Solving the "Where's Memo?" Issue

OK kids, as I was looking through some of the photos I shot at last week's Jazz-Portland game (full blog/photo essay to be forthcoming), I came across a shot that I think might explain some of our current woes against Houston.

For those of you who haven't been following the story, the Jazz are currently down 2-0 in the series to the Rockets, and one of the primary reasons--other than Andrei Kirilenko's grossly mistimed meltdown--is the offensive absence of Mehmet Okur.

(Meaning his offensive game, as in points he usually scores, as opposed to his BEING offensive, as in smell. Of course, if we are referring to his offensive absence being offensive, as in, "Ho there, I am offended that Memo has failed to hit any 3's tonight", that could actually be a correct interpretation as well.)

Thing is, Memo hasn't been producing numbers-wise for several weeks, and many feel that the added burden of guarding China's answer to Ivan Drago all night is wearing him out on the defensive end.

At any rate, here is a photo that, if it doesn't explain the direct cause for Memo's recent struggles, at least provides a metaphor for the team's circumstances for the last month.

Taking Account of Myself at the 1/3 Life Crisis

Not long ago a friend sent me a list of 100 things she wants to accomplish before she dies. In response, I decided to compose a combo list that includes both the stuff I want to do before I die, as well as a list of things I've already done, mostly so I can feel good about the time I've spent so far kicking around Planet Earth.

I was tempted to refer to it as taking account of myself at my quarter life crisis, as a salute to Mr. John Mayer, but I'm pretty sure he was referring to age 25, not 30, and I think I've got a better shot at kicking off before 90 anyway, so I wound up going with "1/3 life crisis" just to be safe. At any rate, I thought my loyal followers/readers (still haven't come up with a suitable name for you yet) might enjoy perusing it.

Things I’ve Done

1. Wrote two feature-length screenplays (one a 168-page epic about Kung Fu and brine shrimp).

2. Served an LDS mission in Chicago.

3. Earned Bachelor’s of Science in Mass Communications from the University of Utah

4. Earned Masters of Science in American Studies from Utah State University

5. Compiled five years of college-level teaching experience, in the process using clips from “Raiders of the Lost Ark”, “The Blues Brothers”, “Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure” (among others), and songs like “I’m Too Sexy” (Right Said Fred), “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” (Rolling Stones) and “Rocking the Casbah” (The Clash) (among others) in my lessons.

6. Made $50 as drummer for a Neil Diamond cover band at the 2003 USU Valentine’s Dance

7. Completed two-part graduate thesis, Planet Venison Web site and accompanying paper: “The Genesis of Planet Venison”.

8. Presented a paper at an academic conference in Colorado Springs, Colorado

9. Took a road trip down the coastal highway in Oregon and California

10. Can bench press at least 225 lbs.

11. Maintained my own personal Web site for nearly seven years (www.planetvenison.com)

12. Worked as a humor columnist for multiple publications: The Century (Salt Lake Institute of Religion Newsmagazine), The Statesman (Utah State University Student Paper), Transmissions (USU Salt Lake Center newsletter), The Free Agent (University 2^nd Stake Teaching Newsletter)

13. Shook Luke Skywalker’s hand

13b. Gave Luke Skywalker my autograph.

14. Sang lead for an authentic Chicago blues band (Big Time Sarah and the BTS Express)

15. Drove a ’79 308 Ferrari (The one Magnum PI drove)

16. Won a homemade salsa contest

17. Drove a ’64 Mustang into a cement wall at 70mph.

18. Got ticketed on Prom for driving my parent’s Honda through Smoot Park in Centerville

19. Drove from Bountiful to Las Vegas without stopping.

20. Hit seven consecutive clay pigeons with a shotgun.

21. Hiked the Zion Narrows (twice--see photo at right).

22. Hiked Angel’s Landing.

23. Taught a class that prompted at least one student to switch majors (TO English, not FROM English!)

24. Attained minor cult-hero status as 32^nd Ward Sunday School Instructor.

25. Performed public address duties for Bountiful Days of 47 Parade (twice).

26. Heckled Rocky Anderson during Salt Lake Days of 47 Parade.

27. Visited multiple non-Utah church history sites (Sacred Grove, Hill Cumorah, Kirtland Temple, Nauvoo, Carthage Jail, etc.)

28. Attended 9 temples (Bountiful, Salt Lake, Provo, Chicago, Manti, Logan, Las Vegas, Jordan River, St. George)

28b. Visited several more (Palmyra, Washington DC, Kirtland, Portland, Boise)

29. Eaten at 9 Hard Rock Café’s (Chicago, DC, Dallas, San Francisco, Las Vegas, Niagra Falls, New Orleans, Salt Lake City, Cleveland).

30. Won UHP “Name the Robot” contest in the third grade.

31. Won award for best French student at Centerville Junior High, 1991.

32. Finally beat the 53^rd Ward in church basketball, Junior year (1993).

33. Scored 24 points and led my Jr. Jazz team back from a 15 point second half deficit to win, 1992.

34. Saw “Return of the Jedi” 19 times during the summer of 1983.

35. Never had to repeat the sacrament prayer!

36. Haven’t missed a day in my journal since June 1998.

37. Been guest photographer at a Jazz game.

38. Had ward Toga Party end prematurely when a lightning bolt knocked out power at the church.

39. Went down Snake River on a raft.

40. Rode my neighbor Phil’s motorcycle; killed family rabbits when I hit cages in his backyard.

41. Got my Eagle Scout at 13, baby.

42. Had Karl Malone sign a portrait I drew of him at his basketball camp when I was in the eighth grade.

43. Heckled Karl Malone when he returned to the Delta Center during year he played with the Lakers.

44. Dribbled basketballs with John Stockton.

45. Hung out with Delaney Rudd for a week during Karl Malone basketball camp.

45b. Yelled something really offensive at an opponent during a scrimmage in front of Delaney Rudd.

46. Worked professionally as an English teacher, Bouncer, Drummer, Actor, Illustrator, Web Designer, Public Affairs Writer, Columnist, Movie Critic, Vegetable-Picker, Poinsetta Mover, Ticket Sales, TV Cameraman, Cartographer, Fact-Checker, Copywriter, Grocery Bagger, Grocery Checker, Baker, Apprentice Framer, Family History Editor/Writer, Graphic Designer).

47. Paid a guy to pinch another guy’s butt during a sacrament meeting choir performance.

48. Sang in a multi-ward choir for Stake Conference.

49. Wrote academic papers on Stephen King, Ricardo Montalban, the soundtrack to “O Brother, Where Art Thou”, and myself, and got University credit for them.

