The Birthday List, Item #3: Play the Drums at Buddy Guy's*

Some of the best advice I have ever been given was to seek out frightening situations and take risks in life. So when I saw that a landmark Chicago blues club would be hosting an open jam night while I was in town last month, I knew I had to participate.

I already figured that at some point in the week I would drop by Buddy Guy's Legends to hear some great music take some great pictures. Founded by one of Chicago's most beloved bluesmen, the club was only a couple of blocks from where I was staying at the south end of the Loop, and I knew from previous experience that the place would deliver. But now the question became: could I?

According to the club's website, open jam night would feature volunteer musicians who were welcome to drop by and sign up to play for free. You just had to bring your own instrument and sign your life away at the door in exchange for a waived cover charge and a chance at public humiliation. At least that's what the bouncer told me when I signed my name on the list and took a seat near the left side of the stage.

The first half of the night was filled by The Jimmy Burns Band, who played a regular set with Eric "Guitar" Davis on lead axe. I took a bunch of pictures and enjoyed some great blues music, all the while wondering if I would take the stage myself by the end of the night. My nerves jumped a level when at the tail end of the opening set, Buddy Guy himself showed up to sing a few tunes. Somehow I kept my composure, thinking, "well, if I'm going to humiliate myself, I may as well humiliate myself in front of the best."

After Buddy's cameo, the night shifted to open jam mode. Only the jam wasn't quite as open as I'd expected. Instead of a bunch of random musicians improvising, the MC kept calling up people who seemed very familiar with each other, and very rehearsed. In fact, the songs they played sounded more polished than the songs my band had been playing after months of practice. I started to get the sense that I was out of my league.

But hey, I couldn't back out now, right?

As the evening drew on, and more seasoned musicians took their turns wowing the increasingly intoxicated audience, I began to wonder if anyone would even call my unknown name off the sign-up list, or whether I should even hang around to find out. Even Buddy had already left for the night. Maybe signing up and hanging around for four hours would be enough of a frightening experience by itself?

Wrong. I had to go the distance.

So I did what any rational, level-headed underqualified drummer would do: I approached the MC and talked my way onto the stage. At the moment of truth, I found myself sitting at a foreign drum kit, surrounded by unfamiliar musicians, staring into the bright lights and smoky haze of one of Chicago's most celebrated blues clubs. On a far wall, a row of guitars autographed by the likes of Jimmy Reed and Eric Clapton hung silently. I clutched the souvenir DW sticks I had bought earlier in the day at the local House of Blues and tried to smile, praying I would pick up on the beat quick enough to avoid total humiliation.

I got in unscathed for the first number--a solid 4/4 beat--and even managed to recover when one of the souvenir sticks slipped out of my hands and rolled around on top of the kit before I grabbed it again. When the song ended, I looked around nervously, but no one was glaring at me or waving me off stage, so I stuck around.

In retrospect, that probably would have been a good time to sign off.

Song #2 was more of a 2/4 beat, at least that's what I thought. From the looks I started to get from the other guys, I might have been wrong on that one. Still, no one ran me off at the end of the song, and the crowd was still cheering and dancing, so I figured I was OK.

The wheels came off on song #3. For the life of me, I had no idea what beat to lay down at the beginning of the song, so there was a good 10-second stretch at the beginning where I tried to tap my way in and generally made a mess of things. Finally the bass player looked at me and started mouthing the count, which I would have appreciated more if not for the condescending manner of his delivery, and I finally got off the ground. At the end of the song, the MC walked up and offered an awkward handshake. It was time to step down.

As I walked offstage, I passed through a gathering of musicians, none of whom so much as made eye contact with me. No one said anything, but they didn't need to. I lingered for a moment, awkwardly wanting some moment of closure with someone around me, even if it was only to apologize for not being up to the standard of the rest of the guys. But no one came up, and the band was already into its next song, so I just turned and walked out the door.

Two hours later, I was still sitting up wide awake in my room, trying to make sense of what I had just done. I took the risk, I faced the fear, so why did I feel so terrible? I wondered if I should ever pick up the drumsticks again, let alone show my face in Buddy Guy's club in the next two decades. I wondered what would have happened if Buddy was still there when I played...would he have pulled me off the stage by my ear, enraged that I had defiled the quality of his precious club? Or would he have offered the closure I sought as I stood offstage afterward, putting his arm around me like a knowing grandparent and telling me to keep at it?

Over the next few days, the shock wore off and I started to get a little perspective on what I had done. Clearly I wasn't ready for the big time, but there was no doubt in my mind that I had done the "right" thing by getting up on stage. Maybe I didn't bring the house down, but I definitely made a memory for the ages.

Besides, as time goes by, the stories of the failures are a lot more fun to tell than the stories of the triumphs. And eventually they all blend together anyway.

