Second grade, first class a-hole

It's funny how sometimes writing one thing makes you think of another. Actually, that really isn't funny or peculiar at all. I don't know why people always refer to such things as funny. Because they aren't.

The last line of the last post that you probably haven't read yet made me think of this. When I was in second grade, my teacher's name was Ms. Westenscow. On an annoying, but unrelated side note, every word that is marked as misspelled with the red squiggly lines, I must subsequently add to the dictionary, as allowing one or two of them to build up causes my spell checker to simply give up, and stop any further corrections. Annoying. Damn you Bill Gates/Universe.

Funny, I thought of that because I had to add Ms. Westenscow's name to the dictionary. So now, every time I write about her, which I am sure will be frequent, my computer will know that she is just one of the gang. Peculiar.

So, second grade. We were quietly marching with arms folded in a line on the way to the lunch room. Because that's how they teach you to be real people in Elementary school. You fold your arms and walk in lines everywhere you go. Like real people.

As we approached the lunch room, the P.E. coach/teacher/whatever you call her was passing us in the hall. Her name was Ms. Deehart. A name rife with possibility, to the teeming, clever mind of a 2nd grader. She gave her customary smiles and, "Hello students!" as she passed by. Apparently without thinking, as I was a rather cowardly child in general, I blurted out, "Hi Ms. Deefart."

Instantly, Ms. Westenscow whipped around, eyes full of wrath. Now, she was a scary woman in any normal setting. I mean, her name almost had the world "skull" in it. Naturally, she would be rather witch-ish. Logically. But to see her with her wrath kindled was very unsettling. She immediately demanded to know who had spoken the blasphemy. Obviously, nobody said anything. Like hell I was going to fess up. When nobody said anything, and surprisingly nobody ratted anyone out, she said "Shame on you. Shame-on-you." Accompanied by a rather shame projecting head shake. Then she turned around, leading the class the rest of the way into the lunch room. As though I had any shame. As though the phrase "Shame on you," had any negative social impact upon my young, careless mind. All I cared about was that I didn't get busted, and was about to eat a bean burrito and chocolate milk. She could shame me to my grave for all I cared.

Now, a decade and a half later, I feel that shame. Ms. Deefart. What a wretched little monster I was.

Peculiar.

Welcom back, long lost friend.

So. Due the the possibility of shady activities going on in our basement, room mate #1 and I visited the Provo police station yesterday. We just wanted a bit of info on what exactly it smells like when people are cookin crack.

I guess it isn't crack.

Essentially all we accomplished was to waste about an hour and a half waiting for a chubby cop to pedal his bike from Zeus knows where, in order to tell us "hey, they are probably not cookin crack."

An interesting thing occurred while we were waiting for our portly bearer of useless news to arrive. First, into the office walks a man in his 50's. Dad jeans, hiking boots, leatherman and cell phone at ready on belt, plaid-ish button up dad shirt, tucked in. He marched purposefully to the front and counter and asked, "Where do I go for the Citizens Academy?"

After he disappeared behind the impregnable door which could only be opened with a swipe card or by the kind lady-cop behind the counter, other would be vigilantes began to trickle in. I was surprised by the diversity of the people coming in, as I expected most of them would be middle-aged-pocket-knife-wielding-flannel-donning-ultra-conservative Republicans. There were obese old women, nerdish BYU-esque skinny guys, an attractive young female, and of course the 30 year old douche with the crew-cut and self-important air, his demeanor revealing his inner ache for purpose.

One of the last, was another flannel bearer with a pocket knife. The gate keeper bade him enter. He stood at the door, staring at it for about 30 seconds, waiting for it to magically open. Apparently the light morphing from red to green, and the simultaneous "click" were not enough to cue Dr. Flannel to open the door. I kinda timidly tossed out, "umm...I think it's open...uh...you just need to..." At which point I sort of faded off, having realized that he was completely ignoring me, and was more intent upon awaiting the opening of the door.

Please give this guy a can of mace and turn him loose upon the neighborhood.

I can just see the recruiting poster:
"Tired of local crime? Want to possess nun-chuck pepper spray skills? Join me, Dwight Shrute, and the Citizens Academy Justice League of Vigilante Justice of America, where we shall wash away evil, one can of mace at a time."

