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.

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*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.

Max Hall Hates My People

Dear Max,

I'm not much of a college football guy. Didn't go to a lot of games when I was in school up at the U. I was always more of an NFL guy. College ball was nice and all, but I didn't really have much of a passion for it. Didn't have much of a passion for my school, to tell the truth.

Funny thing is, even wilting passions can get worked up when someone's feeling picked on. A persecution complex can be a powerful thing. Just ask Michael Jordan.

I know that you're familiar with the persecution complex, Max. After all, we're both Mormons. Our people got chased out of three different states long before you or I were born. It's pretty much ingrained in us. I feel it whenever I read the Salt Lake Tribune. I feel it whenever the Jazz play the Lakers. Heck, when I was a kid I felt it whenever the 19th Ward played the 53rd Ward in church ball.

There's nothing wrong with feeling persecuted, but how you deal with it says a lot about you. You can't let your complex get the best of you. When you stood up there in front of all those reporters and told everyone how the Ute organization was classless, well, you looked like a jackass. You won the game, Max. That should have been statement enough.

Don't get me wrong, I can understand why you might feel a little persecuted by the University of Utah and its fans. Honestly, I felt kind of bad for you when everyone made fun of all those interceptions you threw last year. And if it's true that some of us poured beer on your folks, that definitely wasn't cool. Nobody blames you for feeling vindicated.  Still, even as a U fan, I don't think all BYU fans are bad any more than I think all Ute fans are good, and I can tell you, you embarrassed a lot of good BYU fans.

I don't know, maybe it was the media's fault. Maybe that's what we get when we stick a microphone in someone's face seconds after the biggest game of their life and ask them to put it all in perspective. That's what was so funny about Jordan. The guy had years to put his career in perspective, and he still came off like a jerk. Maybe with a some time you'll pick up a little more grace. I know I wasn't a bastion of wisdom at your age.

Truth is, I should probably be thanking you. For a second there, you made me proud to be a Ute.

Daydreaming of the Magical Burger Tree

Earlier this week I swung out to the DQ to have lunch with my buddy Randy and his two kids, Max and Olivia (my auxiliary niece and nephew, since Randy has taught them to address me as "Uncle Josh.")

Typically Max's antics take center stage, such as the episode back in September when he spent roughly 95% of a day in Yellowstone National Park staring at the ground, fascinated by the park's curious geology and completely disinterested by the fifty-foot geyser twenty yards away.  But this time, four-year-old Olivia provided the memorable imagery.

My auxiliary niece (who made it quite clear that she prefers to be addressed as a "tough chick" as opposed to a "tough girl" while fastening her own car seat buckle) was about to dig into her DQ hamburger when she paused and stared fascinated at the bun.

"Hey...this hamburger has SEEDS on it..." she said in amazement.

I wasn't sure if this was going to be a good thing or a bad thing.

"...they must be for GROWING HAMBURGERS."

Good thing.  Definitely a good thing.

Potentially Lame Half-Grateful/Half-Griping Official Thanksgiving-Related Post (with links!)

A few thoughts that rolled through my mind as a late meal from Taco Time rolled through my digestive system at 6AM...

-If my dad's side of the family is the Utah Jazz, then losing both my grandparents last year was kind of like Stockton and Malone retiring.  You knew it was going to happen, and you knew that things would never be the same afterwards.  But thanks to a few draft picks and free agent signings (IE, births to my cousins in Oregon, my sister getting married), the team will eventually claw its way back to contention, even if we miss the playoffs for a season or two in the meantime.

-More than ever, I want the real Utah Jazz to win an NBA title, if only because I never want to hear the folks on the radio have to debate whether our state's first major pro sports title is this week's Real Salt Lake MLS triumph or the Utah Stars' ABA title back in 1971.

-It's more important than ever that we find opportunities to laugh at ourselves.  Fortunately, we have the Internets.

-(WARNING: POTENTIALLY SEXIST COMMENT ALERT) I used to think that the most obvious sign of the Apocalypse was a middle-aged woman driving a white Mercedes SUV.  Now I am more inclined to think it is the blond 20-year-old trophy wife driving her only child around in a black Cadillac Escalade.  (And yes, this observation is at least partially based in petulant jealousy...of the wife, not the Escalade.)

-(MAKE-UP COMMENT TO ATONE FOR PREVIOUS OFFENSE) Men are stupid.

-I made a big deal out of getting bumped from my singles ward at the end of last year.  I think the reason I made a big deal out of it was that deep down I knew how socially dependent I had become on the membership, which was not a good thing.  Now, a year later, I think I have officially passed the point where even if invited, I wouldn't go back.  Because that would kind of feel like going back to Prom.

-Leaving the aforementioned ward may have been a shock to the social system, but the aftermath has reinforced the value of my immediate family and longtime friends.  IE, the people I will still know and love ten years from now, as opposed to ten days from now.  Spending less time at ward activities has meant more time with them, and I'd venture to say it's been time well spent.

-I am very grateful to be back teaching again, in spite of the associated hassles.  Still, it might be time to start putting a few more restrictions on student paper topics.  This was never a problem for my first five years of teaching, until one intrepid student decided to write his division/classification paper on the Kama Sutra.  This semester, of 40 persuasive argument papers, a record seven papers have been written on some aspect of drug legalization, including four that specifically advocate the legalization of weed.

Sigh.

Here is an actual comment I made on one of the aforementioned papers:

"To put it simply, if you want to  overcome the stigma attached to pot, you should probably avoid basing half of your evidence on material from a source called 'Half-Baked: a Pot-u-Mentary.'"

-We're only four episodes in, but I am thankful for the return of "V" to prime time television, if only because it serves to remind me that I'm not the only guy out there who can be suckered into supporting a clandestine alien invasion through nothing more than a pretty face and a tailored jumpsuit.

