I was at work. Brandi was scratching my back, somewhere in between the Aloha computer system and the coffee machine. Not a lot of space there. Brandi and I share work back scratches because Claire doesn't like scratching backs, and Brandi's boyfriend Roberto is an apparently less than adequate back scratcher. So we fulfill our needs. In between restaurant machinery.
There we stood. In the carside carryout door walks 2 fellow employees. Brent and Jessica. Dressed like they just went to the gym. Brent just recently got Jessica a job. They are dating or something. Not a cute couple.
Only about 10 inches of space between my crotch and the counter with the coffee maker. Jessica is carrying a sack of Swedish fish. Who the hell doesn't like Swedish fish? "Hey. Anybody want some Swedish fish?" I didn't even really want any of those fish. But I took 3. Because they are Swedish fish.
They both snuck past my crotch. Faces, inches away from mine. Swedish fish in my teeth. 30 seconds later, they returned for another body graze. Out the door they went.
30 seconds after that, Clay Drinkwater, proprietor of Carrabbas Italian Grill calls a meeting. "Hey, just so you guys know, 2 people who work here have the swine flu. Just make sure you are washing your hands often, blah blah blah."
Shit, thought I.
"Um. Which ones?" Said I.
"Brent and Jessica," said he.
"Oh," said I.
I then thought about how much I appreciated that that filthy, infected, numskull of a dummy girl LEFT the doctors office to come IN to Carrabbas to INFORM us that she had indeed contracted that most infamous of flu's, and then SHARED HER SACK OF SWEDISH FISH WITH US.
Dumb dumb dumb.
I was/am just a little bit livid.
A. Apparently, this couple, a true Darwinian masterpiece which (cross fingers and toes) I certainly hope beats the odds of relationship failure and goes on to produce a whole litter of little geniuses, forgot that PHONES EXIST. Typically for the purpose of communicating a message to someone one can't/shouldn't/doesn't want to see. Like, when one has the swine flu. Or AIDS. Or something.
B. When you get AIDS and are all excited about the novelty of it, do you go shoot up some celebratory heroin and share a needle with your buddies? No. You shoot up alone, and give the high fives later.
You got H1N1. It's sort of a novelty. I get it. But when you come to work to tell your boss that you can't come to work for a while because your're CONTAGIOUS, maybe you shouldn't share your AIDS fish with everyone who wants a hit.
Swedish fish. Who's gonna say no??
My mind is blown. I can't fathom how 2 people could be so inconsiderate, let alone stupid. I swear if I get the damn pig flu from this I'll...I'll...
Probably write many blogs, as I shall be quarantined in my room for a lengthy period of time. Possibly dying. Or turning into a pig.
Remember the Napkin post? Brent was the napkin. He no longer qualifies as a napkin.
I'm doomed.
29.9.09
25.9.09
Waiting for the rapture
It is interesting when you find yourself really enjoying something that you used to despise. Like boring stuff. I used to HATE boring stuff. But now I'm like, totally into boring stuff. Like nature. Pondering. Alone time. Pondering in nature alone, for a time.
Today a friend and I piled on my motorcycle and drove the Alpine loop. Probably the third or fourth time I have done this in the last month or two. Even if I wasn't on a motorcycle, I'd still love it. Because it is beautiful.
We stopped at some pullout on the American Fork side of the canyon. Also taking a scenic break was a family; mom, dad, and 2 kids. One, a boy of about 13 or 14, and a girl a couple of years younger. And they were TOTALLY PIST that their parents drug them away from the Nintendo Wii to go on some stupid drive through the mountains. The father was yelling things like, "Way to go guys, way to ruin this for everyone! You make everything fun a terrible experience!" And, "Should we leave? Should we just leave? Is that what you want? Great guys, just great. I don't even know why we try this stuff." And then the kids were way bummed because mom and dad made them pose on a rock for a picture. You know, to capture that happy moment in the annals of family history.
Over plodded awkward boy, a probable one foot in one year grow spurt made readily apparent by his overly awkward gait. Long, gangly legs supporting a chunky torso trying its best to catch up to the gorilla length arms, maladroitly swinging at his sides. Upon reaching the photo op (which really was a silly place for a photo, with the road as the backdrop,) he faced the camera, cocked his right knee and placed his foot about calf high on the rock, right forearm laying perpendicular across his thigh, and awkwardly waited for mom to do the deed. Picture taken, he slunk away from the rock, sooooo annoyed that he had to take such a stuuuupid picture. I was with him there, it was a totally stupid picture.
Upon watching this whole exchange, I couldn't help but remember feeling the exact same way. I would have been pist if my parents made me go on a random drive in the mountains at that age. Was pist whenever they did. Soooo boring. I had way too much shit to kill via Nintendo to waste time on such nonsense. The princess certainly wasn't getting saved in a station wagon on a mountain. It is funny how some of the things we most hated, eventualy become the things we most love.
I'm still waiting to love bees and spiders and onions and grasshoppers and mathematics and school and cantaloupe and needles.
Maybe when the rapture comes.
Today a friend and I piled on my motorcycle and drove the Alpine loop. Probably the third or fourth time I have done this in the last month or two. Even if I wasn't on a motorcycle, I'd still love it. Because it is beautiful.
We stopped at some pullout on the American Fork side of the canyon. Also taking a scenic break was a family; mom, dad, and 2 kids. One, a boy of about 13 or 14, and a girl a couple of years younger. And they were TOTALLY PIST that their parents drug them away from the Nintendo Wii to go on some stupid drive through the mountains. The father was yelling things like, "Way to go guys, way to ruin this for everyone! You make everything fun a terrible experience!" And, "Should we leave? Should we just leave? Is that what you want? Great guys, just great. I don't even know why we try this stuff." And then the kids were way bummed because mom and dad made them pose on a rock for a picture. You know, to capture that happy moment in the annals of family history.
Over plodded awkward boy, a probable one foot in one year grow spurt made readily apparent by his overly awkward gait. Long, gangly legs supporting a chunky torso trying its best to catch up to the gorilla length arms, maladroitly swinging at his sides. Upon reaching the photo op (which really was a silly place for a photo, with the road as the backdrop,) he faced the camera, cocked his right knee and placed his foot about calf high on the rock, right forearm laying perpendicular across his thigh, and awkwardly waited for mom to do the deed. Picture taken, he slunk away from the rock, sooooo annoyed that he had to take such a stuuuupid picture. I was with him there, it was a totally stupid picture.
Upon watching this whole exchange, I couldn't help but remember feeling the exact same way. I would have been pist if my parents made me go on a random drive in the mountains at that age. Was pist whenever they did. Soooo boring. I had way too much shit to kill via Nintendo to waste time on such nonsense. The princess certainly wasn't getting saved in a station wagon on a mountain. It is funny how some of the things we most hated, eventualy become the things we most love.
I'm still waiting to love bees and spiders and onions and grasshoppers and mathematics and school and cantaloupe and needles.
Maybe when the rapture comes.
20.9.09
BYU prayer fail
The title of this post makes more sense if you have ever been HERE.
I have a dear friend. One of my best friends, in fact. One of the best guys I know. However, our friend groups rarely overlap. Most of his friends dwell somewhere amongst the categories of bros and/or cougs. A coug being a stereotypical BYU cougar. The khaki pants. The denim shorts. The cross trainers. The BYU apparel. Which is fine. He is a much better, far less judgmental person than I. I just appreciate fashion. Sue me.
There is one irreconcilable problem that I typically have with these cougs; their absolute belief that God somehow favors their football team. It makes me nuts.
I let him talk me into going to a BBQ on Saturday. I knew it would be a coug fest, but I conceded. He lured me in with the promise of tri tip steaks. Such a trap, those steaks. I didn't have a chance. So as I inevitably took over the meat cooking endeavors (which typically happens at BBQ's I attend, since I don't trust people not to overcook meat) I watched the back yard slowly fill up with cougs, eager for the holy conquest to begin in a few hours. I was friendly. I was cordial. I cooked the meat. Ultimately, I felt alienated. Because I always do when surrounded by cougs. I don't feel like I fit in.
So it came time to devour the meats over which I had slaved and sacrificed my good smelling body. Totally had to shower after that. For the second time that day. As is customary around Mormon meals, a prayer was to be offered over the food. A blond haired female with a BYU shirt tucked into, what I would say were some pre-tty risque shorts for a cougar coed, offered a most inspired oration.
"...annnnnd please bless our football team that they will do awesome, and totally play to the best of their abilities against the other team..."
Okay. Even though I think that praying for a football team is ridiculous to say the least, I was prepared to let that go with a simple eye roll, sigh, head shake combination. Which nobody would see anyways, since their eyes were closed. And if they weren't, shame on them.
As soon as she began to so eloquently plead with Heavenly Father on behalf of our Christian crusaders, some asshole emphatically began to loudly whisper, "Say win! Say win! Say win! Say win!."
"And please, Heavenly Father, bless that our BYU football team will win today. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen."
I sort of just sat there for a moment, neck bent at a 45 degree angle, slack jawed and incredulous, staring at her from behind my Kim Jong Il sized sunglasses.
Then I looked around at everyone else. No shaking heads. No looks of incredulity. Nobody whispering, "Reeeally? Did that reeeeally just happen?" I was a man alone.
At that point, I decided it was time to shove some medium rare tri tip down my gullet, and get the hell outta there.
