Overcoming Commercialism

For Christmas this year I have overcome commercialism by buying a gift for myself every time I buy a gift for someone else. In this way I have managed to almost completely avoid the feeling of giving in order to get (as I’ve already gotten).

"I WANT TO BELIEVE"

I've thought about joining the official X-Files fan club all day today just to get a $3 discount on a poster of a UFO that says "I WANT TO BELIEVE" on it that they don't even have in stock.

I'm still cool, right?

Living the Dream

Not five minutes ago I got back from a party in Park City. I am not one for parties regardless of the city they're in, but I decided I should go to this one because a) I'd been blowing off the guy who had invited me for months, literally, and b) it's good to do things outside of one's comfort zone every now and again.

The guy picked me up and we met a couple of his friends from Utah State and drove up. The father of the girl throwing the party owns the Canyons, so the party was in a suite up there. When we arrived a security guard wouldn't let us go up to the room because they'd just thrown a bunch of drunk people out and they didn't want to have to do the same thing again, which inspired the hope that this was actually a party worth going to. We politely excused ourselves to use the restroom, found the elevators, and made it up to the Room 341.

There was nothing - absolutely nothing cool about it. There were about 15 people dancing and standing around. All the lights were off, which made things difficult for shallow people like me: I worried constantly that the girls I was looking at were actually ugly.

Everybody at this party was so stupid that it was a relief when I finally found the whiskey they'd finished off before I got there - anyone that acts like that sober should be shot.

Finally, after about 45 minutes, things picked up when we noticed two people in the corner by the window hiding behind the curtains. The curtain only covered them from the chest up, leaving it obvious to the rest of us how much they were enjoying one another's company. Just as I became aware of them, some other guy saw them, too. He went over to the seat on which they'd wrapped themselves together, grabbed the girl's leg, and physically dragged her off of the guy.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asked the girl as she finally let go of her friend in the corner.

The dancing and idiocy basically continued around them, but everyone was paying attention.

"Don't worry about it, he's gay," she replied, irritably straightening out her clothes. He was obviously worried, however.

"That dude that dragged her off is her boyfriend," someone whispered to me.

"Oh!" she muttered. "You're such ... drama.... Are we really going to do this now?"

The kid in the corner was a skinny guy with a scarf. "What's going on?" he asked, visibly concerned for his own well-being.

The boyfriend, a thick, sturdy character, realizing he was the center of attention, looked from the dancers, to his girl, and to the guy in the scarf. "Nothing's going on," he said. "My girl does what she wants and that's fine and that's good and it's hot."

"What?" The scarf guy was at least as confused as the rest of us. "That's weird, man." It was clear that he didn't want to fight, but was expecting one, as were we all, nonetheless.

"No!" The boyfriend was really upset now. "It doesn't matter! She can do whatever she wants."

The scarf guy was clearly bewildered. "What?"

"Hey! Don't freak out, man!" the boyfriend said. The girl stood by, a picture of apathy.

"I'm not freaking out - I'm freaking tripping out."

The scarf guy shook his head and walked away, toward us.

"What is that all about?" we asked him.

"I have no idea."

"Do you know that guy?"

"I don't know either of them. I didn't know they were here together." Neither did she.

He shook his head. Holding his hand up with his thumb and index finger held about an inch apart, he said, "The dude's like, 'It doesn't matter,' but it's got to matter a little." It was almost a question, but none of us knew the answer.

The boyfriend was making out with the girl now while our new friend Nate, the scarf guy, nervously introduced himself to us.

A knock at the door proved to be our security guard friend who was concerned that "four guys who don't belong in here" were hiding inside in the dark. Our hostess went to bat for us, but we were leaving anyway. As we walked out I looked back and watched as Nate's girl led him back to the couch and straddled him, her boyfriend watching the whole thing.

I can't decide if Nate's a hero or just another creep at a lame party. Who does that and gets away with it? The girl was clearly drunk. Nate was drunk but he was sobering up in a hurry. I don't think her boyfriend had had a drop, but it was clear to me that, of the three, he was under the strongest influence. What influence? Maybe hers, but, as I think about it, maybe ours.