50. Ate amazing shrimp in San Francisco, New Orleans, and Washington DC.

51. Conducted 32^nd Ward sacrament meeting (twice).

Things to Do

1. Play “A Whiter Shade of Pale” on a Hammond B3 Organ
2. Shoot/Produce a feature-length film
3. Publish a book of non-fiction and/or a fiction novel (available at Barnes and Noble)
4. Become a syndicated columnist
5. Perform a stand-up routine at an actual comedy club
6. Get married in the temple
7. Be a dad (in a “he’s my father” way)
8. Be a dad (in a “who’s your daddy!” way.)
9. Have a gallery display of my artwork/photography
10. Write/perform an original song.
11. Dunk a (full-size) basketball on a 10-foot hoop. (Already did a mini-ball).
12. Bench Press 250lbs.
13. Run a mile in less than 5:30. (Current record: 5:45)
14. Personally apologize to the student in “Things I’ve Done” #23 for condemning him to a lifetime of unemployment.
15. Repent for minor cult-hero status as 32^nd Ward Sunday School Instructor.
16. Speak at a fireside/commencement.
17. Actually watch all of “Annie Hall”, decide whether it’s really as good as everyone says it is.
18. Compete in a triathlon sprint.
19. Be ordained a High Priest.
20. Try snowboarding/skiing
21. Drive on the Autobahn (while listening to 1970’s German proto-techno band Kraftwerk’s song “Autobahn”)
22. Eat at first Hard Rock Café (London).
23. Drive a Shelby Cobra 427 (or comparable replica).
24. Learn to fly fish.
25. Go on Super Road Trip, coast-to-coast (or just go on a month-long road trip around the country).
26. Look up as many “Josh Terry’s” as I can on Google, then go out and meet them all, video taping the encounters and making an Oscar-winning documentary about personal identity in the information age.
27. Open up a fast-food franchise that specializes in regular burgers enhanced with vitamin supplements; make an utter killing because people will eat any garbage they think is really good for them.
28. Repent for #28.
29. Throw a sweet Toga Party (dry, of course). DON’T have lightning knock out the power for the evening.
30. Form another band to play periodic gigs for fun, like Dave Barry and Stephen King did.
31. Record a CD with my band. (Doesn’t have to be for distribution).
32. Sell artwork/salsa at my own booth at the Salt Lake Farmer’s Market.
33. Learn to speak enough German to walk around screaming random phrases at passers-by.
34. Go kayaking.
35. Ride a motorcycle; DON’T kill any rabbits.
36. Buy a house.
37. Buy a manservant (even part-time; just so I can have someone to introduce as my manservant).
38. Win a homemade chili contest.
39. Learn to ride a horse (WITHOUT falling off).
40. Arrange to have someone play “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” at my funeral.
41. Fake my own death so I can see if anyone plays “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” at my funeral.
42. Have lunch with a favorite author/creative influence (like Gary Larson, Woody Allen, Ray Bradbury, John Cleese).
43. Get a PhD.
44. Get interested in some sort of individual sport so I don’t have to rely on open church gyms or getting enough guys together for a Turkey Bowl. (Maybe Tennis, definitely not Golf.)
45. Buy a car with cash.
46. Have someone give me a nickname that I might actually think of myself.
47. Be a cool uncle, to both my real nieces and nephews (still pending), and my auxiliary nieces and nephews (friend’s kids).
48. Take my wife with me to south Chicago.
49. Take my dad test driving, actually let him drive (he’s legally blind; may have to wait post-resurrection, or maybe just swing out to the salt flats).
50. Preserve Americana: go to the Drive-In movies at least twice every summer.
51. Prevent one of my e-mail addresses from getting spam for at least one year.
52. Have my grandparents (Dad’s side) present for my sealing.
53. Improve scripture study habits; avoid “fortune-cookie” method of scripture study.
54. Visit NY with my sister.
55. Buy the Broadway Centre office tower, demolish it, rebuild the Centre Theatre, take my mom to a private screening of “Return of the Jedi”, just like we did back in 83.
56. Take a significant other to a mission reunion/bbq with married friends/2^nd Stake appreciation dinner/evening ‘o ballroom dancing at the Murray Arts Center.
57. Donate a kidney to my dad—cure his diabetes (if mine don’t match, descend into seedy black market underworld to find someone who does).
58. Donate some common sense to (insert annoying public figure here).
59. Get Katie a spot singing the national anthem at a Jazz game.
60. Wear same jumpsuit for a year, like Raiders owner Al Davis.

Hi Ho, Mr. Vonnegut...

“(Sylvia) looked from face to face for some flicker of understanding. There was none. The last face into which she peered was Norman Mushari’s. Mushari gave her a hideously inappropriate smile of greed and fornication.”
-Kurt Vonnegut, God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater

It’s hard to say whether the passage above makes sense by itself, but in full context it was probably responsible for making me a fan of Kurt Vonnegut. It perfectly embodied the kind of character Kurt drew so frequently: a kind-hearted, rational person, desperately trying to find reason in the world and getting lunacy in return. It was that same sentiment that led Will Ferrell’s over-the-top fashion designer Mugatu to exclaim, “I feel like I’m taking crazy pills!” in frustration at a world that too often seems devoid of taste and common sense.

Kurt died last week at the age of 84, an ironically extended sentence considering how much he seemed to be fed up with the world at times. Several years ago, on a random NPR broadcast, a commentator opined that, “the ideal satirist keeps one eye on society’s foibles, and the other on its potential.” Vonnegut certainly knew about society’s foibles; I’m not sure how he felt about its potential.

Like most of his readers, I cut my first Vonnegut teeth on Slaughterhouse-Five, mostly because I remembered a disparaging comment about the book in the movie “Footloose”. I was inspired by his deconstruction of chronological narrative, and his sharp, witty voice. But it wasn’t until several years later when my friend Randy gave me his copy of God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater that I really became a fan. Eliot Rosewater was Vonnegut’s Don Quixote, and probably an alter ego of his own as well.

From there, novels like Jailbird and Sirens of Titan became regular reading, referenced the same way Eric Clapton listens to Robert Johnson to make sure he’s staying true to his blues roots.

In spite of the fact that I consider myself a fan of Vonnegut’s writing—especially in the case of his witty storytelling—I have to be completely honest and say that my time with Kurt has often been conflicted. As I mentioned before, Vonnegut—while harboring a strong moral compass—often fell on the pessimistic side of the coin, if not the outright cynical side, and though I was frequently amused at his observations, I can’t say I always wholly agreed with them. I’ve often wondered how a left-leaning humanist and a right-leaning Mormon like myself would get along, but I think we have enough other attributes in common that we’d do just fine.

In some ways, he was almost the black comic flip-side of Ray Bradbury, another writer who shaped much of my adolescence. Bradbury, like Vonnegut, possesses a keen imagination, but is less inclined to humor and irony and more attuned to optimism and nostalgia. Calling them a literary peanut butter and jelly sandwich would probably be an insult to Kurt, Ray, and the literary community, but no other metaphor springs to mind at the moment.

Ultimately I have to file Vonnegut along with Bradbury, Woody Allen, Joseph Heller, and even my Far Side Anthology on my “stuff that makes me smile” shelf. When life stinks, and doesn’t at all resemble the “tragedy plus time equals comedy” formula Bob Hope so aptly coined, it’s nice to pull out one of these gems, and read about an Ice Cream Colored Suit, a South American Revolutionary-Cook, a Talking Cow, a Bombardier, or even a mild-mannered humanitarian lunatic. Within a few sentences, I usually realize that life may be a pain at times, but it’s still pretty funny.

And for that, Kurt, I thank you.

The One-Year Drought Comes to an End

I don't know that this completely excuses my lack of posting lately (or the tasteless attempt to pass off a bunch of shots of my old cell phones as a photo essay), but here's something new to look at. I just uploaded a brand new image gallery on my "other" website, www.planetvenison.com. It's the first thing I've done to Planet Venison in about a year.

As opposed to my existing Planet Venison gallery, this one is more of an artistic collection instead of a series of photos detailing my personal adventures. I haven't finished all the individual photo commentaries yet, but at least I feel better about my output now.

