Friday Morning

This morning as I lay sprawled in bed, trying to summon the strength to overcome last night's 3AM bedtime due to a rare midnight movie event (the premier of "Iron Man 2," AKA, "Ex-80's Heartthrob's Shoot CGI Lasers at Each Other Inside Illogically Lightweight Iron Suits"), my new wake-up radio station demonstrated our culture's increasingly conflicted understanding of what constitutes Classic Rock by airing the Def Leppard classic "Love Bites," which far and away held the record for the song most frequently cited in on the dedication page of the Charger Chapter by 8th Grade students of Centerville Junior High back in 1989 (in spite of the soft-rock juggernaut that was Richard "Right Here Waiting" Marx), and I was once again reminded of A. How old I am; B. How far we have come as a culture (IE, dedicating songs to each other in the school newspaper vs. text messaging pictures of our naughty bits); and C... well, I think C was supposed to be the crack about Def Leppard not being a Classic Rock band, but I already mentioned that, and I can't think of anything else to plug in here that will round out a suitable trio of options, let alone a traditional third-item zinger, because my mind is a tad loaded down from the final English 1010 papers I still need to grade, the wedding video I need to finish, the date/companion I still need to get for tomorrow's Jazz-Laker playoff game, the challenge of getting my surround system to Kaysville tonight for a birthday party in spite of the fact that I don't have a truck, the run to Guitar Center I need to make to buy some new tom-tom heads and maybe brushes before tomorrow morning's practice with my brand-new (and still unnamed) blues band (which will be preceded by me dropping off my Honda to get some brake work done so the wheel stops shaking whenever I decelerate from 80mph), and whatever else I've pushed back into my subconscious while I sit here trying to pump out a convoluted blog entry that has no real focus other than to keep up a consistent post rate and maybe offer the novelty of an entire post that consists of a single sentence.

The Secret Weapon

A few years ago, I noticed a peculiar phenomenon during a season of church basketball. I'd usually arrive early for my own scheduled game, and would spend about a half hour scouting out the teams playing in front of me. One of those teams featured a player I can only describe as, well, a "secret weapon."

The Secret Weapon was a handicapped kid that was all of about five feet tall. I'm not sure what his exact ailment was, but whatever it was, it was enough to effectively put him in "do not guard" territory. Partially because everyone assumed the kid couldn't hit the broad side of a barn, but mostly because anyone who dared to take advantage of him would surely be viewed as the very Spawn of Hell. For the most part, The Secret Weapon was given carte blanche, and allowed to roam free.

I remember the first time I saw The Secret Weapon in action. He only handled the ball a couple of times, and it seemed like his heart was bounding out of his chest on each of them. Once, with his man giving him an obligatory ten-foot cushion, he decided to chuck up a long three-pointer. When it went in, you would have thought Rudy just got his sack for Notre Dame. Even my cold, competitive heart warmed a little bit, and I felt grateful that I was on hand to witness what was surely a very special moment.

Over the next few weeks, however, I realized that The Secret Weapon was having a "very special moment" two or three times a game. His shooting percentage wasn't all that great, but it was a lot better than you would expect, and he was good for 6-to-9 points a game that the other team couldn't defend. It was the perfect scam.

When my team played him, it was the same deal. We couldn't guard him honestly, because we didn't want to get beat up after the game. So we'd hang back, and he'd inevitably hit two or three long balls, and each time the crowd would celebrate like he'd been waiting his whole life to hit that shot.

But I knew better...and I couldn't do a thing about it.

I don't know what to take from this experience. I don't know what it means in the grander scheme of things.  The underdog in me loves it, and the competitor in me feels like I just can't win.  I don't know...maybe I'm just desperate to come up with something that will help the Jazz beat the Lakers.

The Birds and the Bugs

This past weekend I was pondering another of life's critical questions.  Namely, should flipping the bird only be reserved for people in respectable cars?

Allow me to explain...

Saturday afternoon I was making my way north along I-15 on the way to the baptism of my auxiliary niece Sophie.  As is usually the case, I was in the fast lane.  Somewhere between Farmington and Kaysville, I happened upon a bright yellow Volkswagen Bug.  I didn't honk, I didn't shine my brights, and I didn't tailgate either.  Yet within seven seconds, my presence was acknowledged by the silhouette of an arm, which shot up from the front seat, emphatically flipping me the bird.

A few seconds later, Miss VW pulled over into the middle lane, and as I passed her, she flipped me off again, this time with such gusto that she obviously imagined her forearm was some kind of military-grade artillery, fully capable of blowing me off the road with the sheer will of her passion.

There have been many occasions in life where I have let other drivers get under my skin.  Yet this woman couldn't do it.  The situation was too absurd.  Too comic.  Here she was, packed into this blobbish-looking bright yellow car, trying her best to assert her profane highway authority while driving something that looked like it should have been piloted by Spongebob Squarepants.

So again, I ask: should flipping the bird only be reserved for people in respectable cars?

My Bachelor Party Manifesto

I figured out a long time ago that when it comes to marriage plans, mine will be a voice of support, and not of decision.  No matter how much I'd like to see my future wedding reception take the form of a massive toga party with music, dancing, and a dozen Weber gas grills, I know that I'll probably be outvoted.

I'm fine with that.

As long as I get a good Bachelor Party.

Long experience, however, had suggested this may be no easy task.  With standard features like strippers, alcohol, and stolen zoo animals off the table, many faithful Mormon grooms-to-be default to lame gatherings that would barely pass for elementary school birthday parties.  A group of guys goes out to dinner, maybe goes bowling, and at some point in the evening someone breaks out a cheetah print speedo he got the nerve to score at Blue Boutique.  And that's if there's a Bachelor Party at all.

When my time comes, I will go out in style.  There will be food.  There will be firearms.  And at the rate I'm going, there will probably be Medicaid claims.

I have caught fleeting glimpses of greatness in the past.  There were the parties years ago that featured full-court dunk ball games behind J.A. Taylor Elementary School.  There was my old roommate Brandon, who brought his henchmen down to San Diego for an evening of BBQ and a viewing of "Hot Rod" before getting sealed the next day.  Then there was the event I attended last weekend, where the simple idea of a roast was transformed into a multi-media extravaganza, complete with slide shows, films, and enough incriminating poop stories to turn you off camping for the rest of your life.

When the time comes to cap off my life as a Menace to Society, I want to shoot guns.  I want to play football.  I want to have gluttonous taco eating competitions.  I want to strap a life-size effigy of myself to a handmade raft, float it out onto the Great Salt Lake, and fire flaming arrows at it for a proper Viking Funeral.  And I want to do the whole thing in a rented jumpsuit that would make Elvis proud.  Is that too much to ask?

I realize I may be getting my cart in front of my horse here.  Like I said, by the time I actually have to plan a Bachelor Party, I may have to call ahead to make sure the rec room at my assisted living facility is available.  But even then, we can have wheelchair jousting duels, cream corn fights, and high-stakes Bingo.

I refuse to budge on this.  This dream will not die.

