A recent pleasantry I exchanged with a nice lady in St. George:

I realize this is not a real photo but the forensic sketch artist at the police station said that my description (which produced this drawing) matched the profile of too many women seen in and around the St. George area to produce any substantial leeds.

Either way, this is my story;

I was pulling up to the Marriott Courtyard when the aforementioned upper-class "I'm-better-than-you-you-little-working-class-twit-with-no-money-but-only-a-really-bad-haircut-and-because-of-which-I'll-never-even-acknowledge-you" kind of woman was parking her car. Okay okay, so she didn't really say all that, but I do have a really bad combover right now and you can only imagine that's what she was going to say even if she didn't. Besides, like my sisters used to point out... she might not have actually said anything but her face talked!

I picked up my suit-bag (which she undoubtedly recognized as an empty placebo that I use only as a cover for my unacceptable lack of wealth) when she opened the door to her shiny Mercedes and threw three cups, straws and lids out onto the parking lot. Each spilling the last mouthfull of chocolate-matte-chocolate-french-frappaccino-chocolate-whatever-you-call-it, Diet Pepsi and some sort of iced tea or club soda or whatever it is the liberal intellectuals are drinking these days... trickling sticky trails as she snubbed me off and walked by.

I tried to tell her she dropped something but she must not have heard me because she just casually flipped me off like nothing was wrong. I didn't want to be rude to someone so kind and cordial and I especially didn't want her to loose her belongings so I picked up each cup and lid and straw and placed it under the windshield wiper of her car.

The next morning I was climbing into my car when the same snobby pistol trotted out of the hotel behind me. She high-heeled over to her car, surveyed the trash on her windshield and just rolled her eyes. Instead of throwing it on the ground again she just climbed in behind the wheel, turned the key and cranked the wipers. Fully expecting the trash to fly, she highly underestimated the dent I squeezed into each waxy cup before pushing the wiper down. Those cups were hers and hers to keep unless she personally removed them from the window. They weren't going anywhere without personal attention. The chocolate and soda on the other hand was spraying all over her shiny window as she sped out of the parking lot. At least hotel security was lucky enough to snap this photo as she drove off so I could post something evidential instead of just a bunch of lame Disney movie cut-outs.

"My style is impetuous. My defense is impregnable..."

Does remembering Mike Tyson make anyone else kind of sad? Sure he was a rapist, sure he's a recreational communist (though its doubtful he can even pronounce Mao's name), sure he has a lame tattoo on his face that looks more like some sort of weird ink stain...But Tyson was the stuff of childhood legend and fear. He was our boxer. The toughest guy on the planet! Yeah, he's got a high-pitched voice (not to mention a lisp) but this guy could hold his own. He destroyed people with his bare hands.

Watching Iron Mike throw his career down the drain was the closest I've come to ever understanding how Dorothy felt after finding out the Wizard of Oz was just an old man behind a curtain blowing smoke and talking into some deep-voice machine... It's like finding out the Boogie Man has a bad case of arthritis and can't hold a knife anymore... It sucked.

Garbage Cans...One. Trees...Zero.

I had never noticed before but Liberty Park (7th East and 13th South) seems to be Salt Lake City's storage facility for trash recepticles. I've found no greater display of black, green and blue trash cans anywhere! I'm stuck thinking it's a museum of sorts... or are those who frequent this particular park really so sloppy a bunch that they need a garbage bin every 53.8 feet? That's what it boils down to... I counted 157 garbage cans (that's 93 black or green and another 64 blue containers to be precise) in a 1.6 mile loop around the park. Check my math if you don't believe me. You can't deny my genious.

A sampling;

Trust me when I tell you I was extremely conservative in taking these photos. I'm already pushing how uninterestingly lame a blog can be by posting so many photos of trash cans. No matter. Unfortunately, no small amount of pictures will do justice in pointing out that Salt Lake City has taken the liberty to prove that their Public Works Department can actually put mother nature to shame when it comes to trees vs garbage cans in a single city park.

I've been kicked out of the fast lane.