---

*This is a great example of the "living document" nature of The List. When I was brainstorming ideas for the original list, I knew I would be spending some time in Chicago this summer, so I thought "photograph a Chicago blues band" might be a logical option. But since technically I already had taken some pictures of a Chicago blues band (back in 2008), I wound up placing this option on my back-up list. However, about 36 hours after arriving in Chicago last month, it was time to make a change.

The Birthday List, Item #1: Visit Bruce Lee's Grave

I don't know what it is about celebrity death, or celebrity grave sites, that is so fascinating. Chuck Klosterman wrote a book about a mega-road trip he took to visit the death sites of various rock and roll heroes, and the title of Rolling Stone author Neil Strauss's book "Everybody Loves You When You're Dead" speaks for itself. Maybe it's because we typically see celebrities as otherworldly creatures, images on a TV screen or voices on the radio, and standing next to their gravestones reminds us that they were actual human beings. Maybe we're just weird.

When I was an LDS missionary in Chicago, I was excited to learn that Al Capone's grave was in a cemetery across the street from the chapel where we held our mission leadership meetings. There was probably no more iconic Chicago "celebrity" than Capone, so after every meeting, a few of us would head over to see the grave and take pictures. This led to the curious image of a half-dozen guys in dark suits standing somberly over the grave of a deceased mafioso.

Last summer, on my first visit to Seattle, I made a point to visit the Jimi Hendrix memorial. Whereas Capone's marker was little more than a flat nondescript chunk of cement, the Hendrix Memorial was the centerpiece of the entire cemetery. I guess you can take a lot of messages from that.

I had already arranged a return visit to Seattle before I compiled my Birthday List, so I thought I should try to come up with an item or two that I could take care of while I was in town. Having already visited the Hendrix memorial, it seemed logical that I should visit the grave site of another Seattle music icon, Kurt Cobain. Trouble is, Cobain doesn't have one. He was cremated. You can go see the house where he committed suicide back in the 90's, but that seemed a little too macabre to justify. Besides, I found a better option.

Bruce Lee has been a fascinating character to me ever since I saw his bio pic "Dragon" when I was a teenager. While I've never been a huge fan of martial arts films, I was very interested in how Lee was able to discipline himself into such a finely-tuned butt-whooping machine. Plus, unlike the images created by a lot of Hollywood behind-the-scenes tell-all's, he seemed like a genuinely good guy. From time to time I'll wonder what would happen if I just set aside all my favorite junk foods for six months and did some hard-core training. I certainly wouldn't be Lee, but his example does suggest a little of what the human body is truly capable of. It's a topic that becomes more and more relevant after you cross the line into your 30's.

Anyway, Lee is buried in north Seattle (his wife's hometown), and on a Sunday afternoon in early July I zipped up there with The Cheetahman (another example of what the human body is capable of, if you're referring to Guess boots and cheetah-print speedos) to check it out. He's actually buried next to his son, Brandon, who died in a film set accident two months before "Dragon" was released (Bruce died at 32, his son at 28).

The grave site was a little crowded that day, so I didn't linger for a lot of quiet contemplation. In a way, I almost felt under-qualified to be there, since I wasn't as familiar with his film resume the way I was familiar with, say, Jimi Hendrix's recording career. On the few occasions I have dropped by to see the grave of someone famous, I've noticed there's always a moment where you quickly transition from a kind of laid-back "hey, I'm going to go see so-and-so's grave!" to a somber realization that you are visiting the final resting place of a real human being. Two-dimensional celebrity becomes three-dimensional reality, and at that point you lose interest in the nature of the person's death and think more about what they were in life. So I just took a couple of pictures and tried to maintain some semblance of an air of respect. Maybe it's true that everybody loves you when you're dead, but unlike Capone, Bruce Lee seems like someone who deserved to be loved when he was still around.

Rest in Peace, Club 32

This weekend a substantial part of my past will cease to exist. As of May 1st, the Era of Student Wards will come to an end, and the last remnants of the University of Utah 32nd Ward will be scattered to the four winds.

At least, I think it will happened this weekend. It might have been last weekend. Truth is, I haven't attended the 32nd Ward in nearly two and a half years. Hard to believe it's been that long.

Even harder to believe it's been almost thirteen years since the first time I walked into a U32 meeting. Back then Clinton was President, Stockton and Malone were still running the pick-and-roll downtown, and I had hair (a lot of it, actually). There were three different buildings on the current University Institute property, which along with some schedule confusion, meant it took me three weeks before I finally found an actual U32 meeting.

Once I finally did, I attended with BretO and Mr. Mac's grandson (AKA, "The Other Josh") for about six months until Jared Parker was brought on as Bishop in the spring of 1999. And that was the beginning of the Glory Years of the U32.

Over the next ten years I was in and out of the ward several times, ducking out for a couple years when I went to grad school in Logan, or for stretches when I lived in areas covered by other wards. When I started at "Club 32," the ward boundaries covered all of Davis County, the Rose Park area, Capitol Hill, and even the Brigham Apartments downtown. But starting in '99, people started coming in so fast that the ward was eventually whittled down to a narrow sliver of the North Bountiful/South Centerville area. If that doesn't stand as a testament to the quality of the place, nothing does.

