Too Cool by Half

Sunday Mornings

2011-08-12T10:02:00.000-07:00

Sunday Mornings

Not the Last

2011-07-11T14:56:00.000-07:00

If Vanessa had ever seen something like that before, she’d never told me, but two days ago, as we were walking down our street, she pointed it out to me for the first time. Not the last.

Not the last.

Terrifyingly Awesome

2011-06-13T15:55:00.000-07:00

BREAKING: I have it on good authority that John Stockton was a member of SEAL Team Six, the elite squad of Navy SEALs that brought down Osama bin Laden.

An intensely private individual, speculation as to the specifics of John Stockton's post-mind-numbingly-brilliant-basketball career lifestyle has run the gamut of time-traveling super-hero (you don't know about it because it didn't happen--anymore), yarn bomber (http://www.nytimes.com/2011/05/19/fashion/creating-graffiti-with-yarn.html), and purveyor of once-thought-lost vintages of fine wines and liquors (ever hear of the Jefferson Bottles?--http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2007/09/03/070903fa_fact_keefe--Stockton has the real thing).

Although government officials have been instructed to deny and disavow, President Obama has been sighted wearing a ring that leading specialists agree is a 1998 NBA championship ring bearing the logo of the Utah Jazz from an alternate timeline and given to him as a gift by Stockton himself on May 3, 2011, which many are interpreting as confirmation of Stockton's involvement in the mission.

Stick that one in your pipe and smoke it, terror.

Bear with Me, Please, I'm Working on It

2011-06-08T10:34:00.000-07:00

Permit me, if you will, to share one of my favorite parts of The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin (http://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/148/pg148.html). It's near and dear to me because (believe it or not) I'm working on it, all of the time.

My list of virtues contain'd at first but twelve; but a Quaker friend having kindly informed me that I was generally thought proud; that my pride show'd itself frequently in conversation; that I was not content with being in the right when discussing any point, but was overbearing, and rather insolent, of which he convinc'd me by mentioning several instances; I determined endeavouring to cure myself, if I could, of this vice or folly among the rest, and I added Humility to my list, giving an extensive meaning to the word. I cannot boast of much success in acquiring the reality of this virtue, but I had a good deal with regard to the appearance of it. I made it a rule to forbear all direct contradiction to the sentiments of others, and all positive assertion of my own. I even forbid myself, agreeably to the old laws of our Junto, the use of every word or expression in the language that imported a fix'd opinion, such as certainly, undoubtedly, etc., and I adopted, instead of them, I conceive, I apprehend, or I imagine a thing to be so or so; or it so appears to me at present. When another asserted something that I thought an error, I deny'd myself the pleasure of contradicting him abruptly, and of showing immediately some absurdity in his proposition; and in answering I began by observing that in certain cases or circumstances his opinion would be right, but in the present case there appear'd or seem'd to me some difference, etc. I soon found the advantage of this change in my manner; the conversations I engag'd in went on more pleasantly. The modest way in which I propos'd my opinions procur'd them a readier reception and less contradiction; I had less mortification when I was found to be in the wrong, and I more easily prevail'd with others to give up their mistakes and join with me when I happened to be in the right. And this mode, which I at first put on with some violence to natural inclination, became at length so easy, and so habitual to me, that perhaps for these fifty years past no one has ever heard a dogmatical expression escape me. And to this habit (after my character of integrity) I think it principally owing that I had early so much weight with my fellow-citizens when I proposed new institutions, or alterations in the old, and so much influence in public councils when I became a member; for I was but a bad speaker, never eloquent, subject to much hesitation in my choice of words, hardly correct in language, and yet I generally carried my points.

In reality, there is, perhaps, no one of our natural passions so hard to subdue as pride. Disguise it, struggle with it, beat it down, stifle it, mortify it as much as one pleases, it is still alive, and will every now and then peep out and show itself; you will see it, perhaps, often in this history; for, even if I could conceive that I had compleatly overcome it, I should probably be proud of my humility.

Bad People Marry Bad People

2011-05-31T14:51:00.000-07:00

I love my wife.

This is a picture of her:

Vanessa is basically Darth Vader.

As I've chronicled all along in this blog o' mine, I am not role-model material. Apparently, like does, indeed, attract like: the other day, we saw this:

While a reasonable human being would (most likely) posit that this hieroglyph indicates something along the lines of although I cannot draw, I will purchase your melancholy house, my child bride immediately deduced that this artist buys "Chinamen."

I am so sorry.

Work Email: Service Announcement

2011-05-20T14:05:00.001-07:00

Overheard in the break room about two minutes ago, for your information:

“She’s cute. I would definitely take her to the park and strangle her a little bit.”

OMFG.

Best regards,

Yes, Yes, and Yes, Please

2011-05-18T15:02:00.000-07:00

The other day, Vanessa noticed a sign on 33^rd South that said something about “recycled” bikes. She’s been in the market for a road bike for a year or so, but due to one thing after another, we’ve put off making a purchase.

Until now.

The Recycled Bike (facebook.com/recycledbike) is a place that recycles bikes. Everything about the place is dubious and suspect, but we were happy to write them a check, anyway.

I’ll keep you posted on a) whether or not we actually get the bike we paid for, b) whether or not the bike we get is “hot,” and c) whether or not they do good work.

I have high hopes that the update for all three of those points will basically be, yes.

In Embrio

2011-05-18T10:10:00.000-07:00

I am sure that this comes as no surprise to anyone, but not only do I enjoy the occasional comic book, I make good use of Dr. Volt’s (http://www.drvolts.com/) free hold service and follow a number of different ongoing monthly series—mostly Batman titles, but I’m a bit of a Green Lantern junky, too.

Perhaps weirdly, Green Lantern has always been one of my favorite super heroes. There are not a lot of casual comics fans—and I wasn’t more than a casual comics fan until recently—that can say that.

Most people, in my experience, tend to gravitate toward the icons (Batman or Superman) or the not-quite-iconic-but-almost-there-(maybe) (Spiderman or the X-Men (which almost always is code for Wolverine)). These preferences stem mostly from their experiences with the movies and cartoon series from the ‘80s and ‘90s. I know this because I lived this—I loved Batman because of Tim Burton’s first Batman film and the animated series that followed.

But I was introduced to the Green Lantern via an action figure that my cousins had that no one else would play with because their dog had chewed off both feet and one hand. The head was scarred, but still, for all intents and purposes, a head. It was nice to have an action figure that looked like he’d actually been through some of the epic battles that we orchestrated in my cousins’ basement.

So, when I became serious about reading superhero comics, after Batman, Green Lantern was a foregone conclusion for me.

The upcoming Green Lantern movie, then, has become something that I am interested in much more so than anyone else I know. I followed cast developments early on (Nathan Fillion would have been way better as Hal, sorry Ryan Reynolds) and have been relieved as subsequent trailers and footage have looked better and better (the first one had me worried).

A few weeks ago, to feed into the media storm that the studio is trying to build around the film, the DC Comics blog, The Source (http://dcu.blog.dccomics.com/), started a strange-ish series of posts in which, "every Monday-Thursday, as we count down the days until the movie arrives in theaters June 17th, The Source will be revealing images, bios and fun facts from the comic books that every Green Lantern fan is gonna want to know" (http://dcu.blog.dccomics.com/2011/05/07/free-comic-book-day-special-edition-green-lantern-the-essentials/).