I drive a lot. Racking up some 66, 452 miles or so in my company car in less than two years has taken me places. None too exciting I admit but my point stands; I do drive a lot.

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On a recent trip to St. George I was feeling particularly proud of myself for the time I was making all the way home... on target for a sub 3.5 hours. I was flying. Passing cars. Passing trucks. Passing semi's. Shoot, I was passing everybody. Dominating the road really. Until this mini-van passed me... and then passed me AGAIN?

I was confused and humiliated. Who cares that it was a Salt Lake County Sheriff's Depatment mini-van? It was still a mini-van! And it was passing me... and for a second time!? Who gets passed by a mini-van twice? I figure I must not have been going as fast as I thought or the Salt Lake County Sheriff's office has satelite operations which double as NASCAR pit stops. Regardless, not being the type to back down to a mini-van, I tried to keep up. But even at 98 mph I was loosing ground and decided to throw in the towel. I was defeated.

There was a time in my life though when this never would have happened. A time when I was younger. Braver. Stronger. Less inclined to follow speed-limits and subject myself to silly things like obeying the law. Certainly my destruction of I-80 in, count it ya go ahead and count it, 21 hours! will go down as one of the greatest feats of all humankind. Scratch that, in the history of the world.


Humbling Lewis and Clark who coincidentally did roughly the same trip but like in 9 months and not to the mention the Mormon pioneers who REALLY dragged their heels and took like 4 months to do a leg of the trip that took me like 2 hours. I mean its almost totally flat from Des Moines to Laramie. I bet those slow-pokes didn't even hit all the rush-hour traffic that I did outside of Chicago.

Fueled on nothing but 6 Rockstars, a bag of Cool Ranch Dorritos, my own awesomeness, 17 episdodes of "This American Life", and as some truck stop cashier in Laramie commented, my "drop-dead good looks", I blew the Mapquest estimate of 28 hours off the highway.

Although I can't imagine driving from Bedford, Pensylvania (Cannondale's headquarters) to Salt Lake City ever again without stopping, I highly recommend it to anyone looking to understand how scary driving 85 mph while falling asleep can be. It gets freaky. Okay, so I'm not technically "driving" in this photo but it demonstrates the same kind of facial expression I had while traveling the near entire stretch of I-80 in less than one day.

It's hard to believe it went as fast as it did. The best part of the trip had to be at like 2 AM at a gas station in Lincoln, Nebraska where I filled up with gas. There was a sign on the counter that read, "No Returns on MerchandiZE". So don't even try to return your merchandize in Nebraska because all sales are final ite!

You racist!

So after that last blog Spencer's accusing me of being a racist but I think, actually Spencer, that you meant to call me a nationalist and not a racist. See, most American-Indians can speak English just as well as you and I. (better than you, really). It's the one's who live in India and I have a hard time understanding that my argument is against. No matter. For simplicity's sake, we'll go with racist.

I've been thinking how I can prove innocent to such an accusation but then I thought that it would just be easier (more fun rather) to include you and everyone else as the accused. That way we all fall together. That said, I'm about to prove that you and everyone else reading my blog is a racist. Ready...? I hope so because you are about to realize that those "no-body's born a bigot" bumper-stickers are meant for you. But don't worry, I'm not going to judge you.

To prove my point I'm going back to the time I saw King Kong in a theater in Ogden. As I walked out of that theater two thoughts rang in my head; 1) all movies should have a giant ape fighting three Tyranosaurs Rexes and 2) it's time to segregate theaters. I know, I know. Right now you're judging me, thinking, "What? Man, Dave really is racist". But you're wrong. You are! See, you thought I was talking about dividing the theater seating along racial lines, but I'm not. Noooooooo. I'm merely suggesting we segregate theaters between those who want to talk the whole time and those who don't. I don't want to sit next to the person shouting explanations of what is going on and what is about to happen anymore.

See, I know for a fact that my mom would be in the "talking theater" and I'm going to bet that most of your parents would be in there too. Shouting at Jack Black and King Kong things like, "watch out, it's behind you!" or "oh snap! it's the wrong girl". I mean my mom never yelled "oh snap..." anything, but during her lifetime she's had some doozies.