They're Coming...

I still haven't decided if this is good news or bad news.

Barbacoa is coming to Bountiful.

Last week an old friend dropped me a line on Facebook that brought tears to my eyes: the old Hogi Yogi off 500 South is about to become the newest franchise of my favorite Mexican chain.  I already frequent the Salt Lake establishments once a week--usually the one on 9th and 9th across the street from the Tower Theater.  But now my spicy pork burrito bowl is only five minutes away.

Last weekend I drove by to confirm the news.  I had no reason to doubt my friend, and a quick stop at the company Web site confirmed the new location at 500 South.  But I had to see it with my own eyes.

It's true.

Barbacoa is coming to Bountiful.

I still haven't decided if this is good news or bad news.

Living the Portable Life

A few years ago I helped a girl move out of her apartment.  I figured that as a one-bedroom, it would be a quick job.  Many hours and many boxes later, it wasn't.  Aside from the numerous boxes of shoes--not shoe boxes, mind you; boxes full of shoes--the item that stood out in my mind was the 36 x 12 x 8 inch box exclusively devoted to smelly candles.  That morning I added another item to my dating "red flag" list.

Last week I helped my old home teaching companion move out of his central Bountiful rambler.  He's married with three kids, and a pretty down-to-earth guy.  Yet I was amazed to watch as his belongings were carted out into the front yard.  Here was a humble family, completely non-materialistic by modern Davis County standards, and yet the sheer volume of their belongings felt overwhelming.  I was reminded of how portable my life really is.

I've moved seven times since I finished grad school six years ago, and none of those moves needed a U-Haul.  Mostly that's because I hardly have any furniture (see: $500 bean bag), and partially because I still suffer from that special single person's disease that leads you to store a lot of stuff at your parents' house.

Maybe it's just my transient Mormon heritage, or it could be this romantic notion I have of living on the open road, but I kind of like the idea of being able to pick up and move with a minimum of effort.  Don't get me wrong; I have plenty of "stuff." I just don't like the idea of having to make multiple U-Haul trips to get it from place to place.

The ultimate manifestation of this lifestyle came in Chicago, when at any given time I had to be ready to move all my earthly belongings--including a rather awkward and cumbersome mountain bike--with a single Ford Escort Wagon.  But even that situation had loopholes.  If I really wanted to keep something that wasn't going to make it to my next area, I just shipped it home before transfers.

As I watched my old ward friend move last week, his belongings looked like the physical manifestation of the metaphorical anchor of his life.  He was rooted.  Domesticated.  I've always assumed that I've wanted those roots, but after years of pop-culture driven idealism when it comes to things like marriage and family, I think I'm becoming more aware of the magnitude of such commitments.  And yet while I'm wary of these roots, I think some of them may be taking hold without my knowing.

It's sobering, man...even I own a couple of those stinky candles.

11 Reasons I am NOT a Pimp-o-Matic Mega-Stud

After my previous post, one of my faithful readers suggested I might consider the flip-side of my Marryability argument.  I don't know, in the interest of humility or honesty or something.  Well, never let it be said I don't value the input of my readers.  Last time I gave you the reasons I am a catch.  Here are the reasons you might have to release:

1. I am not a homeowner.  When the zombie apocalypse hits, we will not be holed up in the basement with all of our food storage.  Chances are we will hit the highway Mad Max style, gunning down Z's at 80mph and fighting road battles for precious, precious gasoline.  Besides, after you've participated in enough Saturday morning Elder's Quorum moves, you realize the best kind of life is the kind that is portable.

2. I never eat at the table.  For some reason, I have to be watching something or reading something while I'm eating.  I'm not sure this explains why you can often find me eating shrimp cocktails on the couch downstairs at 1AM while watching downloaded episodes of "Fringe," but it's a start.

3. I refuse to use emoticons.  This one goes for dumb acronyms, too.  Six months ago a girl rejected me via text, and the last line of her message was seriously "Best of luck 2 U."  I felt like I was getting dumped by MC Hammer.  Yes, emoticons and hip acronyms may help the interpretation of your tone (IE, sarcasm), but honestly, if you're a decent writer, that shouldn't be a problem.

4. I hate country music.  Let me rephrase that: I hate hate hate hate hate hate hate country music.  This will not change.

5. I hate minivans and SUV's. I love to drive, and I'm hard pressed to think of two vehicles that negate that passion more, whether you're behind their wheels or just stuck behind them on a long road.  Yet these are the vehicles you need once your family passes a certain threshold.  I honestly think I'd rather drive a school bus.

6. I own a $500 Bean Bag. It sounds better if you know that it has a retail value of $1,100.  But not much.  And if you think that's bad, you should hear how much my camera lenses cost.

7. I am a nerd. Maybe the video game thing isn't a problem for me, but my inner geek was branded the minute I jumped in my car and set out for Comic-Con 2007.  Or the minute I approached George Lucas in a Chicago mall.  Or...well, pretty much since this happened.

8. I have a diminished vertical leap. All great athletes have to adapt their games late in their careers.  Karl Malone developed a jump shot.  Michael Jordan did underwear commercials with Kevin Bacon.  I used to be a short speedy guy who could catch you from behind on fast breaks.  Now I'm a short slightly more built guy who just pushes you out of the way.

9. I am physically incapable of tanning. This has made certain recreational pursuits like boating problematic.  I'm kind of like that assassin guy in DaVinci Code, only without the quiet moments of naked self-flagellation. 


10. I like who I am.  There's a prevalent idea out there that suggests every girl gets married with the intention of molding her husband into the man she wants him to be.  I have caught glimpses of this on different dates over the years, and it did not go over well.  I like who I am.  I like my Velvet Elvis paintings.  I know I have weaknesses, and I am working on them.  But let me repeat: I like who I am.


11. I am a stubborn, defiant, competitive SOB who follows his gut and doesn't like to be nagged.  In other words, I am a man.

11 Reasons I am a Pimp-o-Matic Mega-Stud

Last week Roommate #51 posted an essay on the concept of what he calls "Marryability," or a measure of how marriage-worthy a guy or girl is.  It has caused me some deep introspection.  Over the years, I have been described as "a tough match," "intimidating," and "having a perfectly shaped head," so in this age of shameless self-promotion, I thought it might be worth my time to assemble a brief hit list of my own marriage resume highlights:

1. I own my own blender.  I even use it, too.  Just to make virgin margaritas, but that's got to count for something.

2. I've got that "opening doors" thing nailed.  This one has already been well-documented.  I can handle doorknobs, push/pull setups, automatic doors, and most types of windows.

3. I shave my head.  Sure, you could say that male-pattern baldness is a negative, but I say it's a much bigger negative to the guys who live in comb-over denial.  Besides, as we discussed earlier, I have a perfectly shaped head.

4. I have season tickets to the Utah Jazz.  That's right, baby: 41 pre-paid date nights a year!  Just make sure to bring your own oxygen mask and an extra layer; the air gets a little thin in the upper bowl.  On the flip side, the odds of seeing a fistfight are way higher.