It's very possible that Nate's dead by now. Regardless, he lived the dream. Right?

Inevitable

[Despite what the evidence on this blog implies, I'm not dwelling on this too much....]

Two weeks ago today I woke up to the phone ringing. This is not uncommon. On Saturdays I am capable of sleeping into the late afternoon if left alone, though it was only about ten.

For some reason I knew who it would be and what it would be about but I answered anyway.

"Hey, Mike, want to do lunch?"

"Sure." But this was suicide. I wanted to see her, even though I knew seeing her meant I wouldn't be able to anymore. I couldn't help it. "When? Where?"

I had until twelve.

I sat at my computer for an hour or so, just wasting time. I listened to music. I checked my email. I read the headlines of the New York Times. I filled my mind with so many trivialities - the perfect horn-section on the Rolling Stones' "Let It Loose," how well my spam-filter is working these days, how many civilians were killed in Iraq the day before - that I could almost forget what had awakened me.

In the shower, however, the water couldn't be hot or cold enough to distract me from the inevitable.

Who was it? Was it belittling the situation to think of it in terms of who had won and lost? Was it belittling her? Probably. But, still, I hoped it has him rather than one of the faceless names she mentioned occasionally. At least I knew who he was. At least I liked him. Could I still like him? Could I still like her? Stupid question. Could I stop liking her? That's more like it.

I stayed in the shower until the hot water was gone. I was shivering when I got out. I dressed, walked upstairs, and glanced outside. There was six inches of new snow on the street and it was still falling, slowly. It was about twenty to twelve. I hurried out to my white-veiled car and cleared it off. I always manage to get a fine mist of powder on my seat when I open the door - just enough to get my pants wet as it melts.

Of course I was out of gas.

By the time I actually started sliding toward my destination - a half-way point between our homes, the Training Table (I know, I know: the most mundane, anticlimactic location imaginable) - it was almost twelve. I decided not to call and let her know I'd be late. Why, now, do I wish I would have?

The roads were terrible. People were driving too slow and the snow was falling too fast to be able to see well. I passed the restaurant by a couple of miles and had to double-back.

She was sitting at a table in the corner eating cheese-fries. Even typing this now it makes me smile. We chatted and then we talked and then we ordered. When it was ready I went up to the counter to pick up our food.

"Well, I've kind of starting dating dating him, you know? And I don't think I can date you anymore and it makes me sad because I like going out with you, but...."

She didn't have to finish the sentence. I don't think I would have wanted her to.

"Well," I said, "it was inevitable, I suppose."

"Why was it inevitable?"

"He has thousands of hours logged with you; I can't really compete with that." I said it, and I think it makes sense. I wonder, now, if maybe I should have put up some kind of a fight, though. Would it have done any good? Probably not.

Once we got past all of that we just went back to talking. We talked about movies, math, and books. After a while I asked her what I should do differently the next time around, with the next girl, given our experience.

"You're really good at the friend thing. We always had fun. Maybe you should work on the romance a little more."

I drove home through the snow with Iggy's Lust for Life shattering my skull, but I still couldn't stop thinking about her.

Romance. Maybe I'm crazy, but I can't help but think she had missed the romance of our situation. As I explained it all to my married friends later that night, one of them stopped me: "What do you mean it was 'inevitable'?" she asked. "If it was 'inevitable,' why did you try?"

"Because she was worth it." And she was. And is.

It was a good answer; and, I think it was (and is) a true answer. To a lot of questions. In fact, the only thing it doesn't answer at this point is why on earth I'd pay for the lunch to which she had invited me in order to break up with me.

But, in my more honest moments, it answers that, too.

England and Italy

[The following happened to me a few years ago. I wrote it down then (so certain aspects are now out-dated, e.g., Kate and Joe got married summer 2006) and still like it now, so I thought I'd post it. I'm not a big fan of long posts (believe it or not), but I couldn't think of a good place to split it up, so, it's all here.]

My friend Joe went to Africa on some kind of service project and met Kate from England. A year later he moved to Bristol.

They’re engaged to be married.

* * *

On Friday I took the train to school. My first class on Friday starts at 9:40, but I got on the 8:03 train so I could get some reading in.