So even though I'm pretty sure this idea would catch on, I don't know who to bring it up with so I'm wasting my rights to the patent just to prove my point. You are a racist! Still don't belive me... how about one more test? What do you call a Mexican flying a plane?

-THE PILOT you bigot!!!!

Bhikjay, let's be honest... you can't really help me can you?

An hour and a half!!!!! That's right. I got to call India and talk to a real live Indian for an hour and a half. For free!!!! You're wondering, probably, "How did Dave find this amazing long distance phone deal?". It's simple really... just call Delta.

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All you need is a phone and a customer service issue with Delta Airlines and you can talk 'til your heart's content with your very own Indian in India. Mine was totally accomodating after he lied to me at first, "(indian accent) No no meester. I em not in Indeeya!". But after a little prodding and cajoling they will give up their souls in a tearful confession of truth and a miraculous cultural exchange can begin.

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I really hate having to talk to people with an accent so bad that I can't even understand them. Well, wait, let me clarify; I wouldn't mind if I was in India... I would call that an "experience". But the thing is I'm in America, not India, and I've realized Delta has overcharged my credit card and Bhikjay can't help me because we don't understand each other. So instead, I call it "really bad customer service" and a "horrible annoyance".

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I don't know who in the hell thought of out-sourcing customer service, but if he's dead I hope Satan is beating him with a stick. And if he's alive, I hope the Almighty is getting ready to smite him dead so Satan can beat him with a stick once he gets there.

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When I call customer service I want "Kim" or "Marsha" or "Wanda" to answer the phone. Not a "Rajastjkinainaiojkldjafkdjfdkajkldjafkajk". And I want her to be rude and put off like I just interrupted her lunch of fried chicken and root-beer. I don't want her to sound insecure and scared like at any minute I'm going to figure out the gig that's being hoisted on me and take the whole thing down in flames. An operation that I imagine looks a lot like this:

For some reason,... wait, what am I saying?... For A LOT of reasonS, the whole time I'm on the phone I imagine a huge warehouse with lines of folding tables. People are sitting in front of rotary dial phones with a pencil and scraps of paper. When I tell them my flight number, they just doodle a little picture of a car or something. Same thing goes for when they ask for my credit card number. Then when they think the game is up they just transfer me to the person sitting next to them and it goes on like this until I hang up in failing desperation.

Look, I'm not blaming the people who work there and answer the phones. They're just trying to find a decent job that pays the bills. But they get stuck talking to Americans who are pissed off that they keep getting transfered to people who don't understand the word "re-imburse". This is really a lose-lose situation for everyone involved.

So how did my hour and a half end? Well, the fourth lady I talked to said, and I quote, "(indian accent) Yes meester. Eye understand yoo frustrated. Yoo need call this numbah, okeee dokeee? Thanks yoo come again".

"Come again"?!!! I'm on the phone not visiting your office!! And, "Okey Dokey"?!!! "OKEY DOKEY"?!!! How does she understand "okey dokey" but not "re-imburse"?!!!!

Nice Delta. Really, really nice.

McDonalds... please McDon't.

"In a not-so-subtle reminder that it's not just about burgers and fries, McDonald's also shows Ronald juggling vegetables with his friends and dodging strawberries as he snowboards down a yogurt mountain".

Look at this crap! Can this get any more retarded? Look, I have absolutely no attachment to Ronald McDonald! In fact, if the "new" Ronald was the child-eating, sewer-dwelling clown from IT, that idea would bother me less than this one does. However,... you've got to be kidding! Since when is McDonald's about anything more than burgers and fries? The Big Mac is the only thing McDonald's has ever had going for it. Vegetables and yogurt?!!! at McDonalds?!!! Stick to your guns Ronald and don't be a sell-out! You're already skateboarding in perhaps the gayest outfit ever, and I mean EVER, and playing soccer in hose made out of Pipi Longstocking's shirt?!!! What are you doing?!!!