5. I have a weakness for certain RomCom's.  Keep in mind, there's a big difference between Romantic Comedies and Chick Flicks (which are still a no-no), but thanks to a Big Brother Complex* I developed for John Cusack many years ago, I can usually be talked into a periodic RomCom, especially if it stars some super-fly hot mama like Meg Ryan or Kate Beckinsale.

6. I have cool scars.  Chicks don't dig sissy-boys, they dig scars.  Because nothing says "sexy" like evidence of past lacerations.

7. I own my own business.  Sure, I may have only created it for tax reasons, and yeah, maybe I named it after a Monty Python sketch, but seriously, I own my own business.  That's cool, right?

8. I am not into video games.  I have plenty of free time to talk to you and make out and stuff.

9. I have a reasonable bench-press.  I won't be impressing anyone at the NFL combine, but I hear the basic threshold is the ability to bench your own body weight, and I've got that kicked by a long shot.  Especially if you believe that I weigh 115 pounds.

10. I am handy with a shotgun, and know all the best ways to deal with zombies.  Of course, it helps if they are the size of clay pigeons and operate at a distance of 25-50 yards.

11. I play the drums.  Playing the drums is a lot of fun, but as the foundational element of the band, you often feel left out of the creative loop.  On the other hand, once I heard that drummers make good lovers, so there you go.

...so, why are there 11 highlights instead of a clean 10?  Because guys with marryability don't conform to the cultural conventions of a shallow society (or the rules of grammar).  Ladies, if you really want to score a Pimp-o-Matic Mega-Stud, you have to be ready to dial the volume up to 11.

----

*Meaning "John Cusack is the big brother I never had," not, "I think John Cusack is watching my every move."

The Social Troll

Pop quiz: What is the significance of the number 51 in my life?

A. Moving violations on my driving record.
B. Times I casually reference my one-gig stint in a Neil Diamond cover band (annual).
C. Roommates I have had outside my immediate family.
D. The number of girls I have kissed (annual).

To date, the correct answer is C, though if my recent pace holds up, the answer will be A in about five years.  B could be correct if I actually worked the numbers, and I will remain silent on option D.

It's a little sobering to think about; I've had more than fifty roommates in my adult life.

Well, sort of my adult life.  I'm counting the dozen or so who I either served with or shared apartments with during my mission in Chicago, and while they certainly count as roommate experiences, I'm not sure I would really call my state of mind "adult" for that period of  time, and I have plenty of pictures to prove it.

Still, regardless of the category, you have to admit that 51 is a pretty substantial number.  You could read it a lot of ways.  You could say it's a good thing, because I've never gotten into a fist fight with any of them (though I did get close for a stretch in Freeport, Illinois).  Or you could say it's a bad thing, since I've never lived with the same roommate for more than a year and a half.  I don't know; is that a bad thing?

Crunch the numbers a little further, and you find that my personal record for simultaneous roommates is eight, during my third semester of grad school at Utah State (pictured, and yes, that's Peter Breinholt...it's kind of a long story).  And of my eight non-mission residences, four of them had me sleeping in basement bedrooms (five if you count the time I spent watching old "X-Files" episodes in the unfinished basement of my Woods Cross place).

Add it up, and I guess that makes me some kind of social troll.  I'm not sure what that does to my marryability index, but then again, "marryability" seems to be in the eye of the beholder.

So are moving violations, apparently.

Breaking Up is Hard to Do: An Open Letter to KODJ

Dear KODJ,

Sometimes when an old relationship gets stagnant, you just have to cut the cord.  I had been waking up to your station for more than ten years, but as of last week, I can't take it any more.

It probably started when you began to phase the "oldies" out of your playlist and shift the format from 50's and 60's to 70's and 80's.  I love a lot of stuff from the 70's and 80's, but nowadays it feels like anything pre-Beatles has been rendered obsolete.

It got worse when your female co-host decided to spend generous portions of every morning broadcast talking about the latest happenings on "The Bachelor," "Dancing With the Stars," and "American Idol." I know a lot of people like reality TV, but I am definitely not one of them.  Especially when there is so much better television out there.

But the morning your host decided to have her personal psychic call in to the show to do a segment (without an ounce of self-awareness or irony, I might mention)...that's when I decided I couldn't take it anymore.

You lost me, 94.1...you just lost me.

This morning I woke up to a new show on 103.5.  They used to be the Classic Rock foil to your Oldies, but now you guys pretty much play the same stuff.  There weren't any reality TV updates, though.  No psychics, either.  Just some awkward transitions between Billy Joel and Def Leppard songs, with a little banter in-between.  It's not what I would call a perfect new relationship, but for now it will do.  I have to wake up to something.

Just so you understand, I don't expect everyone to mirror my own taste.  I've known I've been in the minority around here ever since Z-93 sold its soul to Country back when I was in high school.  I just figure that if I'm going to leave, you might as well know why.

So long, KODJ.  We had some good times, we really did.  Breaking up really is hard to do.  Neil Sedaka wrote a song about that.  He's not on the radio anymore.

Take it easy,

The Professor

The Undead

I've been teaching English composition for well over six years now, and in that time, there is an inevitable transition in every semester where I go from grading "fun" papers to grading "serious" papers.  This is the moment where instead of writing personal narratives, reviews, or process analysis papers, my students have to compose the dreaded research paper, and make some kind of argument about an issue that brings in outside sources.

Without fail, students who have written papers about summer vacations and romantic comedies suddenly default to harsh and bitter topics like abortion, stem cell research, and drug legalization.  Valid topics for sure, and often well-written at that, but topics that seem to lack a bit of the life and zest that previous papers carried. 

In the days that run up to the due date, I plead with my students to broaden their academic vistas and not feel tied to such hardcore issues, but then the dreaded day arrives, and I face a pile of epic sermons on the weightier issues of the day.  Every time I immediately resolve to provide my next batch of students with more examples and one-on-one counsel to help them find something to write about that they might not have considered.  For their sake...and for mine.

That's why mornings like today are so satisfying.  Once I couldn't stand the inane radio ramblings of my usual morning show any longer, I dragged myself out of bed, determined to grade at least two argument papers before heading off to the day job...and promptly graded two papers on the impending zombie apocalypse.

Now that's the way you start a Thursday.

The Professor's Book Club: Outliers

For someone who claims he wants to be a writer when he grows up (all April Fool's gags aside), I do a painfully small amount of reading.  However, I have managed to muscle through a few titles recently, and I thought I'd pass them along.

The most notable book I've read so far in 2010 is a book by Malcolm Gladwell called Outliers.  Outliers is Gladwell's attempt to redefine the way we understand success in modern times, or more specifically, the way we understand the genesis of success.  I'm usually not the kind of guy who reads "success" books, at least of the Tony Robbins or Og Mandino variety, but Gladwell illustrates his points by examining the lives of pop culture figures like Bill Gates and The Beatles, so it's easier for schlubs like me to pay attention.  Plus the author boasts a killer electric afro (Obligatory Hendrix Perm?), which means I will hang on his every word.