-I'm very grateful for long winding back highways like the PCH in California and Highway's 32 and 34 in Idaho.  There's nothing like getting a little open road perspective at 70mph as the wind whips through your (imaginary) hair and you drive by some of the great back road icons of Blue Highway America.

-Getting laid off from KJZZ cost me some financial security and the chance to get on TV once a week, but in the time since, I've been able to write a book and develop a new career, neither of which would have happened had I still been surviving on four hours of sleep a day.

-Life will always have its frustrations, and I'll always have plenty of reasons to gripe.  But if you understand that life is about agency, and not about justice, the pill is a bit easier to swallow.  Besides, in the end, if you can still relate your existence to a Fine Young Cannibals song, you're probably doing OK.

Burger Wars

The local news has been buzzing in recent months as the long-awaited advances of In-N-Out Burger have begun making their way into the north countries, and yesterday the storied franchise opened its doors in Draper and Orem.   This hoo-ha comes as the pinnacle of a crusade-like invasion of similar burger joints, all based around the concept of a streamlined menu with customizable product.  Five Guys, Tonyburger...same type of deal.

I can't remember the first time I ate at In-N-Out, other than noticing that the fries tasted like actual potatoes.  That was kind of cool, though I'm not a big fan of the "super-skinny, quick to turn into a limp mush" fry concept.  The burgers are pretty good, though nothing I really feel like shouting about. 

I get the feeling the place gets a lot of mileage from long-term market branding.  I was probably in my 20's before I went there, but I'd seen my classmates wearing the T-Shirts since I first set foot in Tolman Elementary School (on the days they weren't wearing TC-surf shirts, that is).  In that sense, In-N-Out is the Cafe Rio of burger chains: decent food, but overrated when you factor in all the hype.  It still falls under Hires and Crown Burger on my local list, and if I'm going to drive 45 minutes to get a hamburger, I'll be driving north...to the Maddox drive-in south of Brigham City.

Now that's a burger...

Cross-Pollination

Morning, campers.  Today I am making a special guest appearance elsewhere in the vast series of tubes known as the Internet.  My friend Holly, distinguished author of the award-winning blog "if i were really skinny..." asked me to write a guest piece as part of a series on Thanksgiving.  I obliged.

You should check it out, then read some of her posts.  They're quite good; plus Holly has a much more refined sense of style than I do.  If I ever decide to go shopping for clothes again, I will probably ask her advice.

Once you finish browsing her blog, make sure to click the "follow" button on her site so you can officially show your support of quality writer-people.  Then you should come back and click the "follow" button on my site, because chances are you haven't remembered to do that yet (it's just over here on the right).  It's easy, people; fifteen seconds will save you 15% on your car insurance.*

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*Not true.  But it will bring good Karma.

Quantifying the Unquantifiable, or "Why I Still Hate Country Music"

The other night I was hanging out with my friend Travis discussing the Great Mysteries of Life.  We talked dating, sports, and debated the merits of The Blue Iguana vs. The Red Iguana.

Then the topic shifted to Country Music.  I don't know how it came up.  It might have been one of my periodic tourettes-like interjections, like, "Yeah, so one time I was at the Jazz game with this girl and--KENNY CHESNEY SUCKS!--eventually she stopped returning my phone calls."

At any rate, I quickly gathered that we were on opposite sides of the fence when it comes to modern Country.  We may both appreciate the sublime performance of BMW automobiles, but when it comes to the car stereo, Brad Paisley is about as welcome in my ears as a rhinestone-covered boot kick to the jimmy.  This may partially explain why Travis has more success with the ladies, though I had always hoped it was his keen fashion sense and laid-back demeanor that was doing the trick.  Because if I'm going to have to embrace country in order to find the woman of my dreams, I'm in for a long nightmare before the dawn.

I tried to explain my reasoning.  I cited a number of the ideas I wrote about some time ago, about false Americana and presumptive purity, the glorification of yokelism and all that.  I told him about how I love old-fashioned country from guys like Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson, and feel like the whole thing went in the can somewhere in the mid-80's, leaving us a rotten watered-down brand of classic rock sung with a twang.

But in spite of all my reasoning, I still couldn't come to a conclusive rationale, and I'm not sure there is one.  As a composition instructor my instincts tell me I have to justify my assertions with reasoned logic, but I wonder if there are certain things that just have to be chalked up under "taste aversions."  There are some things I like (hard shell tacos), and certain things I don't like (reality television), and that's that.  Country sucks.  It just sucks.

The closest thing I can come up with to a definitive reason for hating modern country music is the infamous "Twang," but beyond that, I can't quantify it.  What is the Twang?  I don't really know.  I can't explain it, but I sure know it when I hear it.  I can tell you this: if you took the twang out of the songs I hate, I would probably like them, and if you put it in the songs I love, I would probably hate them.  I think a lot of people are offended by my country-hate because they think I'm rejecting the sincerity or patriotism of the lyrics.  But I don't despise modern country for its lyrics, any more than I hate Mormon Pop for its lyrics.  I hate them both for their execution.

For me, it's like Macaroni and Cheese.  I don't like pasta, and I don't particularly like cheese.  Put them together, and you have a dish that I truly despise.  Can I tell you what it is that I don't like about them?  Kind of, but not really.  Do I feel like I'm missing out on a wonderful slice of life because I refuse to eat Macaroni and Cheese?  Nope.  Do I feel like I'm missing out on a wonderful slice of culture because I refuse to embrace modern country music?  Nope.

My aversion to country is similar to Jerry Seinfeld's aversion to the girl who ate her peas one at a time.  Jerry didn't really care that the girl ate her peas in a peculiar way, he just wasn't into her, and he used the rationale to justify an intangible instinct.  I can come up with all the evidence I want to justify my hatred of country music (and I do mean hatred), but the root truth is I'm just not into it.