Enjoy.

http://www.planetvenison.com/jo/gallery.html

Brand New Mothership

In the middle of a General Conference weekend featuring Anti-Mormons in bad t-shirts, Conference Center scalpers, and a constant stream of Asian spam to my g-mail account (which is somewhat refreshing compared to the usual glut of ads for fake Rolex’s, weight-loss programs, and lonely housewives), I flipped open my cell phone to discover a blank screen.

It wasn’t a “you forgot to turn on your phone, dummy” blank screen; it was a “what is this dull blue hue on my screen?” blank screen. After a bit of experimentation, I soon established that I could dial out and receive calls in the phone’s crippled condition. I just couldn’t see who I was calling, or who was calling me. Essentially, it was like using a regular phone again.

Not for fifty bucks a month, bucko.

Given that my total backlog of memorized phone numbers these days is three*, I promptly jumped in my car and made for the closest Cingular outlet. I had no pressing calls to make, nor to receive; I just wasn’t in the mood to have one more thing stop working.

This wasn’t the first time my screen had come up lame. I took the same phone down the Zion’s Narrows last summer (as my five loyal readers will remember**), taking the precaution of transporting my sensitive electronic appendage in a Dry Bag. After sixteen miles of ankle-splitting nature strolling, I discovered that the Dry Bag apparently only works when you don’t get it wet.

Two days later the phone miraculously healed itself, and came back on at full operational capacity.

This time, though, my phone had no contact with liquid of any sort, so unless I mistakenly tried to pour Hawaiian Punch in my pants pocket before leaving for Priesthood Session and forgot all about it, this was a purely spontaneous meltdown.

After a brief consultation with a sales kid that was half my age (seriously—he was fifteen***), I emerged from the Cingular Wireless store with a brand new phone and a renewed two-year contract, all at the low, low price of $140.00. This was actually at a discount, since I’d fulfilled my initial contract.

According to my sales kid, my screen was “fried”, with no hope of resuscitation.

"I think your screen is just fried," he said, to be precise.

He also seemed to think I had a crap phone, mostly, I suppose, because it had no camera, web browser, full alpha-numeric keyboard, MP3 player or cloaking device. I didn’t disagree with him; the fact is I could care less if my phone has any of that stuff.

Still, my new phone has a camera on it, so I’ll be ready if I ever go see Michael Richards at the local Wiseguy’s club. I also get a rebate of $50, as long as I follow the patented 12-step process for application that I think involves a blood test at some point. And so my all-time cell phone total comes to five, and I’ve got a perfect excuse for a mini-photo essay.

Aren’t you lucky?


SONY: Here is my first cell phone, which looks more like the love child of a calculator and a kid’s walkie-talkie, with a slight increase in range and reception quality. I picked this one up courtesy of my long-time friend and tech hook-up Randy, back in the summer of 2000 when he was still laying the groundwork for his ultimate eBay empire. It was a funky little thing, and I enjoyed it for a couple of years until the casing started to split apart.


SAMSUNG I: When the Sony started coming apart on me, Randy gave me his old Samsung, a little black thing that worked just fine, aside from the fact that the vibration function didn’t work. Folks that spend more than 50% of the work week downloading ring tones won’t understand this, but the vibration function is vital to me. I NEVER leave my phone on a ring tone. Intentionally, anyway.

(Illustrative side note: One time several years ago I tried to call my friend Spence on his cell phone. About an hour later, he returned my voice mail and informed me that I had called him while he was reviewing a course syllabus with a class he was acting as TA for. Specifically, he was reading the bit about not bringing cell phones to class. Now that's timing.)


MOTOROLA: I can’t remember if something went wrong with the Samsung or not; maybe I just got tired of not having the vibration feature. Anyway, somehow I wound up with this Motorola for a year or two, which looked much older than my Samsung. I didn’t care too much about that, though. By this time I was beginning to revel in my anti-technology glory. As much as a guy with five e-mail addresses, two Web sites, a Mac, and a heavily used iTunes account can, anyway.


LG: Eventually I yanked the antenna out of my Motorola--possibly in a fit of rage at yet another unreturned phone call from a girl in the 32nd Ward--and with the help of some industry insiders (an old friend named James and Randy, again), I switched phones, and this time, providers. By switching from Verizon to Cingular, I got free roaming and rollover minutes for about the same rate plan, plus I got my long dreamed-of color display screen and the ability to get text messages with lots of smiley faces. On the downside, I couldn’t customize my display to read “MOTHERSHIP” anymore.


SAMSUNG II: And now, once again I find myself the proud owner of a Samsung phone. Now I’ve got a camera…and that’s about it. The built-in bowling game isn’t nearly as fun as the Centipede knock-off the LG had, and I’m not used to the layout yet. Innovation comes at a price, I guess. $140.00, until I send in my rebate.

Oh yeah, on Monday morning my LG screen came back on.

-----------

* To be honest, I can probably remember more than three numbers. But aesthetically speaking, it’s funnier (and more effective) to say, “I can remember three numbers” than to say “I can remember seven numbers”. It’s a rhythm thing. Isn’t that what Bill Clinton said?

** It occurs to me that I need to come up with a name for my five loyal readers, something like Jim Rome’s “Clones” or the Grateful Dead’s “Deadheads”. If any of you have any ideas, pass them on, keeping in mind the fact that you can’t choose your own nicknames, and I’ll pick what I want regardless.

*** One more clarification: the kid was not fifteen; he was probably twenty-two. What I meant to illustrate is that I resent being at a power disadvantage to people younger than me. Plus yesterday I found out my landlord is younger than me, too. What a pisser.

The Road to Roosevelt: A Photo Essay

Last Friday I had to go out to Roosevelt to attend an instructor conference for the USU Extension. Since I had to teach my 1010 satellite course the night before (from 8-10:30), I had the option of starting my 2 1/2 hour voyage at 11pm Thursday or at 5:30am Friday morning.

I opted for Friday.

It may have been due to Daylight Savings, but when I left Friday morning, it was still quite dark outside. As in, "anyone else you see walking around at this hour is a criminal" dark. At least that's what I thought. As I drove past my gym, I saw dozens of cars in the parking lot. Dozens.

These people have a problem.

I had a problem, too. I had to drive out into the middle of Eastern Utah by 8:30am in time to skip the complimentary continental breakfast and slip in for the formal opening ceremonies.

Roosevelt, man...Friggin' Roosevelt.

In order to create a proper meditative mood, I opted to play my "slow-down soul" playlist on my iPod, featuring grooves from Aretha Franklin, Sam Cooke, Ray Charles, and Otis Redding. Not exactly "Utah Road Trip" music, but I've never been too big on slavishly playing music that fit the area I was driving through. As a kid, my parent's would play Simon and Garfunkel on our trips to Yellowstone, which seemed completely rational to me until I realized that Paul and Art were writing and recording all that stuff in Greenwich Village, New York. Oh well.

Eventually I made it out of the Salt Lake Valley and up past Parley's Summit on I-80, still with black, star-studded skies above me. I turned off onto Highway 40, which would account for 114 of the 151 total one-way journey (according to mapquest). As I curved past Heber City and began to head due east, I realized that I might be in for a nice sunrise.

So I made the most of it.





I had already passed a pair of formal "viewing areas" before the sun began to emerge, but as the morning drew on, I still got some progressively better shots.








But the shots really got good right as I hit Starvation Reservoir. Can't really tell you where Starvation Reservoir is, other than to say if you get on Highway 40 and drive past Heber City, eventually you'll find it.











Shortly past Starvation, I hit Duchesne*, and realized just how far I would have had to drive to take up my last band offer. A student in one of my composition classes last year told me his band was looking for a new drummer. Thing is, this student's band worked the Uinta Basin bar circuit, mostly in the Duchesne area. I was intrigued by the notion of hitting the Utah equivalent of the Chitlin' Circuit of the deep south, but I would have had to get paid like the Stones to match the travel costs.

By this time the sun was up, and directly in my face, so I just pushed on to Roosevelt and zoned through six-seven hours worth of presentations, panel discussions, and academic banter, nicely split by a catered dutch oven lunch that featured six cobbler options for dessert.

I shouldn't have left my camera in the car.

By 3:45pm, I was back out on the road home, this time paying considerably less attention to the scenic grandeur around me, and considerably more attention to the slowpokes that had crowded up the two-lane highway in the meantime. But once I got past Duchesne again, I started to notice some more picturesque venues, and so I pulled off into a muddy viewing area near a reservoir that was still frozen over, and sacrificed my "good shoes" in order to grab some photos of the mountains, the frozen tundra...and a corn dog.











The black spot on the left side of the photo is a bird. Or Robert Redford.








So am I a morning person now? Wholly converted with the new motivation to rise early and take advantage of the natural beauties of daybreak, grateful for the wonderful state of my nativity?

Nope. But at least I feel better about driving to Roosevelt at 5:30 in the morning.

-----

*Pronounced "Doo-SHANE", as in, "Hey Vinnie, take this .45 out behind the pizzeria and do Shane."

Me and the Desperate Housewives

At 10:15AM this morning, while miming Kung Fu moves to a rave version of “Rock Me Amadeus” with two-dozen desperate housewives, I started having flashbacks to my days at Centerville Junior High.

Back in the seventh grade, Friday gym classes during the winter months were spent in haggard rows facing a small television set, staggering around to an aerobic workout that was usually led by Jane Fonda or Lyle Alzado. I liked the Alzado workout the best, because he would sneer at the camera.

Eighteen years later, I bounced in place while tossing out badly-formed upper-cuts and jabs in the Body Combat class at XCel Spa and Fitness. Ironically, the class instructor was a girl I had gone to junior high with.

In a determined effort to work out the bits of my body that actually needed working out, I’d joined one of the free classes that came with the gym membership I wasn’t using. After glancing nervously at the class from my weight bench for two weeks, I had worked up the nerve to try the class myself.

I had two primary concerns: the first was the fact that the class seemed to be made up entirely of women. Usually such odds work in my favor, but I had the suspicion that a guy infiltrating a gym class full of women would be seen as a pervert, especially since I guessed most of them would be married. I also figured they’d assume a guy who attended a gym class at 9:30AM was unemployed.

My other concern was that I am horribly out of shape. It would be tough enough to walk into a class full of females, but it would be even worse to have them watch me get carried out on a stretcher five minutes into the workout.

But life is all about taking risks, so this morning I marched onto the hardwood floor of the workout room as if I were bravely facing a firing squad. I took up a position two strides from the exit, in case I needed a quick getaway to go throw up or spontaneously combust. While waiting for class to begin, I darted my eyes around the room, being careful not to land on any one class member long enough to make anyone think I was leering.

As it turned out, I needn’t have worried. Once the workout started, I was too busy watching the instructor and trying to figure out what the moves were to get distracted staring at any of my classmates. It also conveniently prevented me from getting too tired, since I spent a lot of time standing around while everyone else kicked and punched in precision time. Plus there were two other dudes at the front of the class, so I was in fat city.

Actually, if I manage to make it to a few of these classes, I’m hoping to get myself out of fat city; at least out of the fat city that has been going through an urban renewal around my midsection. I don’t know that my Kung Fu moves will help much, but if I ever go to a rave in Salt Lake I may spontaneously burst into a killer series of jabs and roundhouse kicks.

So after an hour of kicking, punching, hopping, and standing around, all while listening to the kind of music they usually use to flush out hostiles in hostage situations, I made it through my first Body Combat workout, and left with the full intention of going back next week. I may even try the Yoga class sometime. Just as long as I can stay close to the door.

Seven MasterCard Moments

In the week and a half since moving for the third time in four months (all of which took place in a five-mile radius) I’ve rekindled an odd habit: over dinner or lunch, I watch the second half of one of my DVD’s. The theory is that by starting the film halfway through, I won’t feel guilty for taking the time to watch the entire thing. I just can’t sit at a kitchen table and eat; I have to be watching something.

With that in mind, here is a sampling of some of the half-films I’ve taken in recently. I recommend each to you in its full non-meal-edited form.

The Great Escape

OK, so you’ve got Nazi’s, Steve McQueen, the dude from Rockford Files, and a young version of the guy that created Jurassic Park. Plus you’ve got James Colburn hanging out with the French Resistance and one of the all-time great movie themes. At nearly three hours, “The Great Escape” is an investment, but it is certainly a worthwhile one.

MasterCard Moment: Bartlett gets to “stretch his legs” before the “long journey ahead”.

* * *

Victory

Even better…this time you’ve got Sylvester Stallone, Michael Caine, and Pele playing soccer against the Nazi’s. And the craziest thing about it is the movie totally works.

MasterCard Moment: The voluntary arm-breaking to spring Rocky from solitary. “Make it a clean break, will you?”

* * *

Napoleon Dynamite

I finally lifted my two-year moratorium on this one last weekend in Vegas. And it’s just as good as I remember it.

MasterCard Moment: Uncle Rico hits Napoleon in the face…with Kip’s steak.

* * *

The Empire Strikes Back

I don’t know if it was Lawrence Kasdan’s writing, Irving Kirshner’s directing, or John Williams and George Lucas hitting their creative peaks at the same time, but the final result is astounding. Plus this time the Special Edition stuff actually works. (Aside from over-dubbing Boba Fett with the New Zealand accent.)

MasterCard Moment: Most would vote for “I am your father”, but my favorite moment is when Artoo finally springs the outside door and Lando and Leia flee Cloud City in a hail of laser-fire.

* * *

Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan

I watched this thing about a dozen times during November of 2002 while writing a paper on Ricardo Montalban, and I still love this movie. This is the one to show people that insist they hate “Star Trek”. If they convert, great. If not, then at least you get the satisfaction of forcing an anti-sci-fi snob to watch William Shatner for two hours.

MasterCard Moment: Kirk inside the Genesis Cave: “I don’t like to lose.”

* * *

Silverado

The western for the generation that missed out on westerns. Kevin Kline, Scott Glenn, Danny Glover, and Kevin Costner’s second-greatest onscreen performance (next to his role as the dead body in “The Big Chill”). Plus you’ve got John “Monty Python” Cleese playing a local sheriff and Jeff Goldblum’s sleeve-loaded single-shot pistol.

MasterCard Moment: Glover and Glenn inside the cave: “They took the little boy with them.”

* * *

Arthur 2: On the Rocks

For a brief, shining moment in the early 80’s, Dudley Moore, John Geilgud and Burt Bacharach combined forces to create one of the funniest drunks of all-time. The original was a classic, the sequel a clear step down, but it still delivered some great one-liners.

MasterCard Moment: In a local bar, Arthur—who despite a clear rejection of any discipline in life has somehow managed to become a jazz pianist—serenades the local patrons with an improvised song about fabricated half-inch pipe.

An open letter to my five loyal readers

Dear reader (and I do mean "dear", albeit in a purely platonic way, assuming that some of you may be in legally sanctioned committed relationships),

I feel terrible that the last two or three weeks have seen so little activity on The Wounded Mosquito. Please understand that I am aware of my lack of productivity, and mourn it exceedingly. I could provide a list of excuses for this lapse, such as writer's block, the various injuries to a number of Jazz players, the fact that the government is trying to milk me for a further $300 on my taxes this year, or the fact that much of my recent material has been shipped to various KSL representatives in an effort to win a spot as a contributing editor on the Nightside Project. I could even man up and admit that my last post--the one on Utah drivers--was only 50% new, and was largely a recycled piece that I pulled off the old Planet Venison site, a site that hasn't seen a sincere update in nearly a year now.

No, all excuses aside, I must give you the real reason for my MIA status: for days I have been unable to turn away from the media frenzy surrounding Anna Nicole Smith. Yes, dear friend, every moment I am not firmly committed to teaching or doing whatever it is that I do professionally these days, I am cycling through channels 41 through 49, eager to get the breaking update on the demise of the former Miss Smith. You can toss aside the Grammy's, the Oscar's, (also known as the "We Hate President Bush Awards, Vol's I and II."). I really don't care about why Britney went to la-la land and decided that the Mr. Clean special was the hot haircut to score. I can't even be bothered with the official opening of Presidential Election 2008 festivities, and all the tired references to polygamy and Mitt Romney it is already making. No, I'm just too fascinated with the Anna Nicole Smith story. Thank goodness it's on every channel. I would sincerely hate to see any pebble of news left uncovered in this one.

It has occurred to me, however, that maybe there is something wrong with this obsession of mine. Maybe there is more to life than slavishly following the fallout of a former reality-TV star's death. Maybe Fox News and CNN and Larry King really should find something more important to report on. There was that former Jazz player that just came out of the closet--maybe we could hear some more about that.

In the meantime, my friends, if you'd really like to see some more material on this thing, and I know you do--your jobs really aren't all that interesting, are they?--why don't you drop me a line, fire off a little message, and tell me what you want to hear about. Let's go for a little stimulus-response, eh? You can post comments here or just e-mail me at venisonskidmore@hotmail.com.

I need your help. Get me back on the wagon. Save me from the netherworld of Anna-land.

love,

Josh

Identifying and Coping with Utah Drivers

I cut my driving teeth on the merciless Utah roads back in the winter of 1992-93, a harsh torrent of snow-filled weeks spent navigating the kamikaze terrain of the Viewmont High School parking lot. At first I thought my high school was bad, but as I ventured out into the limits of Utah’s expressways and back roads, I realized that the phenomenon was hardly bound by the demographics of age or the limited geographic boundaries of my alma mater. No, after crossing over time and time again to cities like Evanston, Malad, and Mesquite, I realized that the phenomenon was bound by state lines, strange as that may seem. Once I crossed back into my home state, and especially once I neared the Wasatch Front, the highways seemed to change. Behavior intensified. Speeds increased. And so did my blood pressure. Driving was a passion for me, but commuting in Utah quickly became a purgatory, a mortal prison, a veritable third-circle of automotive Hell.

Categorizing the various offenders that make the daily commute so miserable is at best an impossible task. Each individual driver adds his/her own infuriating nuance to their particular offense. But here is a foundational list, a fundamental attempt to catalog the primary guilty parties that you will encounter while cruising the Beehive State. Like the US Constitution and the rap sheet of the Cincinnati Bengals, this list is a living document, subject to growth and change as further evidence comes forward to better prepare us for the dangers that await. In a state as large as Utah, we may never be able to fully depend on the convenience of public transportation. But if we can but warn our neighbor, we might at least link arms, look each other weary eye to weary eye, and mutter, “I feel you, brother. I feel you.”

* * *

NAME: The King of the Road

DESCRIPTION: The most pervasive of this type can be found in a large SUV or a full-size truck, but the King of the Road is by no means defined by his/her large mode of transportation. Indeed, the King of the Road can be found in the smallest of Geo's.

BEHAVIOR: What makes the King the King is the attitude. The King has staked out the passing lane for the extent of their journey, and has no intention of getting out of that lane no matter how many cars are backed up behind them. Whether this behavior is sprung from arrogance, general obliviousness, or a missing rear-view mirror, the King of the Road has generally forgotten that most critical of road rules: you must yield the left-hand lane to passing traffic.

WARNING: Besides the aforementioned behavior, a driver must also be aware of the King's other distinctive trait: a tendency to cut off other drivers on their way to the off ramp. Here we must also wonder at the possible deafness of the King, as no level of honking can ever seem to dissuade the King from cutting you off on their way off the freeway.

* * *

NAME: The Ghetto Suburbanite

DESCRIPTION: One of the most perplexing of drivers, this is the middle-aged suburbanite that drives an SUV which seems to be better equipped for the Urban Ghetto. The SUV typically features tinted windows and low profile tires, along with extreme chrome wheels that may or may not include spinners. While this is socially acceptable for, say, an up and coming rapper, notice the strange double-takes that occur when a man in a suit exits the SUV on his way to a hard day of accounting.

BEHAVIOR: Aside from typically arrogant SUV behavior (general obliviousness/wanton disregard for other smaller vehicles), the Ghetto Suburbanite exhibits no distinctive driving characteristics.

* * *

NAME: The Headless Cruiser

DESCRIPTION: While this driver most often occurs in large domestic vehicles, best described as “boats”, the Headless Cruiser can be spotted in a variety of vehicles. The only specific qualification is the inherent difficulty other drivers encounter when trying to determine whether the vehicle has a driver at all.

BEHAVIOR: The Headless Cruiser exhibits a variety of ill road behaviors, even tailgating in some instances. (There is perhaps no more perplexing and surreal a situation than a twenty-something male tailgated by an 80-something Headless Cruiser). But for the most part, the HC drives far under the speed limit as opposed to well over it. While many stay far to the right on the freeway, others wander left to create an overlap with the King of the Road category. Also like the King of the Road, the relative ratio of driver size to vehicle size in the case of the HC is quite dramatic. Indeed, the smaller the driver, the bigger the vehicle.

WARNING: One noted side effect of the HC is a tendency for other nearby drivers to become preoccupied with trying to locate the HC, since they are so hard to spot. Be careful with this; If you spend too much time trying to spot the HC driver, you run the risk of becoming a “Multi-Tasker”, which will be described later.

* * *

NAME: The Drifter

DESCRIPTION: The Drifter largely travels incognito, with no particular taste for any vehicle, color, or location. Male, female, young, old, Democrat or Republican, the Drifter can be found in any form on the highway. Laziness and obliviousness, ladies and gentlemen, knows no prejudice.

BEHAVIOR: One of the most aggravating of all drivers, perhaps second only to the King of the Road, the Drifter is a menace primarily because of unpredictability. This is the guy that wanders back and forth across lane lines regardless of whether another driver is in the next lane or not. This is the guy that sometimes swings all the way into onto the shoulder of the road when making even gradual turns. Most of all, this is the guy that must have gotten his license before the invention of the turn signal, since it is never used. While the fault here is more due to obliviousness than maliciousness, the Drifter remains an extremely dangerous and irritating road companion.

WARNING: This driver, perhaps more than any other, justifies the term “Defensive Driving”. This is why whenever you pass by another driver in another lane, you get this suspicious feeling inside that tells you, “this moron is going to veer over into my lane”, and sure enough, the twit is suddenly close enough for him to reach out and adjust your passenger side window. Beware, good driver. Beware.