The result is very complex and well worth reading, but it basically boils down to the idea that there is no single source we can point to when answering why certain people succeed in life and others don't.  IQ, talent, and class advantages all factor in, but even when all those things are equal there are still other seemingly fate-determined elements that put one person in the right place at the right time (thus creating the group of titular Outliers), while leaving someone else in complete anonymity.  Bill Gates was an incredibly gifted child, but if he hadn't gained almost unheard access to a computer terminal when he was in his early teens (and been born at the precise time that would land him in that spot in the first place), he never would have become the man we read about. In that sense, the book might better be titled Timing.

This is all well and good, but what the book doesn't address is the assumption it makes about the definition of success itself.  What of the people who weren't born at the right time, or given the unique opportunities or blessed with the astounding talents of the Outliers?  Are we doomed to mediocrity and unfulfilled lives? Perhaps Gladwell felt it was a given that for the sake of his discussion, we would only be addressing those in our society who achieved greatness in terms of fame and fortune, but the idea I found surfacing most often throughout the read was that if worldly success was only partially dependent on factors we could control, we probably shouldn't use it as an absolute benchmark for our own personal happiness. 

I'm guessing Gladwell would probably agree.

A Greeting

Come on, guys...go check the first letter of each sentence in that last post.  Highly unoriginal, I know.  But you have to admit that I could no sooner quit writing than I could chew off my own leg.  (Chewing would be physically impossible.  I could, if necessary, saw off my leg if given the proper utensil.)  And I'm especially not going to quit writing because a couple of publishers shot me down.  Keep in mind, I've been dating since 1992.

The Wounded Mosquito is not going anywhere.

It's true that I've been painfully slack in posting lately, an error I hope to address soon.  Let's just say I've had a lot of stuff going on.  Since late January I've essentially been working one full-time day job and teaching two night classes, which means my free time has become a lot more infrequent and valuable.  Plus I'm still trying to decide whether to continue this blog as an extension of my old USU column (the original intent) vs. writing posts that are shorter and more frequent (the advice I get from anyone who knows anything about creating a blog with a successful following).

It would seem that, as per usual, I am struggling with a commitment issue.  Kind of puts a different spin on that 1992 stat.

A Farewell

After almost a month with no posts, you had to see this coming.  Part of me is really sad to have come to this decision, but it feels like the right thing.  Recently I’ve encountered a number of setbacks in my writing pursuits, both through this blog as well as through a manuscript I’ve been circulating among some local publishers.  I got my hopes up for a while, but as the rejections kept coming, it forced me to take a long, hard look at where I am in life.

Life, it seems, is taking me in a different direction.

For the foreseeable future, I am officially closing up shop on the Wounded Mosquito, if not on my writing efforts in general.  Optimism is a good thing, but as they say, doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result is the essence of insanity.  Of course, I couldn’t say goodbye without saying thank you to the few loyal readers who have supported me through my efforts, either through following this blog, reading over my manuscripts, or merely offering encouragement as I tried to build a steady audience.  Loyalty is an incredible virtue, one that far too few possess these days.

So long, suckas.

Never Underestimate the Power of the Beard

Just a little something to start your weekend off right...

Poetry Slammed

A while back I attended my first Poetry Slam.  I've never been much of a poet--typically I leave that department to my sister--but I didn't have anything else interesting going on that night, and thought the opportunity might prove intriguing.  I debated the idea of bringing some pre-written material, but ultimately decided that if everyone else was going to be composing on the spot, then I probably should too.

So here are the two "poems" I penned at the event, in all their raw, unadulterated glory.  For the first round, everyone wrote down a Valentines-related topic down on a blank piece of paper and circulated them around the room.  The topic I drew was "Gondola Ride in Venice," which I promptly distorted into more of a "Gondola Ride in the Venitian Casino in Vegas" theme:

floating the canal, we three
the gondola dude, my love, and me
fifteen dollars well spent
nirvana...ooh baby

the Venitian looking so alive
shoppers staring as we ride
my love grabs my right arm
"nirvana," she coos..."ooh baby"

hard to believe, hard to conceive,
that we only met three hours prior
down at the Bellagio
playing keno...ooh baby

our driver, the gondola dude, he smells
of apricot, apples and fine cheese
his shift ends at ten
lobster buffet...ooh baby

i can't remember how i got here
my last memories so hazy
surviving the quantum mind probe
alien abduction...ooh baby

the romantic ride so near its end
elvis looks down from nearby rail
you the man, the king he sneers
chapel 'o love...ooh baby

The first poem was received well, but I felt it was a little too formal, so for the next round I tried to go for something a little more stream-of-consciousness spontaneity, more appropriate for a beat-poet poetry slam forum. I named it after something I found on the inside cover of a nearby children's book.

Platt & Munk Publishers, New York, New York

super fly monk man
out on the town
cruisin for chicks baby
boo-ya diddly-doo sha-wow wow
dull dank night is cool yo
monk man shuffles his feet
funkadelic show boatin free floatin easy strokin
no room tonight for hatin'
sucka mc's debatin'
super fly monk man ain't waitin'
hit the club yo do some disco
whip out his banjo kick some tae-bo
ladies faint by the dozens, rollin bass lines smooth techno jumbo
monk man gotta go-go
eat some sushi rolls hot and spicy tempura paradise
can't get saki on the dance floor gonna fly like rocky head out like a baby
make like a tree and leave leave
late night strollin monk man ain't foolin groovin to the bongo beat beat
tight pants be shiny smooth rattlesnake scales ouch if you go wrong way baby
hair be slick back duck tail droppin curly fro hoppin
pimpin kicks smackin sidewalk slappin cerulean blue
2 am coming still no ladies showing gotta step it up to the rhythm rhythm
yeah.
yeah
lights reflecting street signs directing posh super fly would you like to take a ride in my hovercraft?
super fly monk man out on the town
ain't no love in Boise tonight

For some reason, this second poem was voted best of the night, largely because my recitation reminded people of Vanilla Ice.  So I don't know whether to take it as a compliment or not.  All I know is that Walt Whitman is probably spinning in his grave.

Rise of the Machines

John Connor was right.  The machines are taking over.

Last weekend my roommate/landlord/male model bought an iRobot 110 Dirt Dog Workshop Robot, a wonderful little machine that looks kind of like R2-D2, only if the Godlike animated foot from Monty Python stepped on him and left him to scurry around in circles vacuuming dirt off concrete floors.

This is not the first iRobot product to join the Visser Household.  In fact, the addition of the Dirt Dog officially bringing our Robots vs. Humans tally to the following:

House Cleaning Robots: 3
Humans: 2

We now have three different robots that are specifically designed to clean our floors.  The original iRobot Roomba handles the general vacuum duties, the Scooba mops the kitchen, and the Dirt Dog has been assigned to the garage.  (And it's only a matter of time until we strap jousts to them and start an illegal iRobot-fighting ring.)