Now, does this mean that I'll never go country dancing or show my face at a Rascal Flatts concert?  Not necessarily.  I'm not dumb enough to allow my pop culture convictions to get in the way of my eternal pursuits.  The Code is The Code.  If for some reason I'm destined to ride off into the sunset with a lasso-totin' rodeo mama from Malad, then I'll do what I have to do to keep the peace.  But there's a big difference between tolerance and assimilation.  If that turns out to be the case, I'll be like Tim Robbins in "Shawshank Redemption," confined by physical walls of oppression and persecution while the hope of the human spirit flies free on the inside.

Maybe Garth Brooks could write a song about that.

Death of the Franken-Chin

Got my sutures taken out last week. The Franken-Chin is no more. Now my roommate is going to have to come up with a new nickname for it.

Before:

After:

Seems to be healing up nicely, though I guess that means my sympathy window with the ladies is up.  Now the only question is whether I can justify playing in the Turkey Bowl this year.  So where do you think one draws the line between "freak accident" and "God telling you to cut it out?"

Stat Geek

For someone whose livelihood is based on words, I spend a lot of time stressing about numbers. Maybe it's born of a deep personal insecurity, but I've always been the kind of guy who kept track of his stats.  Sitting here right now I can tell you that I never shot over 50% on my free throws during a season of church ball. I can tell you that the most points I ever scored in a Junior Jazz game is 24, and that my max bench press is probably about 20 pounds less than it was six months ago.

I can also tell you that I've attended 10 LDS temples and dined at 9 Hard Rock Cafes (Call it the "Saint/Sinner Equilibrium"). The first wage I ever earned was 25 cents for every 12 bunches of radishes I picked at a local farm. For years I thought my best mile time was 5:45, until people started casting doubts on the measuring system my Centerville Junior High gym teachers were using in the early 1990's.

I used to keep stats on my dating, too. I know that my first one took place the evening of December 5th, 1992, an unmitigated disaster featuring Spaghetti Factory meatballs, a ceiling-mounted Christmas Tree and a legendary group photo at the State Capitol*. But that one was a girl's choice dance, so my first real date probably took place a week later when I got up the guts to ask a girl out on my own. For a long time I could blast out a complex stat sheet on my total dating career from memory, complete with notations for repeat outings, disqualifications via marriage, and whether I got action at the end of the evening (or just watched the girl sprint for her front door). The precision of those stats has floated into the historical ether, but I can still estimate with some accuracy that since December of 1992, I've taken 200-300 girls out on 300-400 dates. And if you figure I spent an average of $25 on each one--probably a lowball estimate--I've thrown about eight or nine grand at the ladies over the years.**

I think I first started keeping track of my dating stats for the same reason I tracked my Jr. Jazz stats in high school: I felt insecure about my performance, and was searching for some concrete evidence of improvement. Something to point at with pride. If I really wanted to, I could comb back through my journals and get my exact numbers--I haven't missed a daily journal entry since June of 1998--but I don't. Because the bigger those numbers get, and the older I get, the less impressive they become. Now, instead of looking at the totals and thinking, "what a pimp," I look at the totals and think, "what a schmuck." If the goal was to become a player--or a "serial dater," as I have been accused of being--then I have been successful. But that wasn't the goal. The goal was to get married, and thus those stats become a damning measure of futility. Dan Marino's 62,000 passing yards without a Super Bowl win instead of Bill Russell's 11 NBA titles.

My passion for stat-tracking has faded in the last couple of years, as dating has become a different animal. I still talk about it with friends, and obviously I'll even blog about it on occasion. Heck, I even wrote a book on the subject (Still waiting to hear back from the publisher on that one...).  But something feels very different now than it did five or ten years ago. It could be that I've finally matured a bit, or that I just don't care as much. Either way, the Great Mormon Singles Quest doesn't feel the same way it used to, so neither does the impulse to track it.

The first time I noticed this feeling in a tangible way was two February's ago. I was coming off a first date that was an all-timer, and a follow-up that was almost as good. I'd had good dates before, but this campaign truly showed promise and even reciprocation. Then, after wrapping up a broadcast of my morning show, only moments after grabbing some take-out stir fry and jumping in my car, I get a text announcing that my would-be girlfriend is now dating someone else.

I really can't understate this: I thought this one was going to work. The rejection was truly a surprise. There had been plenty of times I had gotten my hopes up, yet known that success was still a long shot.  This one hadn't felt like those.  And yet, I didn't react with anger or sorrow or really anything. I didn't call to plead my case, drive to her apartment to confront her, or immediately call another girl out of spite to convince myself that I was still The Man. Because I'd tried all that before, and none of it made all that much difference. I knew there wasn't much to do besides drive home and enjoy my Teriyaki Grill take-out. Obviously I was disappointed, but I wasn't despondent. If anything, I had become comfortably numb.

I have no idea what that means, but I'm pretty sure you can't put it in stats.

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*I should also mention that the unmitigated disaster was mostly my fault.  As in, I probably never should have told my date that I was bored halfway through the proceedings.  Hey, I was a rookie, right?

**It occurs to me that when guys complain about dating, one of the knee-jerk gripes is always the financial investment involved.  I realize it sounds a little shallow and cliche, but there is a certain amplified angst that comes with the realization that not only are you getting your tail whipped regularly in the metaphorical cage fight of the dating game, but that you are paying your opponent to do so.

Defining Aerosmith

Yesterday marked the 20th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall.  More importantly, it also marked the unofficial fall of Aerosmith.  According to the magic and all-knowing Internet, lead singer Steven Tyler has gone bye-bye.

I'm not sure if yesterday's big announcement will inspire similar celebration in coming weeks, but it does remind me of one of our generation's greatest quagmires: how does one define the music of Aerosmith?

(Insert obligatory one-word sarcastic retorts: "crap," "lousy," "lame.")

Seriously, I know that most people would just chalk up Aerosmith as another Classic Rock band that held on long past its prime--sort of an evolved version of The Stones, complete with gigondo-lipped frontman--but I don't think it's that simple.  Especially now that local radio apparently thinks U2 is a Classic Rock band, too.