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Being the highly opinionated person that I am, I'm once again stuck having to blog about something so luridly lame and aweful that I may not go to McDonald's ever again if they ever give up on the Big Mac. I want my Big Mac and I don't want to have to feel unhealthy just because you put it on the menu next to vegetables and yogurt! And give me back the old clown and the fat pear-shaped purple thing. You know that big pre-Barney mass of purpleness who plumped up from actually eating at McDonald's! And I don't want a new sporty Ronald or an updated and buffed-out Hamburglar who's conscience talks him out of scheming on how to steal Ronald's hamburgers (speaking in some sort of bizzaro gibberish language). If the Hamburglar starts doing community service and playing checkers with senior citizens I'm done!

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And totally off the subject, but has anyone else noticed that a lot of the characters that pitched junk food when we were kids were petty larsons? The Hamburglar. The guy who stole Cookie Crisps. The Lucky Charms leperchaun (also there seemed to be a lot of negative Irish stereotypes) and wasn't the Trix bunny constantly trying to steal the kids cereal? And dangit, he wasn't a kid! So much thievery...

-

I'm so bored sitting in a hotel room in Cedar City...

Friday full of fire arms

I was walking downtown on Friday and it was a beautiful day. The kind of day that makes you want to exchange pleasantries with strangers, such as "good afternoon" or "hello". Then "goodbye". The kind of day that does not make you want to wave a gun around threatening to kill Jewish men and their dogs. At least that's the kind of day I thought it was until I walked passed the courthouse.

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I was crossing the street when a Jewish guy and his dog walked passed in the opposite direction and I'm pretty sure he was Jewish because I heard him say to another passer-by-er, "Ya, I just started playing squash everyday at the JCC". I figured the JCC stood for "Jewish Community Center", but now in retrospect, I guess it could have stood for "Just Christians Center" and in that case he would have been a Gentile with a dog and not a Jewish guy with a dog. But that sounds really presumptious so I'm sticking with Jewish Community Center and that makes him Jewish.

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Anyway, the Jewish guy must have been talking or not paying attention because the next thing I heard was a car skidding the brakes. The driver jumps out and starts yelling, "You stupid $#*! My light is green! My light is green!". Well the Jewish guy must have been feeling particularly tough because he was out of striking distance and/or he had a dog and/or he has been playing a lot of mean squash games and subsequently been bulking up, so he yelled something back. I couldn't quite tell what he yelled back but I'm pretty sure it wasn't an invitatation to a bar-mitzvah or even a cordial "shalom".

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Either way, I think the retort made the car-guy even more angry because he pulled a gun out of his pants and started waving it around yelling, "I've got something right here for you and your dog you stupid $#*!". Now, I maybe a bit too literal, but I don't think he meant he was going to give the Jewish guy and his dog the actual gun. Instead, I think what he meant to say was that he had something inside the gun for the Jewish guy and his dog.

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I grew up in a nice little Langley where people don't wave guns around. Shoot, they don't even yell and threaten each other. So once I read between the lines, I got a little nervous but the funny thing is I just turned around and started walking really nonchalant like I always see guys waving guns around and yelling. Well I guess the angry car-guy wasn't as mad as he looked because he got back in his car and drove along his way.

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You probably think I'm making this story up and I wish I were but I'm not. And I almost guarantee my mom just got on the phone to call me and ask me if I'm alright. Mom, you gotta understand that I see guys waving guns and yelling all the time. It's the life I lead you know... my life... my thug life. That's right. I'm a thug... one who wears blue-jeans and polo shirts and lives in Salt Lake City, Utah.

my four-leaf-clovers

I'm a good luck magnet. A finder of fortune. A real mazal-tov kind of guy. Good things just seem to happen to me. Example: I was just sitting at Cafe Rio today, eating my lunch, minding my own business when I go for dessert and find this (or should I say these?);

What! What! TWO mints in ONE bag! Have you ever seen anything so sweet!? And that's not all. A few weeks ago I was sitting at the Soup Kitchen, eating my lunch and minding my own business again (I mind my own business as much as I can... the whole karma thing, which is apparently paying out as you can see) when I found this;

Say what you want but THREE crackers in a bag is not the norm. I know this. My kid eats Saltines like my wife can't keep her hands off me but my point is this: I'm exposed to a lot of bagged crackers and I know this is not the usual and customary way. Two crackers max.