To my knowledge, none of these things display sentient Artificial Intelligence, though John does insist on addressing them with male pronouns like "he" and "him."  When you factor in the dishwasher, the microwave, and the 50-inch flatscreen downstairs that is networked into John's computer, you understand why I recently suggested that I am living at the zenith of my bachelor existence.

The whole thing reminds me of the stark contrast between what I always thought the future would look like and the way it turned out.  By the time I showed up on the scene back in the late 70's, it was pretty obvious that the bleak future of George Orwell's 1984 wasn't going to hit the nail on its dystopian head in time for its titular calendar year, but there was still time to make Arthur C. Clarke's 2001 a bulls-eye.  If we made it to the Moon by 1969, sending a spaceship all the way to Jupiter to contact a giant Hershey bar by 2001 seemed well within reason.  But we didn't.  And nine years later, as we enter 2010--which, ironically, is the name of Clarke's follow-up novel--we've only gotten as far as sending expensive Roombas to Mars.

Based on what I saw in old episodes of "Star Trek" and in the "Back to the Future" movies, I always assumed the future held three promises: flying sports cars, body suits, and little slots in walls that magically made any kind of food you wanted.  We haven't managed any of that, either, but the simple fact that you are reading this blog post on your laptop/desktop/iPhone via a wireless streaming network connection in-between downloading illegal digital music files and watching bootleg clips of the Super Bowl in HD on YouTube is a healthy reminder of we have accomplished.

The world of the present is a far cry from what we knew only a decade ago, and I think that if we looked at it honestly, we'd realize that like the Bushmen in "The Gods Must Be Crazy," we've turned the Coke bottles of technology from luxuries into necessities.

Last Friday morning as I was sitting in my shared cubicle, waiting for my computer to fire up, it occurred to me that everything I did for my day job was entirely dependent on the operational status of that PC.  It was a sobering thought, especially when you consider what sitting around all day will do to your Ch'i, not to mention your backside.  Almost on cue, the office shared drive went out that afternoon, and everyone bailed out early.

I don't bring this up to condemn technology as much as to raise an eyebrow to our dependence on it.  Technology is a wonderful thing, but it might be smart to loosen the tether every once in a while.  My sister and brother-in-law are getting ready to give up restaurant dining for Lent.  They aren't Catholic; they just like a good idea when they see it.  I'm not Catholic either, but maybe I could pull out the old Dyson vacuum a few times in the next month.

...or I could just let the Roomba do it.  I wouldn't want him to feel like he wasn't needed.

Pet Peeves and the Philosophy of Car Door Chivalry

Sunday night I found myself in Layton shooting the bull with a dozen girls and my friend Collin.  The discussion seemed to center around two topics:

1. The proper use of apostrophes with regard to possessives.
2. Dating gripes.

The first topic spun from the subject of text messaging, which was surprising since I didn't think anyone bothered with grammar when it came to text messaging.  The second came up, I think, because the twelve girls thought it would be fun to put the two guys on the spot.  Everyone started bringing up their biggest dating pet peeves, and within no time, we were knee deep in an analysis of that old dating stand-by: door etiquette.

I'm not talking about doorstep etiquette.  I'm talking about opening car doors etiquette.  Maybe it's because I've been dating since the Clinton Administration, but I still find it astounding that when the opportunity presents itself to dig deep into the innate conflicts between the genders, people can't get past this dumb little hitch.  Personally, I'd be much more interested in discerning the answers to more pressing issues, such as:

1. How do you ask a girl out in her place of business?
2. How do you tell the difference between "Playing hard to get" and "She's waiting for you to just go away?"
3. What is Evangeline Lilly's phone number?

But no.  We're still stuck on, "should you open the door for her to get out of the car, or just to get in?"

Here, let me solve the mystery: If you get out of the car and she's still sitting there, go open that door, too.

End of story.

Eventually the discussion wrapped back into a more general conversation about dating pet peeves, which I failed to enter officially, partly because I don't harbor a lot of "on the date" pet peeves.  Most of my gripes are based in the before and after stage of the date, and that's a topic for another, more bitter post.

The other reason I didn't pipe up is because last night's discussion involved a lot of talking back and forth across the room and yelling and mini-conversations and random tangents, and in those situations, I'm a lot more likely to sit back and enjoy the ride...then write about it the next day.  But for those who were curious...

Josh's Top Three "On the Date" Pet Peeves:

1. Introductions

When you go on a date in Salt Lake City, you stand a better-than-average chance of running into someone you know over the course of the evening.  When you do, the courteous thing is to introduce your date to your friend.  The non-courteous thing to do is stand there and talk to your friend for a really, really long time while your nameless date stands there twiddling his/her thumbs. (Just for the record, even if you do introduce your date, you still shouldn't carry on the conversation for longer than, say, 30 seconds.)

2. Conversation Blinders

As a guy, I enjoy the luxury of being the one to initiate the majority of my dates.  This means I usually go into an evening assured that I'll be able to hold a decent conversation and have a good time, and most of the time, I do.  However, two of my most disappointing dates happened because in spite of a wealth of common interests, the girl I took out was only interested in talking about herself the whole night.  Whenever I tried to chime in with any parallel experience I'd had that might augment her monologue, you'd have thought I'd just suggested she get a gym membership or stop eating chocolate.  Seriously, the vibe was tangible.  On the more recent of those two dates, I physically had a headache by the end of the night.

3. The Side Hug

Most of the time I'm not the kind of guy to push the physical side of the relationship.  I know that sometimes it happens quicker than others.  But I also understand that giving someone a hug with both arms does not constitute an amorous relationship of any legally binding degree.  Now, if you're holding a purse and some leftovers in one hand when the inevitable Doorstep Scene occurs, that's one thing.  But if after a month of dating you're still acting like you have nerve damage in half your body, the message you're sending is that I'm a walking meal ticket, and not much more.

*    *    * 

The funny thing about those dating vent sessions is I never know how to take them.  As we sat there and listened to all the other girls share their horror stories the other night, Collin and I couldn't decide whether we should feel satisfied or depressed.  On the one hand, we knew that there were guys out there who were screwing up a lot worse than we were.  But at the same time, we were still single.  I mean, if we were showing up on doorsteps an hour late with bad BO, frothing at the mouth and expecting our dates to pay for a quick run to Arby's, at least we'd have a reason for the resulting rejections.

We knew one thing though: We had the door thing down.  And that has to count for something.

The Circle of Jazz

In twenty-five years of watching the Utah Jazz, few moments have matched the thrill of seeing Sundiata Gaines hit a walk-off three-pointer over King James and his subjects on tail end of his temp contract.  It's hard to say where the moment will rank on the all-time list, or even if Yada will still be with the team by the end of the season, but as I stood high in the upper bowl with my dad last Thursday, I knew I had witnessed something special.  As of right now, here are my top ten favorite Jazz moments, arranged chronologically:

1986: The McMailman

I will never forget the first time I met Karl Malone.  It was during his rookie year at the Highway 89 McDonald's in Bountiful.  Karl had been sent out there to sign autographs, and we found him sitting by himself in the corner of the old outdoor Playland, waiting behind a folding table with a stack of glossy black and white photographs.  There wasn't a publicity rep or a press agent to be found, just a skinny early version of the Mailman with nothing to do but write "To ____, Karl 'The Mailman' Malone, #32, Utah Jazz" over and over on as many photos as you wanted.  It is the memory of Karl I remember the fondest.