The second, and more important thing of note occurred due to hunger/intense boredom. I approached the candy machine with no intent on making a purchase, but merely to lust after the double-barrel beef log and the Skittles. Suddenly, a 15 year search I have been randomly conducting came to a glorious end. I finally found them; Pizzaria's.

Does anyone remember this blessed chip? I have sought them in every grocery store's chip aisle, and never to any avail.

As I stood there in resplendent shock, I was immediately transported back to Mikey Engberg's house when I was 10. There was a big bag of Pizzaria's on the table. My mother never bought them because they were expensive. Mikey always had them. He was conquering the elven world of Warcraft II. Amidst the orcish battle cries, he was too enthralled by the bloody mayhem to notice the crinkling of the bag, and the quiet, stealthy crunching coming from the kitchen.

I loved those chips.

My hands trembled as I tore open the bag. The sweet, cheezy pizza....ish scent greeted my nostrils like a long lost lover. As I bit into the first chip, my world was complete. They tasted exactly as I had remembered.

Unfortunately, I could still taste them when I woke up the next morning, ultimately deciding me against any future indulgence in said chip.

The last flight of Poo-geon

I suppose that February can officially be titled "Flashback February" for me. Grey, (my best friend) and I had given Trixie a bath. Its funny because I actually had a dream about this last night, and in said dream I was hugging Trixie and said, "I'm real glad you don't smell like poo anymore. Or eggs." I remember her smelling like poo and eggs. Anyways, that isn't the point of this blog. This picture reminded me of the most tragic experience I ever had concerning an animal.

Macey's was about 6 blocks away from my house. Back then, there were lots of fields and orchards around Orem. Not so much now. On the way to Macey's, there was a rather large field with a billboard in the middle. Grey and I, being natural scrounges, decided one day to go root around underneath it to try and find some quality garbage. I guess finding massive piles of pigeon feces was the next best thing. Whilst being amazed by the enormous amounts of excrement, we suddenly saw something flapping around in the weeds. It was a pigeon. After a few min of chasing it about, we finally caught it. We headed straight home, all thoughts of 10 cent Macey's ice cream cones abandoned. Flying rats are way cooler than ice cream.

Luckily Grey had an empty rabbit cage at his house (empty due to the fact that my cat had previously slaughtered it, I think) and so we kept the bird there. That wretched pigeon shat on me twice, so we named it Poo-geon. Quite clever.

All summer long we raised that stupid bird. We would take it out to Grey's enormous back yard and throw it up in the air in order to teach it to fly. As though the stupid damn pigeon didn't already know how to fly. Anyways, by the end of the summer, poogeon could finally mostly fly. We decided it was time to release him back to his pigeon world.

I approached the billboard in the field, Poogeon contentedly sitting upon my finger. "Are you ready little guy? Are you ready to be free once more?" Looking quite noble, as a pigeon naturally would, he seemed to look me in the eye and say, "sure. I'm sick of you throwing my ass into the air all the time and keeping me in a smelly rabbit cage." Whatever else, I felt like I had done a good deed over the summer. I had spent my valuable summer days nursing this majestic bird back to health. With a lump in my throat, I tossed Poogeon into the air one final time. His wings spread and up he soared, molting away his captivity. "Yes! Fly! Go! I cheered, as he drew ever closer to the landing on the billboard. Suddenly, within a foot of his destination Poogeon began to angle downward. I watched in horror as my entire summer suddenly dive bombed into the middle of state street, and was utterly crushed under a speeding car tire, blood, feathers, and viscera shooting out in all directions. I stood there in shock as the last feathers slowly floated to the earth. What kind of moronic pigeon commits suicide? How could he do that to me? I wasted my whole bloody summer taking care of him, and he goes and offs himself, first chance he gets. Filthy ungrateful bird. I vowed from that point forth to never help another animal. I would only shoot them with rifles and eat them. At McDonnald's. Or anywhere else.

I couldn't wait till the next time I ate pigeon Mc'Nuggets.

Friday Five: Top five hair cuts and or styles that I would do well to avoid in the future

#5. Sweet spikes man. This goes back to my bucket-o-gel days. Dollar store, 70 oz. This is such a late-90's normal guy hair cut. My mom probably loves it. My face is fat. It is still fat.


