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If no one else, I know my dad can appreciate this... he's the one who tipped me off to the scam behind those little bags of chips that come with a burger at the football game. You know, the bag of Lays that cost $1.75; you get two chips and air. I seriously remember going to a football game with my dad when I was a kid and he was so pissed after he got only two potato chips. What a rip-off! Maybe I'll send these examples to Lay's and see what abounds...

remodel update

The roller shades are up... pretty cool product.

Transparent from the inside but black from the outside;

After we finished the floors, we painted this wall a cool blue;

then we added a new door to my office

and Ashlee painted the wall a nice autumn orange;

We threw some bookshelves together for the study;

and a closet in the master suite;

Ashlee says I'm anal;

The main hallway bathroom is small, but finished;

and the master bathroom is coming along;

Karate Kid, Part IV (or is it V already?)

I think the next great sequal to The Karate Kid movies should involve Mrs. Miyagi here, teaching Daniel-San how to defend himself by practicing laundry. He would struggle to see how the laundry exercise could possibly help him as he folded all of his and Mrs. Miyagi's shirts. Until one day, after much boredom, complaint and frustration expressed by Daniel-San, Mrs. Miagi would start throwing a wicked foray of karate chops and fisted punches while yelling "Fold on! Fold on!". At that, Daniel-San's instinct from so much laundry folding would kick into gear and he would repel any and all punches just by going through the motions of folding his laundry... all while looking sharp in a crisp shirt.

Besides a great story line, the reality of the aforementioned would do well for young black-belts; I remember watching The Karate Kid, Part II thinking that I was witnessing true love while Ralph Macchio shared tea time with his kimono-robed girlfriend. I waited and waited for that moment in my own life for years before realizing it was just Hollywood tricking me again. I don't know about anybody else, but my marriage is far from sitting around in kimonos drinking tea. To the contrary, my wife and I do seem to do a whole lot'a laundry.

Michael Vick can have my dog.

If my dog chews up the tail-lights cable on my tent trailer one more time (3x's already!!) I'm sending her to Michael Vick's Traning Camp...

German Chocolate Cake

It was my birthday a few days ago. (And for everyone who didn't call and wish me well, sing, BUY ME A PRESENT, send a card, come over and watch me eat cake, come over and help put my stairs back together, or better yet, come over and put my stairs back together by yourself before finishing my master bathroom too) I hope your stairs never get put back together either!

My wife on the other hand, she's good. (you've got nothing to worry about babe) She planned a surprise party and kept it a surpise. Usually she spills her guts about anything remotely exciting. Christmas is in ruins after she tells you everything she bought you the day she bought it... which happens to be three weeks before Christmas Day. She might as well just tape the reciept to the wrapped gift. (oh man, I'm going to get it when I go home today...)

Back to the birthday...

Ashlee made this tastey cake. This German (Einz, vie, tri, nine-nine frie line, volkswagon, als das kind kind war, vogelsberger, Hile!) Chocolate Cake. I know you're all looking at it right now the way I looked at it when she whipped it up... like it came from some professional cake store. In fact, the detail put our wedding cake to shame. No offense Bill - he's the guy who made our wedding cake, which was awesome, but Bill doesn't live with me and Ashlee does and I think it's a smart move to complement your wife who lives with you more than you compliment the guy who doesn't live with you but instead just made your wedding cake. (run-on sentences are sweet)

Part of the surprise involved getting me out of the house by having Thomas ask me to help finish Doug's deck (which incidentally could have been planned better... uh, does everyone not notice the pile of rubble my house often resembles due to my overly-anxious-I-think-I'm-a-carpenter-but-I'm-really-not-even-close-so-my-house-is-a-mess-after-I-ripped-it-apart-and-can't-put-it-back-together-again mental complex?) We could have worked on our house all night and not seen the masses of party-goers gathering because of all the dust and debri in the air (this is one dirty pad). Or hey, how about a bike ride? That would have been great! Being sent off into the woods on my bike on my birthday. Nah, you're right. That would have sucked. Working on my uncle's deck was way better, especially on my birthday! Who wouldn't have wanted to do that on their birthday? Bike ride or finishing your uncles deck? Definately finishing your uncle's deck. For sure.

