lot of trail beavers running around today." Because that is what I tend to call small rodent like creatures that run around the wilderness with large tails. They were running around with such unusual ubiquity, that I almost ran over one twice on my bike. Which would be quite a feat. A sad, sad feat.

So, after the ride, as I was transitioning from I-215 to I-80 west bound, suddenly a tiny little trail beaver darted in front of my car, about 5 seconds away. I immediately yelled, "No...NO! Run little trail beaver! Run for your life! No no NO NO WATCHOUT!" At which point, the trail beaver was thoroughly ground into oblivion, right beneath Javier's 2 left wheels. I couldn't help but bemoan the fate of the poor little trail beaver, who tried so frantically, during the last precious moments of his tiny life, to figure out just what the hell he was doing on that freeway. It was like watching frogger. He ran in the road, juked left, then right, then left then right the left then left then under my tires. All that remains of that majestic trail beaver, is viscera and fur, stuck to the freeway. A lousy, albeit quick way to go.

As to my knowledge, that is the only creature from the mammal section of the animal kingdom that I have ever murdered with my car. I came damn close to running over a goose once. I think that little pre-roadkill conversation I had with myself was a little different.
"Wtf, is that a goose? Get out of the road, you goose! Go get sucked into a plane engine and die with a little dignity, if that's what you are trying to do here." What an embarrassing way to go, for a goose.

Javier is just broken up over the whole thing. He refused to run the air conditioning the rest of the way home. Which I get. Those were HIS tires who sent that squirrel to a furry hell. Which is what I told him.
"Hey little guy. Don't fret. That squirrel was probably a real asshole. And may be in hell."

But deep down, I knew the truth.

Zombies and sleeveless shirts

2010-09-01T17:04:00.005-06:00

Because I am obviously a supreme redneck with a desire to do a whole helluvalotta murder, and such, I decided last year that I wanted to get a conceal and carry permit. I PACK HEAT. Sometimes. Not every time, but sometimes. I just want to make sure that I am ready for the zombie apocalypse. Not that anybody would be checking permits, with zombies running around eating faces. But it's the principle which is important, I think.

Actually, the most disappointing thing to me about religion (mine, and others) is that there really isn't any doctrinal back up for an eminent zombie apocalypse. Sigh.

I found this on a friend's blog, and include it due to the relevancy and, I think, cultural importance:

I think this is something that everyone should really think about, because I mean, WHAT IF?

To my left: a shelf full of fantasy novels. While they may provide a lot of useful insight into how best one may fight in a rudimentary, medieval-esque fashion, (including varying weapon styles, spells, and witchery), as weapons themselves, they may prove to be somewhat wanting in efficacy. It would take an assload of books and a real firm commitment to the task, to beat a zombie's brains in with paper backs.

Today, for the second time in a year, I found myself doing fingerprints for a back ground check. Whereas last time, it was in preparation for the zombie apocalypse, today it was to be able to start student teaching. Which I think may end up being scarier than said apocalypse.

They do this FBI background check to make sure I'm not a pedophile, or a terrorist, or whatever. The really cool thing is, this background check/fingerprinting cost 85 bucks. And I had it done one year ago. And for whatever reason, the State can't collaborate with itself, and have a look at the previous check, even though they are good for 3 years. And done in the same place, by the same agency. Good job, government. Can we please make you bigger and in charge of more shit?

While I was waiting forever for like, 2 other people to get printed (excellent government efficiency at work), an older gentleman who seemed to have lost the sleeves to his shirt somewhere had approached the help window. I started paying attention to the conversation when he said this: "I ain't never had no possession of drugs. I just wanna get it off my record, cuz I wanna get a firearm."

"Cool," I thought. Me and that guy. We will obviously be ready. If, of course, he can get that pesky possession expunged from his record. 15 minutes, and 85 dollars later, I left that place in full confidence that a.) I was probably going to pass the background check, b.) I was justified in being annoyed about the incompetence of our government, and c.) that the woman at the help desk was going to do everything in her power to get that sleeveless man a gun.

1 step closer to teacherhood, and 2 steps closer to preventing zombie domination. Successful day? I think so.

What is to your left?

Javier

2010-08-31T13:18:00.003-06:00

Its no secret that I drive a real piece of shit.

Javier, with his euro tail lights, muffler which sounds as though an explosion (or a race with some guy in an accord with a mis-matched body kit) is eminent, and problems accelerating when under 3000 rpms. Like, real problems. Especially when the air conditioner is on. Lord save me, if it is hotter than 70 degrees outside and I need to go up a hill. On on a flat surface. Anything other than down hill, really.

While I'm a little embarrassed that my car has euro tail lights, when I bough Javier, I was secretly really excited. I mean, I would most definitely never actually instal such things of my own accord. But boy, did I secretly love those twin diamonds adorning the ass end of my sweet little Javier. It made him seem deceptively cool, and possible fast, which Javier is definitely neither.

There are often moments when, while stopped at an intersection, another man in a Javier-esque car will pull up next to me. He will have most definitely noticed the euro's, and will then start sizing me up. I've thought about duct taping a can of hairspray, or something, to the inside frame around the window, to give off the appearance that I may actually have NOS capabilities. But I fear getting caught up in the moment and forgetting, due to my heart of hearts wish that it was actually NOS, that it isn't, and instead spraying myself in the eyes and mouth with hairspray right before take off. Probably no way to salvage dignity when that happens.

So, rather, I look at the other guy. He looks at me. He rev's up his piece of shit. I give mine a couple of foot pumps. Light switches, and we both take off, accelerating at somewhere near the rate of 0-35 in 10 or 12 seconds. And, of course, I lose. Partially, because Javier just can't handle anything beyond a Geo Metro, and partially because I just don't really give a damn.

I feel like, as Javier and I are zipping around the valley, I periodically notice other Honda Civics and Accords that have altered body kits. That make them look lower to the ground, and obviously extra fast. With super tinted windows, and pretty often a massive Virgin de Guadalupe decal on the rear, if we're going to be honest. But one universal thing I have noticed about these "tricked" out cars, is the fact that they ALWAYS look just absolutely beat to hell. It's like, one of the main requirements for putting a body kit on your dumpy Honda, is to probably never actually paint it to match the rest of the car. But also, to bump and scrape it against every tree, cement barrier, rock, or child with which you come into contact. I feel like I have never seen one of these vehicles that isn't scratched and dented all over, with at least 1-3 sections being held on my black/duct tape.

I think my first order of business, upon finishing grad college, will be to give Javier the body kit he has always wanted. We may not go so far as NOS, but he might get some super premium gasoline pumped into his tank now and then, if he is good. I'll have to take a friend vote on whether or not to fix the exhaust pipe. Because I can only imagine that sitting in the back of my car, feeling like your chest/inner ear components are about to explode from the sonic vibrations, can only be an extra pleasant experience.

If you ever wanna see what that's like, let me know.

Things that make me uncomfortable

2010-08-29T23:33:00.000-06:00

As I approached the front door to my house (I share a 3 way entry with the cat lady and the chola) I set down my dirty clothes hamper and searched for my keys. I heard someone fiddling with the locks and door handle. Is it the cat lady, coming out to remind me to take out the trash cans tomorrow, or the ever elusive chola, slathered in liquid eyeliner and headed out to the bar? I was hoping for the latter, because then I would avoid the possibility of getting stuck discussing cat dander, or something equally pleasant. Turns out, it was a dude, exiting the dark interior of the chola's abode. As he stepped out of the door and pulled it shut behind him, he reached down, and zipped up his pants.

"Huh," I thought.

Then we made eye contact. He said, "Hey."
I said, "Hey."
Then I awkwardly moved me and my clothing hamper out of his way, and off he went. He definitely saw me see him do the zip up. Maybe next time he will remember to zip up before he takes off.

Anyways.

I was listening to some conservative talk radio yesterday. Because I forgot my Ipod, and have listened to the NOFX album "Coaster," about 175 times, because it is the only CD in my car for roughly the last year, and is therefore the default if there is nothing worth listening to on talk radio and I don't have an Ipod. I was tuned in to 105.7 KNRS, family values talk radio, home of esteemed queen of moral values Dr. Laura Schlessinger, and Lord of all assholes, Rush Limbaugh. Glen Beck used to be on around 4, but has recently been bumped by a local guy named Ron Arquette. When I tuned in, he happened to be talking to Terry Jones, pastor of the Dove World Outreach center in Gainsville, Florida.

The church over which this abominable shithead of an imbecile pasteurizes, plans on declaring 9/11 "National Burn a Quran Day." Bigotry and hate. Cool. So, Ronald asks Terry what message he, and his churches congregation of primordial sheep hope to get across, by burning Islam's most sacred book.
"Well, we want to send a clear message that sharia law won't be accepted here in America, and that radicals aren't welcome."
Ronald asked Terry if this was his own idea.
"Well, it actually wasn't my idea. A member of the congregation came to me with this, and after a lot of contemplation and praying, I felt like this was the right thing to do."
Ronald asked Terry if he thought that maybe this would be sending the wrong message to moderate muslims the world over, and further drive a wedge between Muslims and Christians/Americans.
"Well, we believe that it might, but that the message is too important not to send. And, more importantly, the radicals will get the right message."
Ronald asked Terry if he thought that, by burning the Quran, Islamic radicals would twist the footage and story, and use it to show that America hates Muslims.
"Well, we believe that they will do such things anyway, and again, that the message is too important."
Ronald asked Terry if he would be offended by Muslims burning bibles.
"Well, yes, I would certainly be offended. But, again, this is different. We are sending an important message here. This isn't a message against moderate Muslims (which, throughout, he pronounced mawzluhms, which was super annoying), but rather against the radicals, and it is too important. The radicals will get the right message."

I don't even know where to start with this. I don't know how anyone with even 1/8 of a brain could possibly think this was any kind of a good idea. That this is anything less than pure, unadulterated bigotry, carelessly "hidden" behind the claim of "taking a stand," or "sending a message." These people are just as bad as the nefarious "Christian" refuse that pickets soldier's funerals with "God hates fags" signs. I understand that there is a national conservative fear that "we have become dangerously tolerant of radicalism," and that people fear that political correctness enables terrorist cells to grow and fester to the point of horrendous, deadly acts. But if nothing else, this sort of behavior CREATES AND LEGITIMIZES these cells. It, simply put, provides endless fuel for the "American infidels hate Muslims, and therefore must be destroyed," fire. How can these people not see that? Well, because they are blinded by pure, unfettered hatred. By the absolute epitome of ignorance. The fact that he said that he had prayed about this was even more infuriating. Maybe I'm just naive when I think that Jesus isn't a Muslim hating queer bashing condoner of common Nazi tactics e.g. book burning.

Burning a Quran doesn't send a message that "America hates sharia law." Burning a Quran simply sends a message of hate. Pure and simple. And the worst part is, the media plays right into it. If the media would simply ignore what this horse's ass is doing, nobody would ever know about it, and it would be a completely benign publicity stunt. I mean, if a church in Nephi Utah decided to burn every Quran in Juab country (which would probably be fewer than 1), if nobody reported it, nobody would know about it. So the media is pulling an equally stupid boner.

About 2 hours later, I was heading somewhere else, listening to the same show. Apparently, according to a Gallup pole, Obama is less popular among Mormons than among any other faith. He dropped from like, a 48% approval rate, to around a 23% since election. Whatever. So Mr. Arquette opened up the phone lines with a question: In one sentence, tell us why you like, or dislike Obama.

The overall tone and outcome of this question, I think, is pretty obvious, considering the station and the demographic. Me, I don't love Obama. But I think it is pretty silly to open up a "call us and tell us why you don't like Obama" forum. Maybe embarrassing, is a better word.
"I like Barak Hussein Obama because he is hastening the return of my Savior."
Sigh.
Followed by, "I dislike Barak Obama because he is a Gadianton robber." Not, he is LIKE a Gadianton robber (which would be equally ridiculous,) but he IS. (For those of you not familiar with the Book of Mormon, the Gadianton robbers were a group of, well, robbers and thieves and murderers who made a pact with Satan, essentially, to overthrow righteousness/the government, through secret combinations, or clandestine, underground groups, as it were.)
Double sigh.
And it went on, and on, and on. It just seems like such cheap, pathetic radio, to have a "Let's all call in and say why we hate the president" forum.
Here is the thing. If you want to sit at home, in your private little Mormon cottage adorned with every Greg Olsen painting ever created, and all of the various vinyl lettering inspirational sayings that Seagull Book and Tape ever offered, and think that Barak Obama is a Gadianton robber, effecting the complete moral destruction of the united states, and is, in effect, causing Christ to have to come even sooner than planned...can you PLEASE just keep that thought to your self? If that is what you believe in your heart of hearts, then God love you. It's your prerogative. But just don't make the rest of us (Mormons) sound like back woods, ignorant idiots, hunkering down for the eminent apocalypse. I'm not saying for people not to stand up for what they believe in. But have you ever heard any of the quorum of the 12 say anything about Obama being a Gadianton robber, or hastening the coming of the Lord?

No.

So shut your mouth, and keep it to yourself. Stop making me feel embarrassed to be a Utah Mormon. Don't get me wrong-I feel like I need to rephrase that. I'm not embarrassed to be a Mormon. I'm not embarrassed by my religion. I am, however, embarrassed to be culturally and intellectually lumped in with people pulling crap like the aforementioned...crap. You may think Obama is destroying America with his policies. But to compare him with a group of murderers who made a pact with Lucifer to effect the destruction of all that is good and holy, is simply ludicrous. Maybe think about what you are really saying there, before you open your stupid mouth and word vomit all over the Utah airwaves.

Maybe, just maybe, this illustrates a little tiny fraction of what moderate muslims feel, when their radical brethren pull shit like explosive martyrdom. It's a shaky comparison at best, but I think there were a whole lot of Muslims cringing when those towers went down.

I guess we all cringe sometimes because of those with whom we share a faith, a political party...or a front entry way.

Burning wagons and fashion dilemmas

2010-08-26T23:23:00.005-06:00

I went to lake Powell last week, because the best thing to do when unemployed is go on a vacation. I was getting so tired of sitting at home, sweaty in a chair, reading fantasy novel after fantasy novel, eating maybe like a thousand grapes, and 30-70 otterpops. In like a week. I just needed to DO something.

Isn't it weird how whenever you are working like, mostly full time, there always seems to be at least 100 shit that you need to do on your days off? Like seriously...100 shit, every time. There was never enough time on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays for all of the biking, swimming, cooking, vegetable eating, motorcycling, responsible adult things that I wanted/needed to do. But as soon as I lose my job, I'm sitting there naked in my easy chair (because putting on clothing after a shower seemed like the worst idea ever) book in hand, wishing I had something important to do. Wishing someone would give me a task. Like maybe the mail man would knock on my door, and ask me for help re-sorting all of the junk mail that spilled all over my lawn when he tripped over Smokey (the cat lady's outside cat). He wouldn't even care that I was naked, that junk mail needed to be re-sorted so bad. People gotta get their coups.

Wait, I just remembered that such a scenario would be impossible, because Smokey is dead. After 15 years, he just finally succumbed to old age and maybe lung cancer. Although, he probably had less severe lung cancer (as comparable to her other 2-6 inside cats) due to being a mostly outside cat. God rest his little mouse catching soul. I'll sure miss the dead mice in the doorway.

Anyways, so when my friend invited me to go to lake Powell, even though I knew I would in all likelihood be spending 3 days in a sweet bro workshop, I finally felt like I had a task. Like life would be meaningful again. Lake Powell needed me. Which was a totally stupid thought.

So, to lake Powell I went, and boy oh boy, did I ever burn down the meat wagon. I really didn't think about it when I decided to go, just exactly what I was going to eat. Sometimes I forget that people don't eat like I do. There are still dudes in the world who want to eat every hotdog they can. And stuck on a boat, with nothing but Malt-O-Meal cocoa puffs as an alternative, sometimes even the guy who won't eat anything irresponsible breaks down and eats FIVE HAMBURGERS. Nothing ever felt so wrong, but at the same time so right. Especially when one was sandwiched between 2 slices of government texas toast (Walmart's G.V. ((great value)) brand always translates in my mind as "government" whenever I see it) with garlic butter slathered on both sides. The buttery saturated fat juices were literally dripping down my forearms. I guess if you have to fall off the meat wagon, that sure as hell is the way to do it.

I'm back on.

I think I ate more terrible food during those 3 days than I had in all the previous 3 months combined. Which I'm fairly certain caused me to gain no less than 5 lbs. And probably, unfortunately, in my neck/jowl region.

Anyways.

I started grad college yesterday. I feel like this is totally going to mess up a really good thing I had going, which was wearing basically the same 3 or 4 things, over and over again. Which made life really easy. I could get away with this because there are very few people I see more than once or twice a week. So I can wear like, the same pants and shirt 3 days in a row with no fear of social repercussions. And because I'm not a smelly dude. But now, I will be seeing the same people for 3 or more hours a day, every single day of the week. So now I have to come up with at least 5 distinct clothing combos. Which is logistically feasible, since I have no fewer than 20 pairs of jeans, and an assload of shirt that I never wear. I have a problem saying no to sub-$30 bargain jeans.