1988: Coming of Age

I'd been watching Jazz games off and on for a few years by the time we squared off with the Lakers in the second round of the '87-'88 playoffs, but it was only after that series that I officially became a Jazz fan.  It was a classic David vs. Goliath match, and even coach Frank Layden was famously candid about his lack of faith in his team's chances.  That's part of what made it so sweet when the stubborn Jazz dragged the series out to a full seven games before finally giving up the ghost.  As much as I loved the slow TV pan of the dejected Laker bench during the closing minutes of a Jazz blowout win in Game Six, my favorite memory of the series was packing into the back of a Chevy van with fifteen other guys, crowding around a fuzzy 15-inch television watching the live broadcast of an earlier win during our ward's Fathers and Sons outing in Camp Zarahemla.

1989: The Comeback

Like most people last Thursday, I pretty much figured the game was over once the Jazz trailed by six with just over 30 seconds to play.  But I couldn't quite bring myself to leave, because twenty years earlier my dad and I had been in a similar position at the Salt Palace.  Back then the Jazz had also fallen into a hole late in a heated contest against a superstar-led squad: Michael Jordan and his pre-title Bulls.  With forty seconds to play, the Jazz trailed by eight, and during a time-out the silence of the stunned crowd was broken by a single fan who called out, "you blew it, Jazz!"  Forty seconds later, John Stockton hit a driving layup over His Airness for the win.

1991: Coach Rudd

During the two summers following my eighth and ninth grade years, I attended Karl Malone's official basketball camp up at Bountiful High School.  For a one-week period, you were teamed up with a dozen other kids your age and run through a series of drills and scrimmages, enjoying a number of guest speakers and even a camp-wide Slam Dunk Contest along the way.  Each "team" was assigned a coach, usually someone connected to one of the local universities or some other basketball-related organization.  The summer after my ninth grade year, though, I drew Jazz backup point guard Delaney Rudd.  Rudd only spent a few seasons in the league, but it was great to spend time with someone who was talented enough to play pro ball, yet humble enough to know how fortunate he was.  One afternoon he told us all the story of when he got the call to play for the Jazz, how he was so thrilled he did a back flip on his hotel bed.  He's been one of my favorite players ever since.

1992: Triple Overtime

One of the perks of playing in the Junior Jazz basketball league was getting a complimentary ticket to a Jazz game.  For the previous three years, while attending Centerville Junior High, I drew tickets to predictable bottom-feeder contests against expansion teams like Miami and Charlotte.  But during my first year at Viewmont High, after switching over to the Bountiful league, I nabbed a ticket to this epic clash between the Jazz and the Bulls.  Michael Jordan and his buddies were coming off their first title, and it would be another five years before the Jazz would face him in the '97 Finals, but this game offered a glimpse of the battles that were to come.

1998: Utah's Pastime

In the spring of 1998 my mom got a couple of luxury suite tickets to see (insert current name of Salt Lake minor league baseball team here) play a game at (insert current name of ballpark on 13th South here).  Since she wasn't a big baseball fan, she gave me the tickets, and I went to the game with a buddy of mine.  A couple of innings into the baseball game, the Jazz started Game 5 of their first round series with Houston, and we went inside the suite and started watching the basketball game on the TV.  About two-and-a-half hours later, during a late timeout in the Jazz game, we stepped outside to see what was going on in the ballpark.  The entire place was empty save for the row of luxury suites, where all the lights were still on from the people who were watching the Jazz game on TV.

2000: The Window Closes

By the spring of 2000, no one wanted to admit it, but the window for a Stockton/Malone title was closing.  Shooting Guard Jeff Hornacek in particular was pretty much playing on one leg.  When the team went down 2-0 in the second round against Portland, I bought a ticket to Game 3, figuring if the Jazz were going to take one game in the series, it would be that one.  I'll never forget the fight that Hornacek put up that night, scoring 24 points almost out of pure defiance, even though he was giving up several inches, pounds and years to the two bruisers Portland was clobbering him with.  The Jazz struggled all night, but there was one brief stretch in the third quarter when a little of the old magic came back, and it felt like we might have a chance of pulling out a victory.  We wound up losing the game, but I left the arena that night with a profound respect for #14.  He retired after that season, and even though John and Karl stuck around for a couple more years, to me the Stockton to Malone Era ended that night at the Delta Center.

2004: The Underdogs

I always figured I'd stop following the NBA once Stockton and Malone retired, but as it turned out, the 2003-04 season was one of my favorite memories as a Jazz fan.  The all-knowing media predicted disaster in the wake of Stockton's retirement and Karl's defection to LA, but instead of setting the record for worst team of all time, the '03-04 Jazz finished 42-40 and only barely missed the playoffs.  In classic fashion, the rag-tag bunch of misfits, led by a spiky haired Russian named Andrei and a platoon of point guards named Raul, Carlos and Mo fought every game in the knowledge that anything less than their best effort would result in disaster.  I went to a handful of games that season thanks to a ticket package we got my dad for Christmas, which also happened to include the game where Karl returned to the Delta Center with a legally-entangled Kobe.  I booed them both lustily, of course, and the Jazz won.

2007: The Dancer

After a three-season rebuilding project, the Jazz returned to the playoffs following the 2006-07 season, led by point guard of the future Deron Williams.  It was also the first season I was a season ticket holder, having gone in with a couple of co-workers from USU who couldn't say no to the bargain basement deal Larry Miller was offering up in the upper bowl.  After a knock-down, drag-out seven game first round series with the Houston Rockets, we welcomed the Golden State Warriors for round two, fresh off eliminating the number one seeded Dallas Mavericks.  I missed the classic game when Derek Fisher flew back from New York in time to hit his legendary three-pointer, but I was in attendance for Game 5 when we clinched the series and qualified for the conference finals.  As everyone poured into the streets after the victory, the area swarmed with people honking their horns, cheering and carrying on like we'd been liberated from Nazi occupation.  As I was walking north on 400 West, I remember one guy who was so overcome with joy that he walked out into the road and stood dancing in the headlights of the bewildered pickup driver who had slammed on his brakes in confusion.

2010: The Yada Game

I'm hesitant to get too carried away in comparing this game to the comeback over the Bulls in '89, because I've been known to be premature in the past.  After all, in the wake of seeing "U-571" for the first time, I declared it to be superior to "The Hunt for Red October."  But wherever last Thursday's game winds up on the all-time list, there is no doubt that it belongs in the mix.  And as fun as it must have been to see on TV, there is no way it could possibly compare to the experience of being there in person.  The dramatic swings of being down-12 to being up-13 to watching helplessly as LeBron James steamrolled the home team on behalf of every superstar that you know would never consider playing for the Jazz were completely astounding.  And even after personally attending the Jazz-Bulls comeback, it still took a couple of seconds after Sundiata Gaines hit his miracle three and all the confetti and streamers burst from the rafters before I realized that what had happened was all real.  Best of all, with my dad there next to me, it made the whole thing feel like it had come full-circle.

