Movies for Music Fans

Anyone who has read more than a half dozen posts on this blog, sat through a semester of one of my English classes, or talked to me at a party for more than ten minutes knows that music and movies are two things that are near and dear to my heart (almost as dear as hard shell tacos). And while there are plenty of movies out there with great soundtracks, the ones that really get through to me are the ones that are about those soundtracks.

Here is a list of seven great movies for people who love music:

A Hard Day's Night (1964)

The plot: Pretty simple, really. At the height of Beatlemania, John, Paul, George and Ringo arrive in town for a day's worth of press conferences, TV tapings, and a live concert, dodging rabid fans, sophisticated press agents and local police along the way.

The music: Some of the best of the early Beatle catalog, including "Can't Buy Me Love," "If I Fell," and "All My Loving," among others.

The moment: Early in the film, while the Fab Four are hanging out in the dining car of the train they are using to make their next gig, Paul wanders over to flirt with a couple of school girls. It would just be another charming throwaway moment if one of the school girls wasn't Patty Boyd, future wife of both George Harrison and Eric Clapton, and the woman who inspired the song's "Something" and "Layla."  That must have been some cameo.



Almost Famous (2000)

The plot: I've always thought of this movie as the film equivalent of "The Wonder Years," if Kevin Arnold was an aspiring music journalist who wound up on tour with a 2nd tier rock band in the early 1970's. Instead of chasing Winnie Cooper, this Kevin (William Miller, played by local SLC product Patrick Fugit) winds up falling for a semi-mythic groupie named Penny Lane (Kate Hudson.)

The music: The movie is a semi-autobiographical account of how director Cameron Crowe got his start at Rolling Stone, so the film is jammed with music from pretty much every act from the early '70's: Bowie, Zeppelin, Hendrix, and an unforgettable sequence with Elton John's "Tiny Dancer."

The moment: William Miller may be on tour with a real rock band, but he's still an outsider. When things go bad late in the film and William has no one else to turn to, he calls up his mentor, Creem Magazine editor Lester Bangs (played by Philip Seymour Hoffmann), and the resulting conversation says it all.



The Blues Brothers (1980)

The plot: Two black-suited ex-cons reform their old R&B band when God inspires them to raise the money to save the Chicago orphanage they were raised in from imminent foreclosure. Along they way they battle local police, neo-nazis, Indiana rednecks, and Carrie Fisher.

The music: The music in this film is the template for a working knowledge of soul music. Not only do James Brown, Aretha Franklin and John Lee Hooker play on the soundtrack, they also show up in cameos throughout the film. This movie is ground zero for my music appreciation.

The moment: After looming in the background like the angel of death for two hours, Carrie Fisher finally tracks down our heroes in a dank sewer. When he finally takes off his sunglasses for the first and only time in the film, you know why John Belushi was one of the greatest comedians to ever hit the screen.



The Commitments (1991)

The plot: A rogue group of working class Irish misfits from Dublin band together to save soul music and figure out what on earth those lyrics to "Whiter Shade of Pale" really mean. The perfect movie for any white suburban kid who was raised on Motown and James Brown.

The music: Do-it-yourself covers of soul standards from Aretha Franklin to Wilson Pickett.

The moment: The drummer wants to kill the lead singer. The sax player thinks he's a jazz soloist. The trumpet player has turned all three backup singers against each other. The manager has a price on his head from the loan shark he used to score the band's equipment. And outside, Wilson Pickett may or may not be on his way to jam after he finished a gig of his own.  In the middle of everything, the band gathers on stage for one last rally before the lights go out, delivering a cover of Otis Redding's "Try a Little Tenderness" that explains just what soul music is all about.



High Fidelity (1998)

The plot: John Cusack's Robb is a thirtysomething record store owner who is going nowhere. When his longtime girlfriend leaves him (for a New Age Tim Robbins), Robb revisits the girls of his past in order to make sense of his future, wondering if he is miserable because he listens to pop music or if he listens to pop music because he is miserable. Based on Nick Hornby's novel of the same name.

The music: "High Fidelity" is set in the 90's, but it's about a record collector, so the soundtrack covers ground as diverse as The Velvet Underground, Marvin Gaye, and the Stiff Little Fingers.

The moment: When Robb finally concedes to attend the local debut of his manic employee Barry (Jack Black)'s new band, he expects the worst of garage rock. What he gets is something entirely different.



Pirate Radio (2009)

The plot: At the peak of the British Invasion, the only way Britons could listen to rock and roll on the radio was to dial in to a pirate broadcast from a ship anchored somewhere off the mainland. "Pirate Radio" is a fictionalized account of one of those ships, told through the eyes of a prep school dropout who is sent to the ship to meet his long unidentified father.

The music: Set in 1966, the movie features the best of The Who, The Stones, The Kinks, and tons of other British Invasion greats.

The moment: When one of the DJ's steals the girl of his dreams, Carl (the dropout) finds himself in familiar rough waters. When two members of the crew try to cheer him up, you realize that the movie is about a lot more than music.



That Thing You Do (1996)

The plot: The prototype tale of a one-hit wonder set in the excitement of the early 1960's. When amateur drummer Guy Patterson (Tom Everett Scott) joins a local band called, yes, "The Wonders," their catchy hit takes them from small-town Pennsylvania to the top of the national charts, then leaves them alone at the peak with no way down.