* * *

NAME: The Frustrated Activist

DESCRIPTION: Here we find the automotive embodiment of Utah's intense political landscape. The vast majority of Frustrated Activists come in either oversize trucks and SUV's or small foreign-made vehicles with extremely high mileage ratings. More importantly, the Frustrated Activist is distinguished by the moderate to obscenely high numbers of message-related bumper stickers plastered towards the back end of their vehicles. Many Frustrated Activists subscribe to conservative viewpoints (typically their stickers are overtly patriotic or make some mention of Charleton Heston, and are always pasted on the backs of large trucks, large SUV’s, or large Cadillacs), but the overwhelming majority of Frustrated Activists lean (if not dive headfirst) to the left. The exact level of frustration per Frustrated Activist is roughly proportional to the number of stickers on his/her car. Some college campus-based FA's have been known to completely cover their cars in stickers, perhaps in an effort to hide the fact that they are in fact driving an automobile.

BEHAVIOR: Even if the politics are extreme, neither the conservative or liberal Frustrated Activist typically harbors any unique driving behaviors. The conservative FA's may exhibit tendencies consistent with other types--IE, Kings of the Road and Headless Cruisers, but most left-leaning FA's can be found in the mid-to-right lanes of the freeway, trying to keep pace in a vehicle that while fuel efficient, tops out at about 55mph.

* * *

NAME: The Overly Defensive Driver

DESCRIPTION: The ODD comes in a variety of forms, and has few consistent characteristics. Other drivers must be prepared to face the ODD at any time and in most any place.

BEHAVIOR: The only way to spot an ODD is through their distinctive driving habits. This is the driver that slows down at green lighted intersections. This is the driver that comes to a complete stop at yield signs. This is the driver that refuses to pull into the intersection while waiting to make a left turn, then waits until traffic is clear for an estimated quarter mile in either direction before making the turn. This is the driver that hits the brakes hard every time the freeway makes an even gradual turn to the right or left, causing the vast majority of rush hour congestion. This is the driver that merges onto the freeway at 45mph, and gets so flustered when other people try to merge that they freeze up and refuse to either speed up or slow down, thus blocking would-be mergers and causing even more highway congestion behind them. This driver also tends to leave a two car-length gap between them and the car in front of them WHILE STOPPED AT A STOPLIGHT.

* * *

NAME: The Suicide Lane Driver

DESCRIPTION: Like the ODD, the SLD also lacks a specific description, though they do not tend to be older drivers.

BEHAVIOR: The SLD is so named for their insufferable habit of making a left turn onto a busy street when there is clearly no room for them to do so. Then, instead of blending with traffic, they continue to drive in the turn lane for long periods of time, inconveniencing other potential turn lane users while waiting for the traffic gap they couldn't find in the first place.

WARNING: 95% of the time you encounter an SLD, you will be prompted to panic, since the only warning sign you get is the quick flash from a vehicle as they barrel across traffic into the left side of your peripheral vision, clearly with no place to safely merge. Even though they only intend to use the left-hand turn lane as an illegal merge lane, they still look like they are going to hit you, and you may be tempted to swing right to avoid contact. And rightfully so. The SLD is a complete idiot.

* * *

NAME: The Wide Turn Driver

DESCRIPTION: Contrary to their name, the WTD is not found behind the wheel of a large semi or any other vehicle that may actually need to make a wide turn. Rather, the WTD shows up in any standard size vehicle, and can come in any age bracket. It is possible that many WTD's suffer from their condition due to an equilibrium problem, but there is no way to determine this from outside the vehicle.

BEHAVIOR: A close cousin to the Drifter, the WTD usually drifts a considerable distance in the opposite direction to which they plan to turn before actually making the turn, IE, swinging wide left for a right turn, or wide right for a left turn. The heinousness of this move is complicated by the fact that the WTD typically neglects to bother with using a turn signal to let anyone know that they intend to swing back in the opposite direction they are drifting.

WARNING: On a residential road, if the driver in front of you slows down and veers to the left without using their turn signal, it is usually safe to assume that they plan to turn left, since the vast majority of idiot Utah drivers never had the turn signal lever pointed out to them back in Driver’s Ed. However, the WTD stands as a stark warning for any driver tempted to veer right and pass by the supposed turner in the same way STD’s stand as a stark warning for anyone tempted to take the Free Love of the 60’s too seriously.

* * *

NAME: The Mad ‘Gater

DESCRIPTION: The MG, like many local drivers, is known more for his behavior than for any particular choice in automobile. Indeed, the MG could be driving an ’85 Jeep Cherokee just as easily as a fast and furious 2004 Mitsubishi Eclipse. In fact, MG’s frequently appear on bullet bikes. The driver himself could be a 19-year-old high school graduate as well as a 57-year-old soccer mom. But regardless of form, a quick tap of the brakes will turn any MG into a very animated person.

BEHAVIOR: MG’s are so named for their propensity for tailgating, obviously, at high speeds and most often on the freeway. But their profile expands far beyond this one foible. MG’s are also the people, like Kings of the Road, who will sail across multiple lanes of traffic at the last second in order to make exits they would have seen coming if they hadn’t been so busy flipping off other drivers. They are the vehicles that slash in and out of traffic and average about 10mph faster than the driving demographic that is already 10mph over the speed limit. More commuters secretly want to see MG’s get in head-on collisions than any other group.

WARNING: If an MG runs up on your tail, shift to the right, unless you’re in the mood for some high-risk fun. If an MG comes up on your right or left and you get the instinct that they’re going to cut you off, you’re probably right.

* * *

NAME: The Multi-Tasker

DESCRIPTION: The MT is another driver defined by his/her behavior. Demographics in this case do lean heavier towards the young female end of the spectrum, but MT’s frequently come in male form driving sedans and SUV’s as well. The tasks themselves are equally diverse, and come in any or all of the following: cell phone use, makeup application, stereo adjusting, eating, shaving, drinking, talking to a passenger, intimate scratching, text messaging, day trading, tooth brushing, hair brushing, child abusing, nose picking, online poker playing, air drumming, model airplane construction, and farting.

BEHAVIOR: The behavior of an MT is painfully easy to spot. In fact, the title MT is an ironic one, since the MT really has no capacity to multi-task at all. If the driver in front of you suddenly slows down to 25mph in a 40mph zone for no apparent reason, they are likely an MT. If the driver next to you on the freeway suddenly veers into your lane as the road curves (or even if you’re going straight), you’ve got an MT. If the driver in front of you at a stop light fails to move for a full ten seconds after the light turns green, MT. If the driver of the white Lexus SUV in front of you has been speeding up and slowing down 15mph in either direction while swerving in and out of their lane for a full ten minutes before suddenly careening off the road headlong into a billboard for The Blue Boutique, you’ve got yourself an MT, baby.

* * *

So there you go. A mere sampling of the people that make our highways in Utah a singular joy to cruise. Of course, simply listing these offenders without offering a way to remedy or perhaps rehabilitate their behavior is akin to griping about the world’s problems without offering any solutions, and no one likes whiners. That’s why after extensive thought and meditation, fourteen years of driving experience, fifty-seven headaches, half a dozen traffic citations, three wrecks and a bottle of Ibuprofen, I can offer the following solution:

Move to Montana.