I hate football. I never watch it. Ever. I sat down and watched all 3 hours of that wretched game, just because I wanted to see BYU lose. Why? To simply feel validated in my conviction that GOD DOESN'T CARE ABOUT FOOTBALL. And he CERTAINLY doesn't care about BYU football, as was made evident by the trouncing they received at the hands of Florida State. I wanted to text that girl and tell her that the 7th ranked BYU probably lost to the unranked FSU because of her blasphemous prayer.
It is a game. Will God answer the prayer of the tide end that prays before the game to play at the best of his abilities? I don't see why not. But I'm pretty damn sure that He grows just a little weary from the flood of Provo pregame fan supplication inundating the heavens on fall Saturdays.
Maybe next time they pray for the cougs to win, they should throw in a quick petition for newly pressed khakis to rain down from the sky.
I have a dear friend. One of my best friends, in fact. One of the best guys I know. However, our friend groups rarely overlap. Most of his friends dwell somewhere amongst the categories of bros and/or cougs. A coug being a stereotypical BYU cougar. The khaki pants. The denim shorts. The cross trainers. The BYU apparel. Which is fine. He is a much better, far less judgmental person than I. I just appreciate fashion. Sue me.
There is one irreconcilable problem that I typically have with these cougs; their absolute belief that God somehow favors their football team. It makes me nuts.
I let him talk me into going to a BBQ on Saturday. I knew it would be a coug fest, but I conceded. He lured me in with the promise of tri tip steaks. Such a trap, those steaks. I didn't have a chance. So as I inevitably took over the meat cooking endeavors (which typically happens at BBQ's I attend, since I don't trust people not to overcook meat) I watched the back yard slowly fill up with cougs, eager for the holy conquest to begin in a few hours. I was friendly. I was cordial. I cooked the meat. Ultimately, I felt alienated. Because I always do when surrounded by cougs. I don't feel like I fit in.
So it came time to devour the meats over which I had slaved and sacrificed my good smelling body. Totally had to shower after that. For the second time that day. As is customary around Mormon meals, a prayer was to be offered over the food. A blond haired female with a BYU shirt tucked into, what I would say were some pre-tty risque shorts for a cougar coed, offered a most inspired oration.
"...annnnnd please bless our football team that they will do awesome, and totally play to the best of their abilities against the other team..."
Okay. Even though I think that praying for a football team is ridiculous to say the least, I was prepared to let that go with a simple eye roll, sigh, head shake combination. Which nobody would see anyways, since their eyes were closed. And if they weren't, shame on them.
As soon as she began to so eloquently plead with Heavenly Father on behalf of our Christian crusaders, some asshole emphatically began to loudly whisper, "Say win! Say win! Say win! Say win!."
"And please, Heavenly Father, bless that our BYU football team will win today. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen."
I sort of just sat there for a moment, neck bent at a 45 degree angle, slack jawed and incredulous, staring at her from behind my Kim Jong Il sized sunglasses.
Then I looked around at everyone else. No shaking heads. No looks of incredulity. Nobody whispering, "Reeeally? Did that reeeeally just happen?" I was a man alone.
At that point, I decided it was time to shove some medium rare tri tip down my gullet, and get the hell outta there.
I hate football. I never watch it. Ever. I sat down and watched all 3 hours of that wretched game, just because I wanted to see BYU lose. Why? To simply feel validated in my conviction that GOD DOESN'T CARE ABOUT FOOTBALL. And he CERTAINLY doesn't care about BYU football, as was made evident by the trouncing they received at the hands of Florida State. I wanted to text that girl and tell her that the 7th ranked BYU probably lost to the unranked FSU because of her blasphemous prayer.
It is a game. Will God answer the prayer of the tide end that prays before the game to play at the best of his abilities? I don't see why not. But I'm pretty damn sure that He grows just a little weary from the flood of Provo pregame fan supplication inundating the heavens on fall Saturdays.
Maybe next time they pray for the cougs to win, they should throw in a quick petition for newly pressed khakis to rain down from the sky.
15.9.09
Alone
This post is completely uncharacteristic of what is typically found on this blog, so bear with me. Just trying to branch out a little.
She woke up alone for the first time. She rolled over. And then over again. She shouldn't have been able to do that. She took a deep breath. He still seemed to be there. Had she not rolled into the indentation so foreign, yet familiar, she might have convinced herself that he was more than a memory.
She wept in the predawn light. Slow, rolling sobs, like lazy swells in a deep sea. Her thoughts floundered in that sea, unable to take hold of anything substantial, sinking ever deeper into despair.
Women in her family live forever. The men fade out, while the women paint vibrant pictures on an endless canvas. Although hundreds of seasons had come and gone, she knew she had much to paint. But her inspiration was gone. She felt as though all the colors had faded away along with him. She would never paint in color again.
She woke up for the second time, completely alone. She woke up afraid. The room had never been so quiet. There was no deep, steady breath to melt away her fear. She was unable to imagine the rhythm of his heartbeat, beating in time to hers. There was no heart beat, save her own.
She was afraid to clean the house. Terrified to sweep the last vestiges of him off the floor. Of wiping his last fingerprints from the bathroom mirror. Of scouring the impression of his lips from the cups. Of throwing away the last jar that he opened with his hands.
She was afraid to walk out the door. The fear of never returning home to him again held her fast. If she never left, she would never have to come home to an empty house. She would never have to go out alone. She would never have to shop for 1. She would never have to face the world with nobody to protect her.
She woke up alone for the third time. Anger filled her heart as the early morning sun stole its way into her room, splaying shadows on the wall. She watched the shadows slowly sink into oblivion, along with her fear and sorrow. The matching heart beat was still absent, but everything was illuminated.
Damn him for fading away so soon. His promises were rendered lies through his passing. His heart was gone. He promised it would always beat for her. His eyes were forever closed. He promised they would always look out for her. His lips were forever silenced. He promised they would always speak the truth to her. He was forever gone. He promised he would never leave.
She scrubbed the floor with wild abandon, her angry tears washing away the last remnants of a man gone. She made great streaks across the bathroom mirror, damp rag clutched in her hand, as though clinging to the last dregs of her sanity. She scrubbed every dish in the house, as though contaminated by some foreign, nefarious pathogen. She washed every stitch of clothing, and emptied every garbage can. She scoured his essence from her life.
She woke up for the fourth time, more alone than ever before. Again, she watched the shadows on the wall. As they made their slow journey downward, she felt herself descend into numbness. She remembered a time when everything was vibrant. She remembered watching the shadows until he awoke. He was her reason to get up.
She could see him sitting in the chair. From there, each day, he said the words that made every day beautiful. He said what only she had ever heard him say, what he had promised to say to no other. She could hear the words, as though a whisper from unseen lips.
She stood in a home that she owned, with no debt. He had looked out for her, even with closed eyes. Although silenced, she could still hear his voice throughout every room in the house. Although physically gone, every article in the home was a memory, was him. Her heart beat in time with his until he passed. She had but to listen to her own heart to hear his. Just as it had always been.
She woke up for the fifth time alone, but content with her memories.
She woke up alone for the first time. She rolled over. And then over again. She shouldn't have been able to do that. She took a deep breath. He still seemed to be there. Had she not rolled into the indentation so foreign, yet familiar, she might have convinced herself that he was more than a memory.
She wept in the predawn light. Slow, rolling sobs, like lazy swells in a deep sea. Her thoughts floundered in that sea, unable to take hold of anything substantial, sinking ever deeper into despair.
Women in her family live forever. The men fade out, while the women paint vibrant pictures on an endless canvas. Although hundreds of seasons had come and gone, she knew she had much to paint. But her inspiration was gone. She felt as though all the colors had faded away along with him. She would never paint in color again.
She woke up for the second time, completely alone. She woke up afraid. The room had never been so quiet. There was no deep, steady breath to melt away her fear. She was unable to imagine the rhythm of his heartbeat, beating in time to hers. There was no heart beat, save her own.
She was afraid to clean the house. Terrified to sweep the last vestiges of him off the floor. Of wiping his last fingerprints from the bathroom mirror. Of scouring the impression of his lips from the cups. Of throwing away the last jar that he opened with his hands.
She was afraid to walk out the door. The fear of never returning home to him again held her fast. If she never left, she would never have to come home to an empty house. She would never have to go out alone. She would never have to shop for 1. She would never have to face the world with nobody to protect her.
She woke up alone for the third time. Anger filled her heart as the early morning sun stole its way into her room, splaying shadows on the wall. She watched the shadows slowly sink into oblivion, along with her fear and sorrow. The matching heart beat was still absent, but everything was illuminated.
Damn him for fading away so soon. His promises were rendered lies through his passing. His heart was gone. He promised it would always beat for her. His eyes were forever closed. He promised they would always look out for her. His lips were forever silenced. He promised they would always speak the truth to her. He was forever gone. He promised he would never leave.
She scrubbed the floor with wild abandon, her angry tears washing away the last remnants of a man gone. She made great streaks across the bathroom mirror, damp rag clutched in her hand, as though clinging to the last dregs of her sanity. She scrubbed every dish in the house, as though contaminated by some foreign, nefarious pathogen. She washed every stitch of clothing, and emptied every garbage can. She scoured his essence from her life.