Now, other than the fact that these posts clearly reveal DC’s concern that nobody—even superhero comics fans, who have to be the only people actually reading a comics publisher’s blog—knows enough about these characters to care about them enough to see a movie about them, today’s post is pretty funny:

Today’s spotlight is a biographical sketch of the villain Hector Hammond. We read that "Growing up, Hector Hammond was always an outcast. Only interested in science, he never competed in sports or played with his peers. Hector preferred the company of a book to that of his friends" (http://dcu.blog.dccomics.com/2011/05/17/senator%E2%80%99s-son-becomes-scientist/).

Do you think that superhero comics fans—who on some level, at least, think it would be cool if this stuff was real—are ever concerned that almost every one of them (minus the science part—maybe) fits the description of a burgeoning, hydrocephalic super villain?

Work Email: Mystery Solved

2011-05-09T15:48:00.000-07:00

Everyone can relax. I have discovered the identity of Mr. K.

As you’ve navigated the parking lot at WGU, no doubt you have, at one time or another, encountered the insanely slow-moving (I’m talking, like, 2-4mph, here), brownish, ‘80s-ish, boat-ish, Cadillac-ish vehicle with the astonishingly artless vanity plate that reads, simply, “MR K.”

No?

Well I have. I’ve been behind it on several occasions. And on Wednesday, as I was walking into the building on the Parking level, a small man with horrible posture and a perfect molestachio shuffled through the door with me. It was so obvious that no other human being could pilot the road in such a machine that I immediately asked, “Are you Mr. K?”

Mystery solved: he was not Mr. K, but “[his] dead brother was,” and my new friend inherited the car with the title “since [they] had the same last name.”

In related news, I’m a horrible person. And a little bored.

Enjoy your Friday.

Best regards,

Writing About Love

2011-04-27T09:26:00.000-07:00

Last year I entered a writing contest associated with the release of Belle and Sebastian's album, Write About Love. The directions were to write about love (surprise!) in 300 words or less. I decided to re-purpose a post that has appeared on this blog (http://toocoolbyhalf.blogspot.com/2007/12/england-and-italy.html).

I was forced to cut and cut and cut away almost everything, but it was interesting to me to see what I was willing to cut and what I refused to let go. The cheesy last line was just an effort to tie it into the love theme. I don't think I was in love with this person, but maybe that's the point? Anyway...

I won this LP for being one of the "honorable mentions" (http://www.matadorrecords.com/matablog/2011/01/11/write-about-love-contest-winners-part-one-honorable-mentions/):

It's signed by the band and was mailed from the UK. Kind of fun.

This is the piece:

On a Friday I took the train to school. My first class started at 9:40, but I got on the 8:03 train so I could get some reading in. There was a pretty girl near the door, but I was too shy to sit next to her.

After a few stops, the conductor announced over the intercom that the police wouldn't let us go any further north. There had been a bomb threat.

We stopped at the next stop, 33^rd South, and we all had to get out. The conductor told us that a bus would take us to another stop where we could take another train.

I noticed the pretty girl again. Second chance! I convinced myself to sit next to her and asked her where she was going. And then we talked—about everything, somehow, in fifteen minutes.When the bus dropped us off at the “safe” stop, we got on the train together and kept talking.It was perfect. Finally, I asked her for her name and she said it was Venice.

Like the city?

Like the city. And then I had to transfer to another line. 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 get her number? The look on her face said, Why didn't you get my number?

I followed her car with my eyes until the train was gone.

Monday 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. But she wasn't on that one either.

Love is an act of faith.

Editing

2011-01-24T10:35:00.000-08:00

Does adding a picture that approximates Elder Holland's jacket ruin the post? Maybe.

By the way, I think we can all agree that 2010 was a wash, so no apologies.

"Lost in the Supermarket"

2011-01-20T14:04:00.000-08:00

Costco is the undiscovered country. Of possibility. Maybe. OK, probably not. But think about this, anyway:

On Monday, January 17, 2011, Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, I found myself at Costco with my parents, mostly because I had nothing better to do, but also because Vanessa was at work and I was bored. And we needed butter. Yup, Costco-sized butter. That’s how we roll.

Shortly after our arrival, my father and I were walking by the electronics section, when an older gentleman passed briskly and purposefully in front of us. It was Elder Jeffery R. Holland. He was wearing conservative pants and a white shirt, but, weirdly, with a snazzy leather jacket.

Now, perhaps I am crazy, but I always expect older folks who rock leather to rock leather bomber-style jackets. Maybe it’s because I labor under the (willfull?) delusion that anyone over the age of sixty was in World War II (my psyche is stuck in the early ‘90s), but that just seems right, to me.

But no, Elder Holland was in something Paul Newman would have worn in the ‘70s—and I don’t mean that it was retro: It was snazzy. Cool. Hip. It seemed to say to the world, The man wearing this jacket is in touch.

Elder Holland walked right over to a Costco dude and led off with “Hey! My man!” and then my father and I were out of earshot and I pointed out to my father that Elder Holland is a snazzy dresser for an old guy and we went about our business.

About twenty minutes later, we’d found my mother and we were walking out of an aisle that was capped with a display booth and an anxious gentleman with a microphone selling blenders or something. As we were behind the booth, I commanded an excellent view of the half-dozen or so Costco patrons who were listening to the anxious gentleman’s pitch, and I was delighted to see Elder Holland, again, with his wife, in the front row. And Elder Holland was listening with rapt attention—as, I imagine, Mormons (who are awake) listen to his talks every six months during General Conference.

This, evidently, is what modern-day apostles (as in the Big 12) of Jesus Christ, prophets, seers, and revelators, do on Martin Luther King, Jr. Day: they wear generation-defying jackets and think about purchasing blenders.

I'll Keep You Posted

2009-12-18T14:33:00.000-08:00

It was so damned cold.

First the heater didn't work and I didn't notice and I sat for hours trying to focus on grading papers in the freezing cold of my basement apartment before V came home and said, "The heater doesn't work." The pilot light was out. I lit it the next day. First time. Felt like a man (not for the first time).

Then there was water all over the bathroom floor coming from the laundry room on the other side of the wall where the furnaces and the water heaters are, too. The next day there were ice sickles hanging from the pipes and the washing machine was full of water that was cold but not frozen and there was nothing to be done. By me. The washing machine guy couldn't fix it until the ice thawed.

Then the landlord's mother, Margie, brought a space heater that I was to keep on low in the laundry room until the ice was gone so I told my upstairs neighbor that if he smelled smoke coming from the stairs while I was gone it was smoke coming from the stairs and that he should call the fire department.

Then we woke up to a bubble in the bedroom ceiling that was getting bigger and coming from the bathroom-side wall and the landlord in New York was worried that maybe whatever had caused the washing machine problem had caused the ceiling bubble, too, so he sent a plumber over. Two, actually. But not for two more days because the landlord in New York did not "sense" that this was an urgent problem.

The plumbers tore open the bubble in the ceiling and decided that the upstairs neighbor's toilet was leaking because they could see the base of the toilet and there was water all over it but the upstairs neighbor was at work so they couldn't do anything until he showed up to open his place which was the next day. So I moved the couch up against the little Christmas tree and dismantled the bed frame and moved our mattresses into the living room. I feared the mold.

Then the plumbers came back and got into the upstairs neighbor's place and fixed the toilet and convinced the landlord in New York that, due to the fact that the dripping in my bedroom had stopped, the toilet in the upstairs neighbor's place was the cause of the dripping and not the laundry room problem. He was skeptical but they were right.

The upstairs neighbor informed me that he was ready to do his laundry again.

Then the water damage people came and examined the water damage and told us they'd have to rip out the ceiling and the bedroom wall and the bathroom wall and maybe some of the bathroom ceiling and some of the upstairs neighbor's floors and walls and dry it all off and dehumidify it and sand off the mold and then put it all back together again and that this would take weeks. Weeks of living in the living room, which sound more appropriate than it seems.