How to heckle professional basketball players

Introduction

This handy guide will give you simple instructions for enjoying one of the most important roles of a basketball fan: taunting professional basketball players. Heckling is a high art form that spans a wide range of professional and amateur sports, but professional basketball provides a unique venue that offers both prime opportunity and high risk for its participants. Following simple instructions like these will ensure a fun night of mockery for both amateur and veteran fans, and will protect you and your loved ones from unfortunate episodes like 2004’s “Malice at the Palace”. Have fun!

Required Equipment:

Today’s heckler can use a myriad of tools and appliances to augment his efforts, but keep in mind: no matter what you bring, be careful not to actually throw it at your chosen target. That’s when players start rushing the stands.

A well-prepared heckler will use any or all of the following:
megaphone
multi-colored afro wig
obscene t-shirt
offensive poster
cow bell
air horn
Regis Philbin

Instructions:

The actual steps in heckling are quite simple, more a basis for improvisation than a series of mandatory technical instructions. More important is the application of these steps in regards to the KEYS TO SUCCESS that follow.

1. Go to a professional basketball game.
   
   It may be fun to scream at the TV at home, but the true heckler feels actual game attendance is a must. It is not necessary to attend an NBA game, however, though by heckling at a NBDL or CBA game you run the risk of provoking an ex-NBA veteran who has bottomed out and has nothing to lose by charging the stands.

2. Pick a player.

Again, you can vary instructions like this, and instead choose to taunt the team owner, the referees, or a member of the dance team. But since heckling is an extension of cheering your own team more than anything else, tradition holds that the smartest target would be an actual player.

3. Yell at them.

Actual heckling can be anything from yelling “you suck” to burning them in effigy for fifteen seconds before security removes you from the arena, but the effective heckler manages to strike that perfect balance between creativity, originality, and legally protected speech.

Keys to Success:

Proximity

This is one of the most vital elements of any heckler’s effort. No one can hear you if you’re sitting in the upper bowl (see Figure 1), but if you’re sitting on the row behind the team bench (Figure 2), you run the risk of getting attacked by your chosen player’s posse (which would waste the $500 you spent getting that ticket in the first place!) The best range for heckling is somewhere between 5-15 rows from your chosen target (Figure 3).

Washington Bullets super-heckler Robin Ficker is a good example of the 5-15 range. For years, Ficker hovered half-a-dozen rows behind the opposing bench in Washington, taunting the NBA’s best with a variety of exciting insults and visual aids.

Spike Lee is an example of how you can take a front-row angle to heckling. Since Spike sits at center court across from the team benches, he can exchange verbal jousts with folks like Reggie Miller and Michael Jordan without concern for any unseemly posse interaction. Of course, Spike can sue anyone that messes with him, so that helps out too.

Creativity

Expressions like “You Suck!” and “Airball!” are well-worn tools of the trade, but most players have learned to block such verbiage out. In order to properly announce your presence, you need to put in more of a creative effort. When I heckled Mayor Rocky Anderson at the 2002 Pioneer Day Parade in Salt Lake City, I yelled “Yah Bum, Rock!” in my best “Mickey” impression from the “Rocky” movies, thus distinguishing myself from hecklers using common expressions like “Boo” and “Burn in Hell, Rock!”

Tact

Now, good heckling is a firm tradition of basketball, and one of the key reasons wanna-be sports like golf and tennis will always be second-rate. But sometimes lines need to be drawn, if for no other reason than to avoid provoking your target from charging into the stands to go Stephen Jackson on your behind. Topics like race & ethnicity, religion, and a player’s mother are no-no’s. But there are plenty of other topics that are fair game, such as:

head size
driving record
free-throw percentage
butt size
resemblance to ET
failure to earn paycheck
failure to read and/or write
age (excluding Dikembe Motumbo)

Timing

It’s fun to yell and boo a player when he’s standing at the free-throw line, but chances are, he’s not going to hear you above the rest of the crowd that’s yelling and booing at him. Unless you’re heckling a member of the home team, which is a different circumstance entirely. While you should feel free to yell and boo on occasions like these, you shouldn’t waste your best stuff on moments when your target won’t hear you. Repetition isn’t always a good idea, either. You might sound clever the first time you yell, “I could shoot 3-for-20 on fifteen mil a year, Iverson!” But after twelve or thirteen times, people around you might begin to think you’re stupid.

The key is timing. Save your best material for quiet moments when your target is most likely to hear your barbs, such as during timeouts, between quarters, during the National Anthem, or when the team trainer is working on his hyper-extended knee.

Conclusion

Following tips like the preceding will give you a healthy jump on your heckling pastime, but be advised: don’t expect immortal status right away. Skills like public mockery and humiliation take time to develop to their full potential. As with any other important skill, heckling is an art that takes practice, persistence, and time. So don’t get discouraged if Kobe Bryant doesn’t writhe on the court in the fetal position and pound the hardwood with his fist the first time you tell him only pansies wear yellow, but don’t let that stop you, either. Just remember how much they’re making for every one of those fouls and traveling violations the ref isn’t calling.

Troubleshooting Guide

Problem/Solution:

Player ignores you/Yell louder

Player can’t find you in crowd/Wear more obnoxious clothing

Player sends posse member to intimidate you/Run

Player follows you into stands/Use date as human barrier

Player tries to laugh along, be good sport/Insult his sister

Player is putting up 50+ on your team/Maybe it’s time to throw that beer

Sample from “Official Politically Correct Heckler Database”

“You draw liquid from a straw”
“Eat my trousers”
“You are an inferior basketball player”
“Your play and conduct does not merit the salary you make”
“Those shorts make you look like a non-masculine person with poor dressing habits”
“My unskilled female relative has a higher shooting percentage than you”

How I broke the Del Taco Cycle

One down, many more to go...

It's been two weeks and a day since my last visit to Del Taco. On a Tuesday night after a moderately successful English 1010 class out at the West Jordan Fire Station I made my semi-customary stop, and resolved to cease and desist from that point onward. So far so good.

I say class was moderately successful because I'm fighting the notion that I chickened out with my lesson. The subject that night was Process Analysis, one of my favorite rhetorical modes, a particularly good vehicle for satire, in fact. But instead of go hog-wild with an awe-inspiring lesson, I decided to turn the chapter over to my students and have them teach the material to themselves in small groups, with the idea that since Process Analysis was a rhetoric often used in instruction, that they could get practice by teaching the concept to each other. It was a valid move, but one of convenience, I think, more than academic innovation.

But that doesn't have anything to do with Del Taco. What I'm saying is that whether it was a mediocre class or general frustration over the other hang-ups in life, I was looking forward to something I could depend on, even if it was something as simple as a few cheap tacos.

When I placed my order--six tacos and a spicy bean burrito without cheese--at the drive-thru, the guy quoted me a price that I knew was at least a buck-fifty over the usual price. I know because I order the exact same thing every time, and the reason it irritated me was that the only reason I felt inclined to patronize Del Taco every Tuesday was under the notion that I was being economically responsible.

So when I pulled up to the window and heard the dude quote me the wrong price again, I corrected him, reminding him of their Tuesday night 3 tacos for 99 cents deal. This wasn't the first time I had to correct this guy; the week before he had neglected to put down the fact that I wanted no cheese on my spicy chicken burrito. Now, the pessimist might point out that I am being irrational for demanding no cheese on the burrito while being perfectly silent on the status of the cheese on the tacos, but I'm fine with it. Asking to hold the cheese on all six tacos AND the burrito just seems a little extreme. But if I don't want cheese on my burrito, I don't want cheese on my burrito. And I'm the one paying two bucks for the thing.