It's hard to narrow the list of memories when you've spent so much time in a ward like that (especially when you have to omit the dating-related ones for fear of litigation). But here are a few that stick out for me:

·      1999: A few ward friends and I gather in BretO's backyard to film a music video for the Stake Film Festival. Our electric cover of "If You Could Hie to Kolob" wins "Best Soundtrack" at the festival, but the YouTube response isn't quite as kind.

·      2001: In a profound abuse of power, I use my calling as U32 Elder's Quorum President to organize the Ward Toga Party, where I plan to debut my new band, The Atomic Thunderlips Traveling Ministry. A half-hour into the event, lightning strikes a nearby transformer, cutting power to the church for the evening.

·      2002: During a heartfelt testimony, I accuse my roommate Bob Morley of being one of the Three Nephites. Ever the humble disciple, Bob immediately approaches the pulpit and follows my rant with an emphatic denial.

·      2004: While still in grad school at USU, I swing down to Salt Lake one weekend and decide to drop by the U32's Fast and Testimony meeting. About three testimonies in, a girl gets up and rants for ten minutes about the hod-rodding jerk she was racing up 4th South on the way there, and how the intensely frustrating experience was a testimony to her of God's infinite love. Pretty funny considering she was describing my car.

·      2007: In a sleep-deprived stupor brought on by my new graveyard shift job at KJZZ, I expose my sister and roommate's just-blossoming courtship during yet another rambling, incoherent testimony. They wind up getting married, so everything's cool.

·      2008: In the deadly silence of an empty gym while U32 members contemplatively take the sacrament, Nathan Lyon gets a text message. No big deal, except that Nathan's text notification is an especially loud audio clip of our President proclaiming, "My name is George W. Bush, and I approve this message."

Actually, if there was one thing that embodied the best spirit of those U32 years, it was the annual St. George temple trip. Just after school let out, as people were moving home for the summer, about 70+ ward members would caravan down to St. George for an overnighter that featured hiking, picnicing, and a morning session at the St. George temple. Usually, a dozen or so people would go down a night early, and make the event last a little longer. Those were usually the people who would make up the heart of the ward for the coming summer. Of all the activities and all the memories I have of the ward, those trips were probably my favorite. I was always bummed that the tradition only lasted those first few years.

As it all draws to a close, I’ve been hearing a lot of lamentations, but I think the big shift is being a bit overblown. Maybe that's just easy to say two years after I've already walked away. At the same time, from my perspective, I can see that not a whole lot is really changing. People will still have singles wards to go to; they'll just find them locally instead of dragging up to campus every Sunday morning. In a way, the whole thing feels like an elaborate plan to help young single adults save on gas money. Nothing wrong with that.

I always laugh whenever I go to a summer testimony meeting in Island Park and listen to people bear their testimonies of their ward. There's a fine line between appreciating something and giving it undue reverence. Ultimately the U32 was great because of the people who were in it, and the spirit that united them. The place definitely had its warts—trust me, in ten years I saw lots of them—but overall it brought out the best in a lot of people.

That's why it isn't so sad the ward is being disbanded. Those same people are just going to do their thing somewhere else. Sometimes you just gotta move on.

The Official 2010 Post-Christmas Letter!

Dear friends, family members, and various law enforcement agencies who have requested that I provide viable alibis for specified dates in the month of June,

Now that the holidays are officially past us, it is time for that precious moment when I attempt to recap my year in a finely-crafted way that subtly balances humility and appreciation for the little things with blatant 21st Century self-promotion. Just for fun, I'm writing it in exciting multiple-choice exam form! Good luck!

1. In April I pulled a practical joke on my loyal readers by:

A. Pretending to quit the blog business

B. Going on a date

C. Changing my name to a symbol

D. Coming out as a die-hard country music fan

2. In August, I made a solo road pilgrimage to what important landmark from the film "Close Encounters of the Third Kind?"
A. Devil's Slide
B. Devil's Tower
C. Devil's Haircut
D. What's with all the Devil references?