Allow me to elaborate, via an understandably simplified Classic Rock pedigree:

1968-75: The true Classic Rock era, basically initiated with Jimi Hendrix, Led Zeppelin, and the Rolling Stones transition from British Invasion Pop to Mick Taylor-driven blues rock.

1975-82: Blues-heavy Classic Rock is diluted into a pop-heavy transitional period, through bands like Electric Light Orchestra, REO Speedwagon, and Journey.  Still rocking, but something bad is on the horizon.

1982-91: The culture of the 1980's transforms Classic Rock into Butt Rock: cheesy pop hooks played at extreme volume by bands with even more extreme hair.  Enter Def Leppard, Poison, and Warrant.

1991-95: Kurt Cobain almost single-handedly drives a stake through the heart of Butt Rock with the Grunge Revolution, then, his mission accomplished, blows his head off with a shotgun.

1995-Present: Charlie Watts keeps playing drums for the Stones, even though at heart he's a Jazz guy.

So where does Aerosmith fit in there?  Well, their first "prime" was in the mid-70's, with songs like "Walk This Way" and "Sweet Emotion," which definitely place them in the "Bridge to Butt-Rock" category.  Then in the 80's, they recorded "Love in an Elevator," which fits nicely along such brilliant Butt-Rock chart-toppers as "Unskinny Bop" and "Cherry Pie."

But they didn't stop there, oh no.  Somehow they survived the Grunge Purge, and in the mid 90's, they were still topping the pop charts with...well, I can't remember the names of the songs, but I do distinctly recall an album with a cow on the cover.  In fact, even as late as 1998, they were recording pop hits, like the one that played in the background of "Armageddon" over and over while Ben Affleck made out with Liv Tyler (Steven's daughter, strangely) and Bruce Willis saved the Earth from total annihilation by blowing up an asteroid with a really big drill (true).

Now, you could continue the Stones comparisons here, since Mick (Jagger, not Taylor) and the boys were still touring around and releasing albums.  But that doesn't work, because no one cared about the Stones new albums.  They were more interested in listening to the old songs and making jokes about how Keith Richards looked like Jack Sparrow's dad.

But no one was making "old man" jokes about Steven Tyler, and Aerosmith just kept trucking along...until yesterday, apparently, when guitarist Joe Perry threw Tyler under the bus for quitting on the band a long time ago.  (Or maybe it was Tyler who threw Aerosmith under the bus...I guess it depends on whose side of the story you listen to.)

At any rate, I still don't know how to put the work of Aerosmith into context.  I don't really feel comfortable placing them with other "genre transcendent" artists like Stevie Wonder, whose music truly defies categorization, because Aerosmith pretty much always sounded like a pseudo-Classic Rock/Butt Rock band.  I just don't get how they survived Grunge and managed to keep recording marketable singles for so long.  If that sounds like a back-handed compliment, I guess it is.

It took a while to appreciate the fall of the Berlin Wall.  Maybe twenty years from now, I'll be able to put the Aerosmith thing in perspective, too.

Life on Shuffle Play

Gotta love the "random play" feature on iTunes. Makes for some great juxtaposition, especially when your music library has everything from Ramones tracks to LDS CES firesides to sound bites from "Animal House."

For example, while I was getting a load of laundry ready, I heard this immediately followed by this.

That inspiring sequence led into "Let's Hear it for the Boy" off the "Footloose" soundtrack.

(Wait...did I just admit that I have Deniece Williams on my computer? So much for all that street cred.)

Chicks Dig Scars (Hopefully)

As of this week, my all-time stitch tally is twenty-four. Four from banging my chin at the Eccles Ice Arena in Logan, nine more from dislocating and lacerating my right index finger while playing volleyball, and eleven more Wednesday night.

And what was I doing Wednesday night? Playing football. Flag football, to be precise.

About ten minutes after scoring my first touchdown of the 2009 season, I went after an opposing receiver in the flat and wound up taking a football cleat to the chin. Did I make the tackle? Of course I did.

One visit to Lakeview Hospital later, I looked like this:

The pre-suture photos are more graphic (that's the technical term for stitches that my nurse Chelsea kept using), but I won't post them here. Trust me, you should be grateful.



(Photo credit goes to my new friend Kyle, who drove me to the hospital and managed to take a great shot that doesn't give me a double-chin. Just one huge Leno-chin.)

Family is Forever

I came across this picture yesterday and had to smile.  Some of you may recognize my sister on the left, either because you know her or have linked to her blog from my site.  The lumberjack next to her is her husband.

My brother-in-law.

I am very proud of him.

Return of the Saucer Lizards

I don't have a lot of regrets in life. Kind of wished I'd played JV Football my junior year at Viewmont. Probably should have worked that Grateful Dead concert the spring before Jerry Garcia died. And there were definitely a couple of girls I should have kissed when I had the chance.

But overall, I'd say most of my regrets aren't connected to any life-changing decisions. Might have had some more fun along the way, but I probably still would have wound up where I am now.

For example, years ago, around the second or third grade, I remember sitting up one Sunday night with my parents watching the first installment of a brand-new TV mini-series called "V." The 'V' stood for 'Visitors,' and the series was supposed to be about some kind of alien invasion. I watched for the first hour, right up until the moment we met the first alien...and saw that they looked completely human.

I felt shafted. An alien that looks like a human? What a gyp. So I turned tail and played with my Star Wars men for the rest of the night. At least George Lucas knew what an alien was supposed to look like.

The next day I learned I had made a terrible mistake. Every conversation with my friends went something like this:

Me: Hey there, childhood friend.

Friend: HEY JOSH! DID YOU SEE 'V' LAST NIGHT? WASN'T IT AWESOME WHEN DONOVAN SNUCK ONTO THE MOTHERSHIP AND GOT IN THE FIGHT WITH THAT ALIEN AND TOTALLY PULLED HIS FACE OFF SO YOU COULD SEE HIS REAL REPTILE SKIN? THAT WAS THE COOLEST! WHAT AN AWESOME SHOW!

Me: Ugh...

Friend: WE'RE HAVING CHICKEN NUGGETS FOR LUNCH TODAY!

If I'd given the show about fifteen more minutes of my time, I'd have found out that those lame human exteriors were only disguises for a breed of interplanetary space-lizards bent on destroying the human race. I guess I wasn't keen on anticipating plot twists back when I was eight years old.

The next week, I jumped back into the series, then ate up every minute of the follow-up mini-series a year later. They tried to turn it into a weekly TV show after that, though they had to keep recycling the same special effects shots over and over again like in "Battlestar Galactica." It wasn't as cool as "Star Wars," but they had sweet weapons, killer theme music, and the alien leader Diana was the hottest sci-fi chick since Leia donned the iron bikini (even if she was technically a lizard).

Eventually I moved on to GI Joe and Junior Jazz basketball, and "V" faded into the annals of 1980's pop culture. It always held a special place in my heart, even though I got the feeling anyone who wasn't around to see it when it aired wouldn't appreciate it now because of all the low-budget special effects. From time to time I would would hear rumors that they were going to re-boot the series, and my interest was kindled even more when I ran into Donovan himself (Marc "The Beastmaster" Singer) at Comic-Con 2007. He'd also heard the remake rumors, but at the time nothing was confirmed.

Well, now we know the rumors are true. Tuesday night, the lizard-folk are coming back to Earth. I don't know that much about the new series other than the inclusion of Elizabeth "Juliet" Mitchell in the cast, which is cool, and the absence of Singer and Michael Ironside, which is most uncool. But that won't stop me from checking it out.

I don't intend to add any more items to that regret list.

Sweet Dreams, #267

Yesterday I was looking through one of my old idea notebooks for a concept for a new writing project. Often I'll write down recent dreams in these notebooks as well. As I sat in my car before class yesterday, I stumbled across this:

"Dream that I'm driving a large bus (double-decker?) in the Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco. I'm running down hippies because I can't see right in front of the bus. I may also be dating Tiffany Amber-Theissen of 'Saved by the Bell,' but I can't be certain."

I'm pretty sure this is how Victor Hugo came up with "Les Miserables."

The way to a man's heart...

A couple of years back my buddy Randy put me on the spot when he volunteered me to get up in front of a group of Toastmasters and tell them about my favorite Christmas gift. It was a tough call to make, but as of last weekend I think I have a candidate for "best birthday present" honors.

Last Sunday afternoon I arrived at my parents' house for a traditional family dinner. It also happened to be my Birthday Dinner*, which was to be celebrated with a full roast's worth of my paternal grandmother's legendary barbecue beef. But as I opened the kitchen oven, I was surprised to discover a genuine Giordano's deep-dish pizza, shipped in dry ice from Chicago.

Not to be outdone, my sister and brother-in-law presented me with a $21 gift certificate to Barbacoa. Why $21, you say? Because my traditional burrito bowl with pinto beans, spicy pork, two scoops of pico de gallo and one scoop of hot sauce costs exactly seven dollars with tax.

When you get older, you aren't as happy to see your birthday roll around. But when those birthdays remind you of just how great your family is, they're a little easier to take.

---

*I actually do have a birthday, which will be news to anyone I may have misled into believing that I was a test tube child.

Resume of a Wanna-be Rock God

My track record with garage bands is beginning to look as bad as my record with real jobs. Sporadic flashes of promise, inconsistent areas of emphasis, and above all, no long-term commitment.



Here's a sampling of my band experience thus far:

Zebedee Coltrane, 1998-1999
Style: Alternative/blues, some pop covers, odes to dung beetles.
Highlights: Made our public debut at the University 32nd Ward Talent Show in the spring of 1999. Two weeks later a friend of ours gave us a strawberry pie to play a special gig in a handicapped girl's living room for her birthday.
Reason for leaving: Creative Differences.

Why2K, 1999
Style: Borderline-sacreligious electric covers of LDS church hymns.
Highlights: Formed exclusively to make a short film for a Stake film festival in the summer of 1999. The result won "best soundtrack" at the festival, and has attracted the most venomous comments on my You Tube channel of any video post to date.
Reason for leaving: Fear of excommunication.

The Atomic Thunderlips Traveling Ministry, 2000-2001
Style: Obscure proto-punk covers, original tributes to local fast food chains mixed with classical chord progressions.
Highlights: Tried to make our debut at the 2001 U32 Toga Party, but were thwarted when lightning killed the power at the church. Played modest public performance from guitarist and bass player's garage (they were married) the following November, and I got dumped by my would-be girlfriend immediately following the gig.
Reason for leaving: Graduate school and increasing family obligations (for guitarist and bass player).

Dreamy Phil and the Diamond Dazzlers/Hassenpheffer and the Bomdiggity, 2003
Style: Initially a Neil Diamond cover band, wound up playing a set of acoustic-rock originals through the spring of 2003.
Highlights: Headlined 2003 Utah State University Valentines Dance, 2003 Earth Day performance on Taggart Student Center patio.
Reason for leaving: School obligations...plus I could never get the violinist to go out with me.

Lionel Ritchie, 2003
Style: Classic rock covers, including "Jumping Jack Flash" and "Sister Golden Hair."
Highlights: Headlined sister's variety show fundraiser for her New Zealand study abroad. Also played a set at a ward talent show a couple of weeks later.
Reason for leaving: Lead guitarist left on LDS mission.

The Tony Danza Experience, 2005
Style: Modern(ish) rock covers, including selections from Cake ("Short Skirt/Long Jacket") and The Black Crowes ("Hard to Handle")
Highlights: Formed to play at University Stake FHE outdoor music event, but canceled last minute when bass player couldn't get off work. Played ward talent show two months later.
Reason for leaving: Two members went to law school.

The Last Starfighters, 2007
Style: Original alternative rock numbers, penned by rhythm guitarist.
Highlights: Played U32 Talent Show in November of 2007, where I actually kind of sort of played my first mid-performance drum solo.
Reason for leaving: Lead guitarist moved back to Illinois, I started working graveyards at KJZZ.

In the midst of all this, I've held periodic jam sessions with friends that never quite made it to public performance level, though some did wind up on You Tube. Whatever the reason, a long-term album-cutting rock band has never been in the cards for me, though I always have a great time whenever I play. (Well, except for that time I got dumped afterwards, but that's another story.)

Anyhoo, it's time to add another band to the list, though with a little luck, we might stick together for a while longer. About a month ago my buddy Breto's wife recruited us to play at a charter school assembly in North Salt Lake. The performance was connected to some kind of fundraising competition at the school, and by the time we took the stage last Friday morning, we were penciled in to play two different assemblies, one for each half of the student body.

To be honest, I wasn't expecting much, and after our two practices, I wasn't even sure if we were going to make it through our three-song set. The plan was to open with a punk version of "This Land is Your Land"--something the kids could sing along to--then follow it up with a couple of pop covers that would embody a spirit of inspiration and patriotism, namely, Bon Jovi's "Livin' on a Prayer" and Neil Diamond's "America." Since we were going to be playing at a school, I thought it might be appropriate to name the band "Abstinence" or "Intelligent Design," but we settled on "The Guitar Heroes" since it connected to our message about how it was a lot more fun to play real musical instruments than fake plastic ones for video games. We also considered changing "Livin' on a Prayer" to "Livin' on a Non-Denominational Personal Moment of Silence and/or Meditation," but decided that real rock and rollers would take the risk of introducing the concept of prayer in a public educational setting.

But in spite of my own lowered expectations, the morning assemblies turned out to be a total blast. I've played for hormone-fueled teens, angry neighbors and disinterested peers, but there's something totally different about playing for hundreds of little kids. For one thing, you don't feel as much pressure to avoid screwing up (our lead singer Randy--one of my old Thunderlips bandmates--had a nightmare the prior evening that he was going to forget all the words onstage). But it's also just a lot of fun to see a bunch of nine-year-olds jumping and dancing in the aisles while you play. I think a few of them were even making devil horns at us in our honor.

The whole gig left us thinking we should consider the idea of staying together. There are all kinds of kids up and down the Wasatch Front we could corrupt. I've always figured that playing in bands would just be for fun, a side project to channel my inner rock star every once in a while while pursuing more distinguished professional pursuits, but maybe I was wrong.

Maybe I just needed to find the right audience.



The Guitar Heroes
Style: Kitchy 80's rock anthem covers, punk distortions of folk protest songs that people have turned into patriotic standards.
Highlights: Headlining a set of school assemblies at the Legacy charter school/jamming out a painfully awkward re-hash of "Livin' on a Prayer" with the top fundraising class while they stage-dived off my drum riser and did bunny ears behind my head.
Reason for leaving: N/A...we're keeping our fingers crossed.

How (Not) to Commit Plagiarism

Been back in the teaching saddle for a couple of months now. It's been good to be back in front of a class, shooting the bull, waxing poetic, using clips from "Texas Chainsaw Massacre" to illustrate composition concepts. It's kind of like coming home again.

But as fun as all that is, you never really feel like you're a teacher until you nail someone for cheating. In my case, that cheating comes via plagiarism, and I've busted two students in the last week.

For the uninitiated, plagiarism is ripping off someone else's work and calling it your own. It's the next natural step once fattening your margins and boosting your font and spacing won't do the job anymore. There's always some magical moment in every semester where I'm going through a stack of papers and suddenly come across a sentence that sounds a little odd for an English 1010 student. Especially if that student has only been coming to class about a third of the time.

So you hop on your computer and punch a suspect sentence or two into Google, and voila! Looks like Little Bobby either moonlights as a content writer for Wikipedia, or there just wasn't enough time after last night's kegger to write up a cause-effect analysis of The Great Depression.

The sad thing about plagiarism is that it can get you kicked out of school. The fun thing about plagiarism is that the people desperate enough to try it are usually too desperate to do it right.

Human Nature?

Even after staying up past 2AM last night, I was still having trouble going to sleep, so I popped on my iPod and started listening to a 310-track playlist called "Soul Marathon." About ten minutes in, halfway through the Jackson 5's "(Stop) The Love You Save," I had a stunning realization:

Michael Jackson is dead.

I mean, I already knew he was dead. I'd already declared him the Elvis of my generation, and lamented that the Jackson we all knew and loved had really been gone for twenty-plus years now. I knew it...but I didn't feel it. Then last night, all the dust from the media hype and the sordid allegations and the post-1985 uber-weirdness finally settled, and it dawned on me that one of the biggest icons of my youth was really gone.

It strikes me as strange that as mainstream news continues to merge with entertainment, the effect isn't that entertainment becomes more newsworthy. Instead, mainstream news feels less real. The reality only sets in once the hype has passed.

Of Burns and Bandanas

Last weekend while taking in a late viewing of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Movie I found myself distracted by an article in Details Magazine on the topic of sideburns. I found this item distracting for multiple reasons:

A. I am not all that into the Ninja Turtles.
B. I have had sideburns in one form or another since the age of fourteen, save for a one-week stretch in the mission field when I removed them after a scolding by one of my leaders (who was apparently unaware that mission rules clearly dictated that sideburns were allowed to extend to the mid-ear).

Believe it or not, the inspiration for my first legitimate facial hair came from the 90210 boys. I only caught a half hour of a single episode of Brandon and Dylan's early 90's Beverly Hills saga, but those few minutes were enough to convince my teenage mind that sideburns were the way to go. Besides, at that age, facial hair growth accounted for about 95% of one's street cred. (The other 5% was still coming from basketball sneakers.)