Then the washing machine guy came back in the morning and almost fixed the washing machine but not all the way because he had forgotten to check whether or not the valves in the washing machine had been affected by the freezing and one of them had but he didn't have the part so he had to come back the next day.

Then another water damage person came from another company and waved his magic wand around and rubbed the walls and the ceiling and said pretty much the same thing that the first water damage people said but made it sound a little bit more fun and shaved about a week off of the time-frame so the landlord in New York decided to go with him even though he's scheduled a third water damage company to examine the problem on Monday. This, of course, will be a waist of time for the third company.

An insurance leach is coming on Monday, too.

The washing machine repair man came again, then, and fixed the valve in the washing machine but noticed when he turned the water back on that the water valve in the wall was also damaged and leaking most likely as the result of the original freezing problem that may or may not have caused the washing machine problem and that the landlord in New York had wrongly decided had caused the ceiling bubble.

This means that we will be calling the plumbers again.

On the bright side, the landlord in New York isn't too worried about the water damage being repaired right away because the general fear of mold was not so general even a few years ago and, in fact, he has friends in New York that eat stinky cheese--moldy cheese--and try to get him to try it so he does but it makes him gag but he's making an effort and so eating mold isn't a big deal so it's not dangerous and so we're set.

What was your finals week like?

An Encounter in the Chocolate Shop

2009-10-16T12:57:00.000-07:00

C. Kay Cummings. This is where it happened. C. Kay Cummings. But the story starts in my bathroom, around noon, as we readied ourselves to face the day.

Vanessa had gone to the gym and then to work while I read and then took a shower. It’s fall break. I’ve spent the entire week not showering until the PM, reading comic books, and not playing with Sully, the cat, who seems to like me, but only because it’s been thus far convenient for him to do so. He may have fleas; however, they are discreet, keep mostly to him, and have therefore avoided notice except for some scabbing around Sul’s neck. I’ve asked him, repeatedly, why he doesn’t take care of this problem, to which he replies, every time, “Step off my nuts, Henriksen, you’re out of touch.” Although I’m trying, I cannot help but be offended by his cavalier disregard for civility.

Vanessa was putting on some makeup. In her “work clothes” she doesn’t even think about putting makeup on, but when she’s wearing what she wants to wear, she can’t not do it. It’s compulsive, and we’ve often been late as a result of it. I walked into the tiny bathroom and waited for her to notice my “skinny jeans.” The legs were so tight the seams of my underwear were clearly visible underneath the denim. Vanessa had been wanting to see me in them for weeks, but on account of their constrictive nature in certain regards, I had been reluctant to indulge her. Now, I was forced to make a move:

“Do you like my jeans?”

It was a little petty to direct her attention so boldly, but I was impatient. She laughed, but I could see what she was thinking, and a moment later she said it right out loud:

“I couldn’t even fit into those things.”

She could.

Of course she could, but this is how Vanessa works, and, in my experience, most other women as well: they’re never slim enough if they could conceivably be slimmer. The vast majority of them are wrong, perhaps, and it’s annoying either way, but there it is.

She was looking at the mirror again, applying mascara. I pushed my body up against hers, rested my head on her shoulder, and watched her.

“You want some?” she asked, gesturing with the wand.

“Sure,” I replied.

Never ask a David Bowie fan if he wants to try mascara, even in jest.

She told me to open my eyes and look at the ceiling and then slowly moved the wand toward me, waiting for me to tell her I was only kidding. I wasn’t. She began to apply it to my left eye lashes.

“I haven’t done this to someone else in years,” she said; “it’s weird.”

I looked at the mirror as she finished that eye. It was truly unsettling to behold such a strange change to my own regular features. The black lashes were weird and freakish, drawing attention and somehow darkening the left side of my face entirely. It was unnatural next to my red beard and blondish hair. My eyebrows are white. The mascara threatened to take over the entire scene.

“What about the right eye?”

“No,” she said. “I don’t think so. This is weird.”

So I guess that means I won.

***

With my glasses on it was perhaps less obvious. Perhaps.

We went to 9th and 9th so that she could return the bracelet I bought her for her birthday. I’m clueless about that sort of thing, but I try. I always try.

The one I had purchased was a bunch of beads—blues and greens and black—, haphazardly stacked, one on top of the other, and overflowing with spontaneity. She exchanged it for a pink thing that my grandmother would wear.

I told her this.

After, we drove over to C. Kay Cummings. C. Kay Cummings is a chocolate store. We live nearby and had talked about going several times. The storefront is very small and packed with all kinds of chocolates and sweets. Vanessa busied herself with finding chocolate bees for Barb, the Queen Bee of Boston, while I walked over to the large windows looking in on the factory portion which took up most of the building. One woman near the glass was busily adding tiny chocolate swirls with nothing but a gloved finger to the tops of little truffles of some kind as they came out from under a falling drape of molten chocolate. Each one received her personal attention.

“How tedious!” Vanessa said suddenly. She had been standing by my side, unbeknownst to me.

“Ready?”

“Almost,” she said, and we walked over to the counter. A girl had begun to package and weigh the few things we had picked—chocolate covered peanut butter cream, chocolate covered grapes, chocolate covered strawberries; the chocolate bees—when a man in a suit walked into the store and stood beside us in line.

At first I only glanced at him. He was slightly taller than average, shaped rather like a pear, and old. He was standing in such a way that all of his energy seemed to project forward and out; as he looked ahead, he took in the whole room; when he spoke, he spoke to the whole room.

It was him.

A few women had come in after us and before him, accompanied by a handful of young children. One of the women walked between the man and me, stopped, and extending her hand said, “Hello, President Monson, how are you?”

It was him.

“Oh, I’m fine, thank you. We just got my wife out of the hospital; she’s in the car. I thought we’d stop and get her something nice.”

Everyone mumbled congratulations and awkwardly decided how to best comport themselves. I decided against any action whatsoever and continued to lean against the counter. Vanessa continued to talk to the girl helping us behind the counter, periodically glancing at him and then at me as her eyebrows attempted to reach her hairline. One of the women asked President Monson for a picture with her children, to which he acquiesced. He glanced once or twice at every one in the room, pleasantly, confident.

As we were leaving, President Monson turned to one of the children. The boy didn’t notice at first; he was four or five and unaware of the significance—if any can be attributed to it—of the interaction.

“Blondie!” President Monson said; the boy was very fair. “Hey! Blondie!”

The boy slowly looked up at the older man.

“Look what I can do,” President Monson said, and his great ears began to quiver and wiggle of their own accord. “Can you do that?”

Intently, all the while staring at President Monson, the little boy raised and lowered his eyebrows several times and then, embarrassed, turned toward his mother.

“Well, said President Monson, “You’ve got your eyebrows moving.”

And we were outside, walking to the car. In the parking lot, there were one or two well-dressed men who I assume were body guards paying absolute attention to everything that occurred within the small store. We got into my car and I happened to see my reflection in the rearview mirror.

With my glasses on it was perhaps less obvious. Perhaps. But there was no getting around the fact that the Vicar of Christ—the Moses of our time to tens of millions of people around the world—had seen my mascaraed eye (not to mention my conspicuously tight jeans) in the chocolate shop.

There was a lesson in this.

I was sure of it.

SSB

2009-02-27T16:30:00.000-08:00

Hey folks,

Check out "Thinking About Music: Andrew Bird Live" at http://www.severalsuchbuildings.com.

Because why not?

Regards,
Me

SSB

2009-02-24T15:57:00.000-08:00

Hey folks,

I've got another post up at http://www.severalsuchbuildings.com/. It's called "Thinking About Cooking: Brownies."

It's because I love you.