3. In October, I finally got back in print, writing for which Salt Lake area newspaper?
A. The Salt Lake Tribune
B. The Deseret News
C. The Daily Planet
D. The Davis County Clipper

4. In February, I concluded a run that netted how many speeding tickets in six months?
A. 2
B. 3
C. 4
D. 5

5. In November, I interviewed what Country Music superstar from the 1990s?
A. Billy Ray Cyrus
B. Garth Brooks
C. Collin Raye
D. Vanilla Ice

6. In January, I saw what Utah Jazz backup point guard defeat LeBron James and the Cleveland Cavaliers with a last-second three point shot?
A. Sundiata Gaines
B. Delaney Rudd
C. Magic Johnson
D. Abe Vigoda

7. Last summer I visited the grave of what Seattle-area celebrity?

A. Kurt Cobain

B. Jimi Hendrix

C. Xavier McDaniel

D. Abe Vigoda

8. In April I switched my morning wake-up station from Oldies 94.1 to Arrow 103.5 because:
A. 94.1 never played my favorite songs anymore
B. The female co-host only wanted to give reality TV updates
C. The female co-host had a stone-cold-serious visit with her personal psychic on-air
D. All of the above

9. This month I will become _____________ for the first time?
A. an uncle
B. debt-free
C. a homeowner
D. humble

10. The best piece of evidence from 2010 that suggests I am movin' on up in the world is:
A. I finally embraced sophisticated adult food like sushi.
B. I finally bought a smart phone in December.
C. I finally upgraded my Jazz season tickets in December and "got out of the ghetto," as one of my students put it.
D. All of the above

In spite of its ups and downs and multiple speeding tickets, I'd have to say I'm pretty grateful for 2010, and looking forward to 2011. As a final send-off, here's a clip I came across on one of those nerd blogs I love so much.

Here's hoping that 2011 gives you plenty of chances to laugh...

Odoriferous Emanations

The time has come for another major life decision. After over twelve years of use, my one bottle of cologne has finally run out, and the time has come to find a new one.

Back in the summer of 1998, I went out with a girl from Sandy and wound up wandering around the Southtowne Mall.  I have no idea how this happened, but I do remember passing through the perfume/cologne section of some department store, at which point my date mentioned that she liked Polo Sport. You can pretty much fill in the rest from here.

Anyhow, that bottle of Polo lasted me a long time (Too long? Do these things even expire?), but now I need to find another option. This is a tricky challenge, because most perfumes and colognes smell exactly the same to me. I don't know if it's because I'm a guy or because I have an underdeveloped sense of smell, but unless something smells really, really good (tacos, the ocean, victory), or really, really bad (tuna fish), I won't notice it.

So help me out. What should I buy next? Make your suggestion count; if I pick it up, it's gotta last me at least a decade.

Why I Love Movies

I'm not sure where I got the idea (or the motivation) to do this, but over the last couple of weeks I've been putting together a highlight reel of some of my favorite movie clips. Like I said, I'm not sure why I did it, but I do know that it's been a lot of fun to see so many of my favorite moments in close succession. I'm sure you'll recognize a lot of these clips, but if any seem unfamiliar, let me know and I'll tell you where to find them. Even if you don't recognize them, I'm sure that half a dozen of these will make you smile, if not more.

Just so you know, there is a touch of PG/PG-13 level language in a few of the clips.

Paper Wars

Just found this through blastr.com, one of those geeky sites I check out now and then:

Carrie Fisher is the Center of the Universe

Last week I dropped by the Davis County Library to check out some new reading material, and picked up a copy of Carrie Fisher's recent memoir, "Wishful Drinking." It was a pretty eye-opening account of a woman born to a pair of 1950's Hollywood celebrities who went on to deal with substance abuse, manic depression, and the eternal burden of an iron bikini.

I finished the book by the end of the day. The next day, her celebrity father died.

I don't think there was a connection.

What was even stranger, though, was realizing just how central a role Carrie Fisher has played in my pop culture universe:

1. Carrie Fisher played Princess Leia in "Star Wars."

The first "Star Wars" film came out six months after I was born, and I spent the first ten years of my life wanting to be Han Solo when I grew up.  While I never quite developed the same crush on Princess Leia as some of my fellow peer-nerds, that infamous gold bikini from "Return of the Jedi" might explain why I never went through that early childhood phase where boys think girls have cooties.  Not that it helped any.

2. Carrie Fisher played John Belushi's estranged ex-fiancee in "The Blues Brothers."

If "Star Wars" is the keystone of my appreciation of science fiction, "The Blues Brothers" is the keystone of my appreciation for comedy. When I was a kid, "The Blues Brothers" was that cool movie on cable where they have a car chase in a mall. In high school, it became the foundation for my deep appreciation for soul and blues music. By the time I left on an LDS mission to Chicago, the film had a flat-out divine import. A mission from God, indeed.

3. Carrie Fisher was married to Paul Simon.

Before "The Blues Brothers" solidified my R&B roots, my parents raised me on a steady diet of Motown and Simon & Garfunkel. To this day, "Mrs. Robinson" instantly links me to memories of our family Honda weaving through Douglas Fir trees in Yellowstone National Park, even though the song itself was written in Greenwich Village, New York. I still maintain that Paul Simon is the greatest songwriter of the late 20th Century (even though he truly needed Garfunkel to bring his best stuff to fruition). Carrie Fisher would probably agree with me.