At least I had pictures of granduer (me eating that cake) dancing through my head, sustaining me as I drilled and drove screws. Monotonous stuff, but so much better whilst dreaming of chocolate all over my face. I'll admit, I was a bit skeptical that there would be any cake left when I got home. When I left, I swear I saw Ashlee's family sitting at the table, stairing at that cake, tying bibs around their necks and fishing for forks. Just the thing to bring out my bad side. A bad side no one wants to see. A bad side no one should see. I was protecting everyone else (really!) when I warned my mother-in-law, a stern finger in her face, that if anyone touched my cake before I got back, the cliche'd expression of in-laws as enemies would be taken to new heights and war would ruin the earth again. In fact, I think that's what started the whole Nazi thing... equal distribution of some Chocolate Cake that the German's wanted all to themselves. You don't see Americans fighting over cake do you? But then again, we only have Angel Food Cake to claim which is a bit disappointing really.

"just another primate"?

Three women and five men put themselves on display in a London zoo last weekend and like me, you're probably asking, why? Polly Willis, the zoo's spokesperson said, "Seeing people in a different environment, among other animals... teaches members of the public that the human is just another primate". Thank you Polly. That's exactly what we should be teaching the public. You couldn't be more correct. In fact, just to help prove your point I've made a list drawing parallel lined comparisons that demonstrate how similar humans and other primates really are:

You're right Polly! Humans really are just like other primates. Sure, we can do a few little extra things like conquer nations, create electricity, harness the power of the atom, build giant structures that stand for thousands of years, land on the moon, walk on two feet and draw. Other than those minor differences the human really is "just like another primate".

I'm just glad we all get along as well as we do so we're not fighting over which species should dominate.

"Hey you gueeeeys!"

Props to my grandma who just sent this to me... funny stuff.

Does anyone else see the resemblance to an unfortunate and misunderstood, yet beloved childhood icon?

I've broken a good habit

Albert Einstein doesn't know jack. I remember reading in his biography something along the lines of "If you do something everyday for 30 days or so it becomes a habit".

It is 1:10 PM, I'm at work, sitting at my desk and I just zipped up my pants. Pants that I have been wearing since 7:30 this morning. Maybe we should do some math:

I've been dressing myself since I was about 5 years old. Except for the occasional swimsuit and a pair of button fly levis I owned in the 5th grade... a pair of pants that took exactly 23 minutes to button up, leaving myself exposed and feeling incredibly stupid as I stood in font of my grade school urinal fighting my pants and crying... I have been zipping up my pants for 25 years. 25 years or 9,125 days. Let's guess that I probably zip up my pants 3-4 times a day. So roughly, I have zipped up my pants some 31,937 times. By Einstein's calculations I should be a well-oiled machine, a virtual pant-zipping natural; I put pants on - I zip them up. But no. Oh no, instead, I'm 30 years old and zipping up my pants AFTER walking around the office all day, extending greetings and salutations, conducting meetings and performing my labors with my fly wide open. Sweet.

What's the big deal?

So Tom's been having a good laugh about my pen pal blog, particularly my adolescent years fascination with Star Trek. He's asking me who my favorite character was (in complete mockery) but I'm going to answer him strait up: it was O'Brian. Probably because he was Irish so by default that made him both the engineer and the alcoholic. He could easily have shut down and fixed the Enterprise's main computer or defeated unruly Klingons by challenging them to a drinking contest but he was always more diplomatic than that. And every time he got the "tricordors" and "combadges" working just in time to "beam" himself and his crew back to the ship before they were captured by the neanderthalic inhabitants of Planet 410 and realized that no one of insignificance had died, he would turn around and mow down a couple of extras with his "phaser".

