Alright Gatorade, I'm putting my foot down on this one.

Am I alone in being confused by this ad? Not only is one of these things not like the others, but it seems Gatorade is actually trying to pitch a bunch of mimes as the new cool thing. C'mon. Seriously? Friggin MIMES!?

It feels weird to have to tell the trend setting authorities of consumer America (Nike, Sprite, McDonald's, Gatorade and the likes) that you shouldn't be sponsoring mimes. Even if a bunch of them group together and call themselves the Jabbawockeez... I think my spell check just exploded.

What? You don't think they're mimes? Umm, are their faces white? Do they wear white gloves? Do they go through motions pretending to use objects that aren't really there? Check. Check. And check. Told you they were mimes.

Look. A mime is a mime. No matter how you dress it up with watered down street cred and Kangol hats, it's still a mime! And we all know that mimes are the lowest form of entertainment ever introduced. That's right. The lowest. Even lower than Nickelback.

The fact that they danced with Fatty McGoo at the NA All Star Game does not make them cool either. There's plenty of evidence to go around which demonstrates Shaq does not have the power to make lame things cool.

A million dollar idea that I am giving away for free:

You know how in every bag of potato chips there is one chip that is extra toasty? It's darker than the rest of the chips and completely delicious? Not the rotten one that is kind of green. The one that is perfectly toasted to a crispy brown.

Why is there only one of them per bag? Frito needs to come out with a bag of these. Just the extra toasted chips. It's a simple thing to do.

Fellas... and hairy lipped women,

Am I the only one who gets the tissue-residue mustache after blowing my nose? Granted, it only happens after I've neglected to shave for a day or two. But regardless, my wife giggles like a little school girl every time I blow my nose and walk away with bits of shredded Kleenex clinging to the stubble.

Typically I don't notice and she thinks that its pretty funny. I have no idea how many times I've walked around the office with a little white Charlie Chaplin mustache after blowing my nose...

Ugh. Soccer.

I noticed a new billboard for Real Salt Lake prodding me to buy season soccer tickets. And here's my list of reasons why I am not never, ever, fa-eva eva buying season soccer tickets:

1) I'd be surrounded by Europeans (just kidding mum).

2) Soccer is the only sport where people cheer what could have potentially happened. In no other sport will a player who messes up a chance to score be getting a standing ovation. In a soccer game it's usually the only chance you get to cheer because NOTHING EVER HAPPENS.

3) I'd be surrounded by Europeans (still just joshin' mum).

4) Soccer is so boring fans actually make up and sing entire 9 verse songs to occupy their minds - while the game is going on!

5) Too much writhing in pain and crying like fairies when it's obvious they were never touched. The last game I went to some dude sitting behind me tried to explain that this was all strategy. It's an awesome strategy if you're looking to pick up a date in a gay bar.

6) I'd be surrounded by Europeans (hi ho mum).

7) We only go with the Hubrichs because Hans is the coolest and Cami's got it going on too. If they're ain't no Hubrichs, they're ain't no tickets.

8) Smoke bombs and rolls of toilet paper are only thrown on the field during the playoffs. If someone would guarantee that smoke bombs and rolls of toilet paper were thrown on the field every game... and the Hubrichs were there... no-one sissies it up faking injury... oh and someone actually made a goal... well then, season tickets I guess.

As some of you know, HBO will soon be airing a new episode of the television series, “Big Love”. Said episode is reported to include a scene depicting a religious ceremony performed in a temple of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. The details of which, to publicize and make available for entertainment purposes, not only shocks me but also offends as I consider like ceremonies and places to be both private and sacred. In response, I have written a letter to HBO and urge you to voice your opinion as well. But please do so with sensitivity, courtesy and respect. For I imagine that is what you’d like in return.

The following link has been provided by HBO in order to field opinions and feedback regarding their network and broadcasts.

http://www.hbo.com/apps/submitinfo/contactus/submit.do

This is the letter I sent:

To Whom it May Concern, I am not a subscriber to HBO, nor would I consider myself as belonging to your target audience. I don’t pretend to think my voice would have any sway on the decisions of a large entertainment entity such as HBO. Despