Monday, July 31, 2006

An Open Letter to Giordano's


Dear Giordano's,

While recently perusing your tasteful brochure at the South Naperville restaurant, I learned that you have opened two locations in Florida--the first outside of Illinois. I was excited to see you expand beyond your traditional Midwestern confines, but pained that you decided to do so in Florida.

Everybody knows that Florida is full of old retired people; "Miami Vice" was a scam designed to attract good-looking people to move there and build pastel colored mansions. Do these people even eat pizza? We should just put those sliding glass doors on their state lines or sell the land back to Spain for cheap.

On the other hand, opening a Giordano's in Utah would be a smart move on multiple counts. I have given this a lot of thought, and have focused my reasoning on four points:

1. Utah pizza stinks. Most Utahn’s think that pizza is supposed to be heavy on cheese and light on sauce. This is a ridiculous fallacy that may be connected to the idea that white people prefer mayonnaise, and tend to favor cheese over meaty sauces. I however prefer the sauce, and I also hate mayonnaise, even though I am white and bald. The closest thing we have to a good pizza place is Geppetto's, and that's only because I like the calzones. Calzones, as George Steinbrenner could tell you, are not pizzas. If Utahn’s had the chance to try your stuff, they would stop ordering delivery and fill your tables with their large traditional families.

2. Connie's is ruining Chicago's good name. When the topic of Chicago-style deep-dish pizza comes up, people usually mention Connie's, since that's the only franchise they've ever encountered. Well, just because you cut big slices out of your crap pizza doesn't mean it isn't crap pizza, and it sure doesn't make it Chicago-style pizza. Giordano's must establish its place as capo de tutti capo of deep-dish pizza.

3. Illinois owes the Mormons. What better way to apologize for running my ancestors out of your state than granting us one of the first non-Illinois Giordano's franchises? It would go a long way towards healing the intense "Utah-Illinois Rift" that has gripped the heart of our nation for decades. You could even get Dennis Rodman to show up at the ribbon-cutting ceremony. Utahn’s would love to run the water under the bridge while eating Giordano's Famous Stuffed Pizza on top of the bridge.

4. Chicago
owes the Utah Jazz. Back in the early 90's, when Michael Jordan was still a humble guy and the Bulls were still underdogs, I was a fan. When he retired early like Jim Brown, I thought, "cool". Then he came back, and while the Jazz were looking for NBA championship #1, Jordan came along and grabbed #5 and #6. That sucks. If you guys believe in karma, you'll do what you can to patch this thing up quick.

Now, one of the risks of franchise expansion is the dilution of product quality. This is what happened to Taco Bell. When they were small, they were great. Nowadays I know in my mind that the food is inferior, and I know in my heart that each hot sauce packet shortens my life by twenty minutes, yet something else still gets me over there...possibly my spleen.

The solution to this problem is restrictive expansion--start small and keep tight reins on the new franchises. Only sell to owners with large forearms that can imitate good Chicago accents. Larry Miller has big forearms--and one really big elbow--but I don't know how he does with accents. Plus he cries publicly from time to time.

If you open up a Giordano's in Utah, I pledge to eat there once a week for the next six months. Unless you open it up in Provo. Every time I go to Provo someone tries to recruit me into a Ponzi scheme, and that's a once-a-month experience at most.

I eagerly await your reply. Attached is a photo of what a Giordano's would look like in Utah.

Love,

Josh
Woods Cross, Utah

PS: Jordan pushed off Russell in Game 6.


Wednesday, July 26, 2006

The Chicago Blog, Vol. 3

Day number four of the "Return to Chicago" trip has brought rain, so I'm back in my hotel room at the moment, working on a blog entry until it's time to take a spin down to the University of Illinois at Chicago campus to meet with the English department.

Today may have brought rain, but yesterday brought the pain. While getting off the shuttle after his visit to the McCormick Conference Center south of Grant Park, my dad took a bad step and sprained his ankle. He's currently negotiating day #2 of the conference with a pair of crutches. To add insult to injury, I picked up some kind of achilles tendon bruise of my own. Must be psychic-genetic transference or something.

Previous to the injury fest, it had been a pretty solid day. I started out on Randolph Street on foot and headed towards Michigan Avenue, where I wandered around some of the famous Magnificent Mile shops. I was most impressed with the Tribune Tower and it's elaborate lobby, filled with a series of freedom of the press related quotes etched on the walls. Didn't see one from Roger Ebert, though.

After doing some shopping at the Jazz Record Mart on Illinois Street (picked up some Robert Johnson, Aretha Franklin, and some unfortunate sax-heavy Big Time Sarah), I eventually wound up out on Navy Pier, doing a little sightseeing and taking a few breaks on some beach overlooks on the way. After doing a little shopping to get some going home gifts, I had some decent Gumbo at Joe's Be-Bop Cafe for lunch, then made the arrangements to go out to UIC this afternoon. With that taken care of, I went up north to see the Water Tower mall, then crossed off another of the "things to do" by taking the trip up to the Handcock Observatory.

My observatory experience would fit well in the "poignant" category, partially for the inspirational view, partially because I was conducting my inspirational view as one who has a fully acknowledged fear of heights. I even got a little nervous looking out my sixteenth floor hotel window, and here I was on 94, with little more than an iron railing and a plexiglass pane seperating me from the infinite.

As stunning as the view was, I think I was most impressed with the spiders that had decided to spin webs outside. As windy as it was out there, I don't know how they managed to pull them off. Arachnid overachievers, I suppose.

I took my time up on 94, then eventually got back in the ear-popping elevator and returned to normal elevation, where I caught a bus back to Wacker Drive (forever immortalized for me in the Blues Brothers). Shortly thereafter my dad came back, and we recruited my old friend Cherina Jones to swing downtown and pick us up for a night on the town.

The night on the town became a night on Oak Park, which we reached via an eye-opening cruise across Madison Avenue right through the West Side. We ate dinner at a nice Greek spot, then drove around town looking at the Ernest Hemingway birth house and the Frank Lloyd Wright home and studio, where I took some photos and shot some footage for posterity. Pretty low-key overall, but in our condition, it was exactly what we needed. On the way back Cherina drove us around in the Loop for a while, taking in the evening atmosphere and letting me get some more footage before dropping us off at the Allegro Home Base.

It's just about time to go find the Green Line, so that's it for blog #3...

Tuesday, July 25, 2006

The Chicago Blog, Vol. 2

Just got back from pondering eternity atop the John Handcock building. Eleven dollars gets an adult the opportunity to tour the 94th floor skydeck with the option of spending even more money for a superimposed photo of yourself with a Windy City skyline backdrop.

I didn't bite on the offer. I own PhotoShop.

But catching up, yesterday after making a run to the South Side, my dad and I returned to the Loop and made a triumphant return (for me, for my dad it was a triumphant arrival) to Giordano's pizza. Four slices of a mere small stuffed crust pizza later (featuring pepperoni, sausage, and "fresh tomatoes") we were quite defeated; a fine pizza got the better of these supposedly manly travelers, just as it has to many other such fine men over the years. Bottom line: it was worth the wait.

Much of the afternoon was spent wandering about the greater downtown area, not necessarily with any purpose in mind, but mainly to take in our surroundings and see what was around. The time we didn't spend wandering around we spent sleeping.

After we'd logged sufficient sleep and wander time, we once again ventured out with the intention of getting dinner. Regrettably, the Giordano's leftovers were unsuitable, as most hotel rooms in Chicago (even the 172 dollar-a-night ones) don't have a refrigerator. Our first option was the House of Blues, but we were discouraged by the long line of patrons outside trying to get in to the L.L. Cool J. concert. One would be amazed to learn of just how many times in life I have seen my plans foiled by L. L. Cool J. Ladies truly love cool James. Down the street was Harry Carray's restaurant, but since we weren't terribly hungry, and instead looking more for a "tide-over" meal, the notion of shelling out $25 a person for what I'm sure would have been top-notch food was out of the question. So we forged on, thinking momentarily on the Hard Rock Cafe option, wishing we knew where Ed Debevick's was, then finally landing on a Thai food restaurant on Clark street. It was fine. It was cheap, it was quick, and it did the job. Won't be erasing any memories of the Thai Siam, but hey, why would I want to?

With two meals under our belts, we pressed on to one of the only planned events I had in mind for the trip: another triumphant return, this time to the Blue Chicago. Yes, while my compatriots in Utah were busy celebrating Pioneer Day and all of the dedication and vigor it holds, I was back in the state the fled, hanging out in a blues bar. Cover charge $8, one-drink minimum (and no refills on $2.50 soft drinks, apparently).

Before I discuss the show itself, let me mention one of the phenomenon's--other than toll roads--I have reacquainted myself with on this trip: tipping. In Utah I was a generous tipper, and it was easy to do so, since the only time you had to tip was when you went out to eat. However, here in the city we have bag check guys to tip, valet guys to tip, club waitresses to tip, I even considered tipping the rent-a-car shuttle guy for a second. If I ever obtain the personal entourage I know I deserve, the guy that walks next to my "theme music" guy will be my official "tipping guru" guy, a key component during all trips to cities of over 500,000 people.

Back to the Blue Chicago...

The evening's attraction was the same band I had seen seven years ago, Big Time Sarah and the BTS Express. Anyone that has heard this story, or read it here, will remember this as the occasion where I proudly sang with the blues band. Well, this time the band sounded even better, mostly due to the presence of one Ricky Nelson, drummer extraordinaire. Now, Ricky was a far cry from the Ricky Nelson most people know, and an even farther cry from the band his twin sons formed as the butt-rock era was circling the porcelain throne. No, this Ricky Nelson was a blaze of energy, the kind of guy that simultaneously reminds me how little I know about drumming and inspires me to learn all of the rest of it. The guitarists--they had two alternating leads--were fantastic, and the bassist was the traditional unassuming guy in the back corner. Sarah herself looked great, aside from the ankles that seemed to be bothering her, mostly because she had probably dropped about 100 lbs. She still earned her nickname, though: Big Time Sarah is still Big Time.

Monday, July 24, 2006

The Chicago Blog, Vol. 1

Back in the Windy City, with free wireless internet to boot. Sounds like time for live blog updates...

After a seven year absence, my dad and I touched down at O'Hare on Saturday afternoon, bringing me back to a long-neglected home. Along the way I met the Jazz's second round draft pick, Illinois shooting guard Dee Brown (who was flying home from the Rocky Mountain Revue), and attempted to use an airplane bathroom at 15,000 feet--quite the challenge.

Rather than go directly to the city, we first rented a car (Pontiac G6) and drove out West to Freeport, where I spent five months of my mission during the summer of 1996--a full ten years ago. We spent the rest of the weekend catching up with old friends I'd almost lost touch with, taking pictures, having food, and making a few new memories along the way. It's almost startling to see how much has changed, how many people have grown up and moved on. People that were starting high school when I served there are now returned missionaries and married adults building families of their own.

By Sunday evening we had left the rolling hills and dairy farms of northwestern Illinois and returned to the Loop, pulling in at the Allegro Hotel around 11pm. Most important observation about the Allegro so far? Our room boasts perhaps the most powerful toilet I have ever seen. One yank of the handle and you'd swear the thing was going to shake the tile floor to pieces.

This morning the real "Chicago" phase of the trip began, and Dad and I kicked it off by driving down to the South Side in the hopes that anyone dangerous enough to cause us any trouble would still be hung over or passed out until at least 11. The streets seemed narrower, and some of the neighborhoods actually looked a little more run down, sad to say. I guess memory puts a gloss on things sometimes...or it could be that whole ten-year gap thing again.

Regardless of appearances, the cold reality of our southern swing was that the man I drove down there to see, the immortal Dan Giles, turned out to be mortal after all. While trying to remember his house number on Ada street, I pulled over and asked a nervous woman ("who are those white boys driving around this neighborhood?") if she knew where Dan lived.

Apparently he passed away only earlier this year.

Sadly, it wasn't a tremendous shock, though I did wish I had done a better job of keeping in touch with him. Dan made it about ten years after retirement, and according to his neighbor, was sick for the last few years before he finally expired. As great a guy as he was, the notion of his eventual breakdown wasn't exactly an inevitability. He had been ill off and on when I was serving in his area, and the simple reality is that eventually people need to move on from this stage. And maybe that's why I wasn't overwhelmed with grief: not because I didn't care, or because I had become numbed to him; it was because I know he's moved on to a more peaceful existence. I'm going to see old Dan again. I still look forward to catching up with my old friend.

Coming up: Return to the Blue Chicago

Friday, July 21, 2006

Bamboozled in the Big Easy

As I write this, I'm about five hours off reprising my role as a Bountiful Days of '47 Parade PA announcer, and hoping that the exploits are at least as interesting as those I documented last year.

In the meantime, though, I'm actually doing more thinking about the trip I'm heading out on tomorrow morning, back to my old mission stomping grounds in Chicago. It's been seven years since my last visit to the Windy City, so I'm obviously excited. Seven years is far too long a gap between slices of Giordano's Pizza.

I'm sure my dad will agree. His conference in the Loop is the genesis of my excursion. So, like with New Orleans two summers ago, I will be tagging along in the hopes of getting some much-needed "away" time.

Strangely, my New Orleans memories are starting to take on the same kind of eerie atmosphere I have for seeing Sammy Sosa hit a Home Run at Wrigley back in '99: it's still a fun memory, but the knowledge of events to come tends to overshadow it. Saying "I went to Wrigley and saw Sosa hit one out" used to bring looks of Home Run Race nostalgia from friends; now it brings raised eyebrows as we wonder if he was swinging a loaded bat with loaded arms.

Same deal with New Orleans, only without the "bad guy" element. The whole Katrina mess, from the devastation of the hurricane itself to the social upheaval and chaos afterwards, pretty much dominates any thought of The Big Easy these days. Like seeing Ray Charles in concert back in 2000, I'm glad I got down there in time.

Some key memories...

1. BBQ Shrimp. I've been a huge fan of jumbo shrimp for years, but for the most part I had only sampled the traditional unseasoned kind, with the zenith example coming at Alioto's Restaurant in San Francisco, where I shelled out twelve bucks for a four-shrimp cocktail--and each item was two-inches WIDE. I had never had much interest in combining the field of BBQ with seafood, but after eating the BBQ shrimp at a little French Quarter restaurant just off Bourbon Street, I am converted. Rather than baste the shrimp in a thick traditional Southwestern BBQ sauce, the New Orleans version was cooked in a thin BBQ marinade, then served to you shells, heads, and all. Simply incredible stuff. I only wish I remembered the name of the restaurant...

2. Swamp Boat Tour. On our last full day of the trip, my dad and I decided to go take one of the swamp boat tours we had seen so many advertisements for. Our guide, a genuine Cajun local, had an uncanny resemblance to my old Institute teacher/mentor David A. Christensen, only with a moustache and tattoos. A full tour complete with multiple alligator sightings led to a recommendation to a local diner that didn't advertise to tourists. It was via the authentic gumbo that my week of cajun caught up with me, and segued into an episode at the Alamo Rental station I hesitate to recant in this space.

3. $20 Shoeshine. I like to think of myself as a fairly streetwise fellow, having lived in South Chicago and all. But this assumption was once again proven wrong as I mistakenly went along with what I thought was an innocent con at the south end of the French Quarter. While strolling the river bank, I encountered a seedy-looking fellow that suckered me for a shoeshine in a moment of weakness. Obligated to pay, I recoiled in horror to find that all I had to pay was a $20 bill, and my "friend" couldn't make change. His two associates nearby didn't look like they had change, either, and since no one was equipped to take debit cards, I found myself cursing my tormentor and my own gullible soul for hours to come.

(Interesting note here: I felt a tremendous surge of righteous indignation at being scammed by a career con man, as most would. Despite his pathetic circumstances, it's hard to feel sympathetic to someone who makes his living ripping people off, especially after they've just conned you. When I saw the aftermath of Katrina, I wondered whatever happened to the guy. Is he now a victim I should pity? Or is he just busy victimizing the other victims, according to an opportunist schedule? Should I fold my arms smugly, assuming justice has been done, and completely disregard the thousands of totally innocent people that were unjustly victimized, or...ugh, see what I mean?)

4. The Music. Our hotel was right smack in the middle of the French Quarter, a block off of Bourbon Street, and everywhere I went I heard the strains of zydeco music. Tubas, accordions, all mixed in with Jazz. It kind of makes up for the fact that we didn't catch any actual shows. If there is anything that triggers my trip memories, it's zydeco music and mini alligator heads (I bought mine for $10).

5. Bourbon Street, or Disneyland? For the most part I tried to avoid Bourbon Street, and stuck to the more touristy parts of the French Quarter...you know, the ones where you can get ripped off for a shoeshine. But one evening my dad and I decided to try a recommended restaurant about four blocks away on Bourbon Street. Around 8pm, we hit the street, me wondering how much like the infamous media legend the real BS would turn out to be. I expected hundreds of people my age, engaged in all sorts of lurid activity, chucking strings of beads at each other. Well, there were plenty of lurid establishments in between the restaurants and shops, but there were also a lot of older people out walking the street...meaning flat-out ELDERLY people. This may have been the one time in my life I was glad my dad's vision isn't so good; in spite of the age-spanning crowd (high numbers even for a Thursday night), there was plenty to shield your vision from. Another legendary moment: the woman on the sidewalk in the bikini trying to talk my dad and I into entering the strip club she worked at. Not what I would call a Fathers-and-Sons outing. Not really what I would call a Fathers-and-Sons town.

But the shrimp was great.

Thursday, July 20, 2006

Battle of the Rocky Sequels

The other day I came across a parody trailer for the much-rumored "Rocky 6" movie. Like "Indiana Jones 4", I hope the powers that be decide against the option. Nowadays Harrison Ford could play Sean Connery's dad, and I'm even less interested in seeing what Sly does to his franchise.

"Rocky V" was the unquestionable nail in the coffin for the credibility of the Rocky story, but it's seeds had been sowed much earlier. In terms of "jumping the shark", some might argue that Rocky did so while wearing the caveman outfit he brandished early in "Rocky II" while filming ads to make ends meet with his new bride, Adrian. Others might suggest that the franchise killed itself merely by bringing out a sequel in the first place. (It was hardly alone in that regard; the list of good movies that were slaughtered in sequel-hood during that era is long..."Jaws", "Friday the 13th", etc.).

Whether the Rocky movies went from legit to self-parody is beside the point. The question on my mind is which of the Rocky sequels is "superior" to the others. The reason I'm thinking about this is because most of the time, whenever the Rocky films come up in causal conversation, "Rocky IV" seems to be the sequel of choice. No one disputes the ultimate superiority of the first film--at least no one that have seen it do; it's disturbing to learn how many people have seen "Rocky IV" but haven't ever seen "Rocky I"--but the "favorite" always seems to be Rocky vs. Ivan Drago.

Obviously I disagree.

I will wholeheartedly admit that there are several elements of R4 that make it a worthy entry in the "Cult Film Hall of Fame"...killing Apollo Creed in the first act...James Brown performing "Living in America" immediately beforehand...countless Ivan Drago lines ("You will lose", "I must break you", "He's not a man...he's like a piece of iron")...Sly's beard...the always amusing presence of Brigitte Neilsen (who reportedly was dating Sly at the time)...and best of all, the Gorbachev look-alike looming in the upper booth during the climactic fight (watch for token "evil" looks between faux-Gorby and the other Soviet bad guys at key turning points in the fight).

But for all of R4's obvious highlights, it's still not my favorite of the Rocky sequels...not by a long shot. That distinction, no matter how good/bad R6 may turn out to be, will always go to "Rocky III". I don't care about head-to-head criteria, subjective definitions of terms like "favorite" and "superior", or any of that stuff...this is just my opinion, and I'm standing by it.

Here's why:

1. Bizarro Originality. As silly as the caveman ads were in R2, I think it was R3 that marked the real transition from "serious" Rocky movies to "self-parody" Rocky movies (though I'm sure Sly would argue that all of them are still "serious" efforts). Therefore, R2 can only be compared to R1, and clearly that's a losing cause. So among the three remaining sequels, R3 holds the nod for "originality in bizarro Rocky moments". Some of these moments will be detailed as evidence of R3 superiority.

2. Thunderlips. This character, subtitled "the Ultimate Male", kicked R3 off with a surreal vengeance, and served as the inspiration for the name of my future mission bike and a future band I played in during 2001. In my mind, "Thunderlips" was Hulk Hogan's finest moment. Not only was the Hulk vs. Sly match a high point of absurdity for all sports movies, it also showed us just how short Sly really is.

3. Adrian Corleone. R3 marked the complete arrival of the "Connie Corleone" version of Adrian, as played by Talia Shire. Back in the beginning, Adrian was a soft-spoken insecure wallflower working in a Philly pet shop, but as the character gained money and confidence through her connection with Rocky, Adrian evolved into basically the same character Shire played in the "Godfather" movies, right down to the big fur coats and ties to inferior men. (On a related note, this parallel could make Paulie the "Fredo" of the Rocky films, which makes a LOT of sense if you think about it. Essentially the only difference between Paulie and Fredo is that when snubbed, Paulie goes after you with a baseball bat, while Fredo will just finger you for a mob hit.

4. The Eye of the Tiger. "Gonna Fly Now" is probably the definitive Rocky theme, present from movie #1, and "Living in America" may be the best song James Brown has written in my lifetime, but "Eye of the Tiger" is THE sports pop soundtrack song of the 80's, if not all-time. "You're the Best" from "Karate Kid" is up there, but still can't pose a crane technique next to the only song that ever justified Survivor's existence.

5. Mickey's Death. Killing off a main character is always a below-the-belt tactic (pun fully intended), but in terms of pulling a tear instead of a laugh, Mickey's death was a lot more effective than Apollo's. Apollo's, in fact, was a joke, one that left you saying, "what else has to happen to give Rocky the motivation we need to justify watching this?" I'm actually surprised that they didn't try to kill Adrian in R5...at least they could have killed off his kid. Mini-Rock never quited jived with me.

6. Clubber Lang. Next to his self-help video, "Be Somebody or Be Somebody's Fool", R3 was Mr. T's finest performance, "A-Team" exploits included. Somehow they even managed to squeeze two Clubber/Rocky fights into the movie. Ironically, you almost found yourself rooting for Mr. T early in the film; he was the one portrayed in the traditional Rocky underdog role, training in his dank ghetto basement while Sly did promotional scrimmage fights with Thunderlips. The Mr. T/Rambo combo was a classic 80's culture clash...the ascendance of the Mr. T era combined with the beginning of the decline of the legit Sly era. One of the CD's in my vast collection is from a band that specialized in doing speed-metal covers of 80's adult contemporary hits like "Say You, Say Me" and "Time After Time". The band's name? Clubber Lang and the Heavyweights.

7. The Trans Am. With all due respect to Burt Reynolds, this was the movie that marked the zenith of the Trans Am as the cool car of the early 80's. Rocky's black Pontiac with the bird on the hood, best viewed during the scene when he chucks his bottle at the big statue when he's feeling bad about himself and we're supposed to start seeing him as an underdog again, was so moving that I made my dad take me on a test drive of one while my mom and sister were visiting family in Cleveland. Needless to say, no purchase was made.

8. The Death of Dumb Rocky. In the same manner that Adrian evolves into the thick-skinned power behind the throne to Rocky, Rocky completes his evolution from a character who is generally dumb and sympathetic to a character that appears quite intelligent and merely makes a lot of dumb decisions. Kind of a reverse Homer Simpson evolution, in many ways. One might be tempted to suggest that Dumb Rocky is still Dumb Rocky under those nice overcoats and shiny haircuts, but would Dumb Rocky ever be capable of becoming the well-spoken borderline-city rep we see in R3? I mean, before the Thunderlips sequence, Rocky is trying to work the PR angle with Hulk Hogan like some kind of two-bit politician. Dumb Rocky would have stayed in his corner and muttered to Paulie, "Hey yo Paulie, I don' think this look so good, right?"

9. Adrian Lang. Several months ago, after having one of those days that makes you want to forget you had just had one of those days, I was flipping channels when I came across a late-night cable showing of R3 (this is another reason I think R4 is more regarded--it pops up on cable much more often). In the middle of the statue ceremony scene early in the movie, I was reminded of why R3 is far and away my favorite of the Rocky sequels: Mr. T makes a pass at Adrian. First he shows up and taunts Rocky for being a paper champion, for refusing to act like a man and fight a legitimate challenger. Then, sticking with the manhood theme, Mr. T invites Adrian to come by his place and find out what a real man is all about. This is one of those grand cinematic moments that could only have taken place with a particular actor in a particular role. Rocky/Sly is obviously incensed, not because Mr. T is coming on to his wife, not because Mr. T is stealing the thunder from his ceremony, but because Mr. T just stole his whole movie right out from under him.

Wednesday, July 19, 2006

Textual Relations

I hate text messaging.

And with that statement, I officially begin the downward spiral into old fogieism. According to a wire article here, e-mail usage is largely giving way to text messaging among the "rising generation". How depressing. It's bad enough that 75% of the music I listen to is 30-40 years old, and it's not enough that I have embraced e-mail and blogging. Nope, I'm still behind the curve, and being dragged ever closer to full participation in one of my biggest pet peeves since middle-aged soccer moms started buying white Lexus SUV's.

When I started teaching four years ago, I had one rule in class: if a cell phone went off, I got to answer it. The rule worked well, and provided multiple occasions of in-class comedy that actually provided tension breakers in the awkward teacher-student dynamic. But then about a year or two ago, I started noticing students in the back of the room, staring under their desks at their crotches. Turns out they were holding their cell phones just out of my sight line, texting away with their little blips, acronymns, and 2,000 versions of smiley-faces. The dumbest thing was that they didn't think I could tell what they were doing. It was almost as bad as the F student that can't string seven words together who suddenly turns in a piece of brilliant research and doesn't think I'll nail him for plagiarism.

I can understand the advantages of texting, as far as convenience and timeliness goes. And those of us who haven't caved in to a $75/month cell phone plan so we can get a comfortable daytime talk minutes package will appreciate not having to get closer to the 40 cent/minute overcharge (which nailed me for about 90 bucks two months ago). But those reasons aside, I just can't embrace the image texting brings along with it...the trendy, hip, jabbering junior high school age girl immaturity of it. "R U" will never be an acceptable substitute for "Are You", and I refuse to insert little smiley faces, no matter how friendly my message may be. A year ago I met a girl I was interested in pursuing, but I had this uneasy feeling that in order to get into her life I was going to have to start having frequent "textual relations". I couldn't do it.

Now that I think of it, the only reason I'm even faced with this dilemna is that while I near the outer edges of the "single LDS social scene" age spectrum, the girls entering at the other end are bringing the text-message culture along with them. Many of my guy friends--even some older than me--have converted over to this standard communication MO, but I'd wonder if they'll have anything to do with it once we're all married and whisked away into a more traditional adult lifestyle. Of course, that carries it's own stigmas--polo shirts and a living room full of brightly colored plastic toys.

The technology gap is just one symptom of nearing the far end of the singles spectrum. Not long ago, my roommate Erik had a pair of sobering encounters within a period of about 45 minutes that seem to frame the situation perfectly:

1. During a stake Music in the Park activity, one inspired performer lit up the crowd with a solo keyboard and vocal rendition of the 80's slow-dance favorite "Forever Young" by Alphaville. Later my roommate cornered the performer and shared his kudos with the selection. The grateful performer, happy to have an appreciative audience, said, "yeah, I love that one. But most of the people here were born in '86, and here I am, born in '82, man!"

My roommate was born in '75.

2. Following the activity, we returned to our house, where an honorary BBQ for a friend was in full-swing. Eventually a crowd of--as my roommate would call them--"boppers" arrived, and started talking to a couple of girls we had invited along. The girls--graduates of the class of 2000--were joking about how old they felt compared to the "bopper" crowd, when one of said group piped up, "well, at least you didn't graduate back in the 90's."

Erik should have texted him that his mom had arrived to give him a ride home...and ended it with a ":)".

Monday, July 17, 2006

Crashing the After After Party

Dedicated to Art Buchwald...

Last weekend I was in New York covering the "Olive Oil Memorial Fashion Diva Heroine Chic" Awards. Following a typically robust evening of high fashion and cutting-edge style, I staggered into a local McDonalds sometime after 2am.

There in line ahead of me was Tommy Hilfiger.

"Whale of a show, eh, Tommy?" I said.

Tommy looked over his shoulder at me and smiled. "Yeah," he said, "some of these new kids have some groovy ideas, love."

Then Tyra Banks sauntered up and grabbed Tommy by the arm, giving me a curious look. "You don't mind if I cut in, do you?" she cooed.

"Whatever," I said. It was 2am, what did I care?

"Tommy," came another voice, "whale of a show, eh love?"

Over at a nearby table, Elton John, Sting, and Al Gore were eating salads and waving. Tommy winked at them and turned to the 16-year-old kid with the zits behind the counter.

"Can I get a scotch on the rocks, young man?"

A rustling behind me caught my attention, and I turned to see a pair of legs sticking out of one of the waste bins. Several paparazzi anxiously shot photos of the stiletto-clad heels from a nearby window. Matt Leinhart looked over at me and shrugged.

"I hate it when Paris embarrases me like this," he said, then stopped. "Wait, am I even dating her anymore?"

Finally it was my turn, and I decided to go for the Happy Meal on the tip that this week's promotion was a new Superman toy--a rubber Superman doll with removable eyeglasses.

"Sorry sir," the kid said, "during the After After Party, the Happy Meals come with Ecstasy pills."

I just decided to go with the value meal.

As I scanned the restaurant, I realized that the place was filled to capacity. Everywhere I looked, A-listers, B-listers, and even Randy Quaid milled about clutching Chicken Selects, Big Macs, and a wide variety of fetching desserts. Over in one corner, Brad and Angelina were making small talk with Oliver Stone about his new World Trade Center movie. At another table, Arnold was debating with Al Franken over a Filet-O-Fish. Ralph Lauren popped up out of the ball bin in the Playland, and outside the door, Lindsey Lohan was getting Mayor McCheese's phone number while Wilmer Valderrama brooded with Jake Gyllenhall by the Men's restroom.

I thought maybe I should just take my food back to my hotel, remembering how the fries survived the months in the air-tight container in that "Super-Size Me" documentary, but finally I spied an empty spot at a table with three middle-aged fellows in three-piece suits, smoking cigars and laughing. With broad grins, they waved me over.

"Have a seat, kid!" yelled the first fellow.

"Want a cigar?" asked the second.

I sat down next to the third and shook my head. "I don't smoke," I replied.

"That's OK," said the third, putting his arm around my shoulder, "cigars is different, son!" He held out a fat Cuban.

"Isn't it illegal to smoke in a McDonalds?" I asked.

The men laughed. "Not at the After After Party!" the first guy cried.

"Besides," said the second, "we own the company!"

"Really?" I asked.

"Well," said the third, finally putting away the cigar, "we're major shareholders. The majority owner is Tim Robbins."

"We were just celebrating our decision to go with this new red-carpet image," said the second man, taking a big puff of his cigar.

"Yeah," said the first, "that 'I'm Lovin' It' campaign sucked."

I nodded. "Conan O'Brien didn't like it either."

"Who's that, son?" asked the third man.

"He spoke for many of us," I said.

"Yeah, well, that's all in the past now," said the second man, "it's all high society from now on, boy. You want connections these days, you come to the golden arches."

"Have you used our movie rental service yet?" asked the first man.

"No," I said, getting to my feet. The cigar smoke was getting to be a bit much.

"You sure there ain't nothing we can do for you, kid?" asked the second man. "Look around...we know people."

I peered around me at the commotion, and noticed Hugh Hefner coming through the doors in a bathrobe followed by Kenny Rogers.

"Well," I said, "do you know anyone that could find me a McPizza? I haven't had one of those in years."

Sunday, July 16, 2006

Season of the BBQ

In the last week, I've attended three seperate barbecues...and the pace looks like it's going to hold until either the snow comes or I get a girlfriend.

Bet your hand accordingly.

The first affair was one I hosted, actually, the first of a series of Wednesday night barbecues that should keep up through the end of the summer, or until the numbers get down low enough to offset the cost-profit ratio. Ultimately I'd like to name each event after a special person. For example, two weeks ago we held the "Bob-a-cue", in honor of birthday boy Bob Leeper. In future events I'd like to honor such luminaries as Ralph Macchio or Richard Simmons, and fill the scene with elements indicative of their presence--such as my Karate Kid T-Shirt ("Sweep the Leg") or my lifesize Richard Simmons cardboard cut-out.

But Wednesday's affair had no such theme...perhaps that's why the female-to-male ratio was about 1-to-5. If it weren't for my (now) longtime friend Ashlie coming with roommate in tow, my poor sister would have been the sole female representation, and the sole recipient of what surely would have degenerated into a machismo-centric barrage of dirty jokes and offensive noises.

Thanks, Ashlie.

We're hoping for bigger numbers this week.

Saturday night's BBQ was a bit more planned, and in fact was the second of a now yearly event hosted by ex-32nd Ward EQP Bryan Hill up in Kaysville. It was well-attended, had some good food, and managed to surpass the "typical" event status that most such activities deliver these days. I would have felt more upbeat about the affair if my wingman hadn't ditched out on me and turned my attempt to contact one girl from a group discussion into an uncomfortable third-wheel debacle.

Thanks, Jesse.

The event that not only took the cake this week, but ate it too, was the house party on Capitol Hill Friday night. Thanks to social network guru Steve Read (he of the Steve Read Memorial River Trip), my roommates and I joined an event that had to have featured upwards of 3-400 people. I'm not even kidding. At one point my friend Les and I camped out next to a major backyard thoroughfare and just people-watched for about a half hour. The design of the backyard itself confined traffic into a U-shaped formation, and so everyone had to keep moving through the same point in order to get anywhere during the party.

Some highlights:

1. I wouldn't be surprised if the total age range for the event (not including host parents) was about 17-40. Seriously. When we first got there, the pack of high school aged guys standing around the entrance text messaging almost convinced us that we were at the wrong venue. But after standing around in the road for a bit, we decided to re-enter...and proceeded to find a human feeding frenzy inside that spanned the aforementioned age range. As my friends Jared and Alicia instructed us, the farther we got from the grill, the older people got.

2. This age range was offset slightly by the host parents, who rather than camp out downstairs and watch TV while waiting for the deck to collapse, instead worked the crowd like Colonel Parker himself, giving hugs, filling (non-alcoholic, I think) drinks, and having a swell old time. The mom was a social butterfly that seemed to have made tanning a way of life; the dad's resemblance to Harry Anderson of "Night Court" was uncanny.

3. The centerpiece of the party was the backyard pool, mostly frequented by a parade of dudes that spent most of their time playing a version of jamball on the plastic pool basketball hoop. But above the pool on the south end, the party organizers had mounted a 20-foot projector screen that was running a surfing documentary on loop. The sound was turned off on the movie, enabling us to combine the bizarre scene in the pool with the movie, all to the soundtrack of contemporary hip-hop that blasted from the stereo system on the deck. It was kind of like a 2006 version of those weird Andy Worhol orchestrated acid trip Velvet Underground shows from 1967.

4. Not long after arriving, many partygoers were entertained by the streaker that decided to grace the pool area after a full-sprint run from elsewhere on the property. Said streaker turned out to be an acquaintance of my friend Ness, who had agreed to the stunt when a third party offered to pay him $500 to go au natural. Heck, for $500 I'd consider it. I think a real pro would just do it on his/her own.

5. Towards the end of the festivities, a third "over 40" fellow joined the party, arriving in sun glasses and shark hat around midnight. Shark Guy's hat consisted of a black headband with attached shark head, tail, and dorsal fin. Like I said, I don't think anyone was drinking at this party--all I saw were Sprite's, Dr. Pepper's, and Mountain Dew's--but I'm not sure I'd wager a taco on it. To tell the truth, I think any party that manages to feature a surfing documentary, a streaker, the judge from "Night Court", and some 60-year-old in a shark hat without alcohol is an event for the archives.

...or at least for the blog.

Friday, July 14, 2006

Wrapping up the week...T-Style

This morning I arrived to work with a message in my Yahoo inbox from my old friend Randy. Said message referenced a Yahoo news article that announced Mr. T's recent decision to go "sans-chains" in light of the Hurricane Katrina tragedy.

Props to Clubber Lang; the best part of the article is reading it out-loud, "T-Style".

This would be a golden opportunity to wax nostalgic on the road trip Randy and I took to Yellowstone eleven years ago, when he and my other buddy Breto quoted Mr. T's "Be Somebody or Be Somebody's Fool" self-help video for seven straight days, when I got pulled over for speeding in Afton, Wyoming for trying to race a '94 Buick with my '83 Accord, and when my aforementioned friends turned my early-morning whiz off the side of a mountain into a convenient photo-op.

But I'm too tired for that. It's nearly 4pm on a Friday.

I'll just leave you this instead...

Thursday, July 13, 2006

A quiet Thursday afternoon in the shadow of WWIII...

Today's Drudge Report stirred up a little piece of nostalgia for me. An article in the Daily Mail detailed the progress of a program designed to help amputees control robotic prosthetic body parts through technological connections to their brains. Real-life "Bionic Man" stuff. The link is below:

"Bionic Man" controls robotic arm with brain

This story is nostalgic for me because three years ago I wrote about this project in grad school. Only back then the project was still using monkeys, which provided obvious comic fodder:

Beneath the Planet of the Mecha-Apes

Just more evidence that the world of science fiction continues to evolve more and more into science fact...

Speaking of evidence...

The big news on Drudge today is the ever-expanding list of article links that describe the different facets of escalating violence in Israel. Between the Middle East, Iraq, Iran, North Korea, and the regular instances of terrorism popping up elsewhere, some people are wondering not whether we're at the doors of World War III, but whether we've already crossed the threshold. Personally, I think we have, staring at 9/11.

Thing is, even though things can still get a lot worse, the nature of the post-9/11 world is too unique to necessitate direct comparisons to world atmosphere in the 1940's or the early 20th Century. Once those towers fell, the days of having a clear cut enemy with national allegiances and borders pretty much ended. We may still be squaring off against folks like Iran and North Korea--or at least against their leaders; I'm not so sure everyone in their countries is thrilled with their lives under the "regime du jour"--but the larger enemy is an ideology, not a nation.

Once again I am reminded that the Book of Mormon is a perfect mirror for the circumstances of our day. The Gadianton Robbers, often mistaken for the Nephite Mafia when I was a kid, clearly seem to be the Jihadist terrorists of the meridian of time. The books of Helaman and 3rd Nephi detail an insurrectionist culture that sought to subvert and overthrow a society from within it's borders, while living next door to the very people they were seeking to destory. Ultimately, and ironically, the "good guys" of that day had to cut themselves off from their comfort zones and join up with the nationally-identified former "bad guys" in order to literally starve off the insurrectionists. I wonder what the 21st century equivalent would have to be in order to pull off a similar maneuver.

Whether you want to call it WWIII or not, we live in a difficult world. And that has nothing to do with politics.

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

Sucker Punches, Crazy Diamonds...and Head-Butts

Commentary on a few random items...

1. Just found out that Syd Barrett died. Most people just went, "huh"? Unfortunately, many of those people also consider themselves to be Pink Floyd fans, and are completely unaware that back before "The Wall" and even "Dark Side of the Moon" there was another guy helming the band. In fact, Barrett was the guy who founded and named the band.

Back before my jaunt to Chicago, I got into the "early" Floyd pretty heavy...it was an era of far-out experimentation and movie soundtrack gigs that honestly makes their more well-known stuff seem pretty tame. "Piper at the Gates of Dawn" was the first Floyd album, and the only full one that featured Barrett. The guy was basically in a 24-hour acid haze at the time, and according to legend, had a mental breakdown not long after. He got kicked out of the group (after the band had already picked up guitarist David Gilmour to carry the load), went into seclusion for most of the rest of his life (aside from recording a couple of equally-far-out solo albums), and basically became immortalized as the inspiration for most of the rest of Pink Floyd's work (see "Wish You Were Here" and "Shine on You Crazy Diamond", among others).

As I listen to the Barrett stuff now, I don't find it as "cool" as I did back when I was eighteen. Maybe I just enjoyed listening to something so different than what everyone else knew about the band. Of course, I don't find most of the psychedelic stuff as--ahem--intoxicating as I did then. Listening to the stuff by itself was far out on it's own...I can only imagine what happened to the people who did drugs and listened to it.

2. Now, as for the head-butt in the World Cup final...OK, if soccer is as huge as the rest of the world makes it out to be, wouldn't the magnitude of that game, plus the fact that you know it's your final game, plus the fact that your team is tied and in a second overtime, plus the fact that you've been playing well enough through the tournament to earn it's MVP award (and the inherent assumption that you're used to trash-talking and other distractionary tactics) maybe make you think twice before HEAD-BUTTING your opponent in the heat of the moment?

The Drudge Report is saying the Italian player called Zidane a "son of a terrorist whore", and I'm sure that would be considered a pretty nasty dig no matter who you are, especially these days. But it's an obvious bait...and he fell for it. And I find it hard to believe that ducking down and going Bighorn Sheep on the guy is a better way of defending your honor than sucking it up and making your opponent pay the hard way...by beating him on the scoreboard.

Monday, July 10, 2006

In a perfect NBA world...

Last week, in one of a thousand articles speculating on the inevitable(?) trade of Allen Iverson, Stephen A. Smith tossed out the idea that Philadelphia should try to get someone like Carlos Boozer in exchange. I assume that Smith was inferring that they do so as part of some multi-team deal, but the notion is too amusing to pass up...

What if the Jazz scored Allen Iverson?

As of last Thursday, I officially became a partial season-ticket holder for the Jazz, along with two of my co-workers. Therefore I have an increasingly vested interest in the status of the team. I wasn't bowled over with glee at the draft--though it has continued to look better in the days since--but I am pretty upbeat about the addition of Derek Fisher. I'm happy they re-signed Harpring, pretty much neutral about Araujo, and still waiting for someone to return my phone call after I left a voice mail asking about any possibility of season-ticket holder/Jazz Dancer exchange events.

I really want the Jazz to win. Really. But the notion of watching a season with Allen Iverson on the team? That's almost too absurd, too perfect, too brilliant to pass up.

As funny as it sounds, there is one intangible Iverson has that Sloan would love: a 76-man posse. No really, Iverson is about as tough as they come, and the Jazz really need that. Unfortunately, they also need a guy that can shoot...preferrably more than 35% from the field.

Then there's that posse thing...

I guess if he came to Utah, we could just turn over Port-'O-Call and let "The Answer" have his run of things for a few months. I don't know, maybe the guy really likes skiing and would actually have a blast here. It's possible.

On a related note, LeBron James is supposedly going to sign a four-year extension with the Cavs instead of the five-year megadeals all his '03 peers have already inked. Speculation here is that King James is holding onto his option to bolt for NY or LA if C-Town can't pull a title in the next five years. The official word, however, is that LeBron loves his home and has no desire to leave, that he wants to be the guy to "break the Cleveland curse".

As a guy that counts C-Town as a second home of sorts (Mom raised there), I love the idea of LeBron sticking to his roots. As a guy that watched the Cleveland Browns (the closest thing I've ever had to a Utah Jazz in the NFL) lose three AFC title games in four years to the Denver (isn't Salt Lake one of our suburbs?) Broncos, I would love to see some team from Cleveland break through. Cavs, Browns, Indians, whatever.

If Allen Iverson could manage a herculean change of heart and suddenly decide he so wants a title that he would be willing to bite his tongue for a year in Utah to pull it off, that would be great. I'd love to see Kevin Garnett do the same thing. Cause this is one of the things I can't really figure out about NBA players: they all act like they are so desperate for a ring, but hardly anyone will consider taking a smaller paycheck to do so.

Until Karl Malone and Gary Payton tried to latch onto Shaq and Kobe's party in 2004, the closest thing we had to a genuine "humble moment" was Barkley and Drexler going to the Rockets. But how many guys in the 90's could have sucked it up, joined the Jazz, and easily propelled Utah to a title? Why did Karl only decide he didn't care about the money when he opted to go to LA?

Look, I understand that it's a different world for millionaire athletes, especially when someone is chucking eight-figure offers at you when you're 21 years old. But seriously, if you are as competitive as you claim to be, if you want a title as bad as you claim, prove it. Jason Williams and Antoine Walker just got at title in Miami, for Pete's sake. Are you telling me the same thing couldn't happen in Utah?

In a perfect NBA world...

Last week, in one of a thousand articles speculating on the inevitable(?) trade of Allen Iverson, Stephen A. Smith tossed out the idea that Philadelphia should try to get someone like Carlos Boozer in exchange. I assume that Smith was inferring that they do so as part of some multi-team deal, but the notion is too amusing to pass up...

What if the Jazz scored Allen Iverson?

As of last Thursday, I officially became a partial season-ticket holder for the Jazz, along with two of my co-workers. Therefore I have an increasingly vested interest in the status of the team. I wasn't bowled over with glee at the draft--though it has continued to look better in the days since--but I am pretty upbeat about the addition of Derek Fisher. I'm happy they re-signed Harpring, pretty much neutral about Araujo, and still waiting for someone to return my phone call after I left a voice mail asking about any possibility of season-ticket holder/Jazz Dancer exchange events.

I really want the Jazz to win. Really. But the notion of watching a season with Allen Iverson on the team? That's almost too absurd, too perfect, too brilliant to pass up.

As funny as it sounds, there is one intangible Iverson has that Sloan would love: a 76-man posse. No really, Iverson is about as tough as they come, and the Jazz really need that. Unfortunately, they also need a guy that can shoot...preferrably more than 35% from the field.

Then there's that posse thing...

I guess if he came to Utah, we could just turn over Port-'O-Call and let "The Answer" have his run of things for a few months. I don't know, maybe the guy really likes skiing and would actually have a blast here. It's possible.

On a related note, LeBron James is supposedly going to sign a four-year extension with the Cavs instead of the five-year megadeals all his '03 peers have already inked. Speculation here is that King James is holding onto his option to bolt for NY or LA if C-Town can't pull a title in the next five years. The official word, however, is that LeBron loves his home and has no desire to leave, that he wants to be the guy to "break the Cleveland curse".

As a guy that counts C-Town as a second home of sorts (Mom raised there), I love the idea of LeBron sticking to his roots. As a guy that watched the Cleveland Browns (the closest thing I've ever had to a Utah Jazz in the NFL) lose three AFC title games in four years to the Denver (isn't Salt Lake one of our suburbs?) Broncos, I would love to see some team from Cleveland break through. Cavs, Browns, Indians, whatever.

The whole team loyalty/max contract thing stirs a big pot for me.

If Allen Iverson could manage a herculean change of heart and suddenly decide he so wants a title that he would be willing to bite his tongue for a year in Utah to pull it off, that would be great. I'd love to see Kevin Garnett do the same thing. Cause this is one of the things I can't really figure out about NBA players: they all act like they are so desperate for a ring, but hardly anyone will consider taking a smaller paycheck to do so.

Until Karl Malone and Gary Payton tried to latch onto Shaq and Kobe's party in 2004, the closest thing we had to a genuine "humble moment" was Barkley and Drexler going to the Rockets. But how many guys in the 90's could have sucked it up, joined the Jazz, and easily propelled Utah to a title? Why did Karl only decide he didn't care about the money when he opted to go to LA?

Look, I understand that it's a different world for millionaire athletes, especially when someone is chucking eight-figure offers at you when you're 21 years old. But seriously, if you are as competitive as you claim to be, if you want a title as bad as you claim, prove it. Jason Williams and Antoine Walker just got at title in Miami, for Pete's sake. Are you telling me the same thing couldn't happen in Utah?

Friday, July 07, 2006

Biking Memories, Attempt #2

Hopefully this message will actually get posted. Yesterday I put down about 1,500 brilliant words worth of biking memories, only to log on later and discover that the draft I thought I had saved had decided not to save after all.

So now I'll try again...

Take Two:

Life continues to come full circle for me. After returning to Del Taco and the X-Files, then buying my first mountain bike since my days in Chicago, I am now getting ready to go one step further and actually return to the Windy City at the end of this month. Save for a 3-hour layover in the fall of 2000, it has been a full seven years since I last visited my old mission stomping grounds.

In a week's time, I hope to visit as many of my old friends and contacts as I can--and that still remember me--but I'm sure that the vast majority of the characters I encountered over that two-year period are now lost to history.

One guy I'm always going to wonder about was actually my third greenie companion, Elder Clark. In three months together, he was hit by three different cars. His knack for physical battery was so intense that even I got hit while I was serving with him--the only time I've been hit by a car in my entire life. The saga of Elder Clark and his hybridized bike was one of the most memorable--if difficult--passages of my mission.

Like I said before, Elder Clark was the third of my four greenies, and probably the one I worried most about. The man-child was a lightning rod for bizarro events of space and time (and fenders). Fortunately he had the kind of thug-like body that could absorb most of the blows, not to mention the relentless positive attitude that got him back on his feet every time. Whenever I think of most old friends, I wonder if they're married, if they have kids, and what they wound up going into career-wize. When I think about Elder Clark, I wonder if he's dead.

The three months we spent together were a comi-tragedy of zany mishaps. Here's the bike-car collision record:

1. One late afternoon while heading home to our apartment on Talman, we were flying the wrong way down a one-way street (as 19-year old bikers, we were invincible, or at least thought so) when I noticed a 70's-era van approaching. So, I veered to the right in order to give the van a wide berth. Up ahead, though, Elder Clark--determined to get home and take care of some bathroom business--plowed ahead in a head-on game of chicken with his much larger opponent. All I can figure is the sun must have been in his eyes, because as I waited for Clark to scoot over, he just kept riding, right up until the van hit it's brakes, blared it's horn, and knocked Elder Clark and his bike off the road. Fortunately, about five feet from the collision, Elder Clark did see the van, and so by turning his handlebars was able to bounce to the side of the road rather than just go straight under the van.

I was so alarmed and incredulous that the first thing out of my mouth as I pulled up was, "what are you THINKING?" (Obviously the Sensitivity merit badge was never a requirement for Eagle Scout). The petrified black man sitting behind the wheel of the van was probably thinking the same thing. Elder Clark staggered to his feet and picked up his bike, waving at the man.

"It's OK," he called, "I'm all right."

The driver pointed an accusing finger back at him. "YOU hit ME!"

2. A month later Elder Clark and I made an epic journey home one night that saw us dodging beer bottles, fighting blown-out tires, ducking nearby bolts of lightning, and hiding under overpasses in thunderstorms while tornados were spotted several miles away. In the midst of that, Elder Clark had wreck #2. Somewhere around Aberdeen and 79th Street, past Louis Farrakhan's headquarters but before the 79th and Western bus station, some wiseguy chucked a beer bottle at me. Hearing the shattered glass, Elder Clark turned back to see what happened right before a black Hyndai coming in the opposite direction decided to make a quick left turn in front of him. The turn wasn't quick enough, and Elder Clark turned forward again just in time to see his front tire hit the rear quarter of the car and send him flying over the trunk onto the pavement. Noting that Elder Clark seemed to be unharmed, I decided to give the stunned driver a Book of Mormon.

3. The funny thing about Elder Clark's wrecks was that they seemed to happen when he was riding in front of me, which was only the case about 5% of the time. Usually I would lead, since I knew the area better, was the senior companion, and just generally tended to call the shots. It was almost as if he was being punished for asserting himself.

But the last wreck happened about a block behind me, as the two of us were cruising down Western street on the way to who-knows-where down in our area. Just before I tried to cross the road at 69th street, I looked back and realized I had no companion behind me. Turns out that about two blocks back, Elder Clark had ridden past an open parallel parking spot when a local resident decided to claim the space, uninterested in the fact that he had to drive through Elder Clark to get it. My fearless greenie was once again propelled through the air, landing in a heap on the cement sidewalk and awaiting a sheepish apology.

He received none.

Instead, the driver of the offending automobile looked down at him with distain, muttered "watch where you're going", and stormed off into a store, no doubt to purchase additional weapons of mass destruction with which to continue his highway reign of terror.

Maybe it was because Elder Clark never seemed to get hurt. Maybe it was just because I thought that as a missionary, we should rejoice in persecution for the Lord's sake. Maybe I was just an insensitive jerk. But I had an increasingly low level of patience for the havoc Elder Clark's mishaps caused. By the time the third wreck came, I had almost had it. If he wasn't getting hit by cars, it was something else. He once got a flat tire in the same inner tube in different spots at the exact same location in our area in one day. Of course, that spot was a good two and a half mile's walk back to our apartment for repairs. And that was only one vulnerability of his bike. The contraption he rode started out as a bike his parents mailed him from home, but wound up a bizarre hybrid of that bike and the random components of a cannibalized bike we had sitting around the apartment from some mystery Elder that had lived there in the past. For a while he only had a working front brake, and when he did have a back brake, somehow he managed to shred the cable. HE SHRED A BRAKE CABLE.

If Elder Clark was a jerk, it would have been easy to hate him. But I loved the kid. He was a genuinely good guy, a soul without guile. His constant stream of misfortunes were a collossal inconvenience, but to complain was to bring down a mountain of guilt on my own shoulders. I could always picture him in future areas with future companions, diligently serving the Lord and getting his butt kicked daily for it.

Now, nine years later, I wonder whatever happened to the guy. When the mission split in July of '97, I stayed in the south while he went upstate to help start the Illinois Chicago North Mission. That was about the last I heard of him. All I know is I started his mission off with a one-wreck-per-month average.

Man, I hope he isn't dead.

Wednesday, July 05, 2006

A Few Thoughts on Thunderlips and the Proper Spelling of Isiah

A few tidbits, none of which seems to be worthy of their own entry at this point...

1. In my last entry I repeatedly spelled "Isiah" wrong while referring to the doomed coach/ex-GM of the New York Knicks. Well, either I spelled "Isiah" wrong, or he has been spelling it wrong his entire life. Let me check...

Yep, I'm right. It's spelled "Isaiah" in the Old Testament. Maybe that's the Knicks' problem: never hire a GM that can't spell his own name.

2. Speaking of Is--OK, now I'm just going to call him Zeke--Mr. Knick himself is prominently featured in a documentary I rented over the weekend. "Hoop Dreams" is a flick from back in 1994 that follows the exploits of two kids from inner-city Chicago as they aspire to basketball greatness. I remember it being a good movie from when I first saw it, but that was before I myself served a mission in Chicago. Now it's a great movie. I sincerely can't think of a film that more accurately portrays the look and feel of my mission. The "Barbershop" movies do bring back a lot of memories, but they're still Hollywood stories; "Hoop Dreams", especially during the scenes in the boy's homes, is stark unapologetic reality.

3. Still on basketball...Good news for the Jazz: Matt Harpring is going to re-sign. May be the toughest guy on the team right now, and toughness is an intangible I don't think we can afford to lose. I don't care if he can't put up 30 points a night, in my mind, Harpring is the ultimate embodiment of those workhorse guys Jerry Sloan used to keep on the team year after year, with the difference being that Harpring brings starter quality play. Glad to hear you're coming back, Matt.

4. Bought the first local cherries of the season yesterday up in Fruit Heights. In a couple of weeks, we'll have decent corn, then peaches, then tomatoes. My pale complexion may hate the summer months, but my stomach loves them.

5. My "devolution" back to my mission days continues. In the last several months, I've gone back to eating Del Taco, watching "X-Files" episodes, and now I've picked up my first mountain bike in ten years. I haven't had a bike of my own since I sold "Thunderlips" to the Illinois Chicago Mission back in November of 1997. The original "Thunderlips" was a blue Trek 820 (though you couldn't tell it was blue due to the traditional "tube and tape" job we did on our bikes out in the field). Now, "Thunderlips II" is a blue Trek 920 with front suspension (and as of yesterday, a traditional "tube and tape" job). It's all coming full circle now. If I take up listening to Pink Floyd's "Piper at the Gates of Dawn" album again, I'll really start getting worried.

6. Saw "Superman Returns" on Saturday night after a fine meal at Red Iguana with a group of old friends, one of which was a former roommate in town from Washington. Reviews were so-so, but I actually enjoyed the film quite a bit. It went a little long, dragging to extend several points that labored things a bit, but overall I still liked it. The tone was set well from the beginning with all of the allusions--aurally and through the opening title style--to the original 1978 film, even going so far as to use some of Marlon Brando's old sound bites. (I wonder if they had to pay his estate to use them--his high price tag to appear in the first ten minutes of the original film is pretty legendary).

Two points on the movie:

A. I thought Kevin Spacey did a great job, but it only affirmed how big a fan I am of the Gene Hackman version of Lex Luthor. Spacey was much more of an "evil" character, but it was easier to identify with Gene. Hackman played Luthor like a smart person who had just gotten too sick of being surrounded by the less-brilliant layperson all the time. He reminded me of myself on the road every morning. "What are you THINKING? GET OUT OF THE FAST LANE!" The only difference is that while my frustration only leads to me yelling through my windshield, Hackman's Luthor opts to destroy millions of the people themselves by detonating nuclear missiles and such.

B. Favorite moment of the movie, also the quietest: On his way to "stalk" Lois at her coastal love nest with Cyclops, there is a five-second shot of a quiet city street in the early evening. There is no soundtrack music playing, just the sound of the wind whipping through Superman's cape as he flys by overhead, a quick shadow against the dimming sky. It occurred to me that if any of this story were to take place in reality, that's how it would come off. No fanfare, no dramatic entrance or explosion, just a quick whiff through the air and a, "hey, was that Superman?"

Yeah, so overall, I'd say thumbs-up on the movie. The best part, though, may have been the surprise "Spiderman III" preview in front of the movie. The black Spidey-suit looks pretty bad.