Moreover, Ms. Fisher is an accomplished writer (four other novels to date) and stage performer (the memoir was adapted from a live comic performance she used to do...or may still do.  I don't know, the book came out two years ago.)  With all those different interests, Carrie Fisher, like Steve Martin and Woody Allen, is nothing more than a considerably more successful version of me.

(uncomfortable silence...)

Yep, that pretty much says it.

A KISS Conversion?

Some of my favorite moments in life are the ones you never see coming. Not that they are particularly great or wonderful, just that they are so far from anything you expected when you woke up that morning.

I have a new moment for the list.

Last Wednesday night, about 10:30PM, I was standing with my buddy Chidsey on the west end of Rio Tinto Stadium in section 17 under a full moon as KISS blasted out the chords to "God Gave Rock and Roll to You" on a brilliantly-lit stage fifty yards away.

This moment is improbable for several reasons, including:

1. I am not a KISS fan.
2. As recently as 4:37PM that afternoon, I had no knowledge of KISS's plans to play a concert in Sandy, Utah that evening (let alone any intention of attending).

Yet, the moment came together. Somebody gave Chidsey a couple of extra tickets to the concert, and Chidsey gave me a call at the precise moment when spending an evening watching four middle-aged men in stage makeup rock out to a collection of innuendo-driven 1970's anthems like "Love Gun" sounded like a perfect idea.

So after two hours and 20 tracks of exposure to the full KISS experience, I still can't quite call myself a fan, much less a full-fledged member of the KISS Army. But I have a much better idea of why the Army digs them so much. Why they get dressed up to go to their concerts. Why they go crazy when the automated stage lifts the drummer's kit forty feet in the air and shoots steam out the bottom to make it look like it's about to blast off into the stratosphere.

Something about those old guys in eight-inch platform boots is pretty fun. Something about them bringing some veterans on stage to present an oversized donation check, then leading us in the Pledge of Allegiance while guitarist Tommy Thayer waves a fifteen-foot American flag is kind of cool. And something about lead singer and "Star Child" Paul Stanley repeatedly referencing the band's new album "Sonic Boom" and how you can get it exclusively at Walmart reminds me that even though we all like to take rock and roll seriously, we really shouldn't.  Especially when a harness lifts 61-year-old Gene Simmons to the top of the stage scaffolding so he can spit blood and play his axe-shaped bass guitar at us from fifty feet in the air.

Almost, thou persuadest me to be a KISS fan...

I'm still not much of a fan of KISS's music. But last night I became a big fan of the KISS Experience.

A Kiss that Fell Short of Greatness

Call it an impulse buy.

Last night--technically really early this morning--after a rare viewing of "Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey," I downloaded a Kiss song.  Not a make-out song, a Kiss song.  Meaning the band.  Kiss.

It was the first time I've ever downloaded a Kiss song.

See, in spite of their stature among the icons of late 1970's/early 1980's Classic Rock--an era I have mined repeatedly--I've never been much of a Kiss fan.  Mostly because I expected more from them.

Allow me to explain:

My first exposure to Kiss came during a family trip to Cleveland, Ohio when I was somewhere in the neighborhood of five years old.  My mom's side of the family lives out there, and while hanging out with my cousin Jamie (who was about twelve years old, if I remember right) I discovered half a dozen Kiss albums in his bedroom.

The album covers astounded me.  If the makeup and costumes and overall evil appearance of the albums was any indicator, the music should have come straight from the bowels of Hell itself.  It was almost scary.  It was also kind of cool.

My cousin never actually played the albums for me, though.  We were too preoccupied with his Atari.  Instead, I went on to have my Beatles phase in elementary school, and my unfortunate pop phase in junior high, before cementing my Classic Rock roots in high school.  I picked up a CD compilation of Classic Rock hits because I desperately wanted a copy of "Sunshine of Your Love," and the disc also happened to have a Kiss track: "Rock and Roll All Nite."

I wasn't impressed.  I thought Kiss would have produced the darkest, edgiest music ever, but instead I got this bizarre power-pop rock that kind of felt like it would have been better suited for a Broadway stage.  It turns out Kiss was a lot more Butt Rock than Classic Rock.  More Motley Crue than Led Zeppelin.  Too bad.

I do have to give them credit for the costumes, though.  They definitely took Bowie to the next level.  And given that my first exposure to them came at the same time "Star Wars" was shaping my young mind, it's safe to say that Kiss may have played a small part in the formation of my lifelong interest in the visual arts.  I just didn't dig the actual product that much.

So why did I download "God Gave Rock and Roll To You" last night?  I don't know.  For the same reason I downloaded "Pour Some Sugar On Me" or "Rock and Roll Heaven" by the Righteous Brothers.  Music serves a lot of different purposes.  Sometimes corny 80's rock anthems just sound right.

Bill and Ted would probably agree.

Bona Fide

It's official.  Next January I am going to be an uncle.  A real one.

Beast Wench is having a kid.