I was sitting next to a nice, Indian-looking chick (and I mean India Indian), also reading. Indifferently, I wondered if we were reading the same thing and was about to use it as an excuse to start up a train conversation (short, insincere, and generally awkward) when the conductor came on over the intercom and said that the police wouldn't let us go any further north without any other explanation.

We stopped at the next stop, 33rd South, and we all had to get out. The conductor debarked with us and told us that we were going to be picked up by a bus and taken to another stop where we could resume normal train travel.

The crowd stood, waiting. I noticed a casual friend from high school, Joof, and started joking a little bit with him about the situation. Gradually I became aware of a cute girl obviously overhearing us and apparently appreciating what she heard. The bus came, we boarded, and I began the arduous process of convincing myself that not only was it a good idea to sit next to this girl, but that I should talk to her as well. It was a tough sell, but I pulled it off, just barely, and sat down next to her instead of Joof. (This is not quite as impressive as it sounds as the seats near the front of the bus faced inward rather than forward, creating two opposing rows, backs to the windows: I didn’t have to pair myself off with her or anything like that. That would have taken more work—too much more work.)

As we sat there, somebody announced that there had been a bomb threat at one of the stops, hence the rerouting with a bus. Casually, I glanced at the girl and asked her where she was going. The girl took the bait and we began to chat freely. We talked about school and we talked about bombs; we talked about religion (an oddly natural offshoot of bombs these days) and we talked about public transportation.

When the bus dropped us off at the next available—the next safe stop, we got on the train together and continued the conversation. She didn't sit down but stayed standing near the door and I asked her if she didn't mind if I stood with her. Not at all. It was a perfect series of moments. There was no awkwardness. I wouldn't say that I was on, just that it was comfortable, and I like to think that she felt the same way. She talked quite a bit more than I did, and I got the impression that she appreciated the opportunity. It wasn't weird, though, just an intriguing characteristic of a good conversation. I asked her for her name and she said it was Venice.

Venice?

Venice.

Venice?—Am I saying that correctly?

Yes, Venice.

Like the city?

Like the city. She was headed to the LDS Business College, and I was headed to the University of Utah. When we came to the Gallivan Center stop I had to transfer to the other line. I thanked her for her company and she thanked me for mine. I stepped off the train and turned around as the doors slid shut. I stood there, on the crowded stop, looking at her looking at me, thinking to myself (suddenly alarmed), Why didn't I ask for her number? as the expression on her receding face asked, Why didn't he ask for my number?

As the train pulled away, I followed her car with my eyes as fantasies of chasing it flashed through my head. Who needs a math class? Math be damned!—some things are more important! But it was too late. The train was gone and my connection came and before I knew it I was explaining to Joof what a damn fool I am.

Math was as boring as ever.

Today I took the train to work. I got on at 8:03 and at every stop changed to a different car. Then I stopped and waited for the next train, just in case.

She wasn't on that one either.

The Silver Bullet

So, I'll admit it: lately, I've been on the verge of being overwhelmed. Really. It's a shock to me, too. I'm often whelmed - and I like it, you know? It's good to be whelmed - it's nice. It is not good to be overwhelmed, however. It's not healthy.

So, the other day, in an effort to get out of the house and just ... do something with an immediate result (I guess?), I decided that I needed to go to Office Depot to get some binder clips. You know those little black things with the silver feet that work like super paper clips or reusable staples? Yeah, those. How often have you bought those, let alone actually planned a trip to buy them? This is how close to being overwhelmed I was.

My dad was in the driveway as I walked to the car and, rather impulsively, I invited him to come with me: I would take this opportunity to confide in the old man and partake of his experience-informed advice and wisdom. After a few minutes in the car my dad asked me how school was going.

"You know, dad, for the first time, this semester is really killing me. Trying to juggle applying for graduate programs with some of the most difficult undergraduate classes I've ever had is just exhausting. I don't think I've ever been so close to feeling overwhelmed."

I waited for him to pronounce the words that would solve my problem and set me free.

"Well," he said, and I sensed that he was really digging deep for what was about to come, "I was watching this show earlier..."