The music: Unlike most of the other movies on this list, the music in "That Thing You Do" is all original, penned to mimic early 1960's styles, and it is remarkably effective in doing so.

The moment: When the band inevitably splits, leaving Guy at the recording studio with no one to play with, he runs into his Jazz, drummer Del Paxton, who passes on some advice that has pretty much defined my amateur musical career.



Honorable Mention: American Graffiti (1973)

The plot: Before George Lucas made "Star Wars," he directed this relatively low-budget film that follows the hijinks of a group of friends on the last night of summer in 1962. Even though it's not about a specific musical topic, the period soundtrack is omnipresent throughout the film, mostly channeled through the radio broadcast of famous DJ "Wolfman" Jack that the characters always seem to have playing on their radios.

The music: Set in 1962, "American Graffiti's" soundtrack covers the best of early rock and roll, right up to the days before the Beatles hit. Del Shannon, Bill Haley, Buddy Holly...they're all here.

The moment: In one of the most contemplative scenes in the movie, Richard Dreyfuss' character Curt actually drops in on The Wolfman because he wants to drop off a dedication to the elusive blond he's been chasing for the whole movie. Growing up, my favorite scene was Curt's initiation into the local Pharoah gang, but as I get older this encounter with The Wolfman takes the number one spot.

Back in Print

From time to time, you may have a new option for reading my inane, pop-culture laced ramblings. I've signed on as a freelancer for the Deseret News.

Here's my first offering. It's (surprise) a list of recommended Halloween songs. It also appears in this morning's print edition, which means it's technically my first appearance in print in about six years.

Let the good times roll.

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.

Further On Up the Road: 2010 Epic Summer Film

For anyone who wasn't able to make it out to Sugarhouse Park last weekend, here is my submission for the 2010 Epic Summer Film Festival, "Further On Up the Road:"



Unlike my previous Epic Summer submissions, I didn't go for the mockumentary this time. This piece is more an attempt to tie together the different interests I was pursuing over the summer, and pull out some kind of common theme. Near as I can tell, the common theme was Rock and Roll. From the band I played in to the bands I photographed to the road trips I took, music seemed to play a dominant role in the experience, much more so than humor, anyway.

A number of people thought I should have identified all the locations in the photos and video clips in the film. Since I didn't, I'll list some of them below:

• Arches National Park
• Canyonlands National Park
• Seattle, Washington
• The Jimi Hendrix Memorial, Washington
• Sturgis, South Dakota
• Devils Tower National Monument, Wyoming
• Mount Rushmore National Monument, South Dakota
• Cody, Wyoming
• Quake Lake, Montana
• Antelope Island, Utah
• The Layton City Amphitheater
• The Bountiful Days of '47 Parade
• Yellowstone National Park

If anyone has a specific question about any of the images or clips, feel free to leave a comment.

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.

Epic Summer: Deleted Sequence

Tomorrow night I will be participating in my fourth Epic Summer Film Festival up in Sugarhouse Park.  It's an annual event where a bunch of laid-back folks hang out and watch amateur films about outdoor adventure and humanitarian efforts.  Very cool vibe.  A buddy of mine turned me on to the event four years ago after we hiked The Subway together, and I've been a participant in the festival ever since.

This year's submission, "Further On Up the Road," is probably the most "epic" of my films so far, in this case attempting to capture the events of an entire season instead of a single hike or road trip.  Even so, at the end of the editing day, some pieces don't quite fit into the final product.  One of my favorite things about the summer season is making fresh salsa, and I put the following sequence together in the hopes of working it into the film.

As much as I love fresh salsa, I couldn't find a good way to work this footage into the final film logically.  But I don't want it to go to waste, and I'm kind of bummed about summer being over, so here you go.  If you love fresh salsa, it is kind of fun to watch.

Promote Giant Squid Awareness!

Last night I had a dream that I was attacked by a giant squid that was in my refrigerator.  The details are kind of sketchy--where's an "Inception"-like architect when you need one?--but I seem to remember the squid was left over from a sequence in "Raiders of the Lost Ark" that Steven Spielberg planned but never filmed.  There was also some kind of connection to Sam Elliot playing a truck driver.

On a related note, my band is making its debut performance tonight at the Layton Amphitheater.  I plan to check the place for hidden squid before I take the stage.

That is all.

Countdown to the Debut

I'm getting kind of excited.  My new band Groove Theorem is playing the Layton Amphitheater next week on the night of September 8th (a Wednesday).  The show is free, and we're going to be joined by my good buddy Paul Timothy.  Here's a taste of what we've been working up for the show:



Hopefully the neighbors won't complain too much...

Scott Pilgrim's Fabulous Light Cycle Voyage

Other than knocking out an occasional Tetris game on my outdated cell phone, I'm not what you would call a gamer.  The only substantial game I've ever passed was the original "Super Mario Bro.'s" back in junior high, and the closest I've ever come to joining a LAN party is playing the plastic drums in "Rock Band."  Yet I've recently seen two movies that feature video game themes as a critical part of their stories:


"Scott Pilgrim vs. the World"


I was a little nervous going into my viewing of "Scott Pilgrim vs. the World."  The one preview I had seen suggested the film was going to be a bit heavy on the EMO hipster side, but in the aftermath of Pilgrim's epic battle, the only EMO quality of the film that really bothered me was the 75-pound beanie-wearing doofus sitting in front of me who kept texting through the movie.  