Up until now, I have happily served as an auxiliary uncle to several of my close friends' children, with mixed results.  I'm not sure all of them really know who I am.  But in January, all that will end.  My sister--my only sibling--will have a baby, and I will finally be bona-fide.

Coming from a small family, this is a big deal.  Most of my friends have been aunts or uncles for a long time now.*  I have a lot of important life experience to pass on, and it will be nice to finally have someone around who is genetically obligated to listen to me.  While my sister and brother-in-law labor to provide food and shelter for their newborn, I will be there to cover the important stuff.  Namely, to make sure the child grows up a devoted follower of the Utah Jazz, and that he/she sees "Monty Python and the Holy Grail" at a young age, long before the kids at school ruin the experience by doing all the best lines in bad British accents.  I'll be there to block the influence of country music, and to let the glory of Tom Jones shine in.

It's gonna be a blast.

---

*Yes, I realize that most of my friends have also moved on to give birth to their own children, but from what I can tell, being an uncle is the better gig.  It's kind of like being Vice President: your name is on the ticket, you share in the glory and the prestige, but you really don't have to do anything.

The Streak

On the night of June 27th, 1998, I sat in a fifth-wheel trailer in Island Park, Idaho, scribbling in a black ten-dollar hard-bound journal from Deseret Book.  I'd finished my first year of school at the University of Utah after returning from Chicago, and had just arrived at the family place outside Yellowstone for the first time since before I'd left.

Twelve years later, I still haven't missed a daily entry.

As much money as I've spent on camera lenses, computer equipment, and retro Air Jordan's, there is nothing as valuable to me as the ten journals I've filled in the last dozen years.  It's cool to think that I could go back to any day from that period and tell you exactly what I was doing.  All too often in life we worry about the things we haven't done, but journals are a nice way to remember what we have enjoyed.

Here are a dozen examples from the last twelve years:

• Met George Lucas, Ray Bradbury, and Luke Skywalker.
• Taught English composition to firefighters in South Jordan.
• Got paid fifty bucks to be a bouncer at a Saltair young adult dance.
• Been a Best Man twice.
• Totaled a 1964 Mustang.
• Saw James Brown in concert.
• Saw Sammy Sosa hit a home run at Wrigley Field.
• Ate a raw Habanero pepper.
• Finally scored a goal in an official rec league soccer game (that wasn't for the other team).
• Won a fresh salsa competition and a chili cook-off.
• Sang lead for a real Chicago blues band at The Blue Chicago.
• Got mugged in The French Quarter.

Here are twelve things I'd like to accomplish in the next dozen years (assuming civilization is not wiped out by a zombie/robot apocalypse first):

• Watch a movie at either The Spud Drive-In outside Driggs, Idaho or The Sky-Vu Drive-In south of Monroe, Wisconsin.
• Become an uncle.
• Get a book published.
• Buy another Mustang.
• Visit the old Tatooine set from the original "Star Wars" shoot in Tunisia.
• Lose enough weight to fit the medium sized "Elvis meets Nixon" t-shirt gathering dust in my dresser.
• Sit courtside for a Jazz game...in the Finals! (Brother's gotta dream, right?)
• Have someone throw their underwear at me while playing drums onstage.
• Reach 100 "followers" on this dumb blog (this is a hint).
• Get Natalie Portman's phone number.
• Convince people to finally start referring to my friend Bill as "Dr. Thunder."
• Bench press 300 lbs.

Radio Doesn't Suck

I am happy to report that my new relationship is going quite well.  It was over two months ago that I terminated my long-term association with KODJ 94.1, and so far the guys on Arrow 103.5 have yet to do any serious analysis of "Dancing with the Stars" or bring on their personal psychic mediums.

In fact, speaking of cosmic coincidences, it turns out I already have a history with my new morning show.  Jon Carter, one of the hosts, also used to do the morning show for Z-93, which was my classic rock show of choice back in high school before the station went country.  Familiar voices can be nice sometimes.

I actually met Carter a few years ago, though I didn't know it at the time.  I was standing in line outside The Depot waiting to get into the Steve Winwood concert with elBreto and The Other Josh when these two guys asked me if I wanted a free t-shirt.  I said yes, because you know, free t-shirt.  Then this other guy in line asked if I wanted to get a picture with the selfless souls who were out clothing the naked.  I said OK.

Later I learned one of the t-shirt guys was Carter.

That's right, kids: radio doesn't suck.

---

PS: About six months later I was wearing the free shirt at a ward Scripture Study activity one Sunday night when Elder David Bednar of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles showed up.  He didn't say anything, but I could tell he was relieved that the youth of the Church was staying true to its media roots.

Weary Witness

This morning I feel for the city of Cleveland.  LeBron James, not so much.

Not that I have anything against James.  On the contrary, aside from last summer's little Nike cover-up, I think Mr. We Are All Witnesses is one of the better guys in the league.  You know, because I'm so close with so many of them.