She woke up for the fourth time, more alone than ever before. Again, she watched the shadows on the wall. As they made their slow journey downward, she felt herself descend into numbness. She remembered a time when everything was vibrant. She remembered watching the shadows until he awoke. He was her reason to get up.
She could see him sitting in the chair. From there, each day, he said the words that made every day beautiful. He said what only she had ever heard him say, what he had promised to say to no other. She could hear the words, as though a whisper from unseen lips.
She stood in a home that she owned, with no debt. He had looked out for her, even with closed eyes. Although silenced, she could still hear his voice throughout every room in the house. Although physically gone, every article in the home was a memory, was him. Her heart beat in time with his until he passed. She had but to listen to her own heart to hear his. Just as it had always been.
She woke up for the fifth time alone, but content with her memories.
12.9.09
Things that made me smile recently
The bro with the popped collar that deemed it necessary to continue wearing his dated shades with the small, mirrored lenses while ordering tacos. And then eating said tacos. Protected from the sun. This made me smile, due to the fact that I think most bro's have figured out that popping the collar is a rather laughable fashion offense. So it's a real treat when some tanned relic of 2008 is still starching that collar. Keep it goin' guys. PLEASE.
This guy. Jim Adler, the "Texas Hammer." Please watch the first part of the third video down, 18 wheeler truck safety. HAI! Also, Cell phone ban video is pretty great. "Sai-unce sayuz..."
The guy in the Dane Cook hat at Rice King. First, Rice King in an of itself is enough to make me smile. $4.99 sesame chicken special with ham friend rice, pepsi, and an egg roll? Get out. The reason why the Dane Cook hat is so funny, is because...well...it's a Dane Cook hat. That's like wearing a "Conan O'brien" hat. Or an "Arnold Schwarzenegger" hat. The idea that some comedian would think, "I should probably put my name on a hat," and that said hat would subsequently be marketed at performances, and that some dude would be like, "Geez. I like Dane Cook SO MUCH. Seriously, SO MUCH. And I want everyone to know this. I shall wear his name on my head," is a little ridiculous. It isn't like he is a sports team. He is a guy. A hat of a guy is weird.
Accidentally falling asleep on a trampoline for the first time in years, while looking at the 5 visible stars in the Salt Lake area.
The Hispanic yard sale in a field. Patrick and I were driving to get tacos, and as we were passing an abandoned field full of miserable, dead, yellow weeds, I was pleased to see a gathering of Central Americans selling various wares. Rather than choosing one of the many grassy, shady, street side locations throughout greater Provo, they picked a dead, sweltering, shade-less field from which to peddle their used merchandise. They didn't even lay down blankets. They just tossed everything down on the dead grass and dirt, and sat there, dripping in sweat, awaiting a host of patrons sick of blowing their money on exorbitantly priced articles from DI; from whence most of the items being vended probably actually originated anyway.
Patrick's mustache wax.
The end.
This guy. Jim Adler, the "Texas Hammer." Please watch the first part of the third video down, 18 wheeler truck safety. HAI! Also, Cell phone ban video is pretty great. "Sai-unce sayuz..."
The guy in the Dane Cook hat at Rice King. First, Rice King in an of itself is enough to make me smile. $4.99 sesame chicken special with ham friend rice, pepsi, and an egg roll? Get out. The reason why the Dane Cook hat is so funny, is because...well...it's a Dane Cook hat. That's like wearing a "Conan O'brien" hat. Or an "Arnold Schwarzenegger" hat. The idea that some comedian would think, "I should probably put my name on a hat," and that said hat would subsequently be marketed at performances, and that some dude would be like, "Geez. I like Dane Cook SO MUCH. Seriously, SO MUCH. And I want everyone to know this. I shall wear his name on my head," is a little ridiculous. It isn't like he is a sports team. He is a guy. A hat of a guy is weird.
Accidentally falling asleep on a trampoline for the first time in years, while looking at the 5 visible stars in the Salt Lake area.
The Hispanic yard sale in a field. Patrick and I were driving to get tacos, and as we were passing an abandoned field full of miserable, dead, yellow weeds, I was pleased to see a gathering of Central Americans selling various wares. Rather than choosing one of the many grassy, shady, street side locations throughout greater Provo, they picked a dead, sweltering, shade-less field from which to peddle their used merchandise. They didn't even lay down blankets. They just tossed everything down on the dead grass and dirt, and sat there, dripping in sweat, awaiting a host of patrons sick of blowing their money on exorbitantly priced articles from DI; from whence most of the items being vended probably actually originated anyway.
Patrick's mustache wax.
The end.
The day after
September 11th was weird for me. I mean, not yesterday, but the real one. The one that sunk us, for better or worse, into a couple of endless wars. That painted a presidency. That spawned all sorts of patriotic "let's put a boot in everyone's ass" country music hits. That birthed an entire industry of magnetic car ribbons, ranging in every color imaginable under the sun, with any theme a person could dream of, i.e. "Support Our Transgendered Hypoglycemic Hispano-Americano P.O.W.'S." That finally made fashionably relevant the 5 dollar Old Navy American flag Tee. That set the path for a multi-million dollar industry in "Stop/F*** Bush" bumper stickers, air fresheners, and sundry other paraphernalia. That created an "access uhv evul." That ultimately took the lives of thousands, and altered the lives of millions.
I was quietly nestled away in the MTC. Which would be an acronym for "Missionary Training Center," for those of you who are non-Morms.
That morning, I was sitting in a large group meeting. We had those a few times a week, where we would gather for some indoctrination. Our teacher was about 15 minutes late. Upon arriving, he seemed troubled. In our little bubble, the only thing of which we were aware or concerned, was the massive amount of cereal digesting in our bellies, and how far away lunch seemed.
He approached the pulpit/microphone, and said, "Sorry I'm late. A couple of planes were high-jacked and crashed into the World Trade Centers." Cue collective gasp, jaw drops, wide eyes, and raised eyebrows.
He paused, and took a deep breath. We had all simultaneously scooted to the edge of our seats, absolutely silent, ready for life shattering news. One could have heard an Angel Moroni tie pin fall to the floor.
"I think...well...I'm not going to tell you what I think. Okay. Were going to start by singing hymn number...."
And that was it. He didn't say another word about it. And there we sat, in absolute shock, while he rambled on for an hour about who knows what. Something churchy. Like any of us could spare even a speck of attention, for all of the swirl of emotion/curiosity/shock, roiling in our heads.
Class ended, we ran to our room and got out a contraband radio that my companion for some unknown reason had squirreled away in his suitcase. I guess he thought, as he was packing his bags, "Well, maybe I should bring this radio, in the event that a terrorist attack occurs upon our beloved country, and the MTC doesn't see fit to give us ANY INFORMATION.
As soon as word got around that we had this most forbidden of all devices, everyone was huddled around, listening to what few sketchy details we could pick up. Soon enough, however, we had to be in class. Learning another language, or some such nonsense.
Later on, the MTC president got on the intercom and gave us a few details. Mostly, we had to live vicariously through our parent's letters, news clippings, and pictures. Such a strange way to experience one of the most significant events in our Nation's history.
The worst thing was, I didn't even get to wear patriotic garb when said garb was all the rage. By the time I got home, 2 years later, the Old Navy flag shirt had sunk back into fashion irrelevancy, and Toby Keith was already wayyy overplayed. At least there are still enough cancers in existence that those magnetic ribbons will always be fresh.
31.8.09
Napkins
Sometimes I get asked if I like a person. Like at work. Or a friend group. Or a scout group. Or whatever. And honestly, sometimes the answer eludes me. Because I really have no strong opinion either way about said person, even after having worked with them, friended with them, or scouted with them for months and months.
It's sort of like being asked, "Dude. Do you like napkins?"
"Um...well, I don't dislike napkins. Although I wouldn't say I'm particularly fond of them either. So I really don't know."
When I was asked today whether I liked a specific employee, that was the feeling I got. That feeling I get every time someone asks me whether I like napkins or not. I was really at a loss for precicely what to say. The napkin feeling.
"Well, I guess so. Wait. not really. I don't know. He's...whatever."
I wonder if people ever deem me a napkin?
It's sort of like being asked, "Dude. Do you like napkins?"
"Um...well, I don't dislike napkins. Although I wouldn't say I'm particularly fond of them either. So I really don't know."
When I was asked today whether I liked a specific employee, that was the feeling I got. That feeling I get every time someone asks me whether I like napkins or not. I was really at a loss for precicely what to say. The napkin feeling.
"Well, I guess so. Wait. not really. I don't know. He's...whatever."
I wonder if people ever deem me a napkin?
27.8.09
So confused
I am always baffled when I see a person who has been married for less than a week on facebook chat at 11 pm. Why are you effbooking instead of effing?
Don't get it.
Don't get it.
25.8.09
23.8.09
How many rats
Could nest in this?
Thank you for leading me here.
Ever have I wondered just how these FLDS goddesses were able to craft such intricate, mind blowing braids. I wonder no longer.
From the site: "Beginning with long hair care and advancing through basic waves and braids, these instructional videos will teach you some of the most intricate hairstyles you have ever seen.
Soon you will be styling your own hair in French braids, Dutch braids, Twists, and more!
The talented hairstylists will take you step-by-step through each of the featured braid styles."
I'd have sure been interested in the "wave" portion around this point in my life:
While 6:02 minutes of this marvelous video have been set aside to cover "basic braids," a paltry 3:34 are dedicated to "french braids." And I'll be damned straight to hell if a proper "dutch braid" can be learned in under 5 minutes.