"Scott Pilgrim vs. the World" is about a lot of things, but mostly it's about a kid who meets the girl of his dreams, then has to fight his way through a series of her "Evil Ex's" in order to date her.  These fights are illustrated through the use of a video game metaphor.  Each battle is presented like a fight from "Mortal Kombat," with animated point totals that pop up whenever he finishes off an opponent.   Even as a non-gamer, I still think the device is the most astute true-to-life aspect of the entire film.  When the dust clears, the dating game definitely feels like a battle, and along those lines, more like boxing than chess.


In spite of its branding as a box office bomb, I really enjoyed the movie.  It definitely leans on the 18-22 side of the audience spectrum, but not so much that I felt completely alienated (or nauseated).  Instead, the creativity of the film inspired me, and the heart of the story connected to themes and feelings that were universal, even if they were universally painful.  The Beck and T-Rex-fueled soundtrack is great, which shouldn't be a surprise once you learn that the film was directed by the same guy who did "Shaun of the Dead" and "Hot Fuzz."  Plus this movie marks the first time in memory that I've ever found myself attracted to a girl with blue, green, or purple hair.


I guess there's a first time for everything.


"Tron"


The first and only time I had seen "Tron" was at the Davis Drive-In when I was a little kid.  After re-watching it last week--in anticipation of the re-boot/sequel coming out later this year--I know why.  "Tron" is a cool movie, but it sails over the head of a five-year-old.

As simply as I can put it, "Tron" bounces back and forth between the "real world" and the "virtual world," where computer programs are personified by characters in neon suits who run around CGI-generated environments trying to battle a huge evil program (Master Control Program--MCP) that wants to take over the "real world" as well.  At the end of the first act, Jeff Bridges gets assimilated into the virtual world, where he teams up with the programs to fight the MCP.


It makes sense to me now, but there's no way I would have grasped this as a little kid, let alone appreciated its foresight.    But now that I do, I'm excited to see "Tron: Legacy" this December, and not just because the GGI is going to be so much better.  Special effects aside, the philosophical concept of the original film  was pioneering in its exploration of "Matrix"-like virtual reality, and it's especially interesting to note the religious metaphors and parallels that are present.  Namely, the "real world" programmers are called "users" by their personified programs in the virtual world, and one of the primary philosophical battles in the virtual world centers on the debate as to whether the "users" even exist.  One could even take the metaphor a step further when you realize that Jeff Bridges plays a Christ-like role in the film, as the one "user" who enters the digital world on behalf of the programs.  Pretty heady stuff for Disney.


But if that's too out there, just see the new movie for the light cycles.  They look way cool.

The Wounded Mosquito Productions Internship!

This week, across the country, hundreds of millions of bright-eyed youngsters are starting a brand-new semester of college, in many cases, for the first time.  But in these days of intense competition and uncertain economic climate changes, a degree will only take you so far, and many employers are looking for something extra in prospective employees.  That is why, in the proud tradition of Dunder Mifflin and Kramerica Industries, Wounded Mosquito Productions has decided to offer its first-ever official internship* for the Fall 2010 semester.

Description

The Wounded Mosquito Internship will give one successful candidate a variety of genuine, real-world professional experiences, including (but not limited to) the vast world of modern media, the behind-the-curtain world of modern academia, and the ever-changing tasty world of local culinary establishments.  The intern will function side-by-side with the company President and CEO to execute and maintain the high quality standards of Wounded Mosquito Productions.  (Specific high quality standards of Wounded Mosquito Productions subject to change).

Specific responsibilities include:

• Waking President/CEO up in morning
• Preparing breakfast for President/CEO (or lunch, depending on circumstance)
• Texting friends/associates of President/CEO to make social plans for weekend
• Surfing Internet to look for ideas/clients for President/CEO
• Grading English papers for the President/CEO while he does other stuff
• Running the iPod while driving to shoots with President/CEO
• Attending functions with President/CEO, such as Jazz games and afternoon matinees
• Driving company vehicle if President/CEO is way pooped after a long day
• Assisting the President/CEO with important scientific experiments, like testing new salsa or smoothie recipes
• Remembering stuff that President/CEO often forgets, like turning off the stove before leaving the house

Minimum Qualifications

The selected candidate must:

• Speak/write/recognize English
• Be high school graduate, or thereabouts
• Be able to cook pretty well
• Be able to write stuff fast in case President/CEO starts getting lots of ideas really quick
• Be able to drive a manual transmission
• Have a clean driving record, or at least a cleaner one than President/CEO
• Be able to understand satire

Preferred Qualifications

The ideal candidate will be:

• Female
• Single
• Into cool stuff, like music and food
• Smart with a cool personality...and hot, too
• A former athletic trainer (President/CEO needs to lose about 15-20 pounds)
• Not way taller than President/CEO
• Willing to put up with President/CEO's eccentric-genius habits

Additional Details 

This is an unpaid internship, and Wounded Mosquito Productions does not offer college credit, at least any that would be accepted by an accredited institution.  (At the same time, candidate does not need to be enrolled at an accredited institution to qualify for internship.  Candidate can be in massage therapy school, for example).  Company will provide successful candidate with her own parking space. At the conclusion of the internship, candidate will receive autographed certificate of completion and photo with President/CEO.  They may go out to dinner or something, too.