Anyways, in 6.5 hours I have to wake up and try to figure out what I didn't wear yesterday and the day before. Which may be hard.

Things are foggy for me before 10 am.

Solutions

2010-08-22T20:53:00.003-06:00

So I've been thinking about this Islam cultural center that seems to be the big political controversy right now. In case you live under a rock, or watch nothing but E!, or whatever, Muslims are going to build an Islamic cultural center 2 blocks from ground zero. And a whole lot of Americans are pretty pist about it. Many argue that putting it there is insensitive to those affected by 9/11. That it is simply too close. Others argue that Muslims can put it wherever they choose, because of religious freedom and whatever. And there is also the question of, "how close is too close?" Which, honestly, I think is the only REAL question. Answer that question, and that will solve the problem.

If they were building it 10 blocks away, would that be too close? Or 5, or 8 or 20? Where is the real line by which this culturally sensitive question can be measured? Where does it go from making a so-called mockery of those who died on 9/11, to being just another place for people to pray on rugs facing east?

Sometimes, I wish they (they being "The Government,") would just call a random person, and say, "Hey, is this Phil?"
"Uh yeah, I'm Phil."
"Hey Phil."
"Hey."
"Anyways, it's us, 'The Government.'"
"Oh. Hi."
"Hey."
"Okay."
"Anyways, hang on, let me transfer you to a different department. I'm actually just in charge of getting a hold of people."
"Wait, what's this..."
"Hold please."
Then, about 10 minutes later, (due to the efficacy of "The Government,") "The Government" is ready to ask Phil the big question.
"Hey Phil."
"Still here."
"Great. Hey, it's me, "The Government" again."
"Okay."
"We just have a question for you. Were going to just let you decided the outcome. Whatever you randomly decide, that's what were going to do. Follow your big, American gut. Now, I'm going to ask you this question, and then put you on hold for the agency that will receive your answer."

Anyways.

If I were Phil, and "The Government" asked me about how close was too close, I think I could come up with a pretty simple equation for figuring that out, that would probably satisfy most Americans.

Put a New York Yankee on the very top of the freedom tower (that doesn't yet exist.) Now, it needs to be an American citizen. No Mexicans. Probably not even a Puerto Rican. And not just some naturalized player. A real live multi generational citizen. Now, let that Yankee drop hit a baseball as far as he can, from the tip top of the non existent freedom tower(s), and where that ball lands, is the closest that any Mosque may be built.

I feel like the whole argument has digressed about to that point. Can we fix the economy, and THEN maybe worry about how close is too close?

Dodging bullets

2010-08-10T23:08:00.004-06:00

It's a pretty disheartening feeling when you are unemployed, and suddenly you rear end somebodies car. And it is down right utterly demoralizing, when upon looking up to see the car you just banged, it happens to be a Mercedes Benz. At that point, you mostly just want to say the f word and throw up all over the steering wheel.

But that would merely compound the horror of the situation, and be pretty much embarrassing when you had to get out of the car and confront the Benz owner, covered in puke.

"Good job asshole! Why didn't you wa....why are you covered in vomit?"
"I don't really know."
"Sorry."
"Me too."

Anyways.

My car was covered in bikes, and my sun glasses were covered in dust. There was one particularly prominent dirt splotch right in the middle of my left eye, which I had been hopelessly focused on for about 5 blocks. Stupidly, as I was coming to a stop at a light, I decided that it was time to remove my glasses, and look down to study the splotch. For some reason, I thought I was stopped. Apparently, as was made evident by the sudden "thud" in front of me, I wasn't. I looked up, and to my utmost horror, saw the telltale doom of the Mercedes sign on the ass end of the car in front of me. On the ass end I had just plowed into. Because the dirt splotch was bothering me. Good one, idiot.

The first thing I thought was, "Oh no. Oh oh oh no. No no no no. I'm unemployed. Ohhh no." The second thing was, "Of all the cars I never hit, why did the one I finally did have to be a Mercedes? I'm unemployed. You don't hit a Mercedes when you are unemployed. Or not unemployed. Ever, really." I think out loud, that was all compounded into, "Ohhhh SHIT. I don't have a job. I can't hit a car right now."

As we pulled over to the side of the road, I was really hoping somebody would plow into the back of me, wreck Javier into oblivion, and give me some mild whiplash. Then I could just sit in the front seat, with the air bag exploded, and maybe a bloody nose, and moan and hold my neck. Then maybe the dude with the Benz would just feel really bad, and leave. I wouldn't even have to puke all over myself, AND maybe I'd get a good settlement, which would take care of both the unemployment problem, and Javier's really, ultra loud muffler.

None of that happened. I got out of my car, and he stepped out of his convertible, hunched his shoulders, lifting his hands in the air, making a pretty good "what the hell?" gesture. Which I took to mean he was going to probably be a real jerk about the whole thing. He walked over and checked out his bumper, which seemed to be completely fine. He said, "It seems completely fine." I said, "Yeah. It sure does." He said, "well, no harm no foul."

I definitely didn't expect him to be so completely magnanimous. I said I was sorry, and told him about the dust problem on my glasses. He seemed sympathetic. We then shook hands, and parted ways. I'm not sure why he shook my hand, since I certainly did my damnedest to wreck his bumper.

I think last time I felt so relieved, was when I was 14 years old. I had just moved to Nephi several months before, and was still absolutely enamored with the idea that I was going to school with a ton of polygamist children. I was in the school choir. We were heading up to a competition in Orem, on a bus. As we were passing the plig colony, just south of Santaquin, I wanted to yell something clever about the fact that we were passing a colony full of Big Love. Something like, "Hey! Look! It's the polygamists! So many wives! Baahahahah!" Something REALLY clever. But something inside me said, "Don't do it, asshole." So I didn't.

On the way back down from the competition, our bus made a detour directly into the heart of the colony. Bewildered, I wondered just what the hell was going on. Upon reaching the deepest bowels of the compound, the bus stopped, and half the kids got up and went home to their moms.

The "no harm no foul" Mercedes Benz crash felt about like that. Like I just dodged a big, fat, polygamist bullet.

Naked and jobless

2010-08-02T18:54:00.003-06:00

Normally, at 6:54 pm on a Monday, I am certainly not recently post shower naked, writing a blog, and dreading putting on clothing in this sweltering hades we call Utah. Also, I am usually not a part of the 10+ percent of Americans who are currently unemployed. No, today is certainly an abnormal day, to say the least.

Let me tell you what it means to work in corporate mega chain restaurant America.

Apparently, a manager can tell a female that she has terrific, big boobs in front of several males, and also the female with said big boobs, with little or no consequence. Or he can tell a girl that she "needs to lose some weight," because she said she can't get her fingers down into the wine glasses to properly polish them. Or he can wrap his arms around a male employee and proceed to, for lack of a better way to say it, hump said employee, saying "**** just needs a hug, and a hump." Or he can tell another employee that he finds his wife attractive, because she isn't like other girls, she has "some meat on her bones." Or he can look at porn in the office. Or about 100 other things. He can get 2 corporate complaints, and chance after chance after chance. And after all that...what happens to him? Waaaaaiiiit for it........drum roll please.....ba dum da da dum boo beep boo....
A transfer to another store in Vegas.

My, how it kicks ass to be a Corporate mega chain restaurant manager. Apparently, sitting in his basement, looking at orc porn and playing World Of Warcraft for hours on end has somehow lent him freakishly potent powers of persuasion, and a slimy, snakelike ability to slither his way out of a sticky situation. That, or corporate mega chain restaurant America is more concerned with keeping their investment, than with actually meeting out punishment in the vile mire that is acceptable restauranteur jargon. Where anything goes, as long as somebody else is saying it too.

Working in corporate mega chain restaurant America means that, if such a person as the aforementioned dirt ball happens to be your manager, and happens to commit all (and many, many more) of the previously stated infractions, and then gets transferred to another store, the remaining proprietor will defend said bag of shit, to the tune of firing at least 3 employees.

Working in corporate mega chain restaurant America means that the previously described bag of douche can have endless opportunities to say all manner of vile things to or about employees. However, if one of these employees happens to mention just how spectacular a dickbot this porn loving creature happens to be on Facebook AFTER said fiend has been transferred, in RESPONSE to the firings of 2 fellow friends...well folks, we have yet another corporate mega chain restaurant fatality.

Working in corporate mega chain restaurant America ultimately means, that money is more important than people. That sticking up for a man who can't get through a shift without making someone feel uncomfortable is more important than people. That bending over backwards for customers is more important that taking care of YOUR people. That maintaing a clean managerial image is more important than people. Even when these people you dump on are the ones who brought you success.

Working in corporate mega chain restaurant America means YOU don't matter. Only the money matters.

Which, upon reviewing this little rant, I imagine the first comment will be,

"No shit buddy."

Coexistence is not an option

2010-07-29T11:50:00.004-06:00

I thought for certain that living above a cat lady would provide me with an impregnable barrier against rodent infestation. This false sense of security lulled me into a blind, slothful state of indifference to the crumbs that may have occasionally ended up on my floor.

I was in my kitchen last nigh at about 1 am. I had entered with the intention of steaming some veggies, and then eating them. The problem with staying up until the post 1 o'clock hour, is that the last time I ate was probably at least 5-7 hours previous, which means my body thinks that it is time for another entire meal. I had a mad craving for french toast, but had decided that eating bread dipped in egg, and covered with butter, syrup, and strawberries would probably go straight to my neck if I ate it right before bed. So I made a compromise, and decided to go with the veggies.

I saw something move out of the corner of my eye, and didn't think much of it. But then that something emerged from my periphery, became a mouse, and ran across the counter top and behind a cutting board leaning against the wall by the sink to take, what I was hoping would be, a suicidal leap behind my stove. Unfortunately upon inspection, after I was done swearing and being acutely disgusted, I found that the creature did not in fact commit mousicide, but was indeed still living somewhere in the vicinity of my kitchen.

At least I didn't want to eat anymore.

Upon inspection of my food cupboard, I found several rat shitlings scattered throughout the lower shelf, and a gnawed through Ramen noodle seasoning packet. At least the little bastard had bad taste, and stayed out of my almond slivers and cliff bars.

I feel so violated. I feel like everything in my kitchen is tainted, and that I therefore must spend copious amounts of time cleaning and disinfecting everything. What the hell good is it having my own cat lady, if her useless felines can't keep mice from invading our home? She has upwards of 5 cats, for heaven's sakes. That delusive aura of kitty security has caused me to be a little too lax in my kitchen cleanliness, mostly in the sense of "I'll clean this dinner mess up in the morning." No more.

Off to get some rat poison. I don't want to use a conventional trap, because I have this grisly vision of a mouse getting its head snapped off, and spraying blood and haunta virus all over my kitchen like a Tarantino film. I may be a vegetarian, or a responsible omnivore, or something, but I refuse to coexist with rodents.

Pioneer day refund

2010-07-28T23:35:00.003-06:00

I think I was smitten with a food poisoning on pioneer day, and I think it was for possibly making one too many Brigham Young/pioneer jokes.

I couldn't really help it, you see. I went with some friends up to Ensign peak, which overlooks the Salt Lake Valley. Where, to my knowledge, whether correct of false, Brigham Young stood, raised his broad sword in the air, and declared, "By the power of GraySkull, this is the place." I'm not sure how accurate the location is. I really know nothing about Ensign peak. It simply seemed like a good place for a broadsword to be raised, and a Mormon nesting location to be declared. And I know it is in some way significant to pioneer history, although for the life of me I can't remember anything about it from my Utah history course a few years back. I suppose I could spend 13 seconds on Wikipedia and figure it out, but I rather enjoy the pristine image in my mind of brother Brigham, a broadsword, and a line from He-Man.

I went there with Adam in the evening, in order to watch the fireworks from a higher vantage point. Which where fireworks are concerned, it turns out, is a pretty shitty vantage point. It's probably about like watching them on TV. Totally lame, unless a magic carpet, a princess, a lying street rat, and a spectacular Disney song are involved. So mostly, I acquired a sore ass from sitting on dirt and rocks for about an hour, a slightly sweaty upper torso, an itchy nose from wind and dust, and a chance to sit under Brigham's watchful eye (and sword.)

Later, about 1 am, I decided that eating a Beto's burrito sounded like a hell of an idea. I don't know why a burrito the size of a small infant always sounds good about that hour, but for whatever reason, post midnight is really the ONLY time they ever do sound good. About half an hour later, I was in bed. At approximately 4am, I crawled to the bathroom, convinced that I was going to refund that burrito, and every other thing I have ever eaten into the toilet, via my cranial sphincter, rather than the more common route. After laying on the floor for a time, I thought maybe it was possible the cursed burrito would remain where it was. So I crawled back to bed, snagging a rather large plastic bowl in route. 5 minutes later, I rolled out of bed onto the floor, and did a pretty commendable job filling up that plastic bowl with a whole lot of stomach acid, eggs, and pico de gallo.

I could just imagine brother Brigham watching me heave my stomach lining into that bowl, and saying, "Who's laughing now?" And then maybe he'd poke me with his ethereal broadsword. And all I could think, was "I'm sorry about the jokes. Please stop smiting me now." In conjunction with, "I swear in my wrath, I will never be poisoned by another Beto's burrito AGAIN." Not necessarily because I think I will never eat one again. Simply, because I won't ever make pioneer day jokes and then subsequently eat one. I felt pretty nauseated until I woke up Monday morning for work. So like, a 30 hour poisoning. All because of a few jokes.

I'm SORRY.

Birthday hypocrite

2010-07-18T16:26:00.003-06:00

As of July 13th, I had consumed no meat for an entire month. Ages longer than any other previous meatless interval. My previous record was probably somewhere close to 12-15 hours. Possibly fewer.

So when my birthday came along, and Carrabbas wanted to buy me a filet in celebration of being 28 and not dead, I suddenly began to panic. It has been easy to say no to chicken, ribs, shredded pork, and a myriad of other meats since June 13th. And it has certainly been easy to not purchase any steaks. But to be offered a Filet. A free filet. The God King of all meats. This was a conflict.

Put 100 free chickens in front of me, and I'll say no every time. Easy. I even turned down halibut (which I love) at our quarterly work meeting where we try all the new specials. NBD. But I have always loved steak to the max. As much as my little brother, I believe I have previously stated. It has been slightly hard, delivering steak after steak to table after table over the last month. Slightly, because said meats were never offered to me. Not until now.

A free filet. DAMMIT.

So I stewed it over in my mind for a few hours. Weighed the pros and cons. Cons being, eating the filet will sort of compromise my moral position and make me feel like a hypocrite. Also, perhaps I will enjoy it so much, I may slide back into my former life as an indifferent, apathetic carnivore. I thought about the pros, and besides the enjoyment that would come from shoving an extremely tender, bloody hunk of cow flesh down my gullet for the first time in over a month, I couldn't really think of any real pros.

In a moment of weakness, I decided that eating one measly filet, in the whole grand scheme of things, wasn't really a big deal. Who could even know where our Carrabbas cow meat comes from? Maybe it was ethical. There was roughly a 30% chance it might be. Probably not. But maybe.

As I sat at the pasta bar, waiting for my filet to cook, the only thing going through my mind, over and over again was, "Please, for the love of God, don't let Bob over cook this thing." I thought this, because likely this was going to be the only filet I would be eating for a very long time. If I was going to sink to the level of a hypocrite for 10 minutes, I wanted to enjoy it. I thought that after a long, meatless month, this filet would probably be one of the best things I had ever put in my mouth. It was my birthday. Couldn't I be a hypocrite?

Upon cutting into it, besides cursing Bob's name for slightly over cooking it, I marveled at the tenderness. I didn't even need a knife. A spoon would have sufficed. I put the first chunk in my mouth, expecting an explosion of palatal ecstasy, a veritable mouthgasm, I expected to think, "Man, have I missed this. Meat is so terrific. I wish I could eat 100 meat, every single minute. Wrap me up in a meat blanket, and feed me to myself."

Rather, I thought, "Huh. This is tasty. But so is a chipotle black bean burger. And felafel. In fact, I could eat a tomato stuffed with mushrooms, red peppers, garlic, and goat cheese over this any day." In other words, it wasn't blowing my mind. At all. Yes, obviously it tasted good. And was something that I would certainly enjoy eating on occasion. However, the experience was altogether lackluster. A let down. Which was AWESOME.

While part of me regrets descending to the level of a weak birthday hypocrite, I am ultimately glad I ate that filet. I realized that honestly, I am not missing much. I can think of about 15 things right off the bat that I have enjoyed the last month just as much, if not more, than I enjoyed that filet. I think as we come to decide what our favorite foods are, and the values placed upon them, whether cultural or familial, we build these foods up to mythical proportions. I attached meaning, value, and importance to a filet because, being an expensive chuck of dead cow, it was mostly a special occasion commodity. So, after abstaining from all meat for a month, and delving into an entirely new realm of the food chain, I realized that a filet (and meat in general) is really only as good as we mentally make it to be. When something suddenly is no longer a choice, other things take its place. Other foods can inherit an abandoned food's value and meaning. A caprino stuffed tomato is my filet.