A comment from a pleased customer: "Hi ladies:-)
I got my DVD's today, safe and sound as promised, (delivered by coach, and a man brandishing a colt 44) and watched them both. I learned a lot of things I never knew before! (Perhaps there is an unmentioned section on ways to spice up sex while fully clothed in a prairie dress)
I must comment on how calming and peaceful watching these DVD's was for me: it was like a trip to a spa, with the relaxing music and the clear, gentle speaking voices of the presenters. (Um. Please direct me to the spa where, while receiving a massage and a cucumber mask, I might also have my hair braided by a professional braid tech, hopefully wearing this:
The production values were just incredible and I cannot begin to say how pleased I am with this product:-) (Pleased enough, apparently, to include a smiley faced emoticon with an elongated nose. Twice.)
Please do keep me on your mailing list should you come out with more of these types of DVD's. I truly enjoyed mine!"
Won't we all?
The other thing I have always wondered, is what the hell polygamist kids play with. You know they aren't allowed Nintendos, or action figures. I always assumed they probably just ran around naked, playing in the dirt until they were old enough to sell magazine subscriptions.
It would appear, that the wooden mini van is a popular item amongst the polyglits. And with the subtle, hearty design, how couldn't it be?
"A Baby Bus? A Van? An SUV?
This vehicle looked like a minivan to us, but it may be just the kindergarten bus you were looking for! (???) Or maybe you needed an SUV?
Ours is 6" long, 3" wide, and 4" tall. (????) It has three window holes so those chubby little fingers can get a good grip. (That all children are assumed to have chubby fingers is a hasty generalization. Unfair, at best. Tsk tsk, pligs.)
Like all our wooden vehicles, this one comes unfinished, ready for you to decorate it just the way you'd like!"
My, but a more thrilled child I have never seen.
Perhaps he was forced to wear one of these "helmets" throughout the younger years of his life, and the sweltering summer heat cooked his brain, forever plastering that incorrigible, empty, slack jawed look upon the poor child's face. The only sensible explanation, since any other child would be more than overjoyed to be surrounded by wooden minivans/kindergarten buses.
"This soft fleece helmet will keep your little one nice and warm. On sale now for a special introductory price of only $5.00!"
At least 7 more reasons to join a polygamous sect, other than the obvious; eventual ownership of a home with 2 garages and 2 front doors.
Thank you for leading me here.
Ever have I wondered just how these FLDS goddesses were able to craft such intricate, mind blowing braids. I wonder no longer.
From the site: "Beginning with long hair care and advancing through basic waves and braids, these instructional videos will teach you some of the most intricate hairstyles you have ever seen.
Soon you will be styling your own hair in French braids, Dutch braids, Twists, and more!
The talented hairstylists will take you step-by-step through each of the featured braid styles."
I'd have sure been interested in the "wave" portion around this point in my life:
While 6:02 minutes of this marvelous video have been set aside to cover "basic braids," a paltry 3:34 are dedicated to "french braids." And I'll be damned straight to hell if a proper "dutch braid" can be learned in under 5 minutes.
A comment from a pleased customer: "Hi ladies:-)
I got my DVD's today, safe and sound as promised, (delivered by coach, and a man brandishing a colt 44) and watched them both. I learned a lot of things I never knew before! (Perhaps there is an unmentioned section on ways to spice up sex while fully clothed in a prairie dress)
I must comment on how calming and peaceful watching these DVD's was for me: it was like a trip to a spa, with the relaxing music and the clear, gentle speaking voices of the presenters. (Um. Please direct me to the spa where, while receiving a massage and a cucumber mask, I might also have my hair braided by a professional braid tech, hopefully wearing this:
The production values were just incredible and I cannot begin to say how pleased I am with this product:-) (Pleased enough, apparently, to include a smiley faced emoticon with an elongated nose. Twice.)
Please do keep me on your mailing list should you come out with more of these types of DVD's. I truly enjoyed mine!"
Won't we all?
The other thing I have always wondered, is what the hell polygamist kids play with. You know they aren't allowed Nintendos, or action figures. I always assumed they probably just ran around naked, playing in the dirt until they were old enough to sell magazine subscriptions.
It would appear, that the wooden mini van is a popular item amongst the polyglits. And with the subtle, hearty design, how couldn't it be?
"A Baby Bus? A Van? An SUV?
This vehicle looked like a minivan to us, but it may be just the kindergarten bus you were looking for! (???) Or maybe you needed an SUV?
Ours is 6" long, 3" wide, and 4" tall. (????) It has three window holes so those chubby little fingers can get a good grip. (That all children are assumed to have chubby fingers is a hasty generalization. Unfair, at best. Tsk tsk, pligs.)
Like all our wooden vehicles, this one comes unfinished, ready for you to decorate it just the way you'd like!"
My, but a more thrilled child I have never seen.
Perhaps he was forced to wear one of these "helmets" throughout the younger years of his life, and the sweltering summer heat cooked his brain, forever plastering that incorrigible, empty, slack jawed look upon the poor child's face. The only sensible explanation, since any other child would be more than overjoyed to be surrounded by wooden minivans/kindergarten buses.
"This soft fleece helmet will keep your little one nice and warm. On sale now for a special introductory price of only $5.00!"
At least 7 more reasons to join a polygamous sect, other than the obvious; eventual ownership of a home with 2 garages and 2 front doors.
21.8.09
Bfd
One of my favorite, most baffling things to see/hear, occurs when some swarthy, testosterone engorged male has conquered a female in some forum. Particularly a sporting or action forum.
And the female says, pursuant the consequential boasting, "Ohhh, WOW. You beat a GIRL."
This, to me, seems a little counter intuitive. Like when the United States kicks Russia's ass in some Olympic forum, and Russia says, "Oh WOW. Real cool America. You beat RUSSIA. Bfd."
No?
And the female says, pursuant the consequential boasting, "Ohhh, WOW. You beat a GIRL."
This, to me, seems a little counter intuitive. Like when the United States kicks Russia's ass in some Olympic forum, and Russia says, "Oh WOW. Real cool America. You beat RUSSIA. Bfd."
No?
Fake life
Last week I was gone living fake life. For a week. Gosh, I miss fake life. Fake life was at some million dollar home on Bear Lake. Fake life is great. Food never runs out, and you get to put goat cheese on EVERYTHING.
Here are some reasons why I didn't want fake life to end:
Ate half a cinnamon apple coffee cake muffin in the morning. Put the other half back in the box, and came back later that afternoon, and the muffin had regenerated itself, back into its whole, unblemished, muffiny delicious form.
Got some bananas. Forgot to eat them for a couple of days. When I finally decided that a banana shake would was pertinent to my happiness, I found that the bananas were too spotty for my taste. So I rummaged around the fridge, in search of other sundry fruit items. By the time I turned around, the bananas weren't even spotty anymore.
Thought that since it was fake life, doing some coke might be cool. Woke up the next morning with 3 lines awaiting me on the toilet seat. Decided to just eat the regenerated muffin instead. When I checked back later, I guess fake life got pist and cracked the toilet in half. Watch what you wish for in fake life.
I only got 2 mosquito bites the whole week. But I also found that when I licked them, they tasted like Cherry Clan candy treats, which I had apparently been subconsciously craving for a day or 2.
Hot dogs actually tasted good, even sans goat cheese.
.....
Now I'm back in real life. Where I have action bills. And a job. And a mouth to feed. I started eating only half of things, forgetting that in real life, food doesn't just regenerate like a severed worm. Eating half an apple, and then putting it in the fridge is just a mistake. It oxidizes and turns brown, and fake life isn't even there to make it right again. Not to mention, all of the various mystery flavors infesting the fridge permeate the apple, rendering it the taste of some fantastic concoction of withered fruit, old left over food, and fridge stains.
Perhaps I should find an online fake life community, create an avatar, and enjoy all of the regenerating muffins, goat cheese, and good tasting hot dogs that my little avatar can digitally gobble, not to mention meaningful, proxy relationships.
See ya, real life.
Here are some reasons why I didn't want fake life to end:
Ate half a cinnamon apple coffee cake muffin in the morning. Put the other half back in the box, and came back later that afternoon, and the muffin had regenerated itself, back into its whole, unblemished, muffiny delicious form.
Got some bananas. Forgot to eat them for a couple of days. When I finally decided that a banana shake would was pertinent to my happiness, I found that the bananas were too spotty for my taste. So I rummaged around the fridge, in search of other sundry fruit items. By the time I turned around, the bananas weren't even spotty anymore.
Thought that since it was fake life, doing some coke might be cool. Woke up the next morning with 3 lines awaiting me on the toilet seat. Decided to just eat the regenerated muffin instead. When I checked back later, I guess fake life got pist and cracked the toilet in half. Watch what you wish for in fake life.
I only got 2 mosquito bites the whole week. But I also found that when I licked them, they tasted like Cherry Clan candy treats, which I had apparently been subconsciously craving for a day or 2.
Hot dogs actually tasted good, even sans goat cheese.
.....
Now I'm back in real life. Where I have action bills. And a job. And a mouth to feed. I started eating only half of things, forgetting that in real life, food doesn't just regenerate like a severed worm. Eating half an apple, and then putting it in the fridge is just a mistake. It oxidizes and turns brown, and fake life isn't even there to make it right again. Not to mention, all of the various mystery flavors infesting the fridge permeate the apple, rendering it the taste of some fantastic concoction of withered fruit, old left over food, and fridge stains.