Instructions

If you are interested in applying for this position, please send a resume and head shot to intern_thing@woundedmosquito.com.  A representative of Wounded Mosquito Productions will contact you if the President/CEO wants to bring you in for an interview, or just meet you downtown to grab a burger or something.  President/CEO may decide to bring on multiple candidates depending on professional and social needs.

---

*Satire.

Defending Ray

Three years ago my sister and I drove a thousand miles to Comic-Con to meet Ray Bradbury.  His work was that important to us...plus, at 87 years old, we worried that if we missed our chance he might not be around to give us another opportunity.

Three years later, Ray is still alive and well, and back in the news.  Just shy of his 90th birthday, Bradbury is none too pleased with modern technology.  Specifically, he hates the Internet, Kindle, Big Government, and thinks we should go back to the Moon (and on to Mars).  People have been giving him grief for his apparent techno-phobia, especially because his phrasing of terms (IE, referring to "Internets" instead of "Internet") makes him come off like a senile old crank.  But I think his critics are missing the point of his message.

Ray Bradbury may not have a perfect technological understanding of the things he is criticizing, but 90 years old or not, I think he still gets it.  In spite of the futuristic, sci-fi element of much of his work (he defines himself as a fantasy writer, for the record), Bradbury's stories have always found their greatest strength in their humanity.  And for all the obvious advantages that modern technology affords us, over-reliance on it can take a heavy toll on that humanity.  Bradbury understands this, and I think this is why he says the things he says.

Digital technology can open wonderful doors of imagination, whether it comes in the form of a camera or a blog or a software program, but it also lets us be lazy if we want to.  You don't have to be a great photographer to take good-looking photographs, and you don't have to be a great web designer to drop some text into a template and hit "publish."

Cell phones and text messaging can be great for staying in contact with friends, but all too often I see groups of friends ignoring each other while they text the friends that aren't there.  Facebook and other social media allow us to reconnect with friends we've lost touch with over the years, but trolling someone's profile page and making occasional comments on their vacation photos doesn't create a depth of relationship.  It just suggests its presence.

I thought it was interesting that this summer's biggest movie is built around a question about our perception of reality.  "Inception" has plenty of cool special effects and an open-ended plot that keeps you guessing, but the film resonates with me because it points the finger at one of the central issues of our time: are we using technology to make genuine connections with the people around us, or are we letting it alienate us even further by using it to create our own personal cocoons of perceived reality?

Ray Bradbury made his career writing about Martians and dinosaurs, but he can also demonstrate the simple profundity of sitting on a deck with a cold drink while the sounds of nature connect you to the meaning of life.  He champions the genuine article over the synthetic, and in the sci-fi/fantasy genre, he's not alone. When he rants that we have "too many Internets," I think that's what he's afraid we're losing.

My 2010 Road Trip By the Numbers

1,800: Approximate mileage of the entire road trip, starting in Bountiful, north to Yellowstone, east to Devils Tower (and then Mount Rushmore), south to Nebraska, and west on I-80 to home.

583: Photos taken on the trip.

867: Number of dead bug bodies that are still blasted across the front of my car.

30+: Gas mileage for the trip.

6: States I covered during the trip, including Utah, Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, South Dakota, and thanks to my GPS, Nebraska.

3: Fridge magnets I picked up to commemorate the trip.

2: National Parks I drove through (Yellowstone and Wind Cave).

5: Times I wondered if I should have ordered two burgers instead of just one at Maddox on the way up, because they're just so darn good.

15: Mph rate posted on the new speed limit signs along the dirt road by my family cabin.

1: Batch of fresh salsa I made at the family cabin, officially kicking off the fresh salsa season.

1,000: Number of people in attendance at the Island Park Ward sacrament meeting.

650: Pound-weight of the boulder my friends and I rolled into Quake Lake on Sunday afternoon because we got bored with skipping rocks.

1.5: Rainbows that showed up at Devils Tower the evening I arrived.

.42 Percentage of "Close Encounters of the Third Kind" that I watched on my laptop inside the borrowed tent I had set up in the dark in a $12 camping spot under the tower while a windstorm tried to blow me away.

9: Deer I encountered at 5:45AM while driving in for some sunrise shots of Devils Tower.

17,000: Bikers I encountered on highways between Devils Tower, Wyoming and Custer, South Dakota, thanks to the annual biker rally in Sturgis which was taking place the same week.

17,000+: Bikers I encountered while cruising the main drag in Sturgis, which is located just off I-90 in-between Devils Tower and Mount Rushmore.

18: Length of the horns (in inches) that were sticking out of the helmet of one of the swarm of bikers that visited Mount Rushmore with me.

7: Times I encountered the Biker Mama of My Dreams at the Mount Rushmore Gift Shop, but failed to speak to hear out of fear that she would stick me with a shiv.

117: Extra miles tacked onto the total trip because my GPS told me to go south into Nebraska after Mount Rushmore instead of cut diagonally across Wyoming like the Google Maps thing suggested.

75: Times I had to hit the brakes, deactivate my cruise control and drop 20MPH because a clump of semis were trying to pass each other and blocking both highway lanes.

8: Times AT&T dropped my call home along I-80 while my parents were trying to help me research room prices for Wyoming motels.

0: Dead bodies under my motel bed in Rawlins, Wyoming.  (If you'd been there, you'd have been excited, too.)

7: Times I wondered whether I should make an extra spin north to Maddox once I emerged from I-84 just south of Ogden before completing the journey home, because their burgers are just so darn good.