I guess what I'm saying, is by eating a filet, I realized that I truly don't miss meat. I may miss the meanings I attached to different meats. Like a summer tri-tip bbq with friends. But now that I realize it is more the meaning that I miss, I can quit missing the meat itself, and begin attaching new meaning, memories, and feelings to new foods.

Sometimes being a hypocrite works out okay.

Birthday bars and mixers

2010-07-13T00:07:00.004-06:00

When Fish children get married (I only know this through sibling hearsay) they are given a Bosch mixer. For those of you unfamiliar with what that means, it is like the Mercedes Benz of mixers. Or maybe more like a Range Rover. The 800 watt motor will gladly spin up to 15 lbs of dough. Won't even be pist about it. Just try to do that with your 575 watt kitchen aid. Get real. Some scooters have 800 watt motors.

I am fast approaching my 28th birthday, a day I thought I'd never live to see unmarried. Well, 4 or 5 years ago, anyway. The last couple years I have resigned myself to the fact that I should probably reevaluate my vow to kill myself if single at 30. It is easy to make drastic, personal ultimatums when you are half a decade away from something. "Either get married by thirty, or kill yourself man. Those are your options," I'd threaten me. Now that I'm a paltry 2 years away, 30 doesn't seem so bad.asjkdl;wa;e Not nearly so bad as the gnat, or whatever it was, that just flew into the corner of my eye, causing the startled key mash above, and the trip to the bathroom to dig it out, which nearly interrupted the fluidity of this paragraph. You shant have the satisfaction of that accomplishment, you asshole gnat.

Anyways.

So apparently my parents have given up on the possibility of me ever getting married, and therefore went ahead and awarded me with my very own Bosch mixer as a gift for making it to 28, without any major drug addictions, nor children born out of wedlock running around. And I'm a little embarrassed about how excited I got/am about a mixer. To this point, I have been mostly a stove top (the range, not the shitty brand) kinda guy, so baking is going to open up a whole new world for me. Breads, cakes, cookies, and...breads. I don't know what on earth to do with a mixer besides those things. And considering my current eating choices, cookies and cakes are pretty much out. So mostly bread.

Speaking of new things and healthy eating, I experienced today, for the first time in my 28 years of life, the brief, relative joy of a big hunk. Brief, because I felt gross almost immediately after consuming it, and relative, because it brought me joy relative to, say, a kick to the groin. Or to be fair, more like a plain celery stick. To be even more truthful than fair, I enjoyed the Big Hunk about 100 percent more than I thought I would upon making the decision to actually eat the thing. Which was not at all.

The Big Hunk was discovered by a server, after being discarded on a table, or in a garbage can by a Carrabbas patron. I heard conflicting stories as to the origin. A slip of paper was taped to one side that said, "Priesthood holders are..." I was more bothered by the fact that "Priesthood holders are...Big Hunk," didn't work grammatically, than by how stereotypically BYU cheesy the whole thing was, or whether it had spent some time in the trash can or not.

I am pretty good at not buying garbage. And by garbage, I mean things like Big Hunks, and other candies and treats. Come to my kitchen, and you won't find anything that your dietitian would yell at you for. However, when candy, or treats, or deserts are placed in front of me, I sometimes struggle with control. I can usually completely abstain, but if I eat one of something, pandora's gummy box is opened, and I eat most of whatever that something happened to be.

I was reaching into the martini cooler for a glass, when I spotted the Big Hunk. It was about 8pm, and I was bored and hungry. It was pretty much a given that I was going to eat that Big Hunk. I pulled it out of the fridge, and wondered just what the hell was in there. I really had no idea what to expect, as the big hunk doesn't offer any sort of picture or illustration on the package, cluing you as to what lies within. Because they know if you knew that it looked like probably the most unappealing candy bar you had ever seen, you probably would never give it a shot. Even the claim of "Low fat!" on the wrapper probably wouldn't be enough.

I flipped it over, and was thrilled to see that corn syrup and sugar were the 2 main ingredients. I knew right then that I wanted to put it in my body immediately. I tore it open, and stared at the almost chalky white bar with peanuts nestled here and there. "This doesn't even look remotely good," I said to no one in particular. But hunger prevailed, and I snapped a piece off. It mostly tasted like a marshmallow with peanuts in it. Which was about 100% better than what I had expected. My plan was to eat about 3 bites, but that was thwarted by the aforementioned hunger, boredom, and general lack of self control. By the time it was finished, my stomach felt sick, and I completely regretted eating the whole thing. Sort of like I regretted eating 5 pieces of birthday cake yesterday.

Whoops.

It's my 28th birthday week, I am in the best shape of my life. I can be a little out of control.

With liberty and guns for all

2010-07-08T03:02:00.003-06:00

My oh my is the political right good at making themselves look like imbeciles and rednecks sometimes. Reasons such as those that follow make me, at times, embarrassed to have some conservative views, and therefore be lumped in with "conservatives."

Rep Stephen Sandstrom of Orem has decided that, along with championing a bill similar to the mind numbingly idiotic piece of immigration legislation recently enacted by the Arizona state legislature, he will put forth a bill that would eliminate the need for a permit to conceal a handgun in the state of Utah. Now, Utah residents may already conceal a weapon in their car, or homes, and can even, God help us, open carry. In other words, any redneck jackass can wear a gun on a holster and scare the hell out of those who aren't accustomed to being around firearms, while ordering a burrito at Del taco. So Mr. Sandstrom is proposing that any person be able to pack heat where nobody can see, no questions asked.

I own a .45. I sometimes conceal it. I have a permit to do so. I grew up around guns. I am familiar with them. I'm not going to accidentally blow my nards off, nor the nards of any other person. In order to get said permit, I had to take a class familiarizing me with the different gun laws of the state, and handgun safety in general. All pretty necessary things, I think, in order to be a "safe" carrier.

This dummy of a right wing conservative said this:"It's just like freedom of religion: You do not have to go and get an exercise-of-religion card." Did I copy and paste that right? Did he really say, "exercise-of-religion card? " Does that even make sense? Or is it as incoherent as I think it is? And is he really comparing the right to carry around a deadly weapon to the right to worship? Last time I checked, you can't blow your own nards off with a bible. Nor the nards of your fellow church goers. Unless, of course, you are an Islamic extremist, and you filled a bible full of C4, and strapped that to your genitals. I guess what I'm saying here, is this is ridiculous.

People on the KSL comment board, bless their little ultra conservative hearts, were saying things like "The bad guys are gonna carry guns anyway. They don't care about permits, blah blah blah I have tunnel vision."
Well, while it is certainly true that "bad guys" will carry guns regardless, that doesn't mean that I want just any moron to waltz into Cabbellas' and buy his first 9mm, and walk out the door with it stuffed in his waist band.

"It does not say you have the right to keep and bear arms as long as you have a permit from the federal government or your local or state government — it just gives you that right. Bearing arms means carrying them." While I agree that the constitution certainly gives people the right to carry weapons, there is nothing wrong with the fact that we have added a little responsibility to that right. The founders didn't say, "You have the right to keep and bear arms unless you are a felon," but we certainly have added in that clause. So I guess if this "purist" Sandstrom wants any asshole to be able to pack secret heat, then he should probably include felons in his crusade. Or is he simply going to pick and chose what he likes vs what he doesn't like? Typical.

The bottom line is, I want responsible people to carry guns. There is an inherent responsibility that goes with requiring a permit. It isn't expensive to get. People aren't being truly limited, or even overly regulated. I think the state is just trying to make sure that those who chose not to exercise their right to bear arms, aren't harmed by idiots who do, but are too stupid or lazy to learn how to do it right.

Since we're obviously shooting for a more wild west friendly state theme, maybe if we arm everyone, we can just force all those pesky immigrants out at gun point, and then we wont even need to emulate Arizona's legislation.

Kill every bird with one stone.

Heber school district fail

2010-07-04T11:54:00.003-06:00

There seems to be a pretty common hiring criteria for the hostesses at my place of employment. Blonde (whether fake or real) thin, and "attractive." Attractive, of course, being a relative term. Attractive in a general, "that girl is thin, blonde, and doesn't look very intelligent," sort of category.

During the hours of 1:30-5ish I really don't have much to do at work. I typically spend this time acquiring, what seems to be, a pretty stellar dose of carpal tunnels in my hands from chatting with amigos via iphone gtalk. Sometimes, I will venture on over to where the hostess stand is located and sit on the bench for a while. It was during just such a time, when I was asked by one of the aforementioned 18 year old dream babes, "Hey Fish. Can I ask you a question?"
"Sure."
"Okay. Well. Umm. So, what is a heterosexual?"
This is where the incredulous "are you really asking me this question you poor, poor imbecile" look was splayed clearly across my face.
"Are you seriously asking me this?"
"Yesuh, I don't know! I never had sex ed classes in school, and I grew up in a small town! Common, it's not my fault!"
"What town did you grow up in?"
"Heber!"
"Get real, I grew up in Nephi. You excuse is invalid."
"Okay whatever, just tell me."
I had to think for a minute how to best explain this, because I was worried that saying, "a heterosexual is a person that is attracted to the opposite sex," may further confuse her, as she may not understand what I meant by "opposite sex," or sex at all. Like, maybe I was saying that it was a person who was attracted to the opposite of sex. Which made me sort of confused, because I didn't know what the opposite of sex would even be. Seriously. If someone said to you, "Hey, lets do the opposite of sex," what would that mean? You can't just say, "Not have sex." Because that would be doing nothing, and the opposite of doing something would have to be doing something else. Man, I really digress.
"Well. As a heterosexual female, you are attracted to men."
"Ohhh. Haha. Okay."
"What the hell did you think it meant?"
"I just like, thought it was a guy who like, liked girls, but was like way femmy."
"Well, that would be a metro-sexual. But that isn't even a real word. It is a slang term. Heterosexual can actually be found in the dictionary, and is by all means a word you should have probably learned in junior high. Perhaps sooner."

I guess I shouldn't have been surprised when she later approached me in the bar and asked, "Fish. Can I ask you another question."
"By all means."
"Umm. What's like, a good drink, but that doesn't really taste like alcohol?"

This question is made more humorous (or possibly sad) by the fact that our sweet little darling here is dating a dude with 2 or 3 illegitimate children running around the valley. I'm certain at some point, this sperm launching sex fiend will probably tell her something like, "Don't worry baby. If we have seh standing up, you can't get pregs." And thanks to the Heber school district, she won't recognize that for the terrible lie that it is, and 9 months later, numero cuatro will come sliding out of the birth canal, hopefully not soaked in alcohol.

I'll be sure to tell her about fetal alcohol syndrome, even if she doesn't ask.

Move over meat

2010-06-24T21:17:00.002-06:00

One of the dilemmas I think a lot of people have with the concept of vegetarianism, is a fear of getting bored with meat avoidance. I've always thought, "how does a person eat only veggies? What they hell do they eat? Boring."

A few days ago, I was driving around, and noticing a lot of restaurants and fast food joints. And I started thinking about all the things I had always previously eaten at those locations. Everything involved meat. I saw a Del Taco, and thought, "Shit. No more tacos." I saw a subway and thought, "Shit. No more $5 foot long broth injected chicken-breast-that-contains-rib-meat sandwiches." I saw a couple of Chinese buffets and thought, "Shit. No more Chinese buffets."

Granted, I had been eating very little meat, comparatively speaking, for the last several months. But I had been eating mostly the same things. Lots of chipotle black bean burgers, salmon burgers, boca burgers, and hummus. I had been dabbling in some cooking, mostly curries and stir fry's. Then, with salmon eliminated, I was pretty much just down to the black beans.

In a society where most menu items in most restaurants contain meat of some sort, we get pretty used to a lot of variety. I mean, go to Chili's and try eating something meatless, besides a salad, or a deep fried cheese stick. Or chips and queso. Not that Chili's is, by any means, a bastion of good food. But go anywhere, and unless you want to eat a salad, meatless choices are slim. Even ethnic foods which are probably traditionally meatless, have been americanized and meated. Let's face it, we are a carnivorous nation. We eat more of it than any other country, and probably more than many countries put together.

But it doesn't have to be that way. It is perfectly possible to eat well (and by well, I mean delicious, satisfying meals) and avoid meat. Does anything really compare to medium rare filet wrapped in bacon? Well, I guess not. But there are plenty of other things that are delicious in their own right, although completely different. For example, tonight I made goat cheese stuffed tomatoes. I would say I enjoyed that concoction every bit as much as I have ever enjoyed a filet. But in a different way. Equally delicious, but different.

So, at the risk of being cliche, I have decided to start a cooking blog. Today, I bought a big, thick, blue oven mit. As I stood in my kitchen with that thing on my had, looking at it bathed in the unfortunately harsh glow of my fluorescent kitchen lighting, I knew it was time to start a new blog. If it goes largely unread, I don't care. If it helps just 1 or 2 people enjoy vegetarianism a little bit more, that is good enough for me. Either way, if I want to maintain a meatless lifestyle, I have to keep it interesting. And even if you still eat meat, but are just looking to eat things that are more healthy, this might be a good place for you to look, as most things will probably be relatively good for you. If you would like to go there, click HERE.

I promise this blog isn't going to turn into an anti-meat soap box. I promise.

It's raining golden calves

2010-06-21T00:26:00.002-06:00

If you have been reading this blog for the last year or so, you are probably aware of the fact that I have been graduated for over a year, and have been suffering from a fairly acute level of cognitive dissonance caused by the fact I am still employed at Carrabbas. If you have just recently joined this, well, simply mind bogglingly important blog--the dissonance has indeed been acute, and been suffered for the better part of a year. Which is maybe why, quite unexpectedly, grad school suddenly sounded real appealing.

Which is weird, because I have mostly been of the disposition for the better part of the last 3 years that, upon finishing college school, I'd rather be chewed to death by a bear, starting at the crotch, than go back to school.

I sort of, well, loathed school. I mean, not the actually going to class/learning part. That part I rather enjoyed (mostly, minus didactic lecturers with God complexes.) But the endless, tedious assignments and research papers I hated. Over the last year, whenever a friend or a co-worker told tale of a huge test to take, or a research paper to be written, I would get the most ominous, dreadful feeling. Sort of like what I get whenever I see a neighborhood with an assload of cookie cutter housing. The sort that summer sales bro's target. The sort that I targeted 3 years ago, during my 2 month stint as, well, a summer sales bro. Seeing a neighborhood ripe for a corporate raping takes me back to the feeling of misery I experienced during those 2 months. And hearing about other peoples' school assignments made me feel the same way, thus ever solidifying my anti-more-school position.

So when a grad program actually sounded like a desirable course of action, I felt like It had to be the right thing to do. Because, even as I type this, thinking about my undergrad still gives me that despicable summer sales swindler feeling. But, curiously, not when I contemplate this particular program.

I have felt lost for the last year. Graduated with a seemingly useless degree, wondering what on earth to do. I mean, this blog was an obvious fall back, since I make just stupid amounts of money maintaining it. Or should be. I guess I was waiting for either that to happen, or for a big golden calf to fall out of the sky, come crashing through my house, and land on my leg. So then I could sue whoever dropped that golden calf out of the sky, broke my leg, and ruined my ceiling. Hopefully for enough money to just live an extravagant life of blogging and eating expensive fruits. Grad school gives me real direction. Finally.

I applied for a Masters of Arts in Teaching at Westminster. I was worried, because they only accept 15 secondary ed students. So, having been accepted, that either means that I am simply a spectacular bastion of scholarly material, or that there just aren't that many people who want to pay a boatload for a masters degree. That golden calf crushing my leg would really be welcome right now.

So, after a couple years of avoiding my destiny as a secondary education mind moulder, I have come back to it. Over the last year or so, I have come to the realization that I need to love what I do. I need to feel fulfilled. Meaningful. I want to make a difference, to help people think critically, to love education. Pending the golden calf incident, I may not end up rich. But I will be happy. And that is what is important.

I'm ready for you, August 25th. No ominous feelings here.

Tight wad

2010-06-15T01:08:00.004-06:00

Today, a guy came into the carside door and ordered a chocolate cake desert thing. The total was 6 dollars and 47 cents. He pulled a ziplock plastic baggy out of his pocket, and proceeded to pull out a 10 dollar bill.

"A crafty substitute for a wallet, that ziplock bag," I thought.

He handed me a crinkled up 10 dollar bill. I opened the carside cash drawer, and was annoyed at finding no coins. Typically when this occurs on a carry out order, I try to look and sound real put out when I tell them, "hang on a sec, I'll go look for 37 cents." Or 15 cents. Or 62 cents. Or whatever the cents may be. And often times, people will say, "Don't worry about it." Partially because they realize that you should tip on a carry out order at a legitimate restaurant, and partly, I think, due to the fact that "who really gives a shit about 33 cents."

I owed him 53 of those cents. I assumed he wasn't going to say, "go ahead and keep it," as he had fished that $10 out of a plastic bag. So I said, "Hang on a sec, I'll go find you some change." I walked away, immediately calling out, "does anyone have 4 quarters?" I found 4 quarters, and returned to the guy. I owed him 53 cents, but gave him 50. Because I don't carry quarters, let alone pennies. In fact, in my entire serving career, I have never given anyone coins. If it is 15 cents or less, I eat it. If it is more than that, I let them eat it, and tip me less if they are pist.