---

1997: Riot Gear (Honorable Mention)

Naturally, the more I thought about this list the more memories came to mind.  There were a few omissions that were hard to make, and as hard as it is to justify placing another memory of a Jazz loss on my top memories list, it's harder to let this one slip entirely.  Sadly, I never got to see Stockton's iconic three over Charles Barkley to send the Jazz to the Finals for the first time, because as irony would have it I was serving as a missionary in Chicago for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints from 1995-97.  That made things especially interesting while the Jazz and Bulls were duking it out for the first time, particularly in light of Rodman's noted fondness for Mormons.  Though I couldn't see any of the games, I did get a special vantage point for one unique event.  The night the Bulls clinched the title in '97, my companion and I were riding our bikes home along 79th Street on Chicago's South Side.  The night was eerily quiet, and the only thing moving underneath the silent streetlights were the cops who were gathering on street corners in full riot gear, bracing for the inevitable victory "celebration" that was to come.  I think that single image may have defined my experience on the South Side more than any other.

Kindred Spirits

Imagine that your favorite author wrote ten books over the course of his/her entire career.  You've read each one a dozen times, and have multiple dog-eared copies of your favorite titles.

Now imagine that years down the line, well after your chosen author has hung up the quill, you splurge on a special edition anthology that puts all of those books into a single volume.  Only after buying it, you find that there are thirteen books in the collection, not ten.  Somehow you missed a couple of titles along the way.  And these aren't filler titles, either.  The new books are just as good as the ones you've been re-reading for the last two decades.  That would be pretty cool, right?

That's exactly what happened to me, only it happened with a cartoonist instead of an author.  For a well-rounded but admittedly geeky child growing up in 1980's Davis County, "The Far Side" was the ideal comic.  Gary Larson's single-panel saga was a perfect storm of zany off-the-wall drawings and oddball intellectual humor.  For years I drew inspiration from his work, and even penned my own knock-off comic in high school.  Then Larson retired in 1995*, leaving me with a wealth of well-worn Far Side Gallery collections on my shelf as a slapstick reference guide for the ages.

Then a few Christmases back, my parents got me The Complete Far Side, a massive two-volume hardbound collection to replace the paperback Galleries that were decomposing on my shelves.  When I heard the set was available, I knew I had to have it.  But little did I know that the Galleries I already had only included about two-thirds of the original comics.  When I browsed through those hardbound moniliths on Christmas morning and discovered dozens of unfamiliar comics mixed in with my favorites, I was like a little kid who had discovered boogers for the first time.

Last weekend Gary Larson made a cameo appearance on a new episode of "The Simpsons," and reminded me of what an influence my dad has been in my life.  See, I only got into "The Far Side" after my dad spent years putting Far Side calendars on his Christmas wish list.  As a microbiologist, my lab coat clad dad was an even more ideal audience for Larson than I was.  He was one of those guys who always had Far Side comics stuck on his lab door.  He was probably also one of the few people who was smart enough to understand all of Larson's jokes.

I think Dad always assumed that his background as a scientist would be passed on to his son.  It's probably been sobering for him to see that it was his sense of humor that was passed on instead.  That may have been why I had him pose in his lab coat for a portrait I shot for a class assignment, years before photography became anything close to a serious interest for me.  Actually, back in the day, my dad was really into photography, too.  Guess that's another thing I must have picked up from him.

This weekend is my dad's birthday, and as part of the festivities, last night we swung down to the arena to see the Jazz play LeBron James and the Cavs.  That's another of our traditions.  We've been going to Jazz games since Stockton hit that layup over Jordan to cap an 8-point 40 second comeback in the Salt Palace.  Considering the outcome of last night's game**, I'd say it's a pretty good tradition.

I spend a lot of space on this blog whining about my gripes with life.  In the interest of offering a little good old Fox News fair and balanced objectivity, let me just say that I've been spoiled in the parent department.

Happy Birthday, Dad.

---

*1995 was a rough year for comic fans.  Within twelve months after Larson called it quits, Bill "Calvin & Hobbes" Watterson and Berkeley "Bloom County/Outland" Breathed followed suit.  I seriously don't think I've read the Sunday Comics more than a dozen times since.

**The answer is, "Yes, the Yada Gains Game will get its own post."

The Official 2009 Post-Christmas Letter!

Dear Friends, Family, Stalkers, and random people who land on my blog after Googling "Why people hate country music,"

Greetings.  As several of you know, this is the first official Post Christmas Letter in two years, since there was no entry for 2008.  That is because 2008 sucked.  I went to a lot of concerts and I went on some cool trips, but I also experienced two major family deaths, got laid off from my job, and was asked to vacate my longtime singles ward, so when late December rolled around, I had no desire to relive all the crapness.  But I'm back now, so relax.

Honestly, even though there haven't been any major family deaths this year, 2009 has largely sucked as well.  Just not quite as much as 2008.  Most of the year has been spent in an existential haze, marveling at the curious chain of events that led me to my current position instead of the future I had so clearly envisioned in 1988: married to Meg Ryan, owner of three Super Bowl rings, fighting crime as a vigilante super-spy on the side.

Here are some of the more notable moments of 2009, organized in convenient month-by-month bullet-point format:


-January: I formally leave the University 32nd Ward to return to the world of traditional family wards, landing in the Bountiful 7th Ward at the end of my street.  Everyone is very kind.  I hate it.  Later in the month I take a quick road trip to Denver, Colorado, where I enjoy a Killers concert with my buddy Fabian, two nannies and Senator Bob Bennett's great nephew.

-February 2009: Thanks to my old KJZZ contacts and my new part-time spot as a Utah Jazz video editor, I shoot a Jazz-Bobcats game from the baseline and put together a game promo that marries Rick Astley to an 18th Century sea battle starring Russell Crowe.

-March 2009: A computer at the gym tells me I have the health of a 43 year old.  I also bought a mop.  March was kind of a slow month.

-April 2009: VCU rejects my application for the Media, Art and Text Ph.D. program, blaming the economy.  A month of daily blog entries fails to increase readership or comment frequency.  Vigilante Super-Spy begins to look like a more reasonable career path than professional writer.

-May 2009: I fire an M-16 at a machine gun range in Kaysville.

-June 2009: After nearly two and a half years of parties, group dates, and Zombie Fests, I vacate the 1200 South house in Bountiful, determined to move on in life...and move about a mile away into West Bountiful.  I also shoot my first wedding.

-July 2009: When my old roommate Brandon decides to get sealed in San Diego, I decide to turn the event into a mega road trip and spend 10 days on the road, swinging down to San Diego through Vegas, cruising up the Pacific Coast Highway to San Francisco, then cutting across I-80 to home.  Definitely one of the highlights of the year.