Double Rainbow at Devils Tower

Yesterday I finished a road trip that covered 1,800 miles through six states in six days.  Along the way I stayed a night at Devils Tower in northeastern Wyoming, and just before I arrived, I caught this off the highway.

I dropped the sound for the first several seconds because a Marvin Gaye song was playing on the car stereo in the background, and YouTube sends me these threatening e-mails whenever I post something that has external music on it.  You know, because YouTube is a champion of copyright honesty.

The Siren Calls Again...

This means something.

The Dream Lives...

Yeah, so remember that piece I wrote a while back about all of my one-gig stands with different garage bands?  Remember how I told you about the newest one that actually had some potential to go somewhere?

It never really went anywhere.

But that's just the bad news.  The good news is I'm in another band, and this time we really have a chance to go somewhere!  Honest!  A few months ago my buddy Dan (the guy standing up in this clip) recruited me into a blues band he was forming.  I joined up, we started playing with these two guys Matt and Chris up in Kaysville (the source of all true blues), my buddy Dustin invited us to open for his band at a bar called The Fifth in Bountiful, the Fifth dumped us all for a radio promotion, Chris left for law school, we picked up a new bass player named Ryan, named ourselves Groove Theorem, and decided to rent out the Layton Amphitheater and put on our own gig in September.

So...

On Wednesday night, September 8th, at the Layton Amphitheater, Groove Theorem will make their public debut, with special guest Paul Timothy (the guy sitting down in this clip).  The performance is free of charge (the rental would have cost us twice as much if we had sold tickets, which didn't seem promising being our first gig and all), and will wrap up before 9PM, so you really don't have any excuses to miss it.  It's a perfect way to cap off your summer, or just continue the epic Labor Day Party you have been riding for 72 hours.

See you there.

An Open Letter to LeBron James

Dear LeBron,

I just wanted to write and say thank-you for the last two weeks.  No, seriously.  Summer is typically a sports wasteland for me.  I'm not a baseball guy, not a tennis guy, and definitely not a golf guy.  The World Cup is OK, and football is still a ways off.  So it was nice to have a constant stream of NBA-related news on ESPN.  And from what I can tell, that stream isn't about to dry up anytime soon.

What's even better is that the Jazz got in on the big show, too.  I never figured you'd consider making Salt Lake City ground zero for your magic kingdom, but I was excited that Kevin O'Connor got Big Al Jefferson and Raja "Clothesline" Bell into Jazz uniforms.  For a while there I thought the only Utah moves were going to be all of our unrestricted guys signing with the Bulls.

Speaking of which, if you had to leave Cleveland, why didn't you pick Chicago?  I think we can all understand why New York or New Jersey were dubious options (not to mention the career-ending decapitation/ACL tear that awaited you in Clipper-Land), but between Miami and Chicago, it seems to me that The Windy City held a lot more long-term potential.  Really, why wouldn't you want to play with this guy?

I get it if you just want to be able to play with your best friends.  It's your career; why wouldn't you want to spend it in the most enjoyable environment?  But that's where things get confusing.  Do you want to win titles and play with your friends, or do you want to be the Greatest Player of Post-Jordan Times?  Because going to Miami suggests the former, and leaving through a live TV special suggests the latter.

That's why the last two weeks has been so interesting for me.  It would be easy to just brush you off as another ego-maniac pro athlete, but there are too many angles to your story to dismiss it.  The Hometown Betrayal angle.  The Superfriends angle.  The Greatest Teammate vs. Greatest Player angle.  In the blink of an eye you went from beloved hero to Public Enemy #1. You turned the Heat into the East Coast Lakers.  You made Kobe likable.  At least MJ waited until his Hall of Fame speech to poop all over his legacy.  And now he's turned on you, too.

But don't get me wrong; aside from the way you treated my mom's hometown, I'd have to say that overall I'm pretty happy with what you brought to the table this summer.  And I can honestly say that I can't wait for next season.

Give my best to the boys.

Love,

Josh

A Few Thoughts on Lawn Care

I hear a lot of the same questions over and over again...

Where do you get your ideas?
Are you on drugs?
Do you want me to call the police?

Another one came up recently at the Yogurt Stop in Bountiful.  A dozen of us were innocently enjoying our custom made pay-by-the-ounce desserts when a girl in the group sent the conversation onto a random tangent:

"Is it OK for girls to ask guys out on dates?"

About half the guys in the group grumbled slightly, and the other half shook our heads.  Then came an empty awkward silence that said far more than anything we could have verbalized.

When it comes to dating, I often feel like a third-world dictator.  I only have a fleeting grasp on a small corner of a very big world, but I will cling desperately to that corner until I am assassinated.  I can't choose which girls will respond to my interest, but at least I can choose who to invite.

This may sound sexist in our modern world, and maybe it is, but the simple truth is that if I am interested in someone, I will ask them out.  If I'm not, I won't.

Now, there are alternatives, especially if like most girls you are convinced that the only reason the man in your sights hasn't asked you out is because he is too shy to pull the trigger.  If you want to encourage interest, speak to him in public situations.  Laugh at his lame jokes.  Follow his blog.  Better yet, invite him to a party or some kind of group activity.  Just don't cut his grass.  If you ask him out, he'll think, "hey, isn't that my job?  I feel like I am being metaphorically kicked in my man parts."  And an empty awkward silence will follow.

We don't want to get kicked in our man parts.  We just want to rule Cuba in peace.

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.