Nobody has ever been pist.

What sort of person really would care about 3 pennies?

The answer to that question, apparently, is a person who carries his money around in a plastic sack.

Upon handing him the 50 cents, I turned away to go back to whatever else I was doing. He said, "Um...it was fifty-three cents." Dumbfounded, I sort of just stared at him for a moment. "Okay. I'll find you 3 pennies."

So I walked away, yelling "Does anyone have three pennies? Anyone?"
"What the hell do you need 3 pennies for?"
"Just gimmie the damn pennies please."

So I walked back over, and said, "Here are you 3 pennies."
"Thanks."
He put them in the plastic sack, and left.

I wonder if, on dates, he transfers his money into something more respectable. Like a velcro wallet.

Eating animals

2010-06-13T16:08:00.005-06:00

This post is probably going to be a little out of line with the general tone of this blog, so bear with me on that.

I finished a book, about which I had some pretty strong feelings, and I share those at the risk of possibly alienating some, and pissing off others.

Let me preface with the fact that I love a good steak as much, possibly, as I love my little brother. Although I rarely eat them, a good filthy burger, slathered with goat cheese is something for which I would possibly trade a kidney, if I didn't probably need both kidneys to process all that sodium. I love ribs, I love chicken, I love a good pork chop. Seared ahi tuna, I'd most definitely trade that kidney for. A fat shrimp, grilled or chilled or covered in cocktail sauce, is the sweetest of delicacies.

Which is why giving up meat is certainly going to be a decision not lightly made, and very difficult to maintain.

I have been gradually avoiding meat for the last few months, not on ethical grounds, but because I simply wanted a healthier diet. I have been bothered by the fact that as Americans, we seem to revolve our meals around a meat dish. I decided that I never wanted to fall into the routine of, "this will be the meat, now what goes well with that?" I wanted meat to be something that sometimes goes with a meal, but most of the time it doesn't.

From a Mormon standpoint, (sorry if you aren't a Mormon, and aren't familiar with the theology) I have always been slightly bothered by the disconnect that devout Mormons have when it comes to the Word of Wisdom. The Word of Wisdom, being, the reason why Mormons abstain from alcohol, tobacco, and other addictive and/or judgement altering substances. The disconnect comes with the part where meat is to be eaten "sparingly" and "in times of famine." For whatever reason, that part seems not to matter to many Mormons. It certainly didn't matter to me for a large portion of my life.

But it should matter.

Eating large quantities of meat (what the Average American certainly does) is simply not a way to maintain a healthy lifestyle. But meat is easy, and cheap. It is much easier to spend 3 bucks and 5 minutes (more like 30 seconds) at McDonald's on double cheeseburgers, than the time, effort, and thought it takes to cook something wholesome. My point is, it isn't good for anyone to consume a good sized portion of meat, every single day. Ask any dietitian, or look it up on the interweb if you think I'm wrong.

Recently, I read the book Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer, and pretty much fell in love with it. I found it to be a deeply moving, highly entertaining book. He recently published a book called Eating Animals, and having enjoyed Extremely Loud so much, I decided that I wanted to read it.

I knew it was about the American factory farm. I knew that I risked my love affair with with meat by reading it. But I also knew that I needed to really know what I have been eating my entire life, and what I would potentially continue to eat.

Eating Animals was not written by a PETA activist. It was written by a guy who has loved meat, and been an on again, off again vegetarian throughout his life. He chose to write the book when his son was born, because he realized that eating meat was no longer a personal decision, but one he would be making for his son. He wanted to find out if feeding his son meat was the right thing to do. So he set about doing 3 years of intensive research, which included breaking into factory farms, visits to actual sustainable, truly free range farms (the very few that are left,) and attempted contact and (legal) visits to some of the nations largest factory farms such as Tyson (none of which responded, nor allowed him to visit, for obvious reasons.) What he ended up with, I think, is a truly powerful (and truthful) exposé on the American meat industry.

A few years ago, my sister watched a short film online called 'Meat your Meat.' I had seen it previously, and dismissed it as extremism. I told her she was stupid for giving up meat, because there was no way that such a video was indicative of the industry as a whole. The video shows animals being treated and tortured in the worst ways imaginable. Now, after reading this book, I believe that this video is more the rule, rather than the exception. Or at least something close to it.

But, for the sake of people who will argue, let's pretend for a moment that it isn't. Let's go ahead and say that most animals aren't beaten with metal rods, aren't slammed upon the concrete until they die because they are too sick to move, and they aren't unnecessarily and often sadistically prodded with electric prods (much more than necessary) or a plethora of other common abuses, don't often occur. Sadism aside, there is plenty of inherent cruelty in the factory farm system that other potent examples are simply vegan icing on the shit cake.

Fact--factory farm animals (especially chickens and other poultry) are confined to small, disease ridden, shit infested spaces. Fact--through factory farming, genetically altered birds have been created for maximum growing potential and efficiency--the average broiler, (the chicken you eat) is slaughtered in 42 days. Sometimes 39. Can you even fathom the growth hormones and antibiotics necessary to create a succulent chicken breast in 42 days? Growth hormones, because nothing on this planet could naturally grow so fast and be ready for consumption, and antibiotics, because of the filthy conditions in which these birds are kept. Have you ever seen a 42 day old kitten, or puppy? Puts things in perspective...

So. We know (from government provided statistics, and obvious math ((if 30+ thousands birds are confined to a warehouse the size of a grocery store, it can't be any other way)) that animals really are unbelievably confined to small, filthy spaces. So why is that okay? Everybody, at one time or another, has seen an evening news story about some man or woman, who was discovered to be hoarding dogs or cats. We all look on in sadness, disbelief, and disgust while filthy, shit covered feral cats, with sores and scabs are being captured by animal control men wearing face masks. Why is that scenario punishable by fines and even jail time, while the same thing (just a different animal) ends up in your frying pan, or in between a bun, and slides happily down your gullet without ever a second thought?

These are questions that need to be asked. These are things that need to be thought about.

I think the problem, is the average american has no idea where his or her chicken, beef, pork, or fish is coming from. The idea that anything you purchase at a grocery store, or a fast food restaurant (or virtually any other restaurant, for that matter) is coming from a farm as you know it, is pure fantasy. I think if people really knew what the American factory farm was doing, and how meat actually gets to the end of your fork, there would be many more hesitant people when it came to meat consumption.

If you knew that children were used as the chief source of labor in the production of Ipods, and were terribly abused in the process, would you keep buying or using an Ipod? I know that animals aren't children. But the concept, I think, is fair. Meat is by no means a necessity, just like having an Ipod isn't a necessity. CD's play music too. So, upon finding out that there is extreme inherent cruelty built into the system (with factory farm demand, and the desire for cheap meat, things can be done in no other way) what can one do?

Again, let's set aside cruelty. Factory farms are probably going to be the cause of the next big pandemic. Because of the amount of antibiotics preemptively fed to factory farm animals, new strains of highly virulent, antibiotic resistant viruses are being, basically, farmed. With every bucket of KFC chicken, we are giving money to an industry that is inadvertently probably creating the next pandemic.

Do we need to even talk about how problematic 1.37 billion ton (not lbs, mind you) of shit per year produced by American livestock is?

I guess when it comes down to it, I am not opposed to the consumption of meat--sparingly. I do not think that the actual act of eating meat is wrong. However, what seems unequivocally wrong to me, is the manner in which our meat is derived. Which makes me feel that eating meat from a factory farm (which is most meat) is wrong.

Eating Animals, I think, may be one of the most important things I have ever read. Here is an excerpt, and one of many contained therein that I think lend credibility to his argument, and overall "agenda."

"My decision not to eat animals is necessary for me, but it is also limited--and personal. It is a commitment made within the context of my life, not anyone else's. And until sixty of so years ago, much of my reasoning wouldn't have even been intelligible, because the industrial animal agriculture to which I'm responding hadn't become dominant. had I been born in a different time, I might have reached different conclusions. For me to conclude firmly that I will not eat animals does not meat I oppose, or even have mixed feelings about, eating animals in general. To oppose beating a child to "teach a lesson" is not to oppose strong parental discipline. To decide that I will discipline my child in one way and not another is not necessarily to make a decision I would impose on other parents. to decide for oneself and one's family is not to decide for the nation or world."

If you read this book, I think you will be surprised by what you read. It doesn't feel preachy. It feels honest, and rational. You may disagree with most of what I have said here. And I get that--I have been there for most of my life. But I think I was there because I never had, what I felt like, were the facts presented to me. Meat consumption is one of the most polarizing subjects out there. Vegans and hardcore vegetarians are adamantly opposed to the cruelty and lack of animal welfare, often to the point of extremism, while meat lovers vehemently defend their steaks and God given right to exercise dominion and eat all creatures bond and free, while a lot of people in between just do what is easy, and mosey along in an ignorant, carnivorous bliss.

Meat is probably a large part of your life--it was certainly a large part of mine. Don't you think you should know a little more than "chicken comes from a chicken, and chickens live on farms"? If you are going to be an eating animal, you should know what that really means.

Ho, canada!

2010-06-12T11:13:00.006-06:00

Turns out, Canada is a pretty cool place. And mostly like America in a lot of ways. This is pretty much what I expected from Canada previous to arrival:
--Flannel
--French speaking babes
--Big pine trees
--An abundance of beavers
--My money to be worth more than their money
--Bear attacks

I was disappointed in all but the big pine trees. They sure had a lot of those.

I decided while packing, that wearing a red flannel long sleeved shirt was probably the best thing that I could do upon arriving in Canada, in order to not appear as a lame tourist. I expected a land of merry lumberjacks, stomping through the streets yelling things like, "Ho there friend!" or "Ho brother! Watch oat fer bairs aye!" Turns out, I was the only asshole walking around in flannel. But I wore that flannel proudly and filthily, 4 out of 5 days backpacking. Which may be why #6 never occurred--the bears could smell that my smelly sweat/smoke saturated vestment wrapped body was something they would rather not shove down their gullets. Or they felt a sense of camaraderie, like I was a flannel bearing illiterate Canadian of old, before they all got into fashion and the metric system.

I sure do like the metric system, even though my brain is too stupid to translate it. I constantly had to convert things to miles/feet/gallons/inefficient in order to figure anything out. "Wait, we have to go 150 kilometers? Shit, wait, how many is that in feet?"

Somehow or another, during the 5 days of our hike (on the Juan de Fuca trail, which occupies about 30 miles ((49 kilometers)) (((it's hard to know how many feet))) of the south-western coast of Victoria island) my trusty calculator watch with the gold band managed to be about an hour and 25 minutes off real time. Which I guess would explain why it seemed like the sun was setting at about 11:30 at night. Which I simply attributed to Canada being weird and way far north. I think towards the end, I finally figured out that my watch was wrong, and I really had no clue what time it was for 5 days. Which was sort of awesome.

One gentleman on our journey forgot deodorant I think. I wasn't previously aware that arm pit stench had the ability to drift upwards of 50 or more feet (like 15 meters ((I'm learning))) through rain forest to penetrate, nay, rape the nostrils of the unfortunate soul (generally me) walking behind. Which is why anytime I was bringing up the rear of our 3 man expedition, I ended up walking a good distance behind, probably setting myself up to be straggling bear meat. Or cougar meat. Which I think would be preferable to being bear meat. I feel like a cougar would probably go straight for the jugular, and end it rather quickly, whereas a bear is probably as likely to start with the crotch as with anything else. Anyways, it was really just an unbelievable stench, worth possibly dying to avoid.

At one point, I found myself trapped for a time in a sleigh bell B.O. sandwich, from whence there was no escape. We passed this weirdo German couple with sleigh bells attached to their walking sticks. Upon passing them, I was unable to maintain my usual 75 foot buffer zone. Which essentially felt like being herded into the stench by a sleigh bell wielding German shepherd (person, not dog.) Wanting to vomit while feeling extremely annoyed is a weird, bothersome combination.

Ripping mussels off of rocks, while getting soaked by cold sea water is rendered a much more disappointing culinary experience when said mussels are subsequently cooked in a Bear Creek minestrone/Santa Fe chipotle chicken soup mix. In other words, minestrone and Santa Fe chipotle chicken are 2 soups that don't combine well, and are not in any way improved by tossing in a couple dozen boiled mussels. Whoelk (that was a puke sound.) I should have stuck with sticking the whole shell in the coals of the fire with my leatherman, and eating them plain. Or maybe just purchased 6 matching soups, rather than 6 different. Idiot.

They (Canada) only give you .95 Canada cents for every American dollar. Which made virtually everything which was already more expensive, more expensive. That problem would fix itself if we would just turn them into a state already.

I saw one beaver, which was simultaneously the happiest and most disappointing moment of my trip. Happiest, because I got to watch a beaver, the literal Frank Lloyd Wright of the animal kingdom, swim around like 2000 centimeters in front of me. But this was basically my last day in Canada, and was the only beaver I saw, which made it disappointing. A bitter sweet moment.

I didn't run into any French speaking babes, but there sure were a lot of beautiful women walking around Vancouver nonetheless. Seriously. There must be something in the water. Get real Beach Boys, Vancouver girls are what you should be wishing for.

After completing the trail, we had to hitchhike the 30 miles back to the trailhead at Port Renfrew. We had the good fortunes to be picked up by the "Mayor" of Port Renfrew--a 63 year old pot smoking Vietnam draft dodging ex-patriot. Here was an excerpt from a conversation:
Adam: "So there is a doctor you visit?"
Mayor: "Ah yeah, but I don't even take none of the shit he gives me."
Adam: "So you are more into holistic medicines?"
Mayor: "I smoke a lot of pot."
Me: "Cool."
Also:
Mayor: "The prettiest girl I ever dated was a Mormon. She was always tryin to get me to go to church on Sundays. I was always tryin to get her to do drugs. Neither of us really had much success." It was a fun 30 miles.

Possibly the thing I loved most about Canada, was the Maynard wine gummies. My selection of said gummies had nothing to do with the fact that they were supposedly wine flavors, and everything to do with the consistency. I was hungry on a ferry, and saw a package of gummies. Upon careful examination and after various squeezes of the gummies through the bag, I deduced that I had possibly found a gummy with the perfect consistency. Which proved to be true. And, thankfully, they tasted nothing like wine.

I went on this trip assuming that I would starve for the duration of the backpacking experience, and lose a few pounds. Upon making a visit to my bathroom scale this morning, I found quite the opposite--a slight weight gain. Maybe something to do with eating pizza twice, hamburgers twice, a gigantic Ben and Jerry's ice cream waffle cone, 3 bags of Maynard's, plenty of fries with said hamburgers, more fries with a greasy Po boy tuna sandwich, and virtually zero fruits and veggies. Which, those things combined, are worse than the sum total of the WORST things I have eaten during the last 2 or 3 months. Maybe those were my last burgers. Ever. And my last albacore tuna. Ever.

More to come on that development.

Almost done aye

2010-06-09T22:59:00.001-06:00

I haven't yet died in Canada.

Sorry I disappeared.

Be back very soon.

Sweet revenge

2010-05-31T13:59:00.003-06:00

Today I went for a bicycle ride upon a mountain in Salt Lake. It was a big loop that started at a park on 1300 e and 11th ave, wrapped up through the hills, dropped down a river bed, and spit me out back on 11th. Upon arrival back at my cousin's truck, I noticed that there were some ladies out walking their dogs through the park.

As I was sitting in the cab, removing my gloves, helmet, and ugly assed narrow Spy shades circa bro core 2004, I noticed that one of the dogs had hunched over, and was producing what was turning out to be just an absurdly massive pile of shit. It was a medium sized pooch, yet somehow its digestive tract was ridding itself of something I'd have imagine produced by something more akin to a horse.

"Typical," I thought.

The lady noticed that said animal was defecating, and sort of moaned an "ahh man." She didn't appear to have any sort of a feces retrieval device, so I suppose she had plans to leave it there, for some unsuspecting 4 year old to mistakenly fall in, be completely absorbed, and never heard from again. Her dog was connected to one of those retractable leashes with the plastic handle, that sort of looks like a tape measure. With an added handle.

For reasons I can not fathom, she dropped the handle on the ground, put her hands on her hips, and finished watching her dog take the colossal shit. She was standing about 6 feet away from the dog. Upon completion, the dog began to walk in a south-by-westward direction. Since she was standing north-by-slightly eastward of the defecation, this consequently caused the trajectory of the leash handle to commit to a collision course with the shit pile. In the brief moment it took her to deduce this, her window of opportunity had passed. Upon realizing what was inevitably going to occur, she made one last sad, desperate, and hesitant bend over-reach combination for the handle, while saying, "oh no no no NO NO NO!" It was an impressive crescendo.

It was almost like a movie, watching that square plastic leash handle wiggle its way through the grass, and slowly drag perfectly centered over one of the biggest piles of shit I've ever seen. At which point the woman threw up her hands in exasperation, and shamefully trudged over to the handle, studied it for a moment, and realized there was nothing to do but pick it up.

Witnessing this left me with a pretty terrific feeling of vindication for all of the shits thus far left upon my lawn this spring.