Perhaps I should find an online fake life community, create an avatar, and enjoy all of the regenerating muffins, goat cheese, and good tasting hot dogs that my little avatar can digitally gobble, not to mention meaningful, proxy relationships.
See ya, real life.
5.8.09
A modern viking
I kicked a spiders ass last night.
For the first time in my life, after the racing heart, the spine gripping panic, and the girlish squealing, I felt like a man.
I was in Bluffdale. Bluffdale is at least the second most unappealing populated city name in Utah, the first possibly being Magna. Just thinking about living in Bluffdale (albeit a nice area) gives me a lonely, bleak feeling. You go to Bluffdale to go to Jail. Or IKEA. Or to watch Seinfeld in Claire's basement, as it was previously condemned on the upper level due to sexual content. Which I found strange, until I realized the most racy thing typically played in the upstairs region of the house is Little Bear. Which can get pre--tty racy. "Mama Bear? What were you and Papa Bear doing last night? Why were you attacking Mama Bear, Papa Bear?" "Just eat your muffins, Little Bear. (In hushed tones,) Dammit Papa Bear! I told you, 'not tonight, Papa Bear. Little Bear hasn't been sleeping too soundly.' But did Papa Bear listen to Mama Bear? Of Course not! Papa Bear just listened to the same thing he ALWAYS LISTENS TO."
Shocking really, that show.
Anyway, I was minding my own business, when suddenly Claire implored me to grab her arm and drag her into an upright sitting position. Something about not being able to sit up on her own because of like...an appendectomy or something silly. Not sure, I was pretty engrossed in Seinfeld. As I pulled her arm, she suddenly yelped a cry of, what I thought was terrible pain, and violently jerked away from me. "Oh gosh, I pulled to hard and made her guts fall out," thought I, in a mild panic.
Suddenly, the yelpish cries began morphing into coherent words which, to my horror, ended up being something like "spider," and "huge." I am not really one to appreciate even a tiny spider, let alone one the size of a premature baby. And making a b-line for my feet, no less.
A lot raced through my mind at that particular moment. Chiefly, "God help me, its finally happening. I'm going to die by spidering." And secondly, "Radical. I'm going to get to look really manly here, as I deftly leap up upon the couch suchions, wildly flailing a yellow shoe in the general direction of said spawn of Lucifer, while trying really hard not to scream some guttural mixture of 'run for your life' and the f word."
Before my spine melted, I jerked my legs away and desperately lurched for a shoe, at which point I slammed said shoe at the spider with all of my might.
And missed.
The devilish creature then scurried beneath the couch. I was then commanded to "get it." Which is a real big problem for me. Because the second to last thing I wanted to do in all the world right then, was move that couch, and urinate in my skinnies when that thing shot out and latched onto my foot with its, at the very least, 3 inch long fangs. I tell you, this spider was the size of a kitten, if he was a centimeter. The last thing, being sit on that couch and pretend arachnozilla wasn't hanging out under there just waiting for his chance to melt my nervous system with his filthy venom.
After considering briefly the line, "you deal with this, I'm outta here," I decided that maybe I could be a man for once in my life. A real life, spider slaying hero. Everyone in the house would then gather round me, laud me for my brave heroism, and bestow lavish gifts of exotic cheeses and ice creams upon me. With that in mind, I molted away my cowardice, gave the couch a mighty shove, and out popped that spider, in a last ditch effort to ruin my life. With a deafening mental squeal, I leapt upon the fireplace bricks and let that scary bastard have it with the yellow shoe. What a manly killing tool, that shoe.
Even though I wasn't showered with gifts, praise, and love, I did feel like a man. The kind of man that keeps his cool in the face of mortal danger.
Like the Karate Kid. Or a Viking.
For the first time in my life, after the racing heart, the spine gripping panic, and the girlish squealing, I felt like a man.
I was in Bluffdale. Bluffdale is at least the second most unappealing populated city name in Utah, the first possibly being Magna. Just thinking about living in Bluffdale (albeit a nice area) gives me a lonely, bleak feeling. You go to Bluffdale to go to Jail. Or IKEA. Or to watch Seinfeld in Claire's basement, as it was previously condemned on the upper level due to sexual content. Which I found strange, until I realized the most racy thing typically played in the upstairs region of the house is Little Bear. Which can get pre--tty racy. "Mama Bear? What were you and Papa Bear doing last night? Why were you attacking Mama Bear, Papa Bear?" "Just eat your muffins, Little Bear. (In hushed tones,) Dammit Papa Bear! I told you, 'not tonight, Papa Bear. Little Bear hasn't been sleeping too soundly.' But did Papa Bear listen to Mama Bear? Of Course not! Papa Bear just listened to the same thing he ALWAYS LISTENS TO."
Shocking really, that show.
Anyway, I was minding my own business, when suddenly Claire implored me to grab her arm and drag her into an upright sitting position. Something about not being able to sit up on her own because of like...an appendectomy or something silly. Not sure, I was pretty engrossed in Seinfeld. As I pulled her arm, she suddenly yelped a cry of, what I thought was terrible pain, and violently jerked away from me. "Oh gosh, I pulled to hard and made her guts fall out," thought I, in a mild panic.
Suddenly, the yelpish cries began morphing into coherent words which, to my horror, ended up being something like "spider," and "huge." I am not really one to appreciate even a tiny spider, let alone one the size of a premature baby. And making a b-line for my feet, no less.
A lot raced through my mind at that particular moment. Chiefly, "God help me, its finally happening. I'm going to die by spidering." And secondly, "Radical. I'm going to get to look really manly here, as I deftly leap up upon the couch suchions, wildly flailing a yellow shoe in the general direction of said spawn of Lucifer, while trying really hard not to scream some guttural mixture of 'run for your life' and the f word."
Before my spine melted, I jerked my legs away and desperately lurched for a shoe, at which point I slammed said shoe at the spider with all of my might.
And missed.
The devilish creature then scurried beneath the couch. I was then commanded to "get it." Which is a real big problem for me. Because the second to last thing I wanted to do in all the world right then, was move that couch, and urinate in my skinnies when that thing shot out and latched onto my foot with its, at the very least, 3 inch long fangs. I tell you, this spider was the size of a kitten, if he was a centimeter. The last thing, being sit on that couch and pretend arachnozilla wasn't hanging out under there just waiting for his chance to melt my nervous system with his filthy venom.
After considering briefly the line, "you deal with this, I'm outta here," I decided that maybe I could be a man for once in my life. A real life, spider slaying hero. Everyone in the house would then gather round me, laud me for my brave heroism, and bestow lavish gifts of exotic cheeses and ice creams upon me. With that in mind, I molted away my cowardice, gave the couch a mighty shove, and out popped that spider, in a last ditch effort to ruin my life. With a deafening mental squeal, I leapt upon the fireplace bricks and let that scary bastard have it with the yellow shoe. What a manly killing tool, that shoe.
Even though I wasn't showered with gifts, praise, and love, I did feel like a man. The kind of man that keeps his cool in the face of mortal danger.
Like the Karate Kid. Or a Viking.
30.7.09
Basting
So I learned a couple of things about which I wasn't previously privy. First, apparently it is kosher for polygamists to drink alcohol. For whatever reason, it is just difficult to picture those statuesque, majestic women with their intricate braids and massive bang waves--lord only knows what those monstrosities are really called in the hair world--square shoes and 19th century era dresses, stumbling about, drunk and belligerent. They just don't fit the mold.
Second, when polygamists drink, they don't mess around. If I had to guess what a polygamist might order in the realm of alcohol, I would picture a cheap, fruity wine. Or perhaps a full bodied red, for the old crusty womanizers. Well, maybe even brandy for those guys. So when they ordered 3 long island ice teas, it sort of caught me off guard. Frat dudes order long islands. Drunks order long islands. Nobody drinks a long island because they like the way it tastes. The express purpose of said beverage, is to get drunk as quickly and cheaply as possible. And the long island is a veritable shit storm of alcohol; cheap tequila, gin, rum, vodka, and triple sec. Add a couple ounces of sour mix and a splash of coke, and cue gag reflex.
Thirdly, apparently polygamist women who delve into the seedier realm of alcoholic beverages also have no qualms about throwing down a few while BURSTING WITH PREGNANCY.
There is this polygamous family that dines at Carrabbas periodically. There is typically 1-2 men, and 3-4 women. And unless there is like, a new emerging club where people dress exactly like stereotypical polygamists and then go out to eat at semi-fancy Italian restaurants, these people are 100% big love. Tonight, we were blessed with their presence, exquisite braids practically seething sex, driving any man within the immediate vicinity insane with desire. Or something.
I was a little shocked when their server asked me for 3 long islands. "For the pligs huh? Get outta town." I was thoroughly stunned upon seeing one of the long island partakers stand up, and waddle her way to the bathroom, fetus practically clawing its way out of her swollen womb. A solid 6 months, if she was a day. "Huh," I thought. "Perhaps the ensuing fetal alcohol syndrome will cause the child to be more malleable to their way of life. And a fetal alcohol baby's hair is probably inherently easier to braid. Duh."
Poor little fetus, basting in alcohol laced amniotic fluid, and ultimately baking in a polygamist oven.