You're probably all staring at the screen in bewilderment right now, reading this blog post and wondering how someone with such a cool exterior image that is almost on par with Steve McQueen and James Dean could go into such great detail about something so geeky and queer. I can see my wife downloading divorce papers right now, terrified that I have revived a lost love and renewed passion for Star Trek and she's afraid we will be sitting on the couch on Saturday nights catching up on all of the episodes I've missed for the next year and a half. Come on... sure I may know a lot about Star Trek: The Next Generation, that is to say;

I have seen every Stark Trek: The Next Generation at least three times but what's the big deal? So what if I know that Captain Picard's full name is Jean Luke? So what if I know that Data has an evil twin robot/brother named Lor, or that William Richter (the ship's first mate) is affectionately known as "Number One"? Who cares if I know that Councelor Troy wore a blue dress in the first two seasons until she became an officer and wore a Star Fleet issued uniform? Or that in the final test that she had to pass in order to become an officer she had to order a man to his death in order to save the rest of the ship? What's the big deal if I know that Warf became the Chief of Security after Tasha (who later made a few guest appearances as a captain of a Romulon Bird of Prey) was eaten by an evil tar pit on an ilfated away-mission? What's the big deal? I'll tell you what the big deal is... I don't even LIKE Star Trek!

I don't like Star Trek and yet I could hold my own in the back of any hobby shop in any mall in America. I don't like Star Trek but I'm confident I could go to a Star Trek convention and get in a fight with someone over why writing Beverly Crusher's son Wesly out of the show by sending him off with some time/space traveling alien with a total of six fingers was the best thing for the Enterprise. (After Wesly left the ship we saw a sharp decrease in near destruction intergalactic incidents in which Wesly always ended up saving the day).

I'm not proud that I know all this Star Trek stuff (and much more mind you). I don't even like knowing all this. It floats and bobs around in my head, like a helium balloon against a ceiling, just waiting for a way out and when I least expect it Star Trek crap comes spewing out of my mouth all over the place and it freaks people out. Its ruined a few friendships even because it just ain't cool.

You're all wondering how this happened. How did I get so well acquainted with something that is just begging to get beat up and have it's lunch money stolen? Well, it's my dad's fault. You see, he never, ever purchased cable television and so our t.v., sitting in the middle of our living room, in our house, in the depths of Washington State's north-west woods, relied on the biggest bunny-ear antena you've ever seen. It jutted out of our rooftop like a lightning rod. With that kind of set up, you can only expect about three point two channels of discernable television (on a sunny day). And even those were blurry. In fact, if I remember right, I grew up thinking that Monday Night Football was a scrimage of 22 on 22 until I watched it at a friend's house (who had cable) and realized it was only 11 against 11. I had been seeing double all those years and because I couldn't go to my friend's house every Monday or keep my eyes crossed for a 4 hour football game, I stopped watching the grid iron tussles and started watching the only blurry free option that we had and that was Fox.

For about the next five years, Fox ran back to back reruns of Star Trek all night, every night and I guess I didn't have anything else to do except study up on becoming the most Trek informed non-Trekie the world would know. At least I learned at an early age (way before it became a common middle school hallway joke) how to make the Vulcan symbol of "live long and prosper" with my left hand which was useless though because the Vulcans use their right hand.

I rest my case:

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STOP THE LEGACY HIGHWAY!!! DRAIN LAKE POWELL!!!!

This whole blogging thing has me freeked out and thinking I've gotten myself into something a little more intense than I first thought. It seems there is a whole culture of fanatic bloggers out there who harp on and on until you post a new blog. Something like those granola, Nalgene-toting urban warriars you see slumming around Seattle, who it appears gain elevated status amongst their kin based on the number of stickers they have on their plastic camping bottle.