Regards,
Me

SSB

2009-02-23T10:00:00.000-08:00

Hey folks,

It's been a while, so I thought I'd let you know that my new post just went up on http://www.severalsuchbuildings.com/. Check it out. It's called "Pogo for Pyros."

Cheers,
Me

Insincere Confessions

2009-01-20T14:20:00.001-08:00

This probably comes as a surprise to no one, but, as it turns out, I am a bad person.

This semester I'm teaching two different sections of my Intro. to Academic Writing course (something that I am feeling less and less well-qualified to do) back-to-back on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. I am coming to realize that this is ridiculously complicated. It is complicated because I am an idiot and I cannot recall what I've said or announced to which section at which time. Among other things.

On the first day of class, last Monday, in my second section, while I was taking role, I happened upon a very strange looking, very foreign name that I could not for the life of me even begin to fathom how to pronounce. I looked up, helplessly, and - to my eternal embarrassment - a lovely young woman, originally from China, intuited my dilemma and pronounced her name on my behalf. I asked her, twice, to repeat it, in a vain attempt to master it myself through audible exposure, only to be forced to drop my head in shame and admit that it was beyond my best efforts.

"You can call me 'Elle,'" she said patiently - the kind of patience that announces to the audience, I am being patient with this sad, mildly offensive man. Or maybe that was just her accent.

"Elle? As in E-L-L-E? Elle?"

"Yes."

"I will. I know it's a cop-out, but I'm going to do it. I'm going to call you 'Elle.'"

"It's OK."

"Thanks."

On Wednesday I arrived early to class and attempted to make small talk with the students who were already there. We talked about how exciting Tuesdays are (they aren't) and whether anyone had Big Plans for Thursday (no one did) as the rest of the students arrived, slowly, already broken by the imagined weight of a semester that had only just begun. All at once, as the class was now quite full, I stumbled upon an opportunity to impress upon them the fact that I care about who they are as individuals (which is not entirely bull-shit) and seized it:

"Elle, right?"

I had recognized her immediately and, due to the length of our exchange on Monday, I assume, recalled her "name."

The girl looked at me, shocked. I looked at her, confident. The rest of the class was going about their business, unloading bags and checking their phones, until she spoke:

"Um, it's 'Ella,' but that was a really close guess.... We haven't met before?"

She looked at me, enquiringly. I looked at her, confused. Confused as hell. The rest of the class was paying attention.

"'Ella'? Not 'Elle,' as in E-L-L-E?"

"No." She laughed - a sincere laugh, but betraying a hint of nervousness and perhaps irritation at not being let in on a joke.

But the joke was on me. I looked at my role, frantically searching for the indecipherable name, and realized in an instant that Elle was in my second section. This was my first.

I looked up again at Ella. She was probably of Chinese decent, at least. Maybe Korean. Or Japanese?

"I'm a good guesser, I guess. Weird! You ... uh.... You must just remind me of someone else." I laughed, uncomfortable, and began to shuffle papers. The class chuckled, good-naturedly. Or did they suspect?

"That is weird," said Ella, already forgetting my super-human ability to conjure a stranger's name from the ether as she unzipped her bag. She had a perfect American - Utahn, at that - accent.

And I bailed. I took role and added Ella to my list of not-yet-registered students and pretended as though nothing had ever happened.

As though I'm not a racist. Because I'm not.

Just a bad person.

Elle didn't even show up to my second section.

For a Film

2008-12-11T21:29:00.000-08:00

Teaching freshmen is funny as hell.

The other day I was just minding my own business, teaching my writing class (Introduction to Academic Writing or some kind of garbage like that), when a teacher in another room started a movie with the volume turned up a little too loud. The dialogue wasn't clear, but the saccharine soundtrack was, and every once in a while it would fill the room with angst and longing.

I was talking about literature reviews or something more or less useless like that, when a particularly sentimental swell of symphonic goo distracted me, and I was forced to remark that, judging by the soundtrack, the movie must be awful.

"Is that a movie?"

Justin had sat in the front row every day of class for the entire semester. He wasn't a good student, but he wasn't the worst. (After the class turned in their first writing assignment I was convinced that he was an ESL student - you know, English as a Second Language? - until the class turned in their second writing assignment in which he decided to use complete sentences and real words.)

"Is that a movie?" he asked, genuinely bemused.

"I think so?" His question was so sincerely confused that, for a moment, I thought maybe I should have been wondering the same thing, is that a movie?

"Oh. I thought I was in a movie - that this was a movie - and that that was just the music playing during it."

Dude was totally serious.

And, you know, maybe the craziest thing of all is that I'm pretty sure he was sober.

Teaching freshmen is funny as hell.

Two Bits from the Bard

2008-12-11T00:03:00.001-08:00

116

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

I'm almost convinced that every relationship isn't just another economy - another give-and-take - .

And I'm drowning again in my more-or-lesses.

Starving Artists

2008-12-03T16:48:00.000-08:00

Dustin enlisted me to do some illustrations for his company Christmas card the other day. After some planning and a bit of work I came up with all of the Santas-, cookies-, elves-, and fire-related content you see here. Dustin wizarded up the rest.

Enjoy.

(If anyone can tell me how to convert a .pdf into a .jpg and get a better result than this, let me know. One tends to appreciate the visual arts better when they are visualizable. In the meantime, if you're interested, let me know and I can email you the .pdf.)

Thanksgiving Tragedy

2008-12-02T20:10:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving day for my friend Eric is little more than Pie day. It is the one day of the year that he dons an apron, sets aside his masculinity, and decides to bake. This year it was apple pie.

He called me at about seven. The family festivities had already come and gone and I was pacing the house between episodes of Firefly, restless for something to take my mind off of my non-Thanksgiving-related worries, when Eric called. He needed shortening.

He stopped by to borrow some and promised me we'd watch a movie and eat pie later. Sure enough, a few hours later, in the middle of the Peanuts' Thanksgiving Special, Eric called and told me that all was ready.

As soon as the special was over, I drove up to his house, more curious than I was eager. When I arrived he was just about to remove the pie from the oven. He opened the door, and Eric, his mother Maggie, and I beheld what appeared to be a perfect pie, waiting inside.

"How do I get it out of there?" Eric asked his mother, reminding us all that, perhaps, there are certain consequences (ineptitude among them) to only baking once a year. He kept reaching his hands into the hot oven and having to pull them out again immediately.

"Well, Eric," Maggie replied, wryly, "some people like to pull the rack out...."

As she said it, she did it, her mittened hand beckoning the hot rack, as it were. Almost immediately, however, tragedy struck as the pie irritably sprang forward, flying toward its freedom with a will.

Eric screamed and desperately lunged for the pie, which he caught, and then screamed again as the pie repaid his kindness with pain. He withdrew his careful hands, sending the hurtling pie into an irrecoverable tailspin which ended abruptly on the kitchen floor.

Eric was devastated. Maggie felt responsible. I could not stop laughing.

It smelled delicious.

Later, Eric was heard to utter that his heart was broken, but he would bake again....

I believe he will. And I wish him well.

A Haiku for Mike

2008-11-23T00:41:00.000-08:00

All the while

I pray to Buddha

I keep killing

Mosquitos.

by Issa

(translated by Nobuyuki Yuasa)

Saviours

2008-10-15T21:26:00.000-07:00

I saved the world from the devil, today.

My eyes are sore and my back hurts.

And I guess it was a good day.

A good day for Fall Break.

Stealing Lines

2008-09-27T22:58:00.000-07:00

Someone complained to me today about the lack of updates.

Get used to it.

I had to see about a girl.

Memories and Metaphors

2008-08-05T10:15:00.000-07:00

One day, in Los Andes, Chile, I climbed to the top of a big hill in the middle of town to watch the sunrise and burned through a whole roll of film just taking pictures of the sky.

By the time the sun came up I was out of film.

Sometimes I'm scared to death that this will end up being a metaphor for you.

Venting: The Justice Rant

2008-07-30T11:01:00.001-07:00

Not last weekend, but the one before, I somehow managed to overdraw my checking account. (As I think about it, it may have had something to do with my not having gone to the bank for three weeks and just carting my uncashed checks around in my wallet as a reminder to eventually, you know, go to the bank and cash them.)

I have no checkbook. I've never had one. Just the card for me, thanks. This, of course, means that I use my checking account for everything: that $0.99-pack of gum, the $1.69 stick of Blistex, this $3.99 video rental (Thumbsucker - I'm just going to throw this out there right now: I love Keanu Reeves), the $1.99 bottle of chocolate milk, or, how about that $8.99 24-pack of Dr. Pepper?

I paid for all of this stuff with my check card, all while overdrawn.

So, last Tuesday, when I finally got around to the bank to make a deposit, I was somewhat concerned when I saw a seemingly innocuous negative sign put to the right of my balance. I thought about it for a while as I drove to work but couldn't make heads nor tails of it. How could I have negative $200 in my checking account? It just didn't make any sense.

As it turns out, after a little investigating, I found out what was going on, but it still doesn't make any sense. I made ten transactions after overdrawing the account, because my card was never declined. Not once. And the fucking bank charged me $22 for each one, in addition to whatever I paid. That chap stick? Yeah, that cost me $23.69, not $1.69.

I had been charged $220 in overdraft fees for transactions the final sum of which did not exceed $60. The bank was kind enough to forgive half of the fees because I "have such a good record" with them, but I was still irritated. It wasn't until last Friday that I became enraged.

Last Thursday I lost my sunglasses. Couldn't find them anywhere. I was about to drive down to American Fork (again) and I was in a hurry and distracted, so, after checking my car, I must have forgotten to lock the doors. Some time that night, some asshole got in and stole 11 CDs, my owner's manual and registration, and my garage door opener. My garage door opener! The owner's manual? What kind of sick fuck behaves like this? I can understand the CDs - I can -, but the owner's manual? That's just weird and rude.

That Friday morning, as I was making a list of all of the albums I was going to have to buy again, I couldn't escape the feeling that I had been robbed twice that week, and that I was upset not because I was shirking responsibility (I shouldn't have overdrawn my account; I should have locked my car - I get it; I agree), but because the punishment didn't fit the crime.

Shouldn't the bank have charged me the value of the goods that I had purchased instead of some arbitrary fee? Their $22-rule made me wish I would have bought a car instead of Office Space.

Shouldn't some kind of divine, karmic law only have allowed the equivalent of an unlocked door to be taken from my car? I think the change in the tray on the dash would have covered it - $1.62. (They left that, like a shitty tip, to rub it in my face, I guess.)

I suppose, in the end, the upside is that the bastards that robbed my car didn't realize that that 24-pack of Dr. Pepper behind the driver's seat was the most expensive 24-pack of Dr. Pepper ever. $220. (Almost the exact price, as it turns out, I paid to replace the CDs they took.)

That almost made me feel better about things. Almost.

sdrawkcaB

2008-07-22T13:24:00.000-07:00

Playing catch-up in reverse:

5. I choked on my water and coughed it out all over my power strip at work and then was too afraid of getting electrocuted to unplug it for about two minutes at which point my fear of burning the building down trumped that so I pulled the plug and - didn't. get. electrocuted. [Sigh of relief.]

4. I've decided that I no longer need to be on time to work, so when I say, "this morning," above, what I'm really saying is, "about twenty minutes ago." (It's 12:52 PM, now.)

3. I went to bed last night at three after staying up way too late for a Superman marathon - we watched Superman, Superman II, and Superman Returns, after which I came to the almost unavoidable conclusion that I would never, ever get this Monday back and that I loved it.

2. I carpooled to American Fork for the Superman marathon with a girl that I dated for about two months and broke up with for the next six about three years ago and her new boyfriend. I still don't know how that happened; it was a little awkward at first, but they’re both much better people than I am and actually really nice, so it was cool (albeit there is a possibility that they were merely making a play for my Dr. Pepper).

1. I saw The Dark Knight on Friday, as part of my friend’s Mormon-ified bachelor party and was moved on several levels, not the least of which being my bowels, as I was holding it, as it were, for the entirety of the two-and-a-fucking-half hours.

Watching People Drown

2008-07-15T11:28:00.000-07:00

Everything changes. Everybody changes. I change. Every day. So why does it feel like a tragedy?
(Minipop credit: http://www.flipflopflyin.com/minipops/)

The Real Vampire

2008-07-15T09:38:00.000-07:00

What kind of video rental store stocks Blade II and Blade III but not Blade?

Oh yeah, it's my local Blockbuster.

That's crazy, right? I mean, I'm not the only one who thinks that there's something - dare I say it - morally amiss in this situation?

I don't even like that movie, but I have found that it is not healthy to suppress the urge to watch a particular film - no matter how horrible. So now what the hell am I supposed to do?

This store is bleeding me dry.

The Fraternity

2008-07-07T10:03:00.000-07:00

Cooke, Montana: In a cheesy, touristy "trading post" where I would eventually buy my bitchin', authentic, made-in-Mexico, straw hat, I was looking at the toy cap guns.

They were the quality variety: metal; with real weight. I was in the act of hefting one, appreciatively, wondering if Eric and Spencer would be willing to wear them around if I bought one for each of us, when I noticed a little dude, no more than six, looking at me from the other side of the rotating wrack.

He was obviously impressed by the fact that he had at last found an "adult" who could appreciate the finer things (toys and a potentially inappropriate reverence for the mock-violence embodied in the pistol). When he realized that I had noticed him there, looking at me, he walked around the wrack to more closely inspect the revolver in my hand.

"Pretty cool?" I suggested, seeking the approval of an obvious authority on the subject.

He nodded, "Yeah." A co-conspirator; soberly cheerful. A confidante.

"Do you have a sister?" he asked, quietly - perhaps not yet quite satisfied that I was, in fact, a compatriot.

"I do."

"You should use these on her."

He held up a package of toy handcuffs, revealing it like a secret weapon, or a rich delicacy.

"Are you going to put those on your sister?" He could hear the approval in my voice.

"Yeah." His sly, confidant smile only hinted at the impending excitement he envisioned.

We consummated the exchange with a solemn high five and casually returned to our respective contingencies, effusing innocence and propriety, our faith renewed and mischief in the making.

Jack Straw

2008-06-17T10:05:00.001-07:00

On Saturday I went to some kind of fair in a park with Ryan where I bought some pants made of bamboo. Seriously.

The real story, however, is Ryan's dad.

Ryan's parents were there as well, and when Ryan spotted them, his knee-jerk reaction was a lament: "I can't believe he's wearing that hat!"

Ryan's dad was wearing an awesome straw hat - the kind you see in gas stations near the cheap sunglasses. As they approached, we exchanged pleasantries and I was seized by a wild impulse to ask him if he'd purchased the hat at a gas station. Instead, deciding at the last moment that it was, at least potentially, an inappropriate question, I merely asked where he had found it.

"I got it at a gas station!" he cried, still clearly thrilled by the fact that such treasures could be found in such mundane places.

What is your excuse now? I had to ask myself. If he got one, how can you not?