No bright side there.
Second, when polygamists drink, they don't mess around. If I had to guess what a polygamist might order in the realm of alcohol, I would picture a cheap, fruity wine. Or perhaps a full bodied red, for the old crusty womanizers. Well, maybe even brandy for those guys. So when they ordered 3 long island ice teas, it sort of caught me off guard. Frat dudes order long islands. Drunks order long islands. Nobody drinks a long island because they like the way it tastes. The express purpose of said beverage, is to get drunk as quickly and cheaply as possible. And the long island is a veritable shit storm of alcohol; cheap tequila, gin, rum, vodka, and triple sec. Add a couple ounces of sour mix and a splash of coke, and cue gag reflex.
Thirdly, apparently polygamist women who delve into the seedier realm of alcoholic beverages also have no qualms about throwing down a few while BURSTING WITH PREGNANCY.
There is this polygamous family that dines at Carrabbas periodically. There is typically 1-2 men, and 3-4 women. And unless there is like, a new emerging club where people dress exactly like stereotypical polygamists and then go out to eat at semi-fancy Italian restaurants, these people are 100% big love. Tonight, we were blessed with their presence, exquisite braids practically seething sex, driving any man within the immediate vicinity insane with desire. Or something.
I was a little shocked when their server asked me for 3 long islands. "For the pligs huh? Get outta town." I was thoroughly stunned upon seeing one of the long island partakers stand up, and waddle her way to the bathroom, fetus practically clawing its way out of her swollen womb. A solid 6 months, if she was a day. "Huh," I thought. "Perhaps the ensuing fetal alcohol syndrome will cause the child to be more malleable to their way of life. And a fetal alcohol baby's hair is probably inherently easier to braid. Duh."
Poor little fetus, basting in alcohol laced amniotic fluid, and ultimately baking in a polygamist oven.
No bright side there.
23.7.09
Fat and sweaty
I went to an interview for an internship for which I applied. I sent in my resume a couple of weeks ago, which included some of my blog posts. Not being able to remember what I had sent them, I was reading through it. I came across this line from the post, You want to stick that where?, "As I rode my bike with the ever flattening back tire..."
There seems to be a reoccurring theme here.
One of my friends recently built me a bicycle, which I absolutely adore. It is a fixed gear bike, with a blue powder coated rim and matching handlebar tape. The frame is a charcoal gray, embedded with sparkles that glitter in the sunlight. Sounds like a fantastically gay bike. It is beautiful.
I have had this bike a very short while, and have already had 3 flat rear tires. Upon reading about my ever flattening back tire from last summer, it struck me that I may have a weight issue here. Am I too fat to ride a bicycle with a skinny, highly inflated tire? I think that consuming Carrabba's fare 3 times a week is starting to catch up with me.
If it were simply an unlucky thorn problem, wouldn't the front tube be as likely to pop as the rear? Yet, I never have this problem up front. It's always the ass-end tapping out, screaming for mercy. And when those desperate supplications are ignored, ass-end offs itself.
On an unrelated, sweaty note, I had forgotten just how hot this wretched house gets in the summer time. Here I sit, wearing socks (because in this heat, the effort required to bend down to remove them might send me into heat stroke) and the most skimpy underwear I can find, longing for fall. Remaining in the house clothed in anything more is a good way to pass out in a pool of ones own sweat. It doesn't help matters that my laptop feels like a pist off dragon breathing on my crotch. Which is another reason I have been avoiding my computer. It is too hot to write. Only by about 11 pm does the temperature become bearable. Which is to say, about 80 degrees.
Perhaps this heat is a good thing. Maybe I'll start sweating off some of the weight gain, and relieve a little of the pressure on my back tire, and thus avoid having to get a second job just to keep up with the tubular explosions.
Relax summer. Are 100 degrees really necessary?
There seems to be a reoccurring theme here.
One of my friends recently built me a bicycle, which I absolutely adore. It is a fixed gear bike, with a blue powder coated rim and matching handlebar tape. The frame is a charcoal gray, embedded with sparkles that glitter in the sunlight. Sounds like a fantastically gay bike. It is beautiful.
I have had this bike a very short while, and have already had 3 flat rear tires. Upon reading about my ever flattening back tire from last summer, it struck me that I may have a weight issue here. Am I too fat to ride a bicycle with a skinny, highly inflated tire? I think that consuming Carrabba's fare 3 times a week is starting to catch up with me.
If it were simply an unlucky thorn problem, wouldn't the front tube be as likely to pop as the rear? Yet, I never have this problem up front. It's always the ass-end tapping out, screaming for mercy. And when those desperate supplications are ignored, ass-end offs itself.
On an unrelated, sweaty note, I had forgotten just how hot this wretched house gets in the summer time. Here I sit, wearing socks (because in this heat, the effort required to bend down to remove them might send me into heat stroke) and the most skimpy underwear I can find, longing for fall. Remaining in the house clothed in anything more is a good way to pass out in a pool of ones own sweat. It doesn't help matters that my laptop feels like a pist off dragon breathing on my crotch. Which is another reason I have been avoiding my computer. It is too hot to write. Only by about 11 pm does the temperature become bearable. Which is to say, about 80 degrees.
Perhaps this heat is a good thing. Maybe I'll start sweating off some of the weight gain, and relieve a little of the pressure on my back tire, and thus avoid having to get a second job just to keep up with the tubular explosions.
Relax summer. Are 100 degrees really necessary?
21.7.09
So.
The death of my blog has been caused by an extremely eventful summer. Way to much fun, I am having. Swimming, sneaking, movie-ing, friending, eating, ghost towning, biking, vacationing, Del Tacoing...so busy. I haven't even turned my computer on in a week, and I love it. This is not the end of all things. I will return to my post(s) soon. For reals. Although, I've probably done a pretty good job of loosing my "following" from the sparse posting over the last couple of months.
Crap.
Night games call.
Crap.
Night games call.
7.7.09
Fun with bees
Whenever I am riding a motorcycle at a very high speed and I happen to be wearing a full face helmet, I always have this really irrational fear that if I have the face shield up, a bug will fly into my helmet. Which for me, would be absolutely devastating, as I have an intensely irrational fear of bugs. And probably the death of me, since I would most certainly begin wildly flailing about, causing me to end up in a crumpled heap on the pavement. Probably with an exploded brain.
So I drive with that thing down. No face bugs for me.
Except for somehow, while traveling down a country road in northern Idaho at about 80 mph, a bee managed to infiltrate my closed helmet. A damn bee. Traveling 80. On a motorcycle. My worst nightmare. EVER.
It becomes a little difficult to pay proper attention to the road, while staring at a bee perched an inch away from your eye. He just sits there, this bee, staring at me. I decided right then, that as long as he wasn't actually attacking my face, I could keep my composure. The problem then, was deciding how to remedy the situation. He seemed somewhat content to just sit there and pierce my heart with fear, at least for the moment. I began to weigh my options. Do I pull over, and attempt to rip the helmet off of my head? What if he gets pist when I slow down and starts attacking my face? What if I can't remove my helmet quickly because it is STRAPPED TO MY HEAD? Should I open the face shield and hope he escapes? What if he is then simply blown into my face, and consequentially begins attacking it?
I decided that opening the face shield was my best bet. Upon doing so, he was blown out the bottom of my helmet, and I was left thinking, "WHAT THE HELL." Because this was the SECOND attack of the day. By a bee. You see, about 2 hours earlier, while pulling into a gas station, I was stung on my right arm. Which taught me 2 things; 1 being, I am apparently not allergic to bee stings. Cool. And 2, while bee stings hurt, they are not the end all, monumentally painful experience that I had always assumed. Cool again. But I'm still afraid of them.
Why did the bees have it out for me? I swear I haven't killed a bee in years. All that wasn't even the end of it.
A couple hours later, I was in the sorriest Subway on planet earth. They had no 9 grain honey wheat, no spinach, no chicken breast, no swiss, and their high speed toaster oven was broken down. WTF. As I was contemplating which bread to substitute for the 9 grain, I felt something itchy in my side. I reached down, and could feel a small ball of something in my shirt. Suddenly, that small ball of something stung me, at which point I freaked out and began to violently shake my shirt. Lo and behold, another bee.
Why did every bee in that state want to kill me? I made it nearly 27 years having never been stung, and then I was attacked thrice in one day. I have a sneaking suspicion that bee #3 might have actually really been bee #2. I think he might have, after being blown from my helmet, crawled down my shirt and hitched a ride for a couple of hours. He probably fell asleep, and then when I touched him in Subway, became grumpy because I woke him up. At which point he stung me for the second time in my adult life.
Asshole.
So I drive with that thing down. No face bugs for me.
Except for somehow, while traveling down a country road in northern Idaho at about 80 mph, a bee managed to infiltrate my closed helmet. A damn bee. Traveling 80. On a motorcycle. My worst nightmare. EVER.
It becomes a little difficult to pay proper attention to the road, while staring at a bee perched an inch away from your eye. He just sits there, this bee, staring at me. I decided right then, that as long as he wasn't actually attacking my face, I could keep my composure. The problem then, was deciding how to remedy the situation. He seemed somewhat content to just sit there and pierce my heart with fear, at least for the moment. I began to weigh my options. Do I pull over, and attempt to rip the helmet off of my head? What if he gets pist when I slow down and starts attacking my face? What if I can't remove my helmet quickly because it is STRAPPED TO MY HEAD? Should I open the face shield and hope he escapes? What if he is then simply blown into my face, and consequentially begins attacking it?