This was classic Dad, and I was excited. This is the man, after all, who told me I'd know I was in love when I knew what the Beatles' song "Here, There, and Everywhere" meant. (He was right, incidentally.) What "show," filtered through my dad's unerring and discerning judgement, was about to color my world with ease and release?

"...about these British guys, right? Car companies give them cars and these guys just drive them like madmen and ruin them and destroy them and then give them back to the companies with a list of suggestions for how they can improve them. It was really cool."

I was riveted.

"Anyway, they had this van and they decided to cut the roof off of it and turn it into a convertible, but they were worried about the structural integrity of what was left without the roof."

What brilliant lesson lay just behind this superficially absurd veneer?

"They were going like 100 miles-per-hour and at any minute you were sure the van was just going to fall apart. It was just the neatest thing."

He stopped and I waited for the interpretation. I pulled into the parking lot, excited and a little stupid with anticipation.

Excited.

Stupid.

Waiting.

Waiting for nothing as it turned out. I had gone into the damn store, bought the damn, clips, and returned to the damn car by the time I realized that Dad wasn't going anywhere with the damn Brits. There was no advice. No silver bullet. Nothing but waiting for nothing.

What the hell?

We drove home and chatted some more about nothing.

Thanks, Dad; where's Mom?

Suspension

All year long I've felt like something important - something huge, even - was going to happen to me. My life and daily routine have felt like a suspended chord, waiting to be resolved. In my opinion there are few things in music that are more beautiful or interesting to listen to; however, it had never occurred to me until I became a suspended chord, as it were, why it's so cool.

Pardon the crudeness of the following figure, but, as I lack an adequate musical vocabulary to explain this, I find it easier to express this idea with a picture:

Lines one and two progress together at first. When line two drops down, however, an indeterminately long interval ensues during which we don't know if or when line one will drop and resolve the situation. The anxiety we experience during the interval is fueled by our expectation of the resolution. Sometimes the added tone is never resolved.

The band Sigur Ros exploits this effect all the time.

One of my longest-running and most cherished crushes left for a while and then came back recently. While she was gone I experienced the effects of a kind of suspended crush. My life continued in her absence, but I anticipated her return in the same way one anticipates the resolution of a suspended chord: what would happen when she came home? Meanwhile, I found it extremely difficult to commit to anyone else - I had to know how this could end.

Well, she came home, and after a few weeks, she picked the other guy.

The crazy thing is that I almost don't even care. The resolution was all that mattered. Naturally, I wish it would have worked out between us, for us; but, the fact that it worked out at all has set me free in a sense and made me realize that maybe this has been going on since well before she left. Entirely too long. How long have I been committed to a groundless expectation? It's amazing how the work of years can be undone in a matter of weeks.

Anyway, I'm ready, for the first time in a long time, for a new verse, if not a new song altogether.

Is this cheesy and stupid? Of course! Lives are little more than the accumulation of cliches rendered meaningful by lived experience.

Important.

Huge.

I guess twenty-four has been a good year after all.

...And a good excuse to listen to Blood on the Tracks over and over again.

Ben's Bread

I am a regular church-goer. Most Sundays, in fact, I can be seen on one of the first rows in the chapel trying desperately to stay awake, drawing, and feeling more than a little embarrassed by how loud some of my friends can be, even in that setting.

Every Sunday a priest blesses the sacramental bread and water and then the congregation partakes. A little while ago I was sitting by my friend Ben during the sacrament service. As I passed the tray to Ben, he tried to take a piece of bread and dropped it.

"Gosh dang it," he muttered.

It was all I could do not to laugh out loud into the silence of two-hundred people contemplating their relationship with the almighty: not five minutes ago the priest had asked God to bless the bread. Now Ben was asking God to damn it.

In the Rough

I've been waiting for something of monumental proportions to happen to me so I could justify starting one of these. Yesterday the wait came to a climactic end.

As I often do on Thursdays, I was sitting on the patio of the cafe at the UMFA, eating my customary turkey panini, and otherwise minding my own business (unlike the cold, who was persistently attempting to make his business mine) when my phone began to vibrate. It was an unknown caller, which is always welcome in my book: it could be someone you know and it could be someone you don't. Either way it's something to do.