Tornado Delay

I have no idea what this commentator is saying, but it's probably something along the lines of, "this is awesome.  This is way awesome."

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.

Sweet Dreams, #176

Some of my dreams are one-hit wonders, like the one where I was Clint Eastwood or the one where I was popping wheelies in a Mitsubishi Eclipse with Salma Hayek.  Others are recurring, like the ones where I'm driving cars with no brakes or running over hippies with a double-decker bus.

One such recurring dream has me serving a second mission.  It's always a nightmare, which is strange, because I distinctly remember enjoying my mission.  Maybe it's because serving a second mission would suggest that I screwed up on the first one.

Here is what I wrote in a notebook after one recent "second mission" dream:

"...I wake up on couch in the living room of a host family during some sort of a mission transfer.  One of the family's sons has a friend who is completely tattooed and is constantly texting with some kind of a fake tail that has been surgically attached at his left hip.  When I wake up I am covered in travel bottles of NyQuil and disappointed that I am on a second mission (and less than one month in).  As I lay on the couch I notice that the family has these little gnome house servants who are sneaking around my stuff stealing items (like disposable contact lenses).  When I confront them about this, one says, 'puck you.'  I think I may be in the middle of a transfer to the office with another missionary (it's his disposable contact)."

I don't know what the part at the end means.  Actually, I don't know what the whole thing means.  If any of you have any ideas, feel free to share.

Look out, you rock and rollers...

Last weekend I bought three pairs of ankle socks.

This will come as a shock to people familiar with my notorious stubborn streak, because I don't like ankle socks.  I haven't had any since at least junior high.  It might have something to do with Shawn Kemp.

So why did I finally cave in?  Three reasons:

1. Everyone at my gym wears ankle socks.
2. As far as body parts go, my calves aren't so bad.
3. Dr. Death.

Dr. Death is this guy at my gym who wears black all the time.  Tank top, jeans, military boots.  All black.  He also cusses a lot.

But one day I noticed that Dr. Death wasn't wearing his military boots anymore.  He was wearing high-tops.  Still black.

I didn't ask why he made the change.  I've never had a conversation with Dr. Death.  What was important was that he had MADE the change.

Dr. Death can change.

People can change.

I can change.

Rocky was right.

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.

Komið þið sæl, Suckas!

I had a dream last night that I wanted to fly to Reykjavík, Iceland, but I couldn't because the plane ticket was six thousand dollars. So this afternoon I checked online, and it turns out the ticket is only $4400. So there you go.

The Ultimate Power Lunch

Last night was the first session of the summer English course I'm teaching for SLCC.  Since the classes cap out at twenty-five students, I can afford to do a little getting-to-know-you stuff on the first night.  Instead of just have everyone go around and tell the class their name, hometown and major, I try to stir the pot a little differently: I pair them up and ask them to identify three things:

1. If you could go to lunch anywhere in the world, where would it be, whether it's a specific restaurant or a general location.
2. If you could choose two people, living or dead, real or fictional, to join you, who would they be?
3. Finally, what music would be playing in the background? (Regardless of the location)

The results are always varied and interesting.  The food and music choices provide great fodder for discussion, but the question I find most interesting is who they want with them.  A lot of people pick out favorite celebrities, but many go with family members.

Last semester one of my students decided he'd want to have lunch with Jesus Christ and Richard Dawkins, author of "The God Delusion." For obvious reasons, this would be a confrontation I would love to see, even if the argument itself would be pretty much negated by the arrival of the participants.  Instead, I'd love to see the Savior sit down with Darryl Dawkins, AKA "Chocolate Thunder," the ex-NBA power forward who was famous for naming his dunks, shattering backboards, and telling people he came from the planet Lovetron.  That would be sweet.

Usually once we've made it around the class, someone asks me what my choices would be.  My response is different every time, but usually comes down to something like eating Giordano's pizza in Chicago with James Brown and Don King while listening to The Clash.

So...who would you choose?

The Blind Date Paradox

I don't know how many blind dates I've been on over the years.  More than some, a lot less than others.  But one thing remains constant: I have never been on a repeat with any of them.

That being said, I can say with gratitude that I have been on only a few BAD blind dates.  I do not have the nightmare stories so many of my female friends can recite chapter and verse as if Freddy Kreuger just dropped them off at the doorstep.  The majority of my blind date experiences have been of the mid-range, "nice girl but no spark" variety, not the "this person is a psychopath; why is he/she licking the glove compartment?" variety.

Maybe that's why in spite of my track record, I still have to keep considering these opportunities.  At the age of thirteen I saw the Utah Jazz overcome an 8-point deficit to the Chicago Bulls with 40 seconds left in regulation, so I don't have a history of giving up on hopeless causes.

Plus my parents met on one.

One reason so many blind dates don't work is that the people arranging them don't do a lot of homework on the people they're setting up.  They tend to minimize things, thinking "Guy X has a sense of humor.  So does this single girl I know.  Bingo!"  Or in my case, age becomes the magical ingredient.  "Josh is in his 30's.  So is this single girl I know.  Bingo!"  As if I won't have anything in common with a 25-year-old.

To be honest, the biggest problem with blind dates is a little axiom that everyone knows but tries to ignore: if there is no physical attraction, the game is over.  It can take a dozen dates to figure out if someone matches my personality (recovering night owl) or shares my values (road trips and homemade salsa), but I can tell within 2.17 seconds whether I want to kiss her.