The Floss-Effect

2008-05-24T00:19:00.001-07:00

I was never a flosser. I always knew it was something I was supposed to be doing, but also, I always knew that I just wasn't going to do it. And so I didn't. The closest I came to being a regular flosser was my first year in Chile, but that was only motivated by my lack of faith in the local population of dentists and even with that I spent the second year floss-free. It just didn't matter to me. It just wasn't worth it.

And then, I don't know why, really, but I met this girl, and she seemed like someone I should be better for. Oddly enough, "better" took the form of someone-who-flosses. And I flossed. And for years, now, I've continued to floss, even after she's come and gone.

From one moment to the next we're different people, but perhaps it is relationships, even the transitory relationships that never quite make it off the ground, that change us the most.

I'm on the lookout now for someone that will turn me into a regular car-washer. Any takers?

As I write this I'm beginning to wonder if I've ever had the floss-effect on someone. It's an awkward question to ask: when we dated did it make you a better person? Maybe it's safer to modify it: how did our dating make you a different person?

Was it worth it?

I'd settle for turning someone into a Tarantino fan.

I [heart] T-shirts, number six

2008-05-17T23:27:00.000-07:00

Mo' Money, Mo' Problems

2008-05-16T11:55:00.001-07:00

(photo by D. Butcher)

Failing Flailing

2008-05-08T14:44:00.000-07:00

Last Monday I turned in the last two papers of my undergraduate career. Now, all I want to do is watch old episodes of Daria and ride my bicycle.

Has higher education failed me or have I failed it?

Fiction: Nine Minutes, part one

2008-05-07T12:12:00.000-07:00

“Oh, I have a vibrator that color.”

I’m not even kidding; these are the things that she’d say. As if they weren’t supposed to drive me to distraction.

And we’d walk. For miles. For miles and miles we’d walk and walk and look at the buildings and the posters on the walls. There was nothing particularly romantic about the dirty brick. There was nothing very suggestive about the stained flyers. But I loved it. Every moment. I loved it and I loved the morning and the air and the moment. The air was alternately cool and clammy. The sounds were jarring and happy and busy. Car horns and outbursts of conversation and startled buses. People looked through us and walked around us, their minds on their destinations, their phones in their ears.

She was pointing at the obnoxiously pink block letters of a ratty poster glued to the side of a whitewashed warehouse.

LIVE!
THE SCENTED NIPPLE,
WITH BRITT’S CLITS
AND FURST BLUD
THURSDAY,
NOVEMBER 17,
9 O’CLOCK
AT BAD JAZZ,
9TH AND 9TH

She hugged my shoulder and pulled me along, through the crowd around the bus stop and past the newspaper stand, and then it was goodbye and see you tomorrow and take care and no kiss but a wink and I waved.

***

I should buy a car.

Every morning the thought crosses my mind. Every morning my phone buzzes and jumps and generally scares the shit out of me from underneath my pillow and I frantically push buttons until the awful get-the-fuck-out-of-bed song stops and I can go back to sleep for nine more minutes, thinking about getting a car as I slowly surrender my shocked and brittle conscious back to the soft, blurred edges and indistinct faces of people from school and work and home and school and I’m asleep.

Nine minutes later I’m all over it all over again and I should get a car and get out of bed but not yet and nine minutes after that I actually get up. And out. Of bed.

The tile is freezing on the floor in the bathroom.

I hate brushing my teeth. Maybe more than anything. Taking a shower is routine, but brushing my teeth never sinks into the framework of the morning.

“I love brushing my teeth. No flossing. But my toothbrush is my best friend. After you.” She’s such a liar.

Her hair is blowing into my face so I keep my mouth shut but it might be too late. I can feel it on my lips. We’re walking down the street in the shadow of brick buildings and the smell of exhaust everywhere, staining the morning, staining the flyers, staining our lungs. The wind is tugging at the flyers, tugging at my jacket, flattening my hood against the back of my head. But maybe it’s just the busses coming and going.

THURSDAY

She’s pointing at one of the posters, saying something that belongs in my ear alone right out loud, “…that color.” One sad corner of the poster pulls away, sticky, from the wall, covering part of the garish announcement.

We walk and walk and walk and say goodbye. Waving.

Moving On

2008-05-05T13:37:00.000-07:00

Unlike some people I know, not only did I used to be really into the Dave Matthews Band, but I'll admit it. I'll admit it and I still really, really like their first three albums. And listen to them. Really.

(I'm still in love with Phish, too. Get over it.)

Yesterday, in fact, I was listening to some tracks off of Crash, when it occurred to me that the only thing more ironic than Dave singing "Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die," is that he's not singing it ironically.

It's so much easier to criticize something when you're no longer in love with it.

A Super Market in Salt Lake City

2008-05-03T20:05:00.000-07:00

Today I was at the grocery store with my parents because I'm the most pathetic 25-years-old man alive. My mother and I were walking down an aisle when it occurred to me that my father had fallen behind somewhere along the line. I back-tracked along our progress through the store when I found him in the deli section with two packages of hot dogs in his hands, hefting them.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"I can't decide which one to get," he said, his eyes never leaving the packages. "This one is bun-sized, but these are thicker; I can't tell which one weighs more."

It had happened: before my very eyes, in the middle of Dan's, my dad had become an old man.

When shaving your mustache becomes not just a good idea, but a great one...

2008-04-13T21:13:00.001-07:00

A lot of skiers covet and flaunt the goggle-line. Those in the know shoot for the mustache-line.

The Smooth Criminal

2008-04-11T19:12:00.000-07:00

I am largely of the opinion that men grow beards so that they can have mustaches without looking like they're gay. The other day, though, I decided that maybe, just maybe, it might be worth the risk to sport a mustache - at least for a while.

Accordingly, I buzzed my beard and left the 'stache.

The results thus far? Ironically, my mustache appears to be straightening gays.

Tellingly, it appears to be having the opposite effect on women.

I [heart] T-shirts, number five

2008-03-12T18:46:00.000-07:00

Eating Lunch Alone

2008-03-03T13:20:00.000-08:00

Society requires food. Food, however, does not require society: there's conversation in a salad, personality in vegetables, charm in a dessert, class in a beverage, and friendship in a sandwich. Soups are aloof, but worth the effort. Roasts are pious. Cookies are the best company. The receipt from an order of crème brûlée is like lipstick on your collar.

Spades are Spades

2008-02-23T10:22:00.001-08:00

I was watching basketball with my friends last night - my first game of the season - and, finding myself irritated at how "fouls" prolong games, the following occurred to me:

If they called "fouls" what they are, namely cheating, there wouldn't be nearly so many of them. Rules exist in a game for a reason. When cheating has become a part of the game to the extent that it has in basketball, then it becomes obvious that, somewhere along the line, the players and coaches and organization and referees have lost sight of what basketball was supposed to be, and are instead trying to make it into something else - something that lasts twice as long as it should and thrives on dishonesty (another name for "fouling").

R.I.P.

Basketball

January 20, 1892 - April 30, 2003

I [heart] T-shirts, number four

2008-02-22T22:51:00.001-08:00

I [heart] T-shirts, number three

2008-02-21T20:24:00.000-08:00

I [heart] T-shirts, number two

2008-02-20T17:37:00.000-08:00

I [heart] T-shirts, number one

2008-02-19T18:12:00.000-08:00

Post-elusive

2008-02-17T23:28:00.000-08:00

Every once in a while I (like most of us, I'm sure) find a flier underneath the windshield wiper of my car. I never, ever notice it until I'm in my car and about to drive away. Thus begins the awkward process of rolling down the window, turning the windshield wipers on, and hoping that they will push the flyer close enough to my outstretched hand that I can grab it. If I have to get out of the car to get the flier my day - and sometimes my entire week - is officially ruined.

How these fliers get onto my car I have never been able to ascertain. Someone - or something - is responsible, but remains elusive.

- Or, anyway, remained elusive.

On Thursday (the same day I returned to the record store to sort out the Kanye Debacle) I was walking to my car and I saw her.

The Flier Girl.

I saw her; and she was hot.

Case closed.

Like a Fall

2008-02-14T23:01:00.000-08:00

I am not a huge hip hop fan, generally speaking; however, the other day, I decided that I needed to buy Mr. West's newest effort. I went to the record store, bought Graduation, and, as I busily jotted down notes for the next day's test in the infamous Physics of the Human Body, gave it a listen. I was enjoying it to a degree, but something was missing. Gradually it dawned on me: I was not hearing nearly enough expletives.

I checked the cover of the album and, sure enough, it proudly displayed a Parental Advisory for Explicit Content; nevertheless, the record was clearly "clean." It was like listening to Hendrix with the guitars cut out. The discrepancy between the catalogue numbers on the disc and the packaging suggested some kind of mix-up.

The next day I returned to the record store and placed the defective product on the counter.

"What's the big idea?" I asked the girl in righteous fury. "There is no profanity on this album and there should be."

"That's weird," she said. "You can go get another one."

"Deal," I said, pleased as punch, and after a moment returned with another copy.

I opened it and saw that, once again, the catalogue number on the CD was not the number on the package.

I pointed this out.

"Let me grab a CD player and we'll listen to it."

A minute later we stood around a small CD player with her manager (an ugly, ugly woman) listening to "The Glory," waiting for the following lines:

Can I talk my _____ again?
Even if I don't hit again
Dog are you _____ kidding?

"This is unacceptable," I said, irritated and proud.

The manager and I went back to the rack. Her plan was to grab the oldest looking copy they had and, finding a good one (she placed great stock and comfort in the fact that the "CPU [was] slightly yellowed"), took it back to my friend behind the counter.

By this time, there was a line of people waiting to check out as well as another employee who had decided that his aid would be indispensable to the task of listening to filthy language (evidently we were "kickin' it, listenin' to Kanye" - this dude was even whiter than I am) congregating around the counter.

I was no longer feeling righteous, furious, irritated, or proud. I was actually beginning to feel ashamed. It was something akin to what I imagine it would be like to take back a pornographic magazine because there were missing pictures in it or something. It was embarrassing, and there was the nicest looking mom (she had to be a mom) that I had ever seen waiting first-in-line and, I imagined, looking a little disappointed (in me).

We opened the new copy and the girl put it in and pushed play. It seemed so loud.

Can I talk my shit again?
Even if I don't hit again
Dog are you fucking kidding?

I was so confused: I was relieved and anxious at the same time. The manager was saying something about how this situation was so much more preferable than the reverse: an angry mother yelling at her because the "clean" copy of an album she had bought for her son wasn't "clean" after all. I nervously glanced at the nice-looking mother in line. She was holding her items close, the third season of The Cosby Show most prominent among them.

I thanked the employees for their trouble and quickly walked toward the door.

Something had just happened there, and it felt like a fall.

A Picture of Wind

2008-02-14T18:48:00.000-08:00

Today, as I was walking to class (James Joyce is so choice) the wind blew all of the snow off of the soccer field and into my right ear.

Wow!

2008-02-12T19:42:00.000-08:00

http://www.bigear.org/Wow30th/wow30th.htm

Not an Autobiographical Post

2008-02-09T17:09:00.000-08:00

A thought about surprise parties: when a friend of yours who doesn't know anybody else plans a surprise party, you plan a surprise party.

Thursday's Child

2008-02-08T18:48:00.000-08:00

I was walking to my car yesterday when I overheard a brief exchange between a guy and a girl passing one another near me on the sidewalk.

"How was your weekend?" said the guy to the girl.

How was your weekend? It's Thursday. Thursday. Maybe I'm the crazy one, but it seems to me that if you haven't figured out how someone's weekend was before Thursday, you forfeit that information. Tuesday is pushing it; Wednesday is a little sad. Thursday is just wrong.

I struck up a conversation with this girl (who happened to be walking my way) and asked her how she felt about the situation. (Of course she was hot.) The fact that she was obviously more excited to talk to a stranger (me) about the statute of limitations on the How-was-your-weekend? question than she was to talk to the guy that knew her and probably had a legitimate reason to ask about her weekend was all the answer I needed.

The moral of this story: when you have a great conversation with a beautiful stranger about the social short-comings of others, get her fucking phone number.

I'm still right about the Thursday thing, though.

The Ladies' Room

2008-02-06T19:08:00.001-08:00

Confession: Every time I use a public restroom I am convinced that I am in the Ladies' Room until I can locate a urinal. If they ever start putting urinals in the Ladies' Room, I don't know what I'm going to do. (I don't know what the ladies will do either, come to think of it.)

VI. Marlene

2008-02-05T19:40:00.000-08:00

Looking back, the only real difference between the two groups of women was whether or not they were attractive. There was one woman, Marlene, who, if it could be said that anyone owned interior design in Utah, owned interior design in Utah. She was also the one designer who persisted in being perceived as attractive and mysterious by the entire design community; though, ironically, the allure came only from how much everyone (thought they) knew about her—effectively destroying any real sense of mystery—more than any intrinsic beauty (of which there seemed to be none). Everyone had a different story about Marlene’s travels in search of the perfect rug. Everyone had a different account of her different affairs with different drugs. Indian and Arabian nights were peppered with erotic encounters with the exotic locals. I was lead to believe (and have no real reason to doubt) that the woman had not slept in the company of less than one person since 1966. Her gigantic, black sunglasses seemed to hide entire lives’ worth of debauchery and sin (not to mention more than a few wrinkles that were gradually becoming veritable folds) and she was never seen without them.

V. Designers

2008-02-04T19:14:00.001-08:00

We only sold rugs to interior designers: glamorous, ugly women (and the occasional gay man) with too much time on their hands. For most of them it was a hobby—something to do to kill the hours of the long, affluent day. They were forever wandering in and out, flirting and talking and carrying on as if they did not live in Salt Lake City, Utah, but were instead cavorting with the gurus of New York or Paris. Did I mention they were ugly? None of them were even the least bit attractive. On occasion they would bring their clients (who were often very attractive) to the showroom to look at the rugs that hung from gigantic metal frames swinging on hidden hinges, creating the illusion of eighteen-feet-tall books with fifteen-thousand dollar pages made of silk and wool. Clueless, the designers’ clients were typically lonely housewives whose husbands’ financial successes fueled their own, masturbatory, financial excesses.

Forever 22

2008-02-03T21:05:00.000-08:00

Like millions of other people with better things to do today, I watched the Superbowl instead of doing them. I just want to go on record saying that I never gave up hope that the Cowboys would come back to win it. Led by Emmitt Smith.

Our Last Dance

2008-02-02T23:11:00.000-08:00

I was on the Sugarloaf lift up at Alta today when it occured to me that there are only two kinds of people in this world: those who love Bowie and those who do not. There's a lesson in that.

Two Purposes

2008-02-02T00:24:00.001-08:00

The thing about shoes is that they exist for two purposes: footwear, and irony.

IV. José (or, That Damn Cat)

2008-01-31T19:11:00.000-08:00

José was a good man. He spoke just enough English to make real communication only tantalizingly out-of-reach. Having lived in Chile long enough to pick up the language myself, I had been taken on as much to communicate with him as to play office assistant to Becky. José and I used to chat. We enjoyed each others’ company—as much as possible with an age-gap of 30 years and a cultural divide of what felt like thousands—and to this day I regret not going to his daughter’s wedding reception to which he, personally, had invited me. I found out after I had left the business that he had contracted a flesh-eating virus from a stray cat that his wife had taken in that had licked a sore on his heel as he lay, napping, on the couch. Within three days he had nearly lost his leg and accumulated tens of thousands of dollars in hospital bills. He never told his wife that it was her damn cat, he just had one of his children insure that it “ran away.” He was a good man. That’s all I heard, really, but I like to think that he’s doing well in spite of everything.