The way I see it my blog page is my plastic bottle and my blog postings are my stickers. Maybe, just maybe with enough pressure from my blogging comrades my blog will be as cool as a 1990 Nalgene scratched and worn and plastered with "green" paraphernalia.

Black Berry Shasta

I was at Barnes & Noble Bookstore last night brousing the gift cards and stumbled across a winner. One with a can of pop on the front and reads, "A great big happy deal. Field trips in grade school. You got to bring a sack lunch and a can of pop. The pop was lukewarm (at best) by lunchtime, but it was still pop, so it didn't matter. Sitting on the grass... drinking warm pop. What a great feeling." Well, I could only wish that my grade-school-can-of-pop experience had been so sweet. Instead, mine went something like this:

In first grade we were all assigned pen pals from some neighboring school and we had to write to that pen pal every week to practice our grammar and penmanship. Not sure why; the teacher never graded or corrected any of our letters so as far as I know my pen pal most likely thought he had been matched up with some dyslexic story teller who always got sidetracked and rambled on about G.I. Joe and Star Trek like they were the only things in life worth scribbling about.

Anyway, at the end of the year after becoming such good, close friends by writing jibberish to a kid you could have cared less about (in my pen pal's case, writing to a kid you thought was crazy and just maybe a bit handicapped) we were to meet and have a grand old party in the park.

Well, the end of the year came and we planned our party and took off for the field trip where pen pals would become playground pals and best of friends... or something of the likes. Part of that field trip, like the aforementioned gift card, included sack lunches and a can of pop. So my mom and I drove to the local Payless Food Source or maybe Reams where I picked out my Shasta Black Cherry soda and filled my lunch bag before marching onto the bus and later onto the grass at the park to meet my pen pal.

I don't remember the specifics of what happened that day (what games we played, what girl I thought I was in love with, or how lame I looked searching for my pen pal who was undoubtedly hiding from his new speical friend) but I do remember that can of Shasta Black Cherry soda. And I remember how much I loved Black Cherry soda, especially that beloved Shasta-branded Black Cherry soda. In fact, I loved it so much I saved that can until the very end because I wanted to enjoy it like you do a dessert. But it turns out I saved it a little too long. I say so not because it was lukewarm (besides, as proven by the Barnes & Noble card, drinking even lukewarm pop is "a great feeling") but because everyone else had already topped off their own sodas and mine was just about the last refreshing drink to be found in the whole park on that hot summer day. Until that is, my pen pal, my blasted pen pal, in the middle of our soccer game or was it kickball? ...yeah, I think it was kickball, needed something to drink and asked for a sip of my soda. I never have been good at telling people "no" and had even a weaker back bone in the first grade so I conceded all the while my inner core was panicking and yelling "no, no, no!". Regardless, I let him take my blessed Shasta and put his lips to the rim and he slurped his mouthfull.

Well that was the end of it. I couldn't take myself to drink from the same can after that and I ended up leaving that contaminated can on the curb for all the bees and hornets to swarm and crawl into but not without some serious silent pouting. And all because of my first grade fear of contracting a crazily dread and vile disease that was believed by modern science to have been long forgotten and overcome but at the same time still stewed and thrived secretly in my pen pal's spit (which incidentally was now smeared and dripping its way into my Black Cherry Shasta).

"What a great feeling". Come again?

Max

What a wonderful thing is a boy?! So excited. So happy. He's sad to see me go. Happy to see me come. No one's ever cried when I walked out or laughed and screamed with delight when I walked in. He's good company.

What about Bin Laden? He's religious...

An article in the New York Times presents an interesting view of politics in Utah. "Another student at Brigham Young, Danielle Pulsipher, a junior, offered blanket approval of President Bush. Asked to name which of his actions as president she liked most, she was hard-pressed to answer. "I'm not sure of anything he's done, but I like that he's religious — that's really important," Ms. Pulsipher said."

A scene in the movie, Zoolander, presents similar analitycal skills when Hansel says, "Sting would be another person who's a hero. The music that he's created over the years, I don't really listen to it, but the fact that he's making it – I respect that."

Similar, I think so.
Awesome.