I've tried to lay down the law with blind dates.  I've tried to persuade my would-be matchmaker to invite us both to the same party, and see if we hit it off naturally.  I've tried to get them to ask themselves honestly, "would Josh ask this girl out on his own?" I've tried to mandate that the dates are kept to one-hour quick-release power lunches at sniper-proof public locations that don't require tips, or that the person propositioning me provide a photograph beforehand.  But none of those strategies ever really work.  How do you in good conscience look at a photograph of a real live human being, then look at your well-meaning friend (who may be related to this person), and say "no thanks?"  You can't.  Instead you mumble some excuse, crack a joke to get them off-topic, or tell them you'll let them know if you're interested (knowing you'll never get back to them).  Or you just suck it up, go on the date, and try to be as much of a gentleman as humanly possible, because you know that even if you aren't interested in the girl in the least, you would never forgive yourself if you knew you had hurt her feelings.

...and the cycle continues.

On the way home from almost every one of my blind dates, I think the same thing: "Josh, you just need to man up and ask out the girls you're interested in."  If that's what comes out of it, then maybe blind dates aren't such a bad thing.

White Stuff

There are two perspectives one may take on my eating habits. The first is that they are horrible, reprehensible, and borderline unforgivable. The second is that they are a lot better than they used to be.

Prior to my mission, my culinary pickiness was as distinctive a personality characteristic as my knack for drawing and my obsession with Star Wars. There were about four foods I liked, and I wouldn't touch anything outside that list with a fifty-foot spork.  But after two years of obligatory dinner appointments with local member families and potential church investigators I feared to offend, I at least learned to muscle down a number of foods I deplored.  I still didn't like them, but I could usually slide my disapproval under the nose of the unsuspecting host.

These days I'm still pretty picky.  I don't think I will ever embrace tuna fish or macaroni and cheese, no matter who I have to impress.  Just can't do it.  I also despise most all forms of white sauces.  Ranch dressing, clam chowder, sour cream, mayonnaise, stuff like that.  I don't know why it is I don't like white sauces, anymore than I can explain why the sound of Country Music makes me feel violent inside.  Mayonnaise just seems like a perfect way to ruin any sandwich, and ranch dressing strikes me as the kind of thing you embrace once you lose the ability to detect flavor in general, kind of like how old guys get into golf because they can't play basketball anymore.*

But in spite of my irrational hatred of white sauces, recent weeks have seen a narrow crack of daylight  in my infantile wall of obstinance.  Against all odds, I have come to embrace horseradish.

I think it happened at a restaurant some time back where I ordered a shrimp cocktail, and somehow got some horseradish on my shrimp along with the cocktail sauce. The result delivered quite a kick, and I was instantly converted to the condiment.  I was so impressed, in fact, that the last time I went to Dick's Market to buy cocktail sauce, I also snagged a little bottle of horseradish to help fuel the fire.

It may not mean much, and I'm guessing a painful slap of reality is probably still waiting for the moment I'm forced to adapt to the menu of married life, but for now I feel happy with my progress, and I'm sure my family is, too.  In fact, I'd like to think that somewhere my paternal grandmother is smiling down at me as I sit on the couch at 1AM eating a horseradish-enhanced shrimp cocktail and watching downloaded episodes of "Chuck." If that doesn't do the trick, I'm sure she'll crack a smile once my firstborn decides he hates tacos.

---

*I am dreading this day. I simply can't embrace any sport that doesn't allow heckling.

Hate Restored

Maybe I knew the Jazz weren’t going to beat LA in the playoffs this year.  Maybe my years of experience teaching argument have taught me to recognize both sides of an issue.  Maybe I’m just growing up, and not letting silly things like pro basketball get to me anymore.  Whatever the reason, I was surprised this spring to realize that I don’t hate the Los Angeles Lakers as much as I used to.

With all due respect to the wise, charitable Josh that’s fighting to emerge, this epiphany didn’t sit very well with me. I’ve invested a lot of time and energy in my Laker hatred over the years, and I can’t discard it without a fight.  So during Game One of the Finals last night, I made a pro-con list to figure out if what I was feeling was legitimate or just an aberration:

Reasons to Like the Lakers

1. Jack Nicholson: The Lakers are notorious for bandwagon celebrity fans, but I can’t count Nicholson as one of them.  “The Cuckoo Man” has been a courtside season ticket holder since before I was born.  He’s legit.

2. Kobe’s 3-Ball: I don’t like Kobe Bryant, but I do respect his abilities.  He's got one shot where he’s somewhere outside the three-point arc, with a defender right on top of him.  Suddenly he explodes into the air and fires a line drive three-ball at the hoop that swishes with such authority it’s like a punch to the face.  It’s a shot of pure defiance.  I kind of like it.

3. Kurt Rambis: My Laker hatred traces back to 1988, when the Jazz took LA to seven games in the second round of the 87-88 playoffs.  But even back then, I had to like their scrappy backup forward, with his Buddy Holly glasses and post-hippie homeless man haircut.  Who wouldn’t?

Reasons to Hate the Lakers

1. Yellow Home Uniforms: Everyone in the NBA wears white uniforms when they play home games, except the Lakers, who wear yellow.  Yellow.  Seriously.

2. Bandwagon Celebrity Fans: Laker home crowds are the NBA’s answer to the Large and Spacious Building from the Book of Mormon.  And the obligatory “celebrities in the crowd” montage?  Nauseating.