I'm not entirely certain, but I think that I may have witnessed the most perfect thing that ever happened. Not even the big bang could have been executed so perfectly. Somehow, I think, this proves there IS a God. And that he is really, REALLY funny.

Water jihad

2010-05-21T07:55:00.005-06:00

Apparently there is a Persian living on my street who has declared a jihad against a very crazy old woman.

Friday morning, I was packing my car to go to Moab. Tent and sleeping bag in the trunk, bike on the roof, gun under the seat. NBD. As I am about to close the trunk, a woman comes shuffling towards me up the street. She is wearing a faded bathrobe, slippers, and looks moments away from dropping dead in the middle of the asphalt. Her hair was stringy, with a multitude of baby blue and pink plastic-foam curlers dangling at various lengths around her skull. A lost cause for sure.

She approached me and said, "Do you live here?" She was pointing at the house next door to mine.
"No. Not here. But I live there," pointing to the cat lady's house. Which is also my house.
"My house got broke into last night. I can't even call the cops cuz they will lock me up in a crazy house."
"Okay."
"You know what, it's that damn per-zee-an, he's the ringleader you know." Apparently, there is a man with a dark complexion, whom she has determined is a Persian. She, being an obvious imbecile/redneck, pronounces it 'per-zee-an,' with a rather healthy twang at 'an' part. Typically attached to an expletive.
"I just needa find someone to come look, so I got proof. They're comin in through the ceiling and stealing my water. I know they was, their door was open all night."

At this point she was doing a lot of pointing, and was also talking rather loudly, which had me worried that if this so-called per-zee-an did indeed exist, and was in fact sneaking in through the ceiling, stealing this (maybe not crazy) old woman's water, I certainly didn't want to be seen associating with her, thus possibly incurring a jihad through association.

"Maybe you should call the police?"
"I cant! Do you know what the cops'll do to old ladies? They'll lock me up, cuz they think I'm crazy."
"Uh huh." I think throughout, I pretty much had the same look on my face--half squinty eyes, mouth slightly ajar, trying very hard not to laugh/semi nervously looking about.
"I have great water you know, good pipes and all. They just wanna scare me outta here so they can get my good water. I have great flow."
"Wait. Why do they want to get your water? Why don't they have their own water?"
"You don't know about this? Bout whats goin on round here? They got them Hebrews all up in here (pointing at some apartments, apparently infested with 'Hebrews')that damn per-zee-an, stealin my water, bathin them Hebrews!"
I wondered what in the hell that could possibly mean.
"What in the hell does that even mean?"
"They are stealin my goddamned water!"
"I see."
"You better keep an eye on your car, this seems like a nice neighborhood. Well it's not! That damn per-zee-an is the ringleader, they got teasers standin out here all night long, I took down their license plates and everything."
"I think maybe you should probably call the police. I'm going to Moab in 15 minutes. I'm sort of useless as a vigilante at the moment."

At that point, I immediately regretted telling her I was leaving for Moab for the weekend, lest somehow that damn per-zee-an find out, and maybe steal my 12 boxes of soy milk, since my tap water isn't worth a damn, and they are apparently in the business of stealing liquids.

Once she realized that I was useless to her cause, she shuffled back down the road, muttering all the way. Part of me mostly regrets not going into her house to see the "evidence" of the water jihad. However, the other part of me really just wanted to go to Moab. Also, I feel like that may have simply been an elaborate plot on her part to get me in her house in order to murder me. I mean let's be honest, weighed against anything besides Moab, I'd have been in her house in a second. So as far as murder plots go, she had a pretty compelling story.

Sometimes I think I'd be way to easy to lure into a ridiculous situation, resulting in murder.

Not beary brave

2010-05-18T13:25:00.000-06:00

I'm going to be consumed by a grizzly bear, and it is all thanks to the fact that Canada hates pistols.

My friend and I are planning a trip to the Canadian Rockies June 3rd-the 12thish. He just got done with medical school, and wants to do something celebratory/adventurous before beginning 4 years of residency slave labor. I want to do something adventurous with the hopes that at some point during the 9 or 10 days, I shall be afforded the opportunity to do something like, way heroic, and save his life. Which will then make him feel on some level indebted to me, which will hopefully make him my future cool trip/maybe-a-really-nice-carbon-frame-mountain-bike-someday-benefactor. Or if he dies tragically young at around 40, I'd like to be the guy upon whom he bequests all of his assets. After all, I did save his life. From drowning in a freezing river. Or a falling tree. Or whatever.

I think the extent of my heroic desires are pretty much curtailed at the point of grizzly bear involvement. I'd probably like, take a bullet in the leg. Or get my hands all sappy and probably pull a muscle lifting a tree off of him. I'd even carry or drag him for miles through the wilderness, in order to save him from a lonely, cold death upon a mountain. But I just don't like the idea of getting chewed up by a grizzly.

Think about it. Getting chewed to death. I can't think of too many worse ways to get killed. I guess if I was captured by a grizzly, and neither the bear spray nor the playing dead thing had worked, I suppose I'd probably try to strategically place myself in a position where chewing would be most effectual in causing a hasty death. I'd make sure to try to get my neck in a very convenient position for biting, with hopes that he would just maybe chew my head off real quick or something, rather than casually gnawing at my thighs for a while. Which is probably what the bear will be naturally drawn to, as they are probably the choicest cuts of meat on my body, due to months of biking and running.

So I was looking at the possibility of carrying a .45 in the Canadian wilderness, so that I didn't have to rely upon bear spray to ward off a bear attack. Bear spray? Get real. Can you imagine a 1500 lb grizzly bear being in any way deterred by pepper spray? "Hmm," thinks the grizzly bear, "185 pounds of easy meat accompanied by an itchy nose and teary eyes, or walking my ass into a freezing river to try to snag a few salmon. DUH."

Apparently, pistols are illegal in Canada. I think that maybe one of the unintended consequences of this, is a healthy bear population, which flourishes upon the tender meats of unarmed foreigners. Anyways, I guess my point is, I'm willing to be a hero in any circumstance which does not involve bears.

I'm sorry Adam, but when it comes to a grizzly, it's every man for himself. Which is probably a terrible philosophy, since he has longer legs.

C-ya, dignity

2010-05-10T00:11:00.005-06:00

The thing I love about toilets, is that they only require occasional maintenance. The thing I hate about toilets, is the occasional maintenance that they require is a real pain in the ass. And typically involves the installation or removal of a toilet seat. Which sucks because, I don't care how well you clean it nor how often, it never feels okay to get real intimate with a toilet.

A sober person never feels okay wrapping his or her arms around a toilet, fiddling around with the super long plastic screws. When puking into it, mind clouded in a hazy fog, the last thing an inebriated person probably thinks about is who was pissing there last. The first thing a person thinks about when unscrewing those screws is ALL of the people pissing there last.

My toilet has been slowly breaking over the last few weeks. One of the two arms connecting the seat to the porcelain broke about 2 weeks ago, which made for a pretty wonkey sitting experience. Yesterday, the other arm finally broke, which simply made the whole thing a pretty stellar hazard. I bought a new seat last week, but have yet to install it, due to the aforemntioned intimacy problems.

So I was sitting on the closed toilet seat, clipping my toenails on the floor. My phone was sitting on the shelf behind me. Somewhere in mid clip on my toe which neighbors the big guy on my left foot, my phone buzzed, indicating a text message. So I twisted my body around to reach for the phone, forgetting that the toilet seat was merely perched on the rim, attached to nothing. Which caused the toilet seat to obviously gyrate in the same direction. Which then not so obviously caused one end to dip slightly into the bowl, sort of dumping my ass into the toilet, at which point I threw one hand down onto the toilet rim, and the other wildly flailed sort of behind me and to the right, attempting to grab something, but instead just slammed into the rack, knocking deodorant sticks, contact lenses, and bottles of lotion all over the floor. At this point, having grabbed nothing with right arm and being somewhat off balance, the toilet seat slid off the rim, both of us landing on the floor, and my hand which was formerly on the rim of the toilet, instead just ended up in the toilet.

I then spent a few incredulous moments, sitting on the floor amidst a host of personal hygiene products and toenail clippings, wondering just where the hell my dignity went, and why it went there in such a flamboyant fashion.

I guess it's time to fix the toilet seat.

Change or keep?

2010-05-02T13:33:00.003-06:00

Is my back ground (blog, not life) distracting?

Part of me wants to change it, part of me doesn't.

What do you think?

If you have an opinion, make it known. On Wednesday, I'll go with the consensus.

Bomb fail

2010-05-02T13:02:00.003-06:00

Thank God for people who want to blow up a lot of other people, yet happen to suck at making bombs.

One of my friends was visiting Times Square when the bomb fail occurred yesterday. She told me about this, as I was writing an article titled "The Key to a Healthy Lawn is in the Length." She was in the midst of a failed terrorist plot, and I was writing about the proliferation of soil microbes via letting the grass grow long, and why mulching is better than bagging.

Which obviously led me down the thought path to, "How come I don't ever get to be part of a failed terrorist plot?" (Insert a very whiny voice, like a kid whose older brother wont let him have a turn at Nintendo saying, "How come I don't ever get a turn? You don't even ever give me even one turn".) I just wanna turn.

This would be my ideal terrorist encounter. I'm standing in like, the DMV or something. Suddenly a guy bursts through the front doors with a bomb strapped to his chest, throws his hands in the air, and screams, "Allahu Akbar!" And then it gets real silent. He's standing there, eyes pinched, breathing heavily. He then slowly opens his eyes, and looks down at his chest, a look of real bewilderment on his face. And then some 7 year old kid walks over and punches him in the crotch.

You know your job is boring when you start day dreaming about Islamic terrorists in failed bomb vests getting punched in the crotch by kids.

Lending a helping hand in queens is a good way to get stabbed

2010-04-29T20:19:00.003-06:00

I think that there is a special, embarrassing place in hell reserved for about 20 or so people from Queens.

http://www.nypost.com/p/news/local/queens/passers_by_let_good_sam_die_5SGkf5XDP5ooudVuEd8fbI

The above is a link to a story about an act of heroism, for which the hero was rewarded with several stab wounds to the chest, a heaping load of ingratitude, many an indifferent passing stare, a spot in a cellphone photo archive, and ultimately a hasty trip to the spirit world.

At about 5:40 in the morning, a woman was being attacked. Her unlikely savior was a homeless man, who was then stabbed in the chest several times for his efforts. The assailant ran off one way, and the woman another. The homeless man then stumbled a few feet after his attacker, and collapsed face down upon the ground.

At this point, he lay there in a pool of blood for an hour and twenty minutes, before firemen arrived to find he was dead.

There is a surveillance tape which documents his fall to the ground, and then records over twenty people walk by, and simply glance at him while he bleeds out on the pavement.

One despicable asshole even has the audacity to walk out of a nearby building, snap a photo with his phone camera, and then walk away. Nobody called 911. Nobody stopped to help.

Nobody.

For one hour and twenty minutes, this guy bled out on the pavement. One hour, and twenty minutes.

I can understand that, upon seeing a bleeding, dying man on the ground early in the morning, one may feel a little nervous about sticking around to help out. That much may not be right, but it is understandable. However, it would probably be pretty far fetched to speculate that even two or three of those twenty plus passers by didn't have a cell phone. How hard is it to walk to a point where one feels safe, and make a call?

And this woman who was the original, intended victim? Where the hell did she go? And clearly she knew that there was some form of a scuffle which ensued between the attacker and the homeless man, so why wouldn't she, at the very least, call 911 after she escaped and report what occurred?

There is so much that is disturbing about this story. What does this say about the general state of humanity? That not even one amongst twenty people is willing to even so much as make a phone call? I realize that this same sort of thing occurred about 45 years ago with Kitty Genovese, but man, I thought maybe we had progressed as human beings since then. The indifference is astounding.

I don't care what instinct or fear dictates--if I encounter a bleeding person on the ground, I'm doing something about it.

So I guess the lesson we learn here--you better think twice before being a homeless hero in Queens.

Plastic, not paper please

2010-04-26T23:53:00.002-06:00

I'm sort of baffled by all of the women who apparently still think that purchasing things with checks is anything other than silly and archaic. Today, 3 separate women attempted to make purchases at Carrabbas' using checks.

WTF? They all seriously looked at me like I had lobsters crawling out of my ears when I told them, "Umm, actually, we don't take checks." Just looks of utter bewilderment. Where are these women shopping, that they can still write checks? Most businesses have signs somewhere visible near the register stating, "Checks no longer accepted."

There is nothing worse than going to the grocery store (which most, unfortunately, still accept checks) and getting stuck behind some old crone, or a middle aged woman with 6 kids and a dumptruck sized cart full of cheese hot dogs and mini pizzas, filling out a check, and balancing her checkbook. For goodness sakes, get with the times. Use a plastic card. Or cash, if you don't trust yourself with plastic.

I've heard people argue that it makes them nervous to let a waiter take their card away, for fear that they could write down the credit card number. This is somehow less scary than leaving a check with ALL YOUR INFORMATION at locations scattered about the planet. Think about it--your name, address, bank account number, and often times your phone number and drivers license, (since most places don't trust idiots to not bounce checks.) All you're really leaving out is your birth day, cup size, and social security number.

Why do women seem to be the ones still using checks? I have never seen a man use one, not for years (leaving out business checks.) Today, a woman came in to buy a huge vat of ice cream. She wanted to pay with a check. I informed her that we don't accept them. She looked at me like I was the largest asshole in the region, gave an exasperated sigh, a slight head shake, and stated that "I've always used them before."

"Sorry."

Not on my watch.

So she then got out her phone, called who I assumed was her husband, and was apparently informed that she was allowed to use one of those weird plastic cards. I guess maybe her husband doesn't think she is a big enough girl to pay with something that takes mere moments to transact. She then told me, upon handing me the card, to "run it as credit." So I ran it like I run every other card, with no idea whether or not it was going to go through as a credit or debit transaction.

Sorry.

I understand people using checks to pay bills via snail mail. I even understand paying said bills, or maybe rent with a check, hoping that it won't go through or be cashed for a few days, because you are waiting for a paycheck to come through. Or something. But for heavens sakes, paying with a check, and upon failure, a credit card for a 25 gallon bucket of ice cream is everything that is wrong with this country. I'd hardly say that a vat of Blue Bell vanilla falls under the category of "essential," albeit damn delicious.

Stop using checks. It is an annoying, pointless practice. I have managed to get through about 4 years on fewer than 10 or so checks. And somehow, the world has not ended, I have not fallen into financial ruin, and no Nigerians have managed to steal my identity.

If there happens to be any good reason besides having a carbon copy record of everything you ever purchase for owning a checkbook, I'd sure like to know what it is. And just why it seems to be mainly women clinging to such an obnoxious financial relic.

It is finished

2010-04-25T23:32:00.005-06:00

I have really just beat the hell out of this topic, but I feel like it needs to be wrapped up.

First of all, if you have never had the chance to visit the original KFC on 3900 so state in SLC, you are missing out on a rather marvelous dining experience. Unless you despise KFC food, (which I do) because in that case, the original KFC is just a kitchy place to clog your arteries.

I'd say, overall, the double down was a let down. I fully suspected it to be way more disgusting than what it was. I thought half way though I'd be suffering some moderate heart pains. That maybe I'd wake up the following morning with a large, purplish bruise over the heart region of my chest. Psh, none of that even happened.

Mostly the double down just left me wishing that the negligible portion of bacon had been way less negligible. You could practically see through it, and therefore it added no flavor whatsoever to the complete meatwich.

I found myself thinking, "Okay. Next time, I'll ask for less sauce, and extra bacon." Immediately after which, I thought, "You idiot. There will never BE a next time. You (I) don't hate your (my) body (buddy) THAT much."

I ate a double down, drank 2 pepsis, had a small carton of potato logs, and then half a pint of frozen custard. Oh, and a kazoozle. I felt like if I was going to abuse myself, I might as well pull out all the stops. But about 1 am I was feeling guilty, and so went running down town.

Maybe that's why I didn't wake up with the purple bruise.

Just a monument to the colonel. May he weather the eternities enshrined in bronze.

Everyone that was hoping for a heart attack, but didn't even get one heart attack.

T-minus 2 days

2010-04-20T19:31:00.005-06:00

Thursday, I'm going to eat a double down. A facebook event has been created, people have been invited, a location has been selected. This event has been etched into the fleshy tables of a KFC chicken heart. There is no turning back.

The last time I ate a KFC product, I was working at a gum factory. Because we like, kicked ass at producing and packaging a lot of gum (or something) we were rewarded one day with lunch. Many of us in the gum packing department were hopeful of a Pizza Hut experience. Much to the delight of the redneck white trash dudes in the shipping department, KFC was our victory prize. As I peeled away the lid from one of the chicken buckets, I marveled at how the fried chicken nestled in side looked the exact opposite of crispy. At that point in my life, I was by no means a very healthy eater. But by 3 bites into an original recipe canola oil sponge, I no longer felt the need to swallow, as anything put in my mouth, and then subsequently chewed, would pretty much just slide down my gullet of its own volition. I ate about half a chicken part, and could take no more. Much to the pleasure of the guy with the shirt that stated in humongous lettering "Oh what fun it is to ride." More chicken for that asshole.