III. Todd

2008-01-28T14:29:00.000-08:00

Todd was plagued by health problems and the rest of us were plagued by hearing about them. He had married a woman from Taiwan who he met in his home town in Idaho as she visited the Mormon missionary who had converted her to the faith years before. It was love at first sight, apparently—had she heard him first and fallen in love after I would have questioned her sexual orientation: his feminine voice was perfect for his rug-related responsibilities, which consisted of entertaining the ridiculously gay designers as much as anything. The rug business is as good a place as any for a guy to find a boyfriend.

On a Saturday

2008-01-27T13:12:00.000-08:00

A little while ago I went on a date with a chick named Erin. I went out with her a few times way back in 2006, but then she moved to London for the summer. She came back and we ran into each other on campus so I dug up her number and gave her a ring (telephone - not a band (ring - not a group)).

On a Saturday we went to the Lonestar Taqueria and then to the Coco Cafe where the hot chocolate is so thick, afterward, you needn't eat for days. After this we went to my place to watch Annie Hall (Woody at his best).

As it turns out, Lonestar and hot chocolate don't mix well. - You know, in the belly? My stomach was a bit disgruntled, but hers! - her stomach sounded like it was trying to get out of her body. We ignored it for an hour and a half. An hour ... and a half. Can we just talk for a minute about how awkward that gets? It was as though her stomach were commenting on the movie. It would say something - boldly, angrily - and we would continue watching the movie in silence, as if we agreed.

Dating is awesome.

Saturday Night in America

2008-01-27T00:43:00.000-08:00

I spent the evening in Provo with some friends of mine. After a battle of the bands at BYU, we stopped at Wendy's where I purchased a Baconator: two beef patties, two slices of cheese, and six slices of bacon on a premium bun.

In theory, this burger is like the holy grail of burgers. In execution, however, the Baconator is one of the worst burgers I've ever eaten. It's just too much.

After attempting to express my dismay with the burger, Mike (my friend, not me in the third person) whole-heartedly agreed, saying: "I know exactly what you mean. The first day that came out I took the day off of work to try it out and it was just bad."

Parker laughed.

"That's a good story," he said, shaking his head with admiration. "I wish I had stories like that. What have I done with my life? Where have I been?"

He was kidding but he was serious.

And I kind of knew what he meant. Kind of.

The Queen is Now Dead

2008-01-17T15:23:00.000-08:00

The other day I was chatting with a friend of mine who lives in Virginia. Somehow the Smiths came up and I learned that V (as she shall hence be known) had no idea who they were. It is a sad commentary on contemporary society when someone doesn't know who the Smiths are.

In the '80s (a decade not nearly as deprived of good music as the average music fan would have you believe) the Smiths released a series of albums and singles that kept guitars cool in the face of rampant overindulgence in synthesizers and the like. While this is neither the time nor the place to mount a why-you-should-love-and-respect-the-Smiths campaign - you should.

I figured the best way to introduce V to the Smiths was for her to hear my favorite Smiths' tune, "Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want":

Good times for a change
See, the luck I've had
Can make a good man
Turn bad
So please please please
Let me, let me, let me
Let me get what I want
This time

Haven't had a dream in a long time
See, the life I've had
Can make a good man bad
So for once in my life
Let me get what I want
Lord knows, it would be the first time
Lord knows, it would be the first time

Morrissey's yearning, almost-over-the-top desperation and Marr's lush, textured guitars make this one of my all-time favorites (you may recognize the music as covered by the Dream Academy - an utterly forgettable '80s band with the exception of this borrowed glory - in the museum scene in Ferris Bueller's Day Off).

I found it on the Hype Machine (http://hypem.com/) and shot her a copy of the link. A few minutes later, V responded:

"I guess this is OK. Weird lyrics: 'Some girls are bigger than others'? I don't know."

Needless to say, something had gone wrong. V was hearing the Smiths, but she was hearing a Smiths song that no first-timer should ever be exposed to. She had clicked the "play" button on one of the "Please Please Please" results and received, instead, the following:

From the ice-age to the dole-age
There is but one concern
I have just discovered:

Some girls are bigger than others
Some girls are bigger than others
Some girl's mothers are bigger than
Other girl's mothers

Some girls are bigger than others
Some girls are bigger than others
Some girl's mothers are bigger than
Other girl's mothers

As Anthony said to Cleopatra
As he opened a crate of ale:

Oh, I say:
Some girls are bigger than others
Some girls are bigger than others
Some girl's mothers are bigger than
Other girl's mothers

Some girls are bigger than others
Some girls are bigger than others
Some girl's mothers are bigger than
Other girl's mothers

Send me the pillow...
The one that you dream on...
Send me the pillow...
The one that you dream on...
And I'll send you mine

Yup. "Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others." Even Marr's excellent music isn't going to save this one completely. I'm not going to say it's not a good song. I won't say that; but, clearly, some songs are better than others.

The moral to this story is to always check your links, I suppose. That, and keep the Smiths to yourself.

II. Becky, Todd, José

2008-01-10T22:00:00.000-08:00

Becky and BJan met at BYU and fell in love. They were both much less round in the ‘80s. Becky, in fact, was almost ravishing. While sorting old files one day I happened upon a photograph of the happy couple from their newly-wed days. Dark and coldly attractive, her past figure shocked me as much as I am sure it now haunts her.

Becky had a head for business that complimented her husband’s expertise and general lack of common sense. Together, they were unstoppable—or at least would have been in a state that cared more for interior fineries than it does for green lawns and a day at the lake, or shoveled driveways and ski slopes. As it was, they did well enough to eat out two meals a day, every day, and employ the most homosexual heterosexual secretary I had ever met (Todd—they’re all Todds, aren’t they?), an illegal immigrant from the Dominican Republic (José), and a poor college student who lived in his parents’ basement and spent more money on records than all other expenses put together (me).

I. BJan

2008-01-01T23:47:00.000-08:00

BJan, a short, round Iranian, knew all there was to know about rugs. His father had met his American mother through a remarkably boring turn of events (considering the match and geography) and I no longer recall the specifics of the peculiar systems and operations that had led to his conception; nevertheless, he was. A Mormon rather than a Muslim (the maternal influence respectfully overriding the paternal), he had come to Utah to go to school at the church-run Brigham Young University. He was the only fully accredited rug appraiser in the state—the kind of distinction the average youth dreams of only after being hit in the head and even then never takes seriously. BJan, however, was no average youth. He quickly mastered all there was to know about the field—no minor accomplishment—and with a loan from his parents entered the rug business, initially operating from his home—a small, log-cabin-style affair behind his parents’—and then from a large showroom downtown by the time I came along. Knowing all he knew (which is really quite a lot) explained, at least in part, why he didn’t know much of anything else. His wife Becky ran the place; his role was more like that of a consultant. He ate lunch a lot.

Overcoming Commercialism

2007-12-20T23:34:00.000-08:00

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"

2007-12-17T13:16:00.000-08:00

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

2007-12-15T14:31:00.001-08:00

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

2007-12-15T11:47:00.000-08:00

[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

2007-12-12T15:28:00.000-08:00

[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

2007-12-09T14:55:00.000-08:00

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

2007-12-07T11:27:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-18T15:41:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-16T12:26:00.000-08:00

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."