No, I feel for Cleveland because of personal ties.  My mom grew up in Cleveland, and I've been a witness to a lot of their disappointments over the years.  The closest thing I had to a hometown pro football team growing up was the Browns, and I had to live through The Drive, The Fumble, The Blowout (the less-remembered third time in four years the hated Broncos beat Cleveland in the AFC Championship before promptly pooping their pants in the Super Bowl).

I remember Art Modell moving the team in the mid-90's, then winning a Super Bowl with a guy who may-or-may-not have been involved in a double-homicide.  (For comparison, imagine if Larry Miller had moved the Jazz to Florida in 2005, only if the team had been here since 1947.  Oh yeah, then if they'd won a title last year as the Jacksonville Junebugs.)

I also had to hear all the jokes about "The Mistake By The Lake," even though I couldn't figure out why a city that was home to The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, The Pro Football Hall of Fame (an hour south in Canton), three major pro franchises with passionate fan bases, and even a wealth of historic culture (Kirtland, Ohio and the Amish) could be seen as such a boring place.

With that in mind, the Cavs' collapse falls right in line with unfortunate tradition.  Sometimes I feel like Cleveland and Salt Lake are sister cities.  But I can take solace in the fact that the Jazz weren't supposed to beat the Lakers, that we were down two starters, and that we swept them first anyway (see: 1998).  The Cavs were supposed to win, though.  For years now, LeBron James' impending free agency and the national media have held Cleveland hostage like a head cheerleader dating a band geek. 

The band geek deserves better.

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 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.

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

Merry Cleesemas

Early this morning, sometime between the moment I reached up to turn off my alarm and the moment where I actually regained consciousness, I dreamed that John Cleese was hanging out in my parents' living room.

I don't remember much of the incident, outside of a couple of minor--yet intriguing--details.  I remember that he wore a single gold hoop earring, kind of like a pirate.  I also remember that at one point he pulled out a copy of the Bible and sang the 8th Psalm.

Yeah, I know...doesn't make sense to me, either.

What does make sense is that the idea of meeting John Cleese has been knocking around in my subconscious.  In the last three years, I have met two of the most important creative muses of my childhood, and if I were to pick a third, it would probably be Cleese.  (With honorable mention going to Dan Aykroyd.) 

I think most of my regular readers are familiar with Cleese, but for those of you who arrived at my blog from Asia after Googling "Mongolian Death Worm," John Cleese was one of the infamous Monty Python boys, the comedy troupe that brought us "Monty Python and the Holy Grail."  They were the Beatles of British Comedy.  He also played Nearly Headless Nick in the Harry Potter movies.  If Ray Bradbury fostered my love of writing and George Lucas fostered my love of film, Cleese did it for comedy.  Heck, I named this blog after a Python sketch.

Actually, maybe his rendition of the 8th Psalm does make sense.  As I think about it, Cleese is partially responsible for one of the fondest memories from growing up in the Bountiful 19th Ward, the wonderful day Rob Nish played the Python TV theme on the organ in Sacrament Meeting. 

So I guess there is a connection after all.  If I ever do get to meet Cleese, I'll have to tell him the story.  I'm sure he'd appreciate it.

The Road to Cleveland

This morning I was lying in bed, trying to find the will to get up and start grading final portfolios, when those cheerful morning people on my radio announced this year's nominees for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.  Pretty much every one of them has made a connection with me over the years, and not just because of their pretty little outfits:

Abba: Of all the nominees, I'm sure Abba will draw the most press, mainly because of the "Mamma Mia" thing. I've never seen "Mamma Mia," but Abba still sparks a fond memory for me. When I returned from my mission to Chicago, I found two unlikely musical genres flourishing: swing and disco. Any time I went to an Institute dance, you could be guaranteed to hear two songs. One was "Jump, Jive an' Wail" by The Brian Setzer Orchestra; the other was "Dancing Queen" by Abba.

The Hollies: Most of my musical upbringing came through the tutelage of my Baby Boomer parents, who underscored our numerous drives around town with a series of oldies stations and mix tapes. One of these mix tapes featured an upbeat number from The Hollies called "Bus Stop." Most music people will remember The Hollies as the British Invasion band that eventually brought Graham Nash into Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young. For me, The Hollies evoke memories of standing at bus stops in the rain sharing umbrellas with random women.

Genesis: With my parents running the tape deck, I didn't get a whole lot of exposure to contemporary music as a child, unless it came on the soundtrack to one of my favorite movies, like "Ghostbusters." (Here's to you, Ray Parker Jr.) My mom had "Thriller" and the Pointer Sisters' "Break Out" albums, but the first contemporary band I discovered on my own was Genesis. I loved the "Invisible Touch" album, especially for the video to "Land of Confusion," which used puppets from one of my favorite TV shows at the time.

The Stooges: I can't remember exactly where I first discovered The Stooges. It may have been during my Rock and Roll History course at the University of Utah (also the course, I might add, where I first considered the idea of teaching college classes). Either way, Iggy Pop's first band represents raw proto-punk at its finest.  Plus they've got one of my favorite band names of all time.