As it turned out, I did know this caller. I don't see my Uncle Ron often - maybe two or three times on a good year - but it doesn't change the fact that he is one of my favorite relations. One day he was hitting balls at a driving range. The range was such that you stood on one side of a shallow, U-shaped valley and hit balls to the other side. Some guy decided that it was too crowded on the side my uncle was on and that it would be a good idea to go to the other side. My uncle watched this happen with some concern, for the man was now almost directly in front of my uncle, and vice versa. My uncle continued driving. The man began to drive. Sure enough, one of the balls fell dangerously close to my uncle. Uncle Ron decided to return the favor and aimed a shot dangerously close at the other fellow. The other man was visibly upset and proceeded to hit a ball even closer to my uncle. Extremely upset, now, my uncle deliberately took aim and nearly brained the other man with a good shot. The man decided he had had enough, pulled an iron from his bag and began to run down the slope toward my uncle. Uncle Ron, never one to be outdone, hefted his driver and ran down his side of the slope. I never heard what happened after that except that they were both escorted away from each other and the driving range by police.

With this story in mind, imagine yourself in my position when Uncle Ron tells me he needs some "young legs."

"What can I do for you?" I ask.

"Well, I lost a driver the other day and I need a young man to help me look for it."

What would you do? I said yes - in a heartbeat. I didn't even think twice. When I finished my classes I met him at his home and we started the drive up Parley's Canyon to Mountain Dell. After various pleasantries and other polite inquiries as to the health of our respective families, we got down to business: apparently, my uncle had been teeing off and "did something he didn't think [he] did anymore. So, [he] got angry and threw his driver."

"You know," he continued, "usually you give the club a good throw into the fairway and you can just go pick it up and you're OK."

This time, however, as the driver left his hand, he realised he was standing on a bit of a cliff, and that he had just thrown his favorite driver over the edge and into the trees and brush that line the lake the shot is meant to go over. He needed me to come with him because the ravine, if you will, is such that if he died down there no one would ever know where to look.

When we got to the hole in question, we reconnoitered a bit with some binoculars he had brought for the purpose and then began our descent. From the amount of golf balls in the ravine it quickly became obvious that no one had been down there for quite some time. The bushes and fallen leaves were heavy and dense. The twigs stabbed and probed mercilessly. The going was rough. After a while my uncle bravely pronounced that he'd "never been this far" into the mix, prompting the question, how many times had he attempted this? I had been under the impression that he had "lost" the club yesterday or the day before.

"When did this happen?" I asked.

"Last spring."

He said it casually, even happily, as though it didn't immediately label him a nut.

Last spring! Six months ago! We continued the search, pushing through the trees and stepping over badger holes. At the marshy edge of the lake we combed through the tall grass and reeds carefully - but all to no avail. I was bleeding in several spots by this point. We split up, then, and I climbed the gnarled face of the steep slope, breaking my way through the thicker branches. He stayed at the bottom, examining the water's edge. At one point I thought I saw it, but it was merely the skull of a small deer.

Finally we met up and decided to make our way to the top again. When we reached the scene of his rage, we sat down on the grass.

"Well, maybe we can at least see that beaver," he said, pulling out his binoculars again and gazing toward the small beaver lodge in the lake below. We couldn't find the beaver either.

We drove home not a little crest-fallen. We tried to talk about family, but it was half-hearted and sad.

"Maybe now that we've given this a good try I can get some sleep," he said, only half-joking. The driver had been his "obsession" - his word, not mine - and I wondered what he'd do now. I guess it had been a really good driver.

He gave me sixty dollars for helping him. He wouldn't allow me to refuse. "It would have been a hundred if you'd found it." On the rest of the way home he told me how he was going to Texas next week to visit his oldest daughter's family for Thanksgiving. He was going to dress up like a turkey. The costume he'd bought had a small motor that inflated the body to more turkey-like proportions.

"My only worry, now," he said, with all of his sixty-one years of wisdom and experience adding weight to his aside, "is how I'll get that motor through air-port security without getting shot."