I decided that opening the face shield was my best bet. Upon doing so, he was blown out the bottom of my helmet, and I was left thinking, "WHAT THE HELL." Because this was the SECOND attack of the day. By a bee. You see, about 2 hours earlier, while pulling into a gas station, I was stung on my right arm. Which taught me 2 things; 1 being, I am apparently not allergic to bee stings. Cool. And 2, while bee stings hurt, they are not the end all, monumentally painful experience that I had always assumed. Cool again. But I'm still afraid of them.
Why did the bees have it out for me? I swear I haven't killed a bee in years. All that wasn't even the end of it.
A couple hours later, I was in the sorriest Subway on planet earth. They had no 9 grain honey wheat, no spinach, no chicken breast, no swiss, and their high speed toaster oven was broken down. WTF. As I was contemplating which bread to substitute for the 9 grain, I felt something itchy in my side. I reached down, and could feel a small ball of something in my shirt. Suddenly, that small ball of something stung me, at which point I freaked out and began to violently shake my shirt. Lo and behold, another bee.
Why did every bee in that state want to kill me? I made it nearly 27 years having never been stung, and then I was attacked thrice in one day. I have a sneaking suspicion that bee #3 might have actually really been bee #2. I think he might have, after being blown from my helmet, crawled down my shirt and hitched a ride for a couple of hours. He probably fell asleep, and then when I touched him in Subway, became grumpy because I woke him up. At which point he stung me for the second time in my adult life.
Asshole.
25.6.09
Ugh
At 11:35 pm, when faced with the decision between no ice cream, or double fudge browny...I unfortunately went with double fudge browny.
The weight gain is starting to make sense.
The weight gain is starting to make sense.
That 1 guy
Why is it that every time I go to a show where alcohol is present, there are always just 1 or 2 morons that manage to ruin it? Seriously. Think about every concert in a small venue/bar that you have ever been to, and then think about the complete asshole that was standing near the front with you, incapable of keeping his or her mouth shut. This person (we'll call it a he, since this particular time it was a he) usually likes to respond to all of the rhetorical statements and questions or comments posed by the front man of the band.
If alcohol is mentioned by said artist, (which is often the case, as performing and intoxication seem to go hand in hand) such comments are always followed by a very enthusiastic "whoop" or a "hellll yeeeahhhh, thassss whadd I'mmmmm talllkin" bout!" Or some other form of idiocy. A.A. Bondy (the artist) would periodically take shots after a song, at which point drunken idiot would start screaming hellllll yeaaaaahhhh and mightily thrust his beer in for a "bump."
I feel like, were I an artist, I would be ruthless to people like that. Because pretty much every other person in the vicinity hates drunken idiot. Except for his 2 or 3 buddies, with whom he is constantly sharing fist pounds. Loose 3 fans, yet gain the respect of 100 others.
When music is being played, if they aren't obnoxiously singing at maximum voice capacity, they have their eyes closed and are drunkenly swaying in a rather embarrassing manner. When I see these people, I can't help but wonder how they ever convince anyone to go to a show with them. How can their friends not be writhing with projected embarrassment? I suppose it probably has a lot to do with the principle in nature that lesser creatures dwell with those from the same phylum. Or maybe I just made up that principle. Either way, it seems to hold truth with human creatures.
Out of 100 people drinking in a club, 99 of them know how to not be drunken assholes. Why does there always have to be that 1 guy?
If alcohol is mentioned by said artist, (which is often the case, as performing and intoxication seem to go hand in hand) such comments are always followed by a very enthusiastic "whoop" or a "hellll yeeeahhhh, thassss whadd I'mmmmm talllkin" bout!" Or some other form of idiocy. A.A. Bondy (the artist) would periodically take shots after a song, at which point drunken idiot would start screaming hellllll yeaaaaahhhh and mightily thrust his beer in for a "bump."
I feel like, were I an artist, I would be ruthless to people like that. Because pretty much every other person in the vicinity hates drunken idiot. Except for his 2 or 3 buddies, with whom he is constantly sharing fist pounds. Loose 3 fans, yet gain the respect of 100 others.
When music is being played, if they aren't obnoxiously singing at maximum voice capacity, they have their eyes closed and are drunkenly swaying in a rather embarrassing manner. When I see these people, I can't help but wonder how they ever convince anyone to go to a show with them. How can their friends not be writhing with projected embarrassment? I suppose it probably has a lot to do with the principle in nature that lesser creatures dwell with those from the same phylum. Or maybe I just made up that principle. Either way, it seems to hold truth with human creatures.
Out of 100 people drinking in a club, 99 of them know how to not be drunken assholes. Why does there always have to be that 1 guy?
22.6.09
Commitments
Every so often I sort of go into blogiac arrest (great play on words, that one.) I get sucked into various other pursuits, be they work, reading, bbqing, or online tv shows. And, before I know it, wham; (a calm sort of wham) days and days have passed and I have written nothing.
Sorry.
I have come to the conclusion that Chihuahua's are very under appreciated creatures. I was with some friends watching a movie the other evening, and suddenly, wham! (I definitely can not overemphasize the wham there) A little tiny chihuahua pops its head out of a girl's Dolce & Gabanna handbag. Sort of my dream come true, that one. I immediately froke out. And of course, due to the unfair stigma attached to these darling little creatures, this girl thought I was mocking her.
Not so. I love those little nuggets.
So of course, I began scouring the internets for cheap chihuahuas over the next couple days. Whenever I seriously think about getting one, I also can't help but think about how purchasing one of those tiny, bulbous headed creatures is, at the very least, a solid 15 year investment. I'd be like...over 40 when that thing probably finally passed away. If I can't even commit to a girl, how am I supposed to make that sort of commitment to a creature that will shit on my floor? And there are all sorts of hidden expenses involved; blinged out collars, tiny chihuahua sized sweaters (to minimize the inevitable shaking) a Dolce and Gabanna man bag in which to carry it, shots, de-wormings, 15-20 years of dog food, possible kidney transplants when it gets old and I'm as attached to it as my own children (assuming that happens) babysitters when I go places that aren't chihuahua compatible...it goes on and on. Plus chihuahuas are definitely a million times cuter during the puppy phase. A great breed for perpetually puppies.
Perhaps I'll just stick to borrowing and babysitting her's. I'm just not ready for that commitment.
Sorry.
I have come to the conclusion that Chihuahua's are very under appreciated creatures. I was with some friends watching a movie the other evening, and suddenly, wham! (I definitely can not overemphasize the wham there) A little tiny chihuahua pops its head out of a girl's Dolce & Gabanna handbag. Sort of my dream come true, that one. I immediately froke out. And of course, due to the unfair stigma attached to these darling little creatures, this girl thought I was mocking her.
Not so. I love those little nuggets.
So of course, I began scouring the internets for cheap chihuahuas over the next couple days. Whenever I seriously think about getting one, I also can't help but think about how purchasing one of those tiny, bulbous headed creatures is, at the very least, a solid 15 year investment. I'd be like...over 40 when that thing probably finally passed away. If I can't even commit to a girl, how am I supposed to make that sort of commitment to a creature that will shit on my floor? And there are all sorts of hidden expenses involved; blinged out collars, tiny chihuahua sized sweaters (to minimize the inevitable shaking) a Dolce and Gabanna man bag in which to carry it, shots, de-wormings, 15-20 years of dog food, possible kidney transplants when it gets old and I'm as attached to it as my own children (assuming that happens) babysitters when I go places that aren't chihuahua compatible...it goes on and on. Plus chihuahuas are definitely a million times cuter during the puppy phase. A great breed for perpetually puppies.
Perhaps I'll just stick to borrowing and babysitting her's. I'm just not ready for that commitment.
19.6.09
16.6.09
Carvings in africa
What has the world come to, when a single package of skittles purchased at a gas station costs one dollar and nine cents? If the gas station was located, say, in the middle of the ocean, or Africa, I could feel good about paying that exorbitant price. And once at the counter, can you really back out of a bag of skittles with any dignity, because it was 40 more cents than you expected to pay?
"Sorry ma'am, this package of skittilly deliciousness is over priced by at least three and a half dimes. Let me go grab a pack of 7 generic gummies for 59 cents. I'll likely be wholly unsatisfied, yet I shall conserve these precious dimes. We're in a recession, you know."
Whenever I am pissing at a gas station in a small town in the middle of nowhere, I can not help but wonder about the vile little hooligans that find it necessary to scrawl all manner of profanity upon the stalls. Do these assholes just carry around a spare sharpie, just in case they have to piss in a public bathroom? Does it satisfy some vital part of a ritual to write the f word while one's bladder is evacuating its contents? Is the urine flow rendered more smooth by the unleashing of visual profanity? Does such a person actually piss whilst scrawling, or does he wait until his unit is shaken dry, before applying his street name to the stall? Somehow, Jose de la Verga, I doubt that is your real name.
While making use of the urinal at a gas station in Fruita Colorado, I was pleasantly surprised to find that some angry little miscreant had actually carved what may have been his name (or the f word, for all I could tell what it said, as it was written in that unintelligible bubble script that real gangsters ((especially ones who leave their mark upon bathroom appliances)) seem to favor) into the metal plumbing.