As the day of atherosclerosis draws ever closer, I find myself growing afraid. I was reading a review about the double down on a blog, and was absolutely appalled by the included imagery. I think I've never laid eyes upon a more vile, grease soaked creation. I think that I've never looked at something meant for mass popular human consumption, and been so completely repulsed. Especially after a couple months of eating lots of veggies, fruits, and combinations of veggies and fruits, with occasional lean meats.

I feel like this thing is going to slither down my gullet, and then burst out of my chest, in a dramatic display of deleterious, meaty protest. Or at the very least I'm going to regain every pound I've shed over the last few months. Or I'll be rendered sterile. Or something. The bottom line is, nothing good can come from the coming experience.

But I have to go through with it. My curiosity is too great. I want to experience for myself this latest American abomination. The veritable abominable snowman of fast food creations. I want to try to understand the "why" of it. To know how we could have arrived at the point of such a mighty conglomeration of meat, not heretofore mass marketed on this planet.

I'm not looking forward to the incipient buddy growth.

Dear girls,

2010-04-18T10:38:00.004-06:00

Please stop making this face. And then taking a picture of it when you do. Followed by posting it to your facebook account. Or blog. Or wherever it is you happen to be posting photos of yourself. Seriously. I've encountered entire facebook albums dedicated to this face.

I think I semi understand the underlying anatomy of posting a kissy-face-slightly-arched-eyebrows-sorta-seductive-gaze pose. I realize this accentuates your cheekbones, giving your face the illusion of being somewhat emaciated. Which, if the emaciated thing is what you are going for...well, spot on. And maybe some dudes will see your picture and think, "Whoa, I feel like she is making that stupid kissy-face-seductress-gaze pose at me." Although, the male specimen who thinks such a thing is probably the last person on earth from whom you would want to elicit such a response, as he is probably browsing your album alone at 3:30 in the morning with his shirt off, dividing glances between his own marvelous abs, and your kissy-face.

I'd actually love to have some input from guys here. Unfortunately, I think there is a disproportionate amount of females who read this blog vs. males. I'm not sure why. It may be that the blogging world is more heavily estrogen dominated. Or, it may be that I don't post enough pictures of babes doing a kissy-face. It's hard to know. But my question, is if you are a man, does the encounter of a kissy-face picture cause your loins to burn with desire, or do you, like me, find it to be a compelling reason make some sort of an audible "uggh" sound, in conjunction with a head shake, attached to a possible disgusted "sniff."

If you are a female, do you do the kissy-face for photos? And why? (If you happen to be a kissy-face culprit, feel free to respond anonymously.) Do you hate that your friends do it, or do you sort of think it is a good idea, but don't employ the technique, as you feel you have not yet attained mastery of the semi-seductive-gaze portion of the pose? Mastering the kissy-face-slightly-arched-eyebrows-sorta-seductive-gaze pose technique is hard. It really is.

Anyways, maybe this is simply another one of those things that falls under the "I'm never going to understand this," category, where dwell such phenomena as the popped collar, and flare jeans.

Oh, and the Double Down.

Monument

2010-04-13T17:25:00.005-06:00

Upon leaving my house today, I encountered this gigantic treasure about a foot away from the sidewalk on my grass. Upon seeing it, I just stopped and marveled at the sheer magnitude of it. The only thing I had by which to scale it, was a Yoohoo can.

First of all, I'm really sorry this post is about feces. Second, I'm even more sorry that gargantuan thing is sitting upon my lawn, taking root. Third, I'm sorry again for posting a photo of said monstrosity possibly waiting, I fear, to come alive via some form of mutation to tear this city apart.

This is why I hate Salt Lake City dog owners. I have found no fewer than 8-10 such piles (albeit of a much smaller caliber) on my lawn in the time that I have lived in this house, and I can only imagine it will get worse as the summer arrives. You may think, "well would you want to pick that up while you were walking your dog?" Hell no, I wouldn't pick it up. Which is precicely why I will never own a creature that is capable of manufacturing feces of such epic proportions. That thing is bigger than a Yoohoo can. Get real.

If you choose to own a dog, and you choose to walk around with said dog, have the common decency to clean up after it. There is no way in hell my lawnmower will be able to grind that turd into oblivion. Until the cat lady or I find a shovel, that thing is a permanent fixture upon our lawn.

I'm really not okay with that.

Urgent help requireded!

2010-04-13T02:30:00.003-06:00

Today I was on facebook. I noticed on the news feed, that my cousin, who lives in San Francisco, had posted as his status "NEED URGENT HELP!!!"

Naturally, I thought this was a weird thing to post on facebook. I mean, if a person was in need of urgent help, I think the last thing he or she would do, would be to update his or her facebook status. I could just imagine my cousin, trapped in a heap of twisted metal after a terrible car accident, barely coherent, accessing his facebook account via a cell phone, stating his need of "urgent help."

So I noticed that he (Justin) was currently on and available for chat. So I asked:

Andrew

what is the urgent help needed?
5:55pmJustin

thank God you're here andrew

*This line immediate raised my suspicion, as he wouldn't have called me andrew.

we're stuck in wales uk....as we speak
*First, I couldn't imagine my cousin updating his fbook status via a cell phone, being a respectable lawyer in his mid thirties, nor could i think of a single reason why he would be in Wales.

5:56pmAndrew

oh yeah?
5:56pmJustin

got mugged at the park of the hotel where we stayed

all cash credit card and cell phone was all stolen off
*At this point, it seemed that either my law school graduate cousin was either really panicked, and had thus lost his ability to form a proper sentence, or he was a Nigerian pretending to be my cousin. I supposed the latter was probably correct.
5:57pmAndrew

oh shit!

what can i do??

I am the very most worried about you!

Do you need my help?
5:59pmJustin

it was a brutal experience for us

we really need your help in getting back home
5:59pmAndrew

OMG I can totally imagine that such a thing would be very brutal

were you guys very scared?
6:00pmJustin

we're in pains with injuries and bruises
6:00pmAndrew

No! what sort of pains and injuries??

I have very worries for you guys!
6:01pmJustin

we need your help andrew
6:02pmAndrew

Wait, should I get the guy who got you? I have a .45

I am not even scared to seek vengeance for your hurts and pains and injuries and bruises
6:02pmJustin

omg..
*I certainly could not imagine my cousin using the term OMG.

do you wanna help out or not?
6:02pmAndrew

Yes! I said I do!

Tell me how to help! I am so worried! an attack in the UK! I cant believe this has happened to you
6:04pmJustin

am damn serious here
6:05pmAndrew

is Charlie okay?
*Charlie is Justin's first born

6:05pmJustin

yes
6:05pmAndrew

and dillan?
*Second born.

what about Timothy?! Please for the love of god, tell me timothy didn't get hurt
*Timothy, doesn't exist.

6:07pmJustin

dillan is in pains and timothy is fine

our return flight leaves in about some few hours from now..but we're having problem settling the hotel bills
6:07pmAndrew

Did they take Timothy's prosthetic leg??
6:08pmJustin

no

wondering if you could pls loan us some little piece of cash to get the bills sorted out and get a cab to the airport
*At this point, I was very interested as to how much this little piece of cash would be.

will def refund it back as soon as we get back home
6:09pmAndrew

I guess i could give you some cash.

how much do you need?
6:10pmJustin

$1,480
6:10pmAndrew

I will only send you cash if you swear in your wrath that you will buy little Timothy a sack of corn nuts. he must be devastated
6:11pmJustin

omg...
*the Nigerian was apparently pist that he would have to pony up $1.89 for a sack of corn nuts.

6:11pmAndrew

SWEAR TO ME!
6:11pmJustin

we need help here andrew

i swear with my life

i will
6:11pmAndrew

how can i even know if you are speaking true?
6:12pmJustin

am damn serious here
*why the exact same misspelling as the first time he was "am damn serious here."?

6:12pmAndrew

how can i know that Timothy is really okay??

HOW CAN I KNOW EVEN!!

TELL ME OR YOU GET NO CASHES FROM ME FOR ANYTHING NOT EVEN TIMOTHY"S CORN NUTS!

6:14pmJustin

he is fine and doing good
*I was about 90% reassured at this point.

6:14pmAndrew

what color is his prosthetic leg???

how can i even get the monies to you even?
6:15pmJustin

you can have the money wired to my name via western union money transfer
6:16pmAndrew

i dont even know if you are damn serious right now
6:16pmJustin

i have my passport with me to pick it up at the western union outlet
6:16pmAndrew

how damn serious are you even??
6:16pmJustin

OMG...

if am not i won't tell you to wire money to my name

you and i know that i will need a proof before i can pick it
6:17pmAndrew

well, what name should I send the monies too?
6:18pmJustin

you will need my name and location to wire to

*the

money

Here's my info below
Name...JUSTIN FISH
Location...47 LOUNDOUN SQUARE
Cardiff, GLAMORGAN CF10 5JN
UNITED KINGDOM

got it?
6:20pmAndrew

wait, I am really close to where you are at!

Ill just bring you the monies!

I can be there in 15 minutes!!!!
6:21pmJustin

omg...
*This was apparently a frustrating concept, me bringing him the monies.
6:21pmAndrew

Does that sound great!?
6:21pmJustin

you just have to go down to a western union outlet near you and send the money
6:21pmAndrew

That way, I can make SURE timothy gets his corn nuts!

No, dumbass, I am only a few blocks away!

I can just HAND you the monies!
6:22pmJustin

do you wanna help out or not

tell me let me know
6:22pmAndrew

Yes, And i also called a police officer, because I am worried about your pains and bruises. he will be coming to that address shortly

and then I will bring you the cash!

At this point, my Nigerian friend apparently realized I was probably not going to send him $1480 dollars, and thus quit corresponding with me.

Now, here is what I find to be a little baffling. Who are the people that actually fall for this? I mean, certainly my dear cousin Justin's account isn't the first this guy has hacked. So obviously, some people are falling for this, and are somehow not realizing that, in an emergency where bruises and pains are involved, a victim is probably not going to be using fbook to find help. I think that if you are too dense to realize that you are clearly talking to a person who does not speak English with any sort of fluency, then you probably deserve to be raped of $1480 dollars.

Unless you are my grandmother. I will beat that guy to death, if he rips off my grandma.

God help us, this thing actually exists

2010-04-02T13:56:00.003-06:00

Just when I thought that the fast food industry couldn't come out with anything more appalling (the McRib, chicken McNuggets, the Baconator, the Burger King Stacker Quad ((holy shit!)) I see this thing and get knocked on my ass.

The arterial Apocalypse pictured above is called the "Double Down." Just when KFC sorta tried to score some "healthy" points with grilled chicken, rather than the usual deep fried lard bucket, they drop this coronary napalm on the American public. I feel like, where land dwelling creatures are concerned, it should maybe be a crime to combine the products of more than 2 different animals in any one concoction. Especially when there isn't even any damned bread involved.

So, let's see. With the double down, we have product from 3 separate mammals: Cheese(s) from a cow, bacon(s) from a pig, and 2 huge chickens from probably an unfathomable amount of chickens, neatly pressed into patties (this estimate does not include any unknown variables, such as other birds or mice accidentally being ground up with the chicken.) And then no bread. And some sauce. The epitome of a meat sandwich. This is apparently what we have come to--thousands of years of eating, and we have digressed to a meat sandwich, that really can not even be classified as a sandwich, as the word "sandwich" inherently implies the use of bread. A meatwich maybe?

Whatever you want to call it, this is a big punch to the arteries and a drop kick to the non-existent 6 pack of obese America.

KFC claims that they have done an "estimate" on the nutrition information of the Double Down, and this is what they came up with:

Calories: 590
Calories from fat: 280
Total fat: 31g
Saturated fat: 10g
Trans fat: 0g
Cholesterol: 190mg

Hey KFC? Get real.

If that thing is less than 1000 calories, then I'm Jonathan Safran Foer.

I'm probably going to eat one. One.

Buddies

2010-03-25T19:37:00.003-06:00

I decided that I don't really want to have to rely upon the library for my internet consumption. This was made a little more clear to me after an experience I had on Tuesday.

I was sitting at a desk, typing for my new kinda-job. Which I suppose I should explain. I found a job. Kinda. I am doing freelance writing for OrangeSoda. Not the full time career I was hoping for, yet probably at least a foot in the door. Anyways.

I was writing. I little fat Mexican man came and sat across from me. At some point, he apparently decided that lifting his shirt up to practically his nipples would be a good idea, followed by rubbing his hands up and down on his buddy (gut) for about an entire minute. Now, I like lifting up my shirt and rubbing the bear skin of my buddy just as much as the next asshole. But MAYBE not in the public library. He just gazed out the window, and rub, rub, rubbed away.

At first I just stared at him. Thinking that he would probably subside within an 8-12 second time frame. But he just never stopped. So after about 45 seconds of staring at his buddy, belly button, nipples, and the gigantic scar that snaked its way up the center of his chest, I decided I should probably get out my phone and record him. He repeated the buddy rub at least 6 times, probably amassing to a grand total of at least 4 straight minutes of shirt-up-buddy-rub.

As much as I actually really actually enjoyed this experience, I decided that it was time to get the interweb in my own home. So I called Qwest and now I have one more bill, amongst a googolplex of bills.

I've decided that being a grownup kind of sucks sometimes. I feel like I have money going in 50 different directions every single month. In reality, that number is closer to 9. But still.

I wonder how many bills the buddy rubber has? Maybe that's what he was pondering, upon looking out the window and stroking his ample buddy, just how he was going to make ends meet this month. Maybe lifting up my shirt and rubbing my buddy will help me sort out my life confusions. At worst, it will feel great. And in public, even.

A quick path to self loathing

2010-03-20T00:53:00.000-06:00

It is fairly difficult to describe the nearly insatiable self loathing that one feels upon consuming an entire loaf of bread and a large ice cream scoop worth of whipping cream. Not moderately low fat Cool Whip, mind you, but full on heavy cream based fatty sugary Carrabba made whipping cream. And, said cream having been consumed by dipping bread in it. Nothing makes a guy feel fatter, nor more pathetic than that. Especially when said creamy carb consumption occurred in the midst of a day of Jamba Juice, 2 bowls of cereal, 2 bowls of oatmeal, various Vanilla Wafers, a bowl of shrimp pasta, some calamari, a bunch of fajita steak and bell peppers, and a pack of Kazoozles. GET REAL.

The next morning when I woke up, I had gained back two of five previously lost pounds. Way to go, fatty.

I have come to realize, over the last few months, that my eating habits have been particularly terrible for a long time, and I have been making an attempt to do better. The day where I ate some of EVERYTHING, was actually sort of a fluke. I was at work for 11 hours, and I only took one table the entire day. Which meant I had a lot of time to stand around and think about how good a loaf of bread dipped in whip cream would be.

I find that when I am bored, I want to eat. Which I think is pretty normal. I'm just really bad at giving in. Like I think about all of the vanilla wafers hiding in dry storage at work, and I want to eat every last one of them. So since that terrible two pound day, I have been trying pretty hard not to bored eat.

Working in a restaurant where finding a meal that weighs in at less than 1000 calories is nigh unto impossible, consequentially makes it nigh unto impossible to avoid eating like obesity sounds like a great life plan. Especially when I am there for 12 hours at a time. Whenever I bring a person who scarcely fits into one chair a heaping plate of pasta drenched in lemon butter, alfredo sauce, and a whole lot of potential ass growth, I just want to get my own pasta, sit down, and grow our asses together. Everything looks SO GOOD when I am hungry. Or bored. Or whatever.

I have recently discovered that I really like plain pasta with some Romano cheese grated and mixed into it. Simple, and pretty low fat. I guess there are a lot of carbs there, but...life goes on. I love bread probably even more than Kazoozles (maybe)and therefore will NEVER be able to truly limit my carb intake. Sorry body, you're just going to have to deal with every carb.

I guess my attempts at a less damaging way of eating go in conjunction with my goal to return to a level of physical fitness where I felt good all the time, and mountain biking was actually fun. Where walking up a flight of 10 stairs didn't take my breath away. Which sort of sounds romantic, getting one's breath taken away. Except for when it is in reference to ascending a very short incline. I have been cycling pretty consistently for the last two months or so, and can now therefore, walk up at least 25 stairs before losing my breath. Probably another 2K10 miracle.

Besides being the year of the miracle, the wall of shame, and the super sizing of government bureaucracy, 2K10 is also going to be the year where Fishkins made the journey back down to 180 lbs, and finally felt good in a pair of mid thigh length swimming trunks.

The beginning of the end

2010-03-09T15:09:00.003-07:00

I have been thinking a lot about dating lately. About the apparent futility of it, up to this point in my life. I think if I had back every dollar that I spent on every failed relationship or fruitless date that I have ever been on...let's just say I probably wouldn't have to be driving Javier with the absurdly loud muffler any more.

I went on a date the other night. I figure I spent around 40 bucks. NBD. However, I was thinking yesterday while I was at work (I have a lot of time to stand around and think between the hours of 2-5) that 40 dollars worth of Kazoozles would have brought me an infinitely greater measure of happiness than that date. I mean, come on, 40 Kazoozles? At LEAST 7 days of happiness.