#4. The butt cut. So around this time period (7th or 8th grade) the butt cut was all the rage. My friend Mikey had a butt cut. Grey had a butt cut (although his parents also allowed him to have a rat tail, of which i was infinitely jealous. So now I have one). There was an on going battle between me and Mikey about who had the thickest, bestest hair. No joke. One fateful day in Mr. McKnaughton's shop class, we were learning how to measure super tiny stuff. Like hair. So he asked for a few follicles from around the class. Mikey and I obviously volunteered. Rivulets of sweat were drizzling down my back, as we awaited the results. This was my one chance to outshine Mikey. Sure, he could kick my ass when it came to karate and wrestle fighting on the trampoline. Indeed he was a more proficient Teken, Warcraft II, and Day of the Tentacle player. But if I my hair was truly thicker....oh the glory. As the results of the various thicknesses were eloquently read by that truly inspiring shop teacher, I watched Mikey's head hang in shame, stringy thin hair covering his eyes like a cheap tattered curtain. Boo-ya.
#3. Embarrassingly enough, I believe this was 9th grade. Dear lord, what did my mother do to me. First mistake. Button up denim shirt. I feel like I have seen at least one denim-clad family photo in just about every Utah household I have ever graced with my presence. Why? How was "Hey, lets get the family together and wear jeans on our chests and take a picture by a fence somewhere" ever a good idea? Blue, from head to toe. The girls jeans probably didn't have butt pockets. Extra flattering.

I feel like this haircut is some kind of a wave-butt cut hybrid. It looks so smooth. Fluffy. Not hot. My teeth
look great too.









#2. At this point in my life I was know throughout the family as "plastic head." This was when the bucket-o-gel was first introduced to me. Much cheaper than L.A. looks mega-hold. At the end of the day it was always real fun to lift up small chunks of my hair and crunch the gel between my finger tips. My mom was pissed (and still is pissed I think) that I snuck that red and black bead necklace into the photo shoot. I guess it clashed with my shiny Alaska fish shirt.














#1. Denim shirt. Christmas sweater. High Sierra Jeans. Ocean Pacific "skate" shoes, complete with shiny black stripe. Hot model-esque pose. Gold rimmed glasses. Hair, fine as silk.

On second thought, this is probably the best Me ever.

How to avoid a life of involuntary celibacy

So I asked my mother to scan me a few photos for a blog I'll be posting on Friday. She, being the fantastic mother that she is, went overboard and sent me much more than I had asked for. As I gazed upon younger-me, I couldn't help but feel like...the years have been kind. How did my parents not completely loose hope between the years of 8-16? I don't feel like I am anything amazing to look upon in my current condition, but man....I had some rough years. Some of these pictures caused a bit of wisdom to surface....

(First, let me make a disclaimer. My parents bought me. I was not a product of my wonderful father's seed, nor did I slide out of my beautiful mother's womb. Cold hard cash baby. I like to imagine I was carried home in a big brown paper bag, like from the grocery store. Therefore, any disparaging comments concerning my homely appearance, reflect nothing upon the beauty of said parents.) Exhibit A. Imagine. This kid approaches you (and unfortunately he did slide out of your womb, dripping in goo) and says, "gee ma, can Santa afford to bring me an electric guitar?" Before your thoughts metastasize into "how will you ever play a guitar with those fat fingers?/we can't afford one," think about this: how will this poor child ever get a girlfriend, much less beget another goo-covered screaming man-child? Through mad guitar skills, that's how. I suppose that guys can now impress chicks with guitar hero skills to a certain extent. But I think the line, "Hey baby, how'd you like to be on they guy who spent 4 months of his life mastering Dragonforce on expert?" is likely only successful 15 or 20 times. However, "Hey, me and my bros are havin' a little Jack Johnson sing-a-long at my place later...just wear your swimsuit or whatever, it'll be chill," most certainly works EVERY time. Soon, your little butter face with the gold rimmed glasses will be providing you with all the heirs you could have ever hoped for, conceived to the smooth tunes of Jack. Ugly or not.

When a guy is 25 and not married, his friends and family naturally think he is gay, or can't play the guitar. A man with no guitar skills might as well be infertile. Like mules or ligers.

