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.

Friday Morning

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

The Secret Weapon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Birds and the Bugs

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

Allow me to explain...

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

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

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

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

My Bachelor Party Manifesto

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

I'm fine with that.

As long as I get a good Bachelor Party.

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

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

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

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

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

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

They're Coming...

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

Barbacoa is coming to Bountiful.

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

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

It's true.

Barbacoa is coming to Bountiful.

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

Living the Portable Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

The Social Troll

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So are moving violations, apparently.

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

Dear KODJ,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Take it easy,

The Professor

The Undead

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

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

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

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

Now that's the way you start a Thursday.

The Professor's Book Club: Outliers

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

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

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

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

I'm guessing Gladwell would probably agree.

A Greeting

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

The Wounded Mosquito is not going anywhere.

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

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

A Farewell

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

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

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

So long, suckas.

Never Underestimate the Power of the Beard

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

Poetry Slammed

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Platt & Munk Publishers, New York, New York

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

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