What I'm getting at is my previously upstanding track record with Del Taco had taken a turn for the worse over the last two weeks, and now here I was correcting the same guy again. So he recalculates the order and comes back with a price that is now at least fifty cents UNDER the usual price. I'm about to correct him again, but then I hesitate, remembering all the stories of what fast food merchants do to food orders for people that give them a hard time.

Now I'm stuck driving home with an order I know I underpaid for, well aware that it is hypocritical to demand justice for the overcharge but remain silent on the under. In my quest for rationalization, I judge that if the kid has shorted me a taco or otherwise screwed up the order--which of course is very likely--I can consider the matter closed, as technically I will have paid for the product I was delivered. Because the last thing I want to do is go back there. By this time, I'm already thinking this was my last visit.

But when I get to my driveway and open the bag, all six tacos and the spicy chicken burrito are all accounted for. I even check the burrito for cheese, thinking that might be another way to justify the discrepancy.

No go. The cheese is noticably absent.

On the other hand, the hot sauce packets I requested are also absent. Well, technically, wonder boy gave me three mild sauce packets to accomodate my six tacos and full-size burrito. Even though I asked him for a dozen HOT sauce packets. Clearly someone wasn't listening.

So I sat there in my car, pretty much just sick of the whole thing. I guess it was selfish of me, while others are perishing of hunger in cauldrons of violence at home and abroad, to feel fed up with the cards I was being dealt. But I resented having to babysit the people that were being paid to follow my simple requests. And I resented getting drawn into some kind of ethical crisis because some 17-year-old didn't like having to work the drive thru at Del Taco. What I resented most was knowing that within five minutes I was going to be back over there paying this guy an extra fifty cents.

But I did. I drove back to Del Taco and walked inside, muttered a sheepish explanation to some bewildered girl behind the counter--my buddy was nowhere in sight--and dropped a few coins in her hand before walking out. Probably for the last time. I returned to my home, fired up some forgettable movie, and ate my last Del Taco smorgasborg with a clear conscience.

And the cycle is broken.

Last Tuesday night I made homemade tacos instead.

The Ethics Test

Last night in my Introduction to Technical Communications class out at the West Jordan fire station, we covered the chapter on ethics. As part of the lesson, inspired by a test case provided at the end of the chapter, I conducted a brief ethics test, which is posted below:

1. Your boss has put your co-worker in charge of the company Christmas Party. At the last minute, this co-worker takes you aside and tells you he forgot to buy everyone Christmas presents, and asks you to download a list of twenty songs off the Internet and make copies for everyone at the station. Do you:
A. Follow his instructions
B. Refuse, telling him you think downloading music is a copyright infringement
C. Rock him like a hurricane
D. Quickly assemble your old band Rubber Spleen from high school, record some Christmas-flavored demos in your garage, and distribute them to your coworkers.

2. You have been patiently waiting for a rumored promotion for six months, and today the boss took you in his office and indicated that you should be getting the good news by the end of the week. After thanking him, the boss calmly mentions that his eighteen-year-old daughter, who is a compulsive gambler and bears a striking resemblance to Richard Simmons, needs a good man in her life, specifically one that can take her to prom on Friday night. Do you:
A. Accept the promotion and begin dating his daughter
B. Accept the promotion and stand her up on Friday after the paperwork is already signed
C. Turn down the date, thus risking your promotion
D. Rock him like a hurricane

3. T/F: Under “Fair Use” law, you can photocopy entire chapters out of “Impaling for Dummies” book so your students don’t have to buy it for your EMT class.

4. Excited to try out your new digital video camera, you record footage of yourself bowling wearing only your official Utah Jazz boxer shorts and post it on your personal web site. Two weeks later you discover that a Jazz employee has used the footage in a promotional TV spot for the team. Do you have copyright protection?

5. Rolling out of bed at 11am, wiped out after a wild evening in Wendover, you suddenly remember that you are scheduled to turn in a research report to the boss by the end of the workday. You would ask him for an extension, were it not for the fact that you missed the last three reports he requested because of similar circumstances. Do you:
A. Hastily write the best report you can possibly construct in six hours, even though you haven’t even started the research yet
B. Patch together a report from material taken from the web, other reports around the office, and the ingredient list on the wrapper of a Hostess Fruit Pie
C. Plead for an extension and offer to take the boss’s daughter to prom
D. Head back to Wendover and go out in a Blaze of Glory

6. In question #5, you opted to turn in a vastly plagiarized report, and the boss didn’t mention a thing. In fact, his plan was to immediately turn it over to a group of legislators who have a tremendous influence on how much money your department gets next year, and he didn’t even look at it. Do you:
A. Tell the boss what you did, knowing that the plagiarized report will likely cost him his job and yours
B. Throw your boss under the bus and claim he ordered you to fake the report
C. Call your third-cousin Stan, who is a state legislator, and beg him to give your department the money anyway. You also ask him if he has any daughters you can take to prom.
D. Head back to Wendover and go out in a Blaze of Glory

7. While working on a research paper for an English class, you find an article that perfectly matches the argument you are trying to make. Do you:
A. Choose another topic, since there’s no point writing your paper if someone’s already made your argument
B. Use key quotes from the article to provide external support for your thesis
C. Build your paper on the same framework as the other paper, quoting lengthy passages from the other article and periodically throwing in a line or two on your own for context.
D. Just turn in the other article with your name on it, because you suspect your instructor isn’t even reading your papers, anyway.

8. T/F: It’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission.

9. While heading out on a fire call in a brand new residential neighborhood, you accidentally punch in the wrong address in Mapquest while getting directions, and Andrei Kirilenko’s new 14 million dollar home is completely destroyed. Fortunately no one is in the home when it goes, but the blaze manages to destroy Mrs. Kirilenko’s entire collection of autographed 1980’s Russian pop records, as well as documented evidence that Andrei has been regularly exceeding his marital infidelity allotment. As you stand in shame, watching the blaze, do you:
A. Take full responsibility for the accident
B. Blame Mapquest for being a crappy program, and Al Gore for inventing the stupid Internet in the first place
C. Tell Andrei it was your fault and try to blackmail him with the infidelity stuff
D. Cover your guilt while you doggedly try to discover evidence that implicates Laker coach Phil “Zen Master” Jackson in the incident.

10. For the last five years, you have been responsible for monitoring the emissions levels of a manufacturing plant to make sure they don’t exceed federal limits. In a push to increase production of your specialty product—rubber chickens, your boss has modified operations to the point that even though you are producing a record number of units, your pollution output is dangerously close to breaking the legal limit. You have already brought this to your supervisor’s attention, but instead of show concern or attention to the threat, he instead told you to order take-out from Beto’s for the entire 7,500 employee staff, who are staying late tonight to push for a new unit record. You are positive that if the entire staff has Beto’s for dinner, the emissions level will exceed legal limits and your factory will risk federal prosecution and sanctions. Do you:
A. Convince your boss to opt for BLT’s
B. Break into your network system and alter the numbers to hide the violation
C. Enter the Federal Witness Protection Program and look forward to your new life as Gary Gee, humble accountant and part-time fly fishing instructor in Fairbanks, Alaska
D. Stay late with the crew and succumb to a slow toxic suicide, wondering how on earth you ever wound up in the rubber chicken industry in the first place