My flashy new sideburns generated a lot more positive press than my Karl Malone Catapult sneakers ever did, but by the beginning of my junior year, Dustin Harrison's full beard had taken center stage. Still, the sideburns remained, whether acting as the underpinnings of one of my longer hippie-grunge hairstyles or merely bridging the gap between a nice anti-social beard and the top of my now-shaven head. I've trimmed them into a variety of lengths and styles, most notably during the week I cut them into baby mutton-chop spikes. To my everlasting humiliation, this week also happened to fall around the traditional once-every-two-decade extended family portrait shoot.

But according to Details Magazine, I shouldn't be so carefree with my face fuzz. Depending on the size and shape of my head and face, they have laid out specific instructions as to what shape my burns should take. I have to admit that I am not a regular reader of Details, and it concerns me to think about how many other style issues I have so callously taken for granted over the years. I learned how to tie my neckties at the proper length from ex-Detroit Piston coach Chuck Daly, and someone once told me that the color of my belt needs to match my shoes, but who's to say I'm not violating a dozen other rules of bro-fashion on a daily basis? Could I be tying my shoes the wrong way? How long should my pants be? If I wear a hipster T-shirt from threadless.com with a pair of retro Air Jordans, will the space time continuum rip apart and obliterate my precious DNA?

Maybe those Ninja Turtles were onto something, after all. They only had to worry about grabbing the right colored bandana.

The Path to World Domination

Submitted my article on Michael Jordan to a Utah Jazz blog yesterday. They actually posted it. Same content, much more attractive aesthetic design!

69th Street Flashback

Last weekend I was driving down my street when I passed one of the local kids standing in the middle of the road. He had some kind of crap all over his face--hopefully it was chocolate--and as I drove by with my window open, he yelled something at me. I couldn't hear what he said because my radio was turned up, but I'm guessing it wasn't too kind. Probably, "you just rolled over my foot" or something.

The experience took me back a dozen years to the summer of 1997, as I was tooling down 69th Street in South Chicago on my trusty Trek 820 mountain bike "Thunderlips" en route to a teaching appointment. As I rode past a small ten-year-old boy standing on the side of the road, he looked me square in the eye and insulted both my race and my relationship to my mother in one super-efficient phrase.

Now, this particular insult wasn't all that unique. My companions and I heard it all the time as we rode around the South Side. What was strange, though, was that the expression came via the lips of a ten-year-old, and instead of being yelled from a distance at my back, this volley was delivered direct to my face. I was so impressed by this kid's bravery, in fact, that I completely forgot to be insulted, and instead laughed as I rode on down the street.

A half dozen blocks further, my companion and I made a quick left and locked up our bikes in front of a home we'd been scheduled to visit that afternoon. An hour later, we emerged from the house onto the front porch to a surprising sight. There before us was the same little kid, now cowering in shame instead of cursing our heritage. He was cowering because his older sister--at least four times his size--was looming behind him, with her hand on the back of his neck.

"OK," she said threateningly, "say it."

From the depths of sorrow came a defeated whisper:

"I'm sorry."

After nearly six months of dodging bricks, bottles, speeding cars, threats, and even the distant sound of gunshots, there wasn't much that caught my attention on the South Side. In a lot of ways, I figured the place was just ripening for Armageddon. Or at least a catastrophic NBA championship riot. But I had to smile when I realized that even in the worst of neighborhoods, there were still a few people determined to practice common courtesy, and who made sure that their siblings did the same.

I have no idea what Chocolate-Face Kid said last weekend, and I don't care. But I do hope that kid in Chicago kept listening to his big sister.

How not to sell your movie...

Just caught this clip of my celebrity look-a-like on CNN.com. Unbelievable. Could be the most awkward interview I've seen since Crispin Glover channeled his "Rubin & Ed" character on Letterman. Half the time I'm almost weeping for the interviewer. The other half I'm just thinking, "Bruce Willis is awesome. He totally looks like someone peed in his Cheerios."



So anyone want to go check out "Surrogates" with me? Didn't think so.

Going Coastal: The Movie

Another Epic Summer is in the books. Last weekend, my short film, "Going Coastal: A Manly Guide to Unemployment" debuted at the 7th Annual Epic Summer Film Festival. This was the third time I've participated in the event, and my 2009 entry--a chronicle of July's epic road trip, dedicated to the victims of last year's economic meltdown--seemed to go over pretty well. It's always nice to get a positive reception from a crowd that doesn't already know you or have any legal or familial obligation to like your stuff. Special thanks to Brian and Jen for giving me the bully pulpit.

For those of you who couldn't make it, or for those of you who just couldn't derive total satisfaction from a single viewing, here's the web-friendly version:

Like Mike

When I tuned in to the Basketball Hall of Fame Induction Ceremony last Friday, I was thinking about how much more I had in common with John Stockton than with Michael Jordan. Two hours later, as Jordan was wrapping up his induction speech, I was sobered by how much I really did have in common with the NBA's most iconic player.

The reaction to Jordan's Hall of Fame speech has been everything from predictable stale celebration to venomous outrage, with a little "this is what you get from someone with relentless competitive drive" in-between. I parted ways with the Air Jordan kool-aid crowd a long time ago, but I wasn't offended by his speech. At first I thought it was pretty funny, but by the end I realized the whole thing was kind of sad.

At the beginning of his speech, Jordan played by the script, doling out credit to those around him and displaying sincere emotion as he stood on the threshold of Basketball's Happy Hunting Ground. But as he continued with his anecdotes, and as the list of "I told you so" targets began to lengthen, the subtext of the speech grew into more of a tragedy than a celebration. When the cameras focused in on his high school teammate, the one who'd been picked ahead of him during Jordan's sophomore year, the oddity of his presence didn't quite set in. When Jordan chided his college coach for keeping him off the cover of Sports Illustrated, I thought he was still just ribbing. When he ranted about the Bulls' former General Manager, I laughed, knowing he was definitely off-script. But by the time he finished calling out former Jazz guard Byron Russell--a largely anonymous foe Jordan finished off over ten years ago--I recognized something I'd never noticed when I was twelve and hanging his posters on my wall, something that I never expected to go along with the myth and the success and the competitive spirit. What I saw was confounding insecurity.

