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.

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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.

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.