I think I'm going to start making dating decisions based upon a Kazoozle happiness ratio. I will calculate the amount of money I expect to reasonably spend. And if I think that purchasing an equal amount of Kazoozles would probably make me happier, date canceled.

I have a feeling I'm going to be eating a lot of Kazoozles.

When stringy blonde hair just isn't enough

2010-03-09T14:49:00.003-07:00

So I guess I sort of took a small break from blogging. I have been applying for a job (that I didn't get) and during the application process, I just didn't much feel like blogging. One of the things they asked me to do, was name the worst band in history. So I did. And it was OBVIOUSLY Nickelback. I'm a little worried that maybe whomever was reviewing what I wrote, was a big Nickelback fan, and for that reason I did't get the job. Or maybe it was just simply the fact that there were probably a hundred applicants, and with that many, at least a few are bound to be better than I am, albeit hard to believe. Anyways.

I think that I have a good appreciation for a wide range of music. I certainly do not hate everything popular. I’m not one of those people. I like the Killers just as much as the next guy who’s just too young to have appreciated Depeche Mode in the 80’s. But, that said, there certainly IS a lot of garbage on the radio. For whatever reason people seem to be drawn to crappy, overproduced music like T-cells to a pathogen. People are always flocking to bad rock ballads, scratchy, angry vocalists, and stringy blonde hair. I guess I’m narrowing it down at this point. I’m referring, of course, to Nickelback.

The WORST band in history.

Ironically, as deserving of the aforementioned title as Nickelback certainly is, they were deemed the most influential band of the decade by Billboard. If by “influential” Billboard was referring to the resurgence of chin length bleached blonde hair amongst angst ridden teen man-boys, or the rise of tattoo-esque designs on t-shirts and jeans with pre-fabricated holes—they might be spot on. But if this alleged influence was indeed in reference to music…I’m slightly confounded.

Who (artist wise) was Nickelback influencing? Creed? One can’t influence one’s roots. So who then? I would argue that Nickelback didn’t do a single original or groundbreaking thing throughout the first decade of this century. They provided no new sound, no intelligent or life altering lyrics. Simply a load of angst driven drivel, great for head banging and inspiring the consumption of Natty Ice.

You want an influential band? Take Radiohead, for instance. They practically revolutionized rock and roll. They created an entirely new style of music and a revolutionary way of distributing music. By releasing In Rainbows in 2007 as a download for “whatever people thought it was worth,” they were doing something truly influential. Radiohead made a difference by what they brought to music not by singing about joining the mile high club, owning a bathtub big enough for 10, or any other manner of cheap sexual innuendo. Thanks for nothing Nickelback.

I want warm

2010-02-21T22:47:00.000-07:00

I'm ready for my motorcycle.

That's all.

YOU HAVE TO READ THIS

2010-02-12T14:00:00.003-07:00

Whenever I am the recipient of an email forward, in conjunction with the inherent eyeroll, there is always a mental "ugh." Because getting a forward is such a disappointment. Because Bill Gates really ISN'T sharing his fortune with everyone who forwards this. But in addition to the feelings of annoyance, I am also often filled with at least a small amount of curiosity. Not concerning the content of the actual forward, but rather about the nature of THE forward itself. Part of nearly every forward that I have ever received, is this line in the subject: FWD FWD THIS IS A MUST READ! Or, DO NOT DELETE THIS ONE! Or, YOU HAVE TO SEE THIS! Nothing makes me want to read something less, than when I am implored in caps to not delete it, or that I have to see it. I have deleted many a forward that was a must read, and my heart still beats. I have not been stricken down by the hand of God.

Is that why forwards exist? Because so many people, upon receiving one, and seeing the subject line claim of ABSOLUTELY UNBELIEVABLE, really believe that they are about to witness something absolutely unbelievable? What does it feel like to read YOU HAVE TO SEE THIS, and feel completely compelled to have to see this? Or, to have one's finger frozen an inch above the delete key (probably just poised on the mouse, in reality) unable to descend, because of having been commanded to NOT DELETE THIS ONE.

As one who does not receive many forwards, I have some questions about them. Most claim that THEY MUST BE SEEN. As opposed to what? Forwards that say, "This is of probable moderate to little interest for most human beings, and therefore the continued forwardation of this is not mandatory." I might actually read such a forward. Rather than a forward created by waddever asshole decided that such a joke, piece of info, picture, video, mantra, religious message, or whatever, needed to be seen by every single mother on the planet and then subsequently forwarded to every living friend and relative of those mothers.

My mother loves forwards, God bless her. I think basically every mother does. And to her credit, she only VERY occasionally sends me the forwards that REALLY MUST BE READ. Like I learned about how not to get smashed to death in an earthquake. Or how not to get scammed by phony census people trying to steal my crapy credit score. If you want, I can forward you those. But I might change the subject lines to, "read if you are bored, or don't want to die horribly in an earthquake." See how that worked? It gave me the option to NOT read, followed by slyly compelling me to read or maybe die horribly. I guess I should start creating forwards.

Maybe I can get monies for that, since I can't find a real job.

When dreams actually mean something

2010-02-11T13:44:00.003-07:00

On Monday, I picked up the final piece of my suit (the jacket) from Macy's, where it was being tailored for about 3 weeks. Takes a lot of time, apparently, to lengthen sleeves by 2 inches.

While waiting for someone to help me, I was browsing some various colognes that were on a table. I'm not really a big cologne guy. I've been wearing the same thing for 5 years.

Calvin Klein, I'm never wild about. Smells to musky for me. Like a slick old business guy. Stings the nostrils. Sean Jean, I feel like I'm not allowed to wear because I'm not black. And the name "Unforgivable" just sounds cheesy to me. Although, finding a cologne name that isn't outrageous is pretty hard. This is how I feel like the conversation would go:
"Mmm, what are you wearing?"
"Unforgivable, baby."
"Ew, don't call me baby."
"Sorry."

Anyways.

There was a bottle of Versace. It didn't have some cheesy-assed name. Just "Versace Man." What man can't feel respectable wearing that? Plus it smells DELICIOUS. So I drenched my chest, and went to work. And let me tell you, smelling Versace MAN all day rather than garlic and meat was heavenly. So I have been debating since then if I wanna pony up the cash and buy it.

Last night, I had a dream. I went to Smith's Marketplace and was looking at cologne (weird.) And I found the Versace, and decided to buy it. Ben Stiller was working one of the check out lines. Except for he had this real greasy, side slicked hair that was apparently supposed to be a disguise. Because I guess he liked to work there (in disguise) a couple of times a week. And I was trying to be sneaky, and take a picture of him with my iphone. He was talking a mixture of "Spanish language channel beechez," guy from Anchorman, and Tony Wonder from Arrested Development. I got my picture, he sold me the Versace, and I woke up pist that I didn't really have Ben Stiller pictures on my iphone. Or Versace. Also, that Ben Stiller didn't work at the local Smith's Marketplace.

I'm pretty certain that was the most sure sign I've ever had that I should purchase something. Also, another garbage can to separate my recyclables.

Avoiding a cat invasion

2010-02-11T13:15:00.002-07:00

My toilet is being a real piece of shit right now.

I had a leaky faucet in my bathroom sink until about a week ago, when my landlord came and fixed it. Perhaps this was merely coincidental, but that very same day that he fixed the sink, the toilet developed a slow leak. I feel like they must somehow be correlated, although I can not imagine how he could have screwed up the toilet by fixing the sink. Although, the water in the toilet bowl was curiously low when I came back that night. Verrrry curious.

Anyways, there is a slow (or maybe in reality not so slow) leak in the toilet water tank, which causes the water level (in said tank) to drop a couple of inches every few minutes. Which then causes it to refill itself. Aside from simply being annoying, and a stellar waste of water, my life is being endangered every time I shower.

During every showering endeavor, I can expect to experience no fewer than 3 scaldings, depending upon the duration of the shower. A typical shower for me ranges anywhere from 6-12 minutes, depending upon several factors: is this a post work shower? A woke up sweaty shower? In that case, probably 4-6 minutes. In the case of the former, probably closer to the 12 minute range, as it takes time to sluice the Carrabba filth from my body. Not to mention, after standing up for 12 hours, a long shower feels nice. So, in a 12 minute time period, I can expect at LEAST 4 scaldings.

Today, I decided to time my post work out entry into the shower with a toilet refilling, in an attempt to avoid the 3-4 scaldings I thought would be included in the necessary showering time frame. I managed to escape with only 2 scaldings, although the toilet tried its damnedest to get me a third time, as a refilling occurred a mere second after I shut off the water.

I can typically gauge when the scaldings will occur, by the sudden drop in water pressure. At which point I jump to the end of the tub, out of range of the certain 2nd degree burns. The problem is, when the water pressure returns, there is still a measure of scalding water emitted from the faucet, which has gained strength enough to hit my feet, so there is no complete escape. And so I end up hopping from one foot to the other until the water has returned to normal heat. Embarrassing mental image.

I swear, I'm going to go missing for a couple of days. I reckon it would probably take up to 3 for people to really miss me and attempt some sort of investigation. And I fear that I shall be found naked on the bathtub floor, scalded to death, without a shred of dignity remaining. Although, maybe the cat lady below would wonder why my water had been running straight for a couple days, and send her kitty minions on a reconnaissance mission to find out just why I was taking a 2 day shower.

I don't want those cats in my house. I need to get this fixed.

Same as a babe

2010-02-04T15:54:00.004-07:00

Greatest discovery so far of 2K10--the bidet is always lukewarm as long as the toilet has not been flushed any time recently. Hypothesized, tested, confirmed. Not that this means that I use the bidet for anything other than occasional, recreational cleaning, since I don't actually poop. Just like girls.

Right?

Santo obamanos

2010-02-02T16:28:00.004-07:00

Every single night around 7, my frontal lobe revolts against the peaceful state of the rest of my brain, the result of which is a horrible drilling sensation in the middle of my forehead. What are you even doing up there, you asshole frontal lobe?

Today, the drilling sensation is actually starting early. I didn't realize this until I had already loaded every single clothing that I own into side by side Wascomatt Jr's at Rose's laundromat. I think I probably overloaded both of them, so I worry as to the level of cleanliness that my clothing shall attain. It took me about 10 minutes to cram all of my clothing inside, as various articles kept spewing out--a sure sign that a 3rd Wascomat was probably required. As long as the sickness is soaked away, I'll be satisfied. It isn't as though I wallow around in filth, and actually need a heavy duty wash. Just cleaning away the natural man scent acquired after 7-10 wearings (for pants) or 3-6 (for shirts) or 1 (for undergarments, I'm not a total dirt bag, after all.)

I was sick all last week, possibly with a swine flu (it's hard to know) so my house accrued a level of clutter and filthiness not heretofore experienced. Which meant I spent about 2 hours cleaning and disinfecting, hence the over sized laundry loads due to bed linen cleansing.

I'm not sure what it is about coming to the laundromat that makes me think about miracles, but I always do. Perhaps it is the chola with the sparkly diamond (probably cubic Z's) piercing sundry locations on her face sitting nearby, her golden Virgin Maria Santa hanging round her neck, reflecting the dying sun, splaying refracted light across my Wascomatt Jr. double loaders, which causes me to ponder miracles. This week, 2K10 blessed me with 2 more miracles.

First, I rarely get sick. Usually no more than twice a year, often less. When I do catch an illness, it is typically a 2-3 week ordeal. My body apparently hates being full blown sick, and so rather attempts to spread out the various symptoms over a few week period. I typically start with a sore throat. Then, days later, sore throat slowly morphs into maximum sinus congestion which, days later again, becomes a wretched hacking cough. Never all at once. This week however, I was blessed with every sickness at the same time, and have somehow miraculously started the new week basically healed, except for the drilling pm headaches. Which may be a separate thing entirely, since I almost never get headaches. Perhaps a brain tumor in an embryonic phase, growth triggered by dusk.

The second miracle, involved taxes. I didn't make an incredible amount of money this year, but upon reviewing my W2, I supposed that I had paid the government significantly less than what I imagined the government would think it deserved. Probably by a few hundred dollars. So imagine my surprise when, upon doing my taxes, I found out the government wanted to give me 62 dollars back. Gracias, Santo Obamanos.

Por favor, dear Santo Obamanos, please continue to rain upon thy humble countryman every such 2K10 blessing his tender little heart desires, most especially an economy that isn't tan jodido a la verga, that thereby he may acquire gainful employment.

A matter of shame

2010-01-31T20:55:00.004-07:00

It has finally happened. That thing that I KNEW was coming. That moment I have DREADED for the last year. That thing that I have suspected was a likely inevitability for the last 2 or 3 years. The thing about which I have mocked my best friend from high school for the last few years. I refer to, of course, the wall of shame.

A wall of shame, by definition (probably in Wikipedia) is a shrine located in the parental homestead, dedicated to the marital prowess of every child that crawled forth from the homemaker's womb. All the children, that is, save ONE. So, the wall of shame then pertains to the one celibate sibling remaining--his or her wall of shame.

Now, the intensity of the shame associated with this most dreaded wall is dependent upon a few different variables. The first and foremost being, the unwed child's age status in relation to the rest of the siblings. If, for instance, the youngest child is the owner of the wall of shame, said wall would be infinitely less shameful. For a time. However, as one's birthing rank increases, so does the level of shame exponentially and consequentially increase.

My friend, for example, is number 3 of 4. Having only one married younger sibling somewhat lessens his level of shame. Except for the fact that his younger brother has been married about 3 years. Which brings me to the next variable--time length.

One's shame is increased in conjunction with the longevity of said wall's existence. I am certain there is a measurable amount of shame (probably a metric equation) that is accrued with each year. In his case, it would be 3. Pretty damned shameful.

Also, some amount of shame may be accrued depending upon the number of years that one has remained single, as compared with the married siblings. For example, I have another friend with 4 married sisters. She happens to be the youngest, which greatly reduces her level of shame off the bat. However, every single sibling was married by 20. She, being nearly 24, has added a heaping shit load of shame to her wall.

Unfortunately, I have pretty much every variable to consider with my own wall of shame.

I was talking to my sister last week, who informed me that my baby brother was engaged. I had talked to him at Christmas, and he had informed me that were things to continue progressing in a similar manner, said engagement would most likely occur. So I was sort of expecting this.

I am the oldest. STRIKE ONE. Major shame associated with my wall from that variable alone. My next sister down has been married for about 3 years, my baby sister for almost a year. 3-4 liters of shame, at the very least. And me, being nearly 28, will be likely be single anywhere from 6 to 10 years longer than my siblings. Hectoliters of shame to be sure.

In fact, in relation to the rest of the extended family at large, the only cousins who remain unmarried are a 19 year old missionary, and a 17 year old female. God help me if she pulls a similar feat as my baby sister. The shame would be too much.

It was a weird feeling when I found out my brother was engaged. At first, I laughed. Because I didn't really know what else to do. Because my life equation is so very different than his. Because to me, he is still just a little guy, barely home from a mission. Yet he is taking such a huge step in the direction of "adulthood," one which I for whatever reason have yet to take. I can't imagine having been married for the last 6 years. I don't think I was ready.

After laughing in incredulity, it really sank in. I AM the last. I really really am. At that point, I felt very melancholy. Which I wasn't expecting. Although I had spent some time dreading this particular occurrence, I really thought that I, for the most part, didn't care. Wouldn't care. But I cared. I really did. For the first time, I felt left out. Like I had failed. Like I would no longer fit. Like this would put me on such a different wavelength than the rest of my siblings, that things would no longer be the same.

At that point, I needed a McRib. And a cheeseburger. God knows, NOBODY EVER needs a McRib and a cheeseburger. And 2 gallons of Dryer's Girl Scout Cookie Thin Mint ice cream. I drove to the nearest McDonald's (at midnightish) and sat in the drive through for a minute. I thought about the ground up patty of mystery meat, pressed into the shape of a riblit, slathered in bbq sauce. And then thought, "What the hell am I even doing? I don't want that thing even a little bit." Shoving that filthy thing down my gullet was as bad an idea as I had recently entertained. So, I aborted mission and went for the Dryer's thin mint instead.

Let me clarify something; I am NOT some marriage hungry fiend, wallowing in sorrow from failure after dating failure. I really am OKAY with being single at this age. It will happen for me when it happens. I'm not in a hurry. However, on a different (albeit somewhat related) level, I'm still a little bummed about being the last. About my most thoroughly shameful, wall of shame. I'm just bummed about the dynamic change, and all of the familial wondering about just WHEN I'll get married. It gets old.

Now, after a week, I am okay with it again. My life time frame is just different than that of my siblings and most of my cousins. And I'm okay with that. There is not ONE damn thing wrong with being 27.6 and unmarried. Not a thing.

As long as my seminal vesicles don't dry up, who cares if I'm in my 30ies before I trick some girl into marriage?

My american dream

2010-01-21T15:35:00.003-07:00

Somehow or another over the last couple of years my political leanings have migrated towards conservatism. I think one of the few subjects about which I remain fairly liberal would be gay marriage. I just fundamentally can not be opposed to it. Actually, I would love to see the government completely shed marriage from policy, and merely grant civil unions, and then let churches marry whomever they will.