3. Phil Jackson: Captain Smug...Captain Smug.

4. The Black Mamba: Sorry, you can’t give yourself your own nickname.  Especially when you do stuff like this.

5. Derek Fisher: I wish nothing but the best for his kid, but every time Fisher hits another deep three against the Jazz, he personifies everything that sucks about cheering for a small market team.

6. Sasha Vujacic: I don’t know Sasha Vujacic.  I have never met Sasha Vujacic.  All I know is that whenever I see Sasha Vujacic, I want to slap him.  Hard.

7. Utah Laker Fans: I don’t have a problem with transplanted Californians who bring their love of LA basketball to Utah.  I do have a problem with native Utahns who latch onto LA because it’s easy, then buy tickets to Jazz-Laker games and gloat about all the championships they played zero part in.

8. Pau Gasol, Gary Payton and Karl Malone: Hey, remember that time the Jazz traded a lottery bust, some no-names and a couple of crap picks for one of the top power forwards in the league?  You remember that other time when those two future Hall of Famer’s signed modest contracts with the Jazz so they could make one last run for a title?  Yeah, me neither.

OK, that feels better.  Hatred restored.  Let the games resume.

Hot Fun in the Summertime

Had the iPod on shuffle play on the way in to work this morning.  As I entered the construction zone on I-15 in North Salt Lake in a mild downpour, this song came up in the playlist.

I thought it was appropriate.

Happy June, everyone.

Big Brother and the Social Media Company

A week or so back I got a call from The Cheetahman.

"Brian committed Facebook Suicide," he said solemnly.

I had already discussed that possibility with our mutual friend as we took down a pre-playoff game meal at the Gateway Food Court Taco Time a week previous, so his decision to cancel his Facebook account didn't take me by surprise.  But I was intrigued by The Cheetahman's new term for the act.  As prevalent as our online dependence has become in recent years, pulling the plug on a social media network has become tantamount to throwing yourself under a virtual bus.

Brian's not my first friend to say "no mas" to Facebook.  Several members of my virtual network have gone off the grid over the last year or two, some multiple times.  The reasons are varied.  Some just never use the sites and cancel their accounts as a matter of spring cleaning.  Others use them far too much, and cancel in an effort to reclaim a healthy lifestyle.  A few cite moral reasons, pointing to instances where hooking up with an old flame virtually led to a hookup in the real world, which would be fine if the parties involved didn't already have their own spouses and families.

I tend to see Facebook, and most technology, as an enabler.  It gives you a convenient way to follow through on an impulse you already have.  For me, Facebook is a way to stay connected, to maintain my real-world relationships, and even to promote some of my creative efforts like photography and this blog.  It's my online Rolodex.  But I think it enables my social anxieties, too.  Nowadays when I meet a girl at a party, I'm a lot more inclined to just add her on Facebook than to man up and get her phone number.  Like text messaging, social media is often just another virtual wall we use to avoid the fear of actual face-to-face human interaction.

While I'm still single, I'll probably stick with Facebook, at least until the next big thing makes it obsolete.  Because whether I like it or not, the only way to get invited to real-life parties is to stay connected to that virtual singles scene.  But I still wonder if I wouldn't be better off jumping into the Great Beyond without my digital parachute.

Billions and Billions Served

Last night I was talking to a buddy of mine about what ward he should attend.  Like me, he's a post-31 member of the Geriatric Cleansing crowd.  He's attended one singles ward faithfully for several months, but because of some strict gatekeepers, he hasn't been able to get his records in.  So he doesn't know whether to go to a home ward for a while, start the process over with another singles ward, or hold out hope that the gatekeepers lighten up a bit.  None of the options feel quite like they fit.

I told him that sometimes I wish wards were more like McDonald's franchises.  You scope out an area of opportunity, put in your application, make a marketing pitch, and carve out your own little niche of fast food heaven. 

Of course, that's probably how the Apostasy started.

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.

The Glue

A few years ago, one of my former student ward bishops asked me to put together a ward reunion.  I was more than happy to oblige; those had been good times.  So I put together a crack squad of U32 veterans, gathered a few hundred e-mail addresses, and made it happen.

The night of the event, I found myself sitting on one of those trademark folding cultural hall chairs at one of those trademark folding cultural hall tables, catching up with one of several friends who had long ago left the singles ward scene to get married and start having kids.

At one point in the conversation, my good friend, in all seriousness, asked if I didn't just weep openly because I was still single after all these years.  I told him I didn't, and the conversation shifted to the fact that I had spearheaded the effort to coordinate the evening's event (an effort I was second-guessing at the time).  At that precise moment, my friend labeled me with one of the most adept nicknames I've ever been given, and probably the one I resent the most:

"Man," he said, "You're THE GLUE."

I'm sure he meant it as a compliment, and I tried to take it that way.  Over time, however, it hasn't been a label I have truly embraced.  One of the sad realities about marriage is that the people who pull it off don't put much of a high priority on staying in touch with old friends.  If you want to stay connected with certain people, most of the time you have to be the one to take the initiative.  You have to be The Glue.

Most of the time.

Not all the time, though.  Sometimes you have friends who make an effort to keep ties, and sometimes, those friends get married to wives who foster that effort.  Today, the day after Mother's Day, I'd like to thank those wives.

Sometimes being The Glue is a pain in The Gluteus Maximus.  It's nice to get some help from time to time.