Whenever I get turned down for a job, a school program, or even get rejected by a girl, there is a certain defiance that kicks in. A little part of me that says, "You just wait. One day you'll know what you missed out on." Even if I know I'm better off in the long run, wounded pride is a tough pill to swallow. It can take a long time to go away, too, especially if it takes a long time to make it to the next job or the next girl. In the heat of the moment, you may think about how satisfying it would be to confront your old opponent and wave your success in their face, to gloat in your ultimate triumph. But when you do overcome, most of the time you've gained enough perspective to find peace with your past. You just move on.

When Michael Jordan took the podium last weekend, he'd won six NBA titles, multiple league MVP's, multiple scoring titles, and was widely considered the greatest basketball player of all time. Yet in spite of all that, there was one thing he seemed to lack:

Peace.

For a while I wondered, if he's so unhappy after accomplishing all he did, what would have happened to him if he hadn't been blessed with all the natural talent and athleticism that helped him to the pinnacle in the first place? But then I realized: the pressure and insecurity and competitiveness stemmed from that talent, and the responsibility and expectation of success that it carried. Whenever Jordan failed at anything, it ate at him because he knew he had something special, and he felt that people around him weren't acknowledging it. And somehow, his incredible accomplishments still haven't measured up enough to his expectations to give him any peace on the subject. For some reason, on the threshold of Basketball Immortality, Jordan felt like telling the world "I told you so" instead of, "what a ride, huh?"

He's still searching for something. Happiness, maybe. Who knows if he's going to find it. I just wonder what his example means for the rest of us.

In some ways, I feel like last weekend was the first time I ever saw the real Michael Jordan. Last spring, during last season's playoffs, I read "The Jordan Rules" by Sam Smith, about the Bulls' first title run back in 1991. The book got a lot of bad press at the time because the Michael Jordan it portrayed was a lot more flawed and egotistical than the Air Jordan we saw in the Gatorade commercials. It was ironic to read the book while Kobe Bryant was barreling his way to his first non-Shaq title; I couldn't help but wonder if Kobe has a lot more in common with Jordan than we give him credit for. Ten years from now, we might see Kobe at that podium saying something similar.

When the ceremony started, I felt like Jordan was the player I wanted to be, while Stockton was the player I was in reality. By the end of the proceedings, after hearing Stockton stumble through his humble remarks, I saw that in some ways, Stockton is the man I want to be, and Jordan is the man I am. Stockton doesn't care what the world thinks of him. Jordan cares way too much, and sometimes, so do I.

Remembering #12

This weekend John Stockton is going to be inducted into the Basketball Hall of Fame. So is Michael Jordan. Seems about right.

When I was a kid, Jordan was the player I wanted to be, but Stockton was the player I was in reality. Jordan was the high-flying aesthetically-stunning highlight machine with the awesome shoes and endless line of posters. Stockton was the quiet white kid who played hard-nosed defense with a chip on his shoulder. At the end of my first year of Jr. Jazz basketball, we had a team party and had to vote each other some kind of honorary award. I was only the second-worst kid on the team, so I managed to avoid the "best effort" award. Instead, I got "best passer," which was appropriate since my only move that year was to dribble from the free throw line down to the right side of the key, then stop and look around for someone to throw the ball to.

I knew "best passer" was a cop-out, but I took it to heart and started to emulate Stockton as I began to grow into a decent ballplayer. I may have been drawing pictures of Jordan in art class and wearing his trademark GRID knee brace during games, but anyone who watched me play saw a kid who excelled at the scrappy stuff: nagging defense, pickpocket steals, quick passes. Like Stockton, I was a little guy who got off fighting the big guys.

One summer at the end of Karl Malone's basketball camp I came face-to-face with my mentor. Stockton came as a special guest speaker, speaking from a small clearing in the middle of 500 of my peers as we stared at him wide-eyed in our white sponsor-covered camp T-shirts. After chatting us up for a bit, he started calling up volunteers for a dribbling drill. My arm shot up like a rocket, but by the time he wandered to my end of the crowd, he already had a dozen eager players ready to go.

"OK," he said as he strolled in my direction, eyes scanning the campers. "Let's get a girl or two in this group."

A bunch of disappointed hands dropped. Mine stayed up. Screw it, I thought, this is John Stockton. I'm not giving up that easy.

Stock looked me square in the eye.

"Are you a girl?" he asked.

I smirked and put my hand down. Had to try, right?

Apparently Stockton connected with my dogged determination, because he tabbed me for the next drill. My only regret was that I had chosen to wear an older pair of bermuda shorts that day in camp, a notably hideous purple pair covered in outer space symbols and astronauts. They were also too small, which seems kind of appropriate given the circumstances.

I never got to see Stock hit the shot against Houston that took the Jazz to the Finals for the first time in the summer of 1997. Ironically, I was riding a Trek 820 through the streets of South Chicago at the time. But I do remember seeing him hit a driving layup over Jordan back in 1990 to cap an 8-point 40 second comeback at the Salt Palace. I do remember seeing him throw the assist that gave him his first season record. I even remember seeing him come off the bench to spell Rickey Green, back when Hot Rod was still calling him "Little John."

As he gets ready for his induction in to the Hall of Fame, he may be slipping in under Jordan's shadow, but the evidence of his influence still shows up every time I step on a court. I may share Jordan's hairline, but all my former high-flying high-scoring aspirations were retired a long time ago. Anything I've got left, any pass, any pick, comes exclusively from the Stockton Playbook.