-August 2009: I realize that making money would be a good way to curb my depleting bank account, and sign on with Salt Lake Community College to teach my first sections of English 1010 in two years.  By the end of the semester I have busted seven students for plagiarism, graded five papers on marijuana legalization, and used clips from "Saturday Night Live," "Raiders of the Lost Ark," and "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre" to illustrate composition principles.  It is good to be back.

-September 2009: I pay a mechanic in Pocatello $400 to fix my alternator on the way to Yellowstone for Labor Day Weekend.  Less than a week later Salt Lake City's answer to Ponch and John bust me for speeding on Beck Street on the way to class.

-October 2009: I play in a band for a bunch of 3rd Graders and their surprisingly animated teachers at a charter school in North Salt Lake, and later, thanks to the inspired nature of my immediate family, I get Giordano's Pizza shipped in for my birthday.

-November 2009: During a co-ed pick-up flag football game in Centerville, I get kicked in the chin to the tune of 11 stitches, leaving me with a substantial scar and the unanswered question of why the majority of my sports-related injuries always take place when I make an extra effort to play defense.  Later that month, a local publisher rejects my memoir manuscript...blaming the economy.

-December 2009: In the middle of another meaningless browse through Facebook, I discover that my third greenie Elder Joshua Clark--who was hit by three cars in the three months we served together in South Chicago--is alive and well and married with five children...in Australia.

...which brings me here: technically employed, sort-of technically dating, living in West Bountiful with a military software programmer and two robots that perform the majority of our housework.  In a sense, it is the zenith of my bachelor existence.

Hope all is well at your end.  Here's to 2010.

Josh

Kool Funk

I think I may have posted this several months ago as part of a larger musical entry, but I came across it again last night while browsing through YouTube, and I think it deserves center stage.  A little heat to warm up your week:

I wish I could make this my theme music for whenever I walk in a room. You know, if life were more like the movies and stuff.

Brick-Wall Theory, or "Looking for SSMUB in all the wrong places."

Some people are happy to go through life ignoring the things they don't understand.  Other people analyze the crap out of them...and still don't understand them.

I am one of the latter.

Seventeen years after entering the enigma of the Dating World, I feel about as much in the dark as I did when I started.  I've learned that bringing red roses on the first date is a bad idea, and I've figured out that girls aren't all that impressed when you destroy them at bowling, but that's really about it.  Often I find that the questions turning over in my mind late into the night are the same ones that left me befuddled and clueless at the height of the Grunge Era.

(Hold on...give me a second while I finish filling out my AARP application and stabbing it through my chest repeatedly.)

OK...in that time I've often tried to make sense of my circumstances, to try to figure out the great mystery that was standing in the way of Ultimate Success.  Of course, the definition of "Ultimate Success" has always been a bit of a moving target.  In 1992, "Ultimate Success" was Meg Ryan.  In 2009, it's more like getting a text response within 24 hours.  The game has changed a lot over the years, and in that time, my analytical efforts have tested a lot of theories, and I've harbored a lot of philosophies...

...and none of them really hold water.

One might.  I call it "Brick-Wall Theory." Actually, it's more of an observation than a theory.  The basic idea is that we all operate on some kind of vast Dating Spectrum, trying to progress though a series of check points ("First Date," "Marriage," "Non-Contractual Making Out," etc.) to advance from one end to the other.  But along the way, we keep getting stopped at our own custom brick wall.

For example: over the years, some of my friends have consistently moved from serious relationship to serious relationship.  Getting a girlfriend or boyfriend was a matter of routine, but there was always a wall between that serious relationship and the next check point: "Engagment."  Others struggled to turn off SportsCenter and actually ask a member of the opposite sex out on a date.  Their brick walls lay between "Fundamental Awareness of the Opposite Sex" and "Verbal Contact."  Still others have made it past the "Engagement" threshold on multiple occasions, yet have never crossed the "Marriage" barrier.  (Keep in mind, "Marriage" is not necessarily the definitive end point of the spectrum.  Just ask Tiger Woods.)

For whatever cosmically comic reason, my brick wall lies somewhere between "First Date" and "Consistent Dating."  There have been several times I have gone on multiple dates with the same girl, and I've endured my fair share of DTR's*, but the majority of my efforts hit the fan well before anything serious gets going, at least in any official capacity.  Sometimes I give the abort code--which gets me accused of being a Serial Dater--and sometimes she does--which gets me accused of chasing "The Wrong Type of Girl." Either way, sometime after the first date with Girl X, one of the following scenarios usually plays out:

1. Josh gets bored and loses interest.
2. Girl X becomes unresponsive to texts, e-mails, voice mails, and/or smoke signals.
3. A national crisis intervenes...then Josh gets bored and loses interest.
4. Josh forces himself to take Girl X out one more time even though deep down he knows he is not interested, subsequently has a miserable time in spite of a fine batch of chile verde from Red Iguana** and an impressive display of European Mormon Folk Art down at the Church Art Museum, and only realizes years later that he should have gone after Girl X's roommate Girl Y instead.

It would be a lot easier to paint myself as a victim if all my efforts over the years had met with universal rejection.  Then I could tell myself I was like Thomas Edison, just puttering away at different combinations until he managed to invent the light bulb.  The trouble is that Thomas Edison never passed on viable filament options because even though the filament had a really great personality, he just didn't want to make out with it.  If marriage was just about finding someone who liked you, we'd all be locked up by 25.  But the real goal is to get married to someone that you like who likes you back, and that makes things a little more complicated.

Like I said, I've seen a number of my friends encounter similar obstacles in their efforts, and even though each of them has eventually overcome their own brick walls, few if any can tell you why or how (though most will feign some sense of enlightened perspective).  Eventually things just work out, and the spaghetti of love sticks to the wall of commitment where it never did before.   Sometimes after years of futility, two people meet at the Halloween Dance and get married before Christmas, and sometimes people just wake up and realize that they've basically been married to their best friend for the last decade, so they officially start dating and happy-happy, joy-joy ensues.

This suggests that success in matters of dating and marriage is largely dependent on the Lord's Timing, and I think that's probably true.  The trouble is that misunderstanding this idea can lead to a certain feeling of futility, that no matter how charming you are or how many sketchy blind dates you accept, nothing is going to work until the timing is right.  This is especially problematic for Mormon males who are responsible for taking the initiative in the whole process, yet always have people telling them asinine things like, "I found what I was looking for once I stopped looking."

As such a Mormon male I've determined that the whole thing comes down to one central question:

"Am I doing what I am supposed to, only waiting for the inevitable intervention of The Lord's Timing to deliver me from Single Person Purgatory, or am I actively doing something to inhibit the delivery of Spiritually Sanctioned Marital Uber-Bliss?"

Until we get over that wall, I'm not sure any of us will really know the answer.

---

*DTR = Define The Relationship talk.  AKA, "The State of the Union Address," AKA, "What Michael Corleone had with Carlo before he had Clemenza strangle him in the car outside."

**Now available in two fine downtown locations!