Jimmy Cliff: When it comes to reggae, most people rarely venture beyond Bob Marley's Greatest Hits. That's too bad, because as great as Bob was, Jimmy Cliff really put out some fantastic stuff. To me, he's the Sam Cooke of reggae: a great voice and a really great vibe. Cliff's music covers a classic spectrum, from hopeful optimism to simple romanticism to gut-wrenching, soul-stirring balladry.

*   *   *

Not a bad lineup, I'd say.  Actually, considering the influence my mom has had on my musical tastes over the years, it's only fitting that the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame was built in her hometown.  With the Browns reeling and the Cavaliers enduring constant "LeBron-to-NY" rumors, the people of Cleveland could probably use some of Jimmy Cliff's good vibes about now.

The Unholy Trinity

As much as I love music, I've always been more of a private dancer.

(Wait, that sounds kind of bad when I see it in print...)

Um, it has been well-documented that I love music, but when it comes to getting down with my bad self, I prefer to do it when I'm not around people I know.

(Yeah...that's even worse.)

OK, how about this: I am a wallflower.  I always hated school dances.  They always seemed like a great idea at the time (the Girl's Choice concept seemed even better), but the reality never quite delivered.  Whether it was a formal dance or a spontaneous victory Stomp in the gym after a big win for the basketball team, my MO was always the same: stand around the perimeter of the event, maintaining consistent conversation with friends and periodically rotating around the gym to create the illusion of involvement.

This reliable routine would be shattered three or four times per event, when the upbeat tones of hip-hop or country swing would fade and the unmistakable opening chords of a slow song would rise above the crowd.  At these moments, my heart would become a train wreck of conflicting emotions: the desire to remain anonymous, the desire to dance with a girl I was into, and the desire to bolt for the door before someone I didn't like pinned me into an awkward five minutes of slow dancing.

Over the years, a number of slow songs gained iconic status for these signature moments.  The strangest was probably "Stairway to Heaven," which I'm convinced local DJ's only played as a joke because they knew that halfway through the epic ballad Jimmy Page would kick in with a nasty guitar solo and leave the gym floundering in confusion.  But of all the classic slow dance tracks, only three can qualify for the Unholy Trinity:

Garth Brooks: "The Dance"

The funny thing about the Unholy Trinity is that I actually like two of the three songs.  As one might imagine, this is the one I don't like.  It's bad enough to have your raging hormones battle it out with your fight or flight instinct while something benign plays overhead.  It's an altogether different experience when Garth's twang is threatening to give you seizures.

U2: "With or Without You"

Of all the iconic anthems written by the band who best represents my generation, this is probably the biggest.  And a good part of that status comes from school dance airtime.  It's hard to think of an opening bass line that is easier to recognize within 1.07 seconds.  Even non-music people recognize it.  The best way to hear this one is to see U2 play it live, cause you get to see Bono drag some hapless girl up on his jogging ramp to give her the ultimate school dance experience.

Alphaville: Forever Young



It would truly take a monster to outdo U2 for the top spot, but I think most would agree that this is the track that would do it.  "Right Here Waiting" may have shone brightly in its time, but Alphaville's signature tune kept right on trucking through the 90's and into the 21st Century.  "Forever Young" has truly risen to school dance immortality.  Its cameo in "Napoleon Dynamite" may have been the most underrated moment of the entire movie.  Unlike most of the bands associated with slow dance anthems, I couldn't name a single other track from this group,* but even if most people only see them as a one-hit wonder, Alphaville's place in music history is secure.**

My angst-ridden conflicted hormones wouldn't have it any other way.

---

*I know someone who can, though; earlier this semester I asked my students to name their favorite band, and one of them actually tagged these guys.  I laughed out loud.

**My favorite Alphaville story: About four years ago my roommate and I dropped by the Sunnyside Chapel in Salt Lake for our student stake's annual "Music in the Park" activity.  Typically these events are stacked with a series of mellow acoustic acts who don't realize that the subtle passion of their original folk tunes is going to be wasted on a half-interested throng of 300 LDS singles who are more concerned with scoping the crowd for members of the opposite sex, shooting the bull with friends, or grazing fresh fruit from the refreshment table.  But this time a brave soul sauntered out with a portable keyboard and pumped out a solo take on "Forever Young" that would have brought a tear to my eye if I were still capable of crying.  In the wake of his brilliant performance, my roommate--born in the proud class of '75 and a certified child of the 80's--offered his complements:

"That was awesome, man.  Way to rock the Alphaville."

"Thanks, man," replied the musician, "I'm just glad someone recognized it."

"Oh yeah," my roommate nodded.

"I mean," the keyboardist continued, "I was born in '82, but most of these kids were born in like '86, man!"

These are the little hints that tell you it might be time to leave the singles ward.