Being a bathroom in a rather frequently used gas station, I imagine that the vandal was probably interrupted at least a few times amidst his carving endeavor. I picture him stopping his carving to let some guy piss. As he returns to his work, he realizes that the urinal was not flushed. This utter lack of courtesy enrages him. Did the man not see he was carving here?
"Hey! Sir! Umm Sir!? Hey! Sir!? Umm did you forget something here? Did you not notice that I was carving? Could you please have enough decency to at least flush after interrupting my carving? No, no, don't worry, I'll get this one. But next time, sir. Next time."
That is probably exactly how that would go down.
"Sorry ma'am, this package of skittilly deliciousness is over priced by at least three and a half dimes. Let me go grab a pack of 7 generic gummies for 59 cents. I'll likely be wholly unsatisfied, yet I shall conserve these precious dimes. We're in a recession, you know."
Whenever I am pissing at a gas station in a small town in the middle of nowhere, I can not help but wonder about the vile little hooligans that find it necessary to scrawl all manner of profanity upon the stalls. Do these assholes just carry around a spare sharpie, just in case they have to piss in a public bathroom? Does it satisfy some vital part of a ritual to write the f word while one's bladder is evacuating its contents? Is the urine flow rendered more smooth by the unleashing of visual profanity? Does such a person actually piss whilst scrawling, or does he wait until his unit is shaken dry, before applying his street name to the stall? Somehow, Jose de la Verga, I doubt that is your real name.
While making use of the urinal at a gas station in Fruita Colorado, I was pleasantly surprised to find that some angry little miscreant had actually carved what may have been his name (or the f word, for all I could tell what it said, as it was written in that unintelligible bubble script that real gangsters ((especially ones who leave their mark upon bathroom appliances)) seem to favor) into the metal plumbing.
Being a bathroom in a rather frequently used gas station, I imagine that the vandal was probably interrupted at least a few times amidst his carving endeavor. I picture him stopping his carving to let some guy piss. As he returns to his work, he realizes that the urinal was not flushed. This utter lack of courtesy enrages him. Did the man not see he was carving here?
"Hey! Sir! Umm Sir!? Hey! Sir!? Umm did you forget something here? Did you not notice that I was carving? Could you please have enough decency to at least flush after interrupting my carving? No, no, don't worry, I'll get this one. But next time, sir. Next time."
That is probably exactly how that would go down.
30.5.09
The confusing nature of my gender
There is one thing I will never understand about men. No matter how many years I spend as a man, I shall never comprehend our (me not included) complete inability to raise the toilet seat, nor our apparent nonexistent aversion to sitting in the remnants our own piss. I have never lived in a house where fewer than 50 percent of the males living there pissed on the seat.
Anytime I ever enter a bathroom and see piss all over the toilet seat, I want to punch a hole in the wall. There is not a man on this planet whose penis isn't at least a little bit wonkey, thus rendering it impossible for him to shoot completely straight and avoid any drizzlings upon the seat. Perhaps 1 in 4 or 5 pissings can a man accomplish such a feat. It isn't even so much the piss on the seat that makes me angry, but the utter simplicity of the act of reaching down with one's arm, touching the most minute portion of the seat with a tiny section of pinky, and then performing a simple lift. The fact that such a facile motion would thwart all of pisses prodigious efforts to end up on the seat (yes, I just referred to urine as a sentient being) is what makes me so angry about it. So simply avoided. Use your foot if you have to.
Today a horrible line was crossed. I entered the bathroom to find a small smattering of shit smeared upon the back end of the toilet seat. I stood there dumbfounded, staring at it. I have periodically seen this occur throughout my career as a human being, and it is always supremely baffling. I can not wrap my mind around what a person must be doing while defecating, in order to leave feces upon the toilet seat. And it is always the same; a small smear somewhere on the back end of the seat, flowing down towards the water. Like a tiny fecal waterfall. A. I don't understand the mechanics of how that can even be accomplished. and B. I don't know how that can occur unnoticed by the culprit. Or perhaps it happens more often than I think, and he usually does catch it, but simply missed it this time. That line of thought has disturbing implications.
Well. For the record, I lift the seat ALWAYS. So, women of planet earth, there are actually men who do that. And I have NEVER, ever ever shat upon a toilet seat. Never ever.
Men are confusing. Raise the seat, assholes.
Anytime I ever enter a bathroom and see piss all over the toilet seat, I want to punch a hole in the wall. There is not a man on this planet whose penis isn't at least a little bit wonkey, thus rendering it impossible for him to shoot completely straight and avoid any drizzlings upon the seat. Perhaps 1 in 4 or 5 pissings can a man accomplish such a feat. It isn't even so much the piss on the seat that makes me angry, but the utter simplicity of the act of reaching down with one's arm, touching the most minute portion of the seat with a tiny section of pinky, and then performing a simple lift. The fact that such a facile motion would thwart all of pisses prodigious efforts to end up on the seat (yes, I just referred to urine as a sentient being) is what makes me so angry about it. So simply avoided. Use your foot if you have to.
Today a horrible line was crossed. I entered the bathroom to find a small smattering of shit smeared upon the back end of the toilet seat. I stood there dumbfounded, staring at it. I have periodically seen this occur throughout my career as a human being, and it is always supremely baffling. I can not wrap my mind around what a person must be doing while defecating, in order to leave feces upon the toilet seat. And it is always the same; a small smear somewhere on the back end of the seat, flowing down towards the water. Like a tiny fecal waterfall. A. I don't understand the mechanics of how that can even be accomplished. and B. I don't know how that can occur unnoticed by the culprit. Or perhaps it happens more often than I think, and he usually does catch it, but simply missed it this time. That line of thought has disturbing implications.
Well. For the record, I lift the seat ALWAYS. So, women of planet earth, there are actually men who do that. And I have NEVER, ever ever shat upon a toilet seat. Never ever.
Men are confusing. Raise the seat, assholes.
27.5.09
Perpetually puppies
As one who has graduated with a degree of questionable value, I have been trying lately to think of some businesses that I could start.
Today, I saw a couple playing with a darling little puppy. Which made me think about how much I enjoy a good puppy. In fact, I would say that I would love to have a puppy. I find that I only have such desires for an animal when I see a puppy. I never see a gnarly old grown up dog and think, "I'd sure like one of those lying around the house and shitting in the yard." Only puppies.
Which lead me to one of my first ideas for a company: Perpetually Puppies. I can't be the only person who really only wants a dog during the puppy phase of its existence. People are always so excited to get a new puppy. Then it grows up a bit, waxes exponentially less cute with age, and suddenly becomes that creature that you would probably essentially forget exists, except for the accumulated feces and obnoxious barking. Once it reaches this stage, you then realize the magnitude of your decision to adopt and or purchase that once adorable little beast; you just made a solid 15 year investment. I mean, if you (assuming you are a female) dropped a baby out of your womb the very day you brought home that little, furry bundle of yapping joy, the fruit of your loins may very well move out of the house before that 4 legged creature gets buried in the back yard.
So. Why not create a program where people get puppies, and then get rid of said puppies once they are no longer puppies? Perpetually Puppies. "We put them to sleep so you don't have to." Once your puppy starts to mature, you simply trade it away for a new puppy. I haven't quite figured out yet what happens to the expired puppies. This is a new business model, mind you, and there is still a lot to work out. Perhaps they can be sold to china for meat? Or they can be simply turned loose south of the border, as nobody would notice a few thousand more dogs a month showing up on the streets amongst hundreds of thousands. Perpetually Puppies. "Enjoy them while they are still truly enjoyable." Perpetually Puppies. "Pooping in manageable proportions."
Perpetually Puppies. I want this to exist.
Today, I saw a couple playing with a darling little puppy. Which made me think about how much I enjoy a good puppy. In fact, I would say that I would love to have a puppy. I find that I only have such desires for an animal when I see a puppy. I never see a gnarly old grown up dog and think, "I'd sure like one of those lying around the house and shitting in the yard." Only puppies.
Which lead me to one of my first ideas for a company: Perpetually Puppies. I can't be the only person who really only wants a dog during the puppy phase of its existence. People are always so excited to get a new puppy. Then it grows up a bit, waxes exponentially less cute with age, and suddenly becomes that creature that you would probably essentially forget exists, except for the accumulated feces and obnoxious barking. Once it reaches this stage, you then realize the magnitude of your decision to adopt and or purchase that once adorable little beast; you just made a solid 15 year investment. I mean, if you (assuming you are a female) dropped a baby out of your womb the very day you brought home that little, furry bundle of yapping joy, the fruit of your loins may very well move out of the house before that 4 legged creature gets buried in the back yard.
So. Why not create a program where people get puppies, and then get rid of said puppies once they are no longer puppies? Perpetually Puppies. "We put them to sleep so you don't have to." Once your puppy starts to mature, you simply trade it away for a new puppy. I haven't quite figured out yet what happens to the expired puppies. This is a new business model, mind you, and there is still a lot to work out. Perhaps they can be sold to china for meat? Or they can be simply turned loose south of the border, as nobody would notice a few thousand more dogs a month showing up on the streets amongst hundreds of thousands. Perpetually Puppies. "Enjoy them while they are still truly enjoyable." Perpetually Puppies. "Pooping in manageable proportions."
Perpetually Puppies. I want this to exist.
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