I'm sorry conservative gods, but I just don't believe that my future hypothetical children will be rendered gay by being taught that sometimes men love men and women love women in public school sex education. I think that if one relies upon the public school system to instill morals in one's children, such a person shouldn't be shocked when his or her kids are getting hand job's and dropping acid in junior high. Just because I knew what a hand job was in 7th grade, and heard kids talk about getting them, didn't mean that I was suddenly in the market for one. My parents taught me better than that. Plus I was chubby and unattractive. My point is, I just don't think "gay" rubs off.

On most other policy, however, I feel that my views trend fairly conservative. The thing that bothers me, is all of the inherent labeling that goes on in politics. Such as, "all conservatives are ignorant, inconsiderate, science hating gay despising truck driving earth destroying rednecks." Or something to that effect. Because I am NONE of those things.

Let's consider inconsiderate for a moment. Liberals love to label conservatives as inconsiderate because we would prefer that the government stop bureaucratic swelling in order to provide services to people who otherwise are unable to help themselves. Or because we oppose policy that places extra burdens upon those who "can afford it."

Well, do liberals ever stop to consider that certain economic policies meant to help "those in need" end up hurting those who supposedly "have plenty?" Take for instance the small business owner, who has toiled for decades for countless hours to build a business. Late nights. Early mornings. Weekends. Had to disappoint his children because he couldn't attend school functions or sports events, because work needed his attention. The man who provides employment for many individuals. Who has put his house, money, possessions, and family on the line to make said business work. Who has lived under the threat and fear that failure means a loss of EVERYTHING. How is forcing this person into bankruptcy in order to provide unaffordable insurance for employees COMPASSIONATE? (Republicans are guilty here too) Or enforcing stringent environmental regulations that would put him, amongst many other small manufacturers, out of business? Thus unemploying millions? Where is your compassion now? Don't lecture me on compassion because I don't relish helping people who refuse to help themselves. There are other ways.

Let's consider ignorant. I'm certainly not that. Simply because I disagree with liberal policies in favor of those which are more conservative, does not mean I am uneducated. I have a degree. Cum Laud, asshole. I have probably read more books than most care to imagine. I am informed. I read news from different sources. I think Rush Limbaugh is an asshole. I believe in evolution, and that it fits in beautifully with religion, and in fact, further validates the existence of a supreme being.

You think that because I am skeptical about global warming, that I am ignorant? There is an equal amount of science disproving global warming (if not more) than that which supposedly proves it. You, by your own definition, would be just as ignorant as I supposedly am for ignoring all of the counter evidence. Popular media coverage does not validate a claim.

I don't drive a truck. I don't even want a truck. But if I had a truck, it wouldn't automatically signify that I wanted to run over herds of seal pups, or burn down every rain forest. Maybe I simply would prefer not to be crushed to death in a GD Prius by a collision with a cyclist.

I am labeled inconsiderate because I think that the welfare system is a joke. Well, each month I donate to a church welfare system infinitely more capable and effective than what our government attempts. A system that actually helps people get on their feet, rather than enslavement through dependency.

I own a .45, but I am certainly as far from being a redneck as a guy can be, and still own a .45. I understand the proper usage of was vs were, seen vs saw, come vs came, and I don't ever use the expletive "sum bitch." I just want to be able to shoot a guy in the chest if he tries to murder me in my house. Or shoot a guy in the chest if he tries to murder you at Trolly Square.

I guess what I am saying, is quit stereotyping conservatives. I don't think every single liberal is a tree humping communist. I understand that people have fundamental belief differences. Thank God we live in the United States, where (in theory) we can all use our voice, attempt to choose the least corrupt from amongst a legion of corrupt assholes, and send them to Washington to do our supposed bidding.

I just want to live my American dream. I want the government to have as little to do with that dream as possible. I don't need Big Brother. I can make it on my own. In the words of Less than Jake, "My American dream is to have it, a little bit better than my parents ever had it." With the direction in which this country may be headed, I no longer know if that will be possible. But I am HOPEFUL. I am hopeful that I will be able to use my brain, and my abilities to make my dream possible. That I won't be crippled by my own government, and taxed more than half of what I earn to give jobs to bureaucrats and fund unnecessary endeavors.

I just want a suburban home.

Oh, the regret

2010-01-15T00:26:00.004-07:00

Tonight, I saddled myself with my biggest regret so far of 2K10.

2 friends and I went to Chili's. Because what the hell else is open after 10 pm that isn't some form of fast food? Although arguably, Chili's isn't too many steps above fast food. Maybe like a step and a half. If, on the scale of food steps, fast food is like step three, proceeded only by a microwaved cheese hot dog, or a slice of bologna on white bread slathered in mayo, Chili's would then be about step 4 point 5.

After sitting in the booth a few moments, I looked to my left and saw what appeared to be the most awkward situation I have ever witnessed, without knowledge of what was actually occurring. There were 2 guys sitting in a mini booth. The guy on the left was sitting with his hands on each corresponding leg, looking either above the head of his date/friend, or awkwardly around at the television. Or sometimes down at the table. The guy adjacent to him had his hands folded in his crotch, and was staring slightly down and to his right, a look of such despondence plastered on his face, I expected him to pop a cyanide pill at any moment.

For 20 minutes this occurred. Well, let me rephrase. For 20 minutes, NOTHING occurred. Not a word was exchanged. Food sat untouched. No eye contact. The guy on the left would occasionally swivel his head here or there, but never really looking at his counterpart. The other guy, eyes glazed, stared at nothing, occasionally twiddling his fingers in his lap.

I wanted so very badly to ask just what was going on. And thus is my regret, that I did no such thing. So instead all we could do was sit there and surmise the meaning behind the almost palpable awkwardness. Was it a first date, and there just wasn't enough random shit on the walls to foster 45 minutes of conversation? Because I noticed for the first time, that Chili's is a little more low key than other similar establishments when it comes to finding every single random shit in existence to hang on the wall.

Perhaps we arrived just moments too late to witness the finale of their relationship, and the ensuing silence was the bi product of a harsh breakup. There just wasn't anymore to be said.

Maybe they had made love for the first time, and it was silent, staring, hands-folded-in-the-crotch guy's first time. And afterward, he felt really bad, and so swivel head was like, "calm down. I'll take you to Chili's." But 2 fajitas later, all was STILL not well on the gay front. And the awkward silence simply grew thicker, as hands-folded-in-the-crotch guy dwelt upon the ramifications of consummating the team switch.

The one reason for which I couldn't bring myself to ask them, "Hey guys, why are you the most sad right now?" was a fear that the answer would be horrible, like "Because his mom just died, a-hole." Or, "Because he just found out he has the HIV, a-hole." So rather than risk it, we just sat and observed the FUNNIEST awkwardly silent couple I have ever seen.

And I now teem with regret for not asking. Maybe they were just a couple of awkward buddy dudes, out for a night on the town.

But I VERY much doubt it.

Just a little recreation.

Stained

2010-01-14T01:10:00.004-07:00

At times, one may find him or herself faced with the most harrowing of circumstances, where action can only be necessitated through the most desperate need. A moment where one's heart must rise above crippling fear, although the terror be a raging torrent of inadequacy, self doubt, and utter dread.

I speak of having to face spiders, of course.

Every time I think that I have taken a huge step in the direction of a recovering SISSY, I am reminded that I am a spectacular coward.

I entered my kitchen last night in search of some form of sustenance. As I passed the fridge, I noticed a little green dangling spider, suspended from the bottom of my cabinets, hanging almost equidistant between the 2 sinks. My immediate reaction was a resounding gasp, followed by (or in conjunction with) an approximate backward leap of 1 foot, and a consequential "shit." At that point, I began to immediately scan the room, and also my brain for the best and safest manner in which to dispose of the ungodly creature. Time was of the essence, because the spider was slowly inching its way up the silk line, into my cupboard. Or wherever his spidery heart desired, upon reaching the apex.

The only thing I could think of, was grabbing a paper towel, draping it across my open palms, and then quickly clapping the spider into oblivion. Which was a real big problem for me, because that would mean that there would only be a very thin layer of cheap papery substance between the spider and my skin. SCARY. I sat there a moment, contemplating which thought I loathed more; the spider possibly escaping into my home, or smashed between my hands so feebly protected. "Quit being a bitch," I berated myself, and clapped away.

At that moment, upon feeling the spider's tiny body crushed between my hands, I felt like I had climbed a small, difficult mountain. I had never slain a spider in this manner. In fact, even the destruction of a centipede, earwig, or other similar creature will typically involve no fewer than 5 wadded inches of toilet paper or paper towel separating my hand from the deed. And then I have to smash unnecessarily hard, to ensure absolute death, and then quickly toss the carcass into the nearest toilet bowl for a burial at sea. In clapping the arachnid, I had overcome a fraction of my dreadful fear. I let the paper towel gently fall from my hands, and drift to the counter top. Upon landing, it unfolded. Enter vision--smashed spider. Cue repeat--resounding gasp, backward hopping "shit." Also--add some minor wrist flailing.

All dignity lost. Again. Every time.

I think the root of my spider (and general bug) fear can be traced back to an uncle I once had. I say once had, because he decided that family was less important than other clandestine, devious pursuits. But I always thought he was wayyyy cool. I mean, the dude said "damn," and "hell," with wild abandon. Was a democrat. And had an earring (left ear.) And had a tee pee in his back yard (north side.) And had tomahawks. Which could be thrown from or near the tee pee (from south to north, never east to west.) The guy was a rad uncle. Also, he was terrified of spiders.

I recall being in a movie. Galaxy Quest, featuring Tim Allen and Alan Rickman. There was a part where a bunch of flying space spiders began to approach the ship. My uncle said, "Ohhh damn, (probably) I'm not going to like this part." Now me, thinking he was cool, also thought it might be cool to be even MORE afraid of spiders than what was natural. So I think my impressionable mine programmed that most irrational fear to further dictate the remainder of my body-to-spider physical reactions, for the duration of my life. The crippling fear. The swearing. The wrist flailing.

Thanks for the arachnophobic stain, uncle. At least the earring never took.

Spandex escape plan

2010-01-12T21:59:00.002-07:00

Turns out that I can pick up the interweb from the eastern most corner of my kitchen. The expected 2K10 miracles are already piling up. Unfortunately, 2K10 has not yet seen fit to provide me with a proper kitchen seat (or table, for that matter,) so my ass and a microwave are sharing a cart on wheels.

Today I was setting up my rollers (an apparatus which, combined with my mountain bike, becomes a stationary exercise device) in the kitchen, and had just climbed on my bike when I got a call from Patty the cat lady down stairs. On our previous meeting, where she managed to ensnare me for 40 minutes, she informed me that she had a television which had been rendered obsolete due to her purchase of a high definition television. Which she told me all about. She wanted to know if at a future date, I would carry the useless TV to her car, so she could take it to DI. I said sure. She was calling to collect on this favor.

I decided that remaining in spandex shorts and zero shirt would be my best possible escape plan. I didn't think that a 70 year old cat lady had any interest in having another 40 minute conversation about cat dander with a shirtless guy in spandex shorts, with a padded ass. She informed me that she needed to go to the bathroom, but that she would be ready for me in about 10 minutes. It wasn't difficult to deduce from the given time frame just exactly what would be occurring in the bathroom. Thanks.

So, approximately 12 minutes later (I decided to give an extra 2 minutes for unknown variables) I descended into a haze of smoke to retrieve the television. As she opened the door, I noticed that her eye looked like it was about to rot off of her face. It appeared that she had contracted a dreadful eye infection. Which, she clarified for me a moment later when she said, "I have a dreadful eye infection. It migrated from my ear. Don't worry, it isn't contagious." At least there was that.

She also seemed surprised that I had arrived in spandex, sans shirt. Now, let me point out that I am in no way thrilled with the current state of my body. Quite the contrary, I am rather ashamed of my buddy (stomach) at this particular juncture in my life. But I wanted to get trapped in her house for a chat infinitely less than I didn't want her or anyone else to see me shirtless, in spandex. "Aren't you freezing?" "Yeah, but I'm just getting ready to exercise. Sooo, where is the TV?"

2 minutes later, I had loaded the TV in her car, and was opening my front door, ready to bolt upstairs, letting her know that if she needed anything else heavy moved, to let me know. All the while, trying REALLY hard not to stare at her festering eye.

I just wasn't ready for another 40 minute conversational trap. I feel like I can deal with that once a month if necessary, but it has not been nearly a month. I think successfully avoiding that trap was just another 2K10 miracle. Unfortunately, the chola adjacent to the cat lady happened to come out of her house and see me and my buddy. But she was wearing True Religion jeans with extra thick white stitching.

So like I CARE what she thinks.

Confusing numbers

2010-01-11T00:32:00.003-07:00

Entered 3 very VERY old people into Carrabbas. I approached the table, less than thrilled. 3 sets of eyes peered at me from behind thick, gold rimmed glasses. Wispy, white hair in various states of sparsity. Eyes squinting, upper lip raised and crinkled into the the area just beneath her nose, mouth ajar, looking most confounded, one crone said, "Now, I might be retarded, but what are these numbers?"

Didn't really so much expect her to say that.

"Um, those numbers would be the prices."

It is a bad sign, whenever this query is posed. It typically means that the patron is unfamiliar with a menu that doesn't actually have a dollar sign next to numbers, and is therefore unaccustomed to eating places fancier than Denny's. Like, they are shocked that the 14 doesn't refer to the amount of shrimp they will be getting, or 23 ounces of filet.

"Now, we seen on a commercial that you got a special for all you can eat pasta, all you can eat soup, and all you can eat salad for $7.99" (I'll include the dollar sign here to avoid confusion.)

"Sorry, we don't offer infinity pasta, soup, and salad for $7.99. I think that was probably a different restaurant."

"No, now I'm pretty sure it was this one."

"Well, I'm fairly certain we have no such specials. In fact, we don't even have TV commercials. Maybe it was Olive Garden?"

"No, I think it was here."

"Perhaps Macaroni Grill?"

"No, that don't sound right."

"Well, we do have a special for a 7 oz top sirloin and grilled scallops and shrimp for 17 dollars."

She looked on the verge of panic at that suggestion. "Well, maybe I should call my brother and see if he is somewhere else?"

"Gosh, you should probably do that. Sounds like a GREAT idea. I bet he is at Olive Garden."

They left. THANK GOD.

One more reason why I hate my job. And yet another miracle from 2K10.

Thanks again, 2K10.

Sorry environment, but i really like books

2010-01-10T22:01:00.003-07:00

I've decided that, despite being told that books are an evil, earth destroying entity due to the vast tree consumption, ink, dye, and bleach pollution integral to paper production, I shall still seek to have an eventually ginormous library collection.

Honestly, I hate polluting streams and poisoning wee fish and sundry crustaceans as much as the next nature lover. However, I think I LOVE paper even more than I love the aforementioned fishy crustaceans.

I suppose I feel that, of all of the everyday items that we consume as human beings which are, on some level, harmful to the environment (not talking about global warming here, but obvious, tangibly recordable chemical pollution) books are perhaps one of the most noble. Pollution in the name of literary advancement seems to be a great deal easier to stomach than say, the superfluous use of plastic. I mean, it is difficult to purchase anything that isn't packaged 2 or 3 times over in plastic. Store clerks seem almost offended when one tells them that a 5 gallon plastic bag won't be necessary to carry a package of tick tacs to out to one's car. So, I guess when I think about books in that context, I can't help but think, WORTH IT.

I realize that with the digitalization (don't care if that is really a word or not) of nearly EVERYTHING, the argument against the necessity of actually printing books is quite valid. However, there is just something about holding a physical copy of a book in one's hand that seems to be an integral part of the experience. I love reading something phenomenal online, or on a blog, or whatever, but I love even more having that physical copy in my hands. I love the smell of the paper and the ink, the feel of the pages on my fingers. The weight of the book, the crack of the spine. The feeling of satisfaction upon reading the last page, closing the book, and placing it on the shelf. And remembering the way the book made you FEEL every time you see it on the shelf. I don't want to lose part of the reading experience. I realize that the words and the content are the same whether digital or not, however I don't want to lose the physical part. I don't love my ipod like I love my favorite books. I love the artists on my ipod, but the machine itself I couldn't care less about. When that guy dies, I'm pist because I have to buy a new one. Inside and out, I love my books. Perhaps this is selfish on my part; but I don't think that I am alone in this sentiment.

I have decided that I am going to attempt to purchase 1 book a week, for the remainder of my life. I realize this is a rather lofty (and costly) goal, but I really want to have a vast library. And 15 dollars on a book is a much more worthy expense than 15 bucks on a buffet, or some other such nonsense. It was upon purchasing 2 books this week that I made this decision; Everything is Illuminated, by Jonathon Safran Foer, and All the Pretty Horses, by Cormac McCarthy. If anyone has any suggestions for upcoming weeks, I'd love to hear them. I'd like to know your favorite book, and exactly WHY it is your favorite. Perhaps it will end up on my shelf, and you and I together can singlehandedly destroy the environment whilst strengthening our hearts and minds.