Friday Five: Top five things that I don't want to ever happen to me involving snow

#5. Getting pegged in the eye with a snowball by a cool kid in front of friends while wearing the gold rimmed glasses as seen in "Bonerville broncos never give up." OK, well that actually happened. Seventh grade. One of the cool kid a-holes was the culprit. He smoked weed. That's why he was cool. I am sauntering down the sidewalk minding my own business, butt-crack-parted nearly-platinum blonde hair stirring in the gentle breeze. Suddenly from out of nowhere ....wham! All I could see was red. Glasses went flying to the ground. As any true friends in Jr. high would do, they only laughed until I said "gosh guys, this isn't funny...stings." Mostly they just felt real awkward as uncontrolled tears streamed from the assaulted eye. They were mostly involuntary...
What a jerk. He could have blinded my already half-worthless eye.

#4. Frostbite on Mt. Everest. Or anywhere else, for that matter. I feel like I am one who enjoys a great deal of adventure. Freezing until my digits turn black and fall off, however, is not appealing to me in the least bit. Climbing a mountain will never be worth a life of nubs.

#3. Falling into a tree well. Oprah taught me that this is a real sucky way to die. Apparently when one falls into a tree well (real loose powder surrounding a tree, several feet deep) one's first act is generally a sharp inhalation. As the ice crystals blast their way down the throat and into the lungs, the gag reflex is triggered, which causes one to then vomit, followed by drowning in one's own vomit. Why not simply not climb out? Because the snowboard acts as an anchor and it is nearly impossible to turn over unless one can somehow escape their bindings. Which is hard. So you die.

#2. Dragging a rickety hand cart through the mountains in 4 feet of snow with inadequate winter clothing, topped off with starvation and eventually eating my friends. R.I.P. Donnor party.

#1. Getting man-raped in the snow. First of all, getting raped by a man probably tops my list of least desirable occurrences even in the best of conditions. But in the snow, I feel like the horror of the situation is severely amplified. Frozen chest, face scraping on the crusty snow...I'll leave it at that.

Bonerville broncos always give up

While reading someone else's blog, I had a really weird flash back to my elementary school years. She wrote of the desire to quit life for a day and just snuggle up with a book and some treats in a nest.

We're Bonneville Broncos,
We're still #1! (number one in what, I'm not entirely sure...quality government lunch perhaps??)
Galloping Broncos,
Our work is fun! (false, school work was never fun. Although I do miss the work books that you wrote in and then just ripped out the pages)
We're Bonneville Broncos,
We'll never give up!
We're walking tall,
Friends to all, (also false, I knew plenty of friendless kids)
Bonneville is the best.

That song was just teeming with lies. Anyways, besides bringing that delightful melody back in to my head, I was also reminded of the one read-a-thon that I participated in. It took place on a Friday night. I think it was supposed to be an all-nighter. One was allowed to bring blankets, pillows, and a plethora of treats. The only rule was read or get kicked the hell out. I suppose there were some sub rules that fell under the umbrella of the main rule; if you looked away from your book for more than thirty seconds, or whispered, or laid your head down, they would send you packin' with your blankets.

I recall that my best friend Grey wanted to have a sleepover. I had signed up for the read-a-thon so I guess I had to go. I decided to get kicked out so I could go sleep in my friends fort. Such a decision was frightening, due to the fact that one of the vigilantes was a fat, scary man name Mr. Aikau. He was unscrupulous when it came to terrorizing small children, or so surmised my childish mind.

It started at 4 o'clock. By 7, I was real fidgety. I was sick of reading about Adam Joshua, and I had blazed through my supply of gummy bears. I decided it was time to man up and get kicked out. I yawned. I yawned again. My head and eyes started to droop. My heart was palpitating with nervous fear, as I laid my face down on my book and tried to feign the deep, rhythmic breathing patterns of sleep. I could feel the ground quaking as the fat man approached. My breathing stopped as my heart attempted to heave its way into my throat-I knew death was eminent.
I immediately regretted my decision, as I felt one big, meaty finger jabbing away at my shoulder blades. With a weak attempt at upholding my facade, I slowly, groggily looked up. I'm certain he could see the terror shining in my eyes. I could see my own death gleaming in his. Without a word, he motioned with his ham sized fist and thumb toward the door. Unable to believe that I had not yet been killed, I hastily gathered up my things and scurried for the exit.

The warm evening air had never felt so good as it coursed through my liberated lungs. I vowed then and there to never participate in another wretched read-a-thon. I decided that reading was overrated, and dedicating my life efforts to camping in forts would be the most beneficial thing that I could do.

I have since come to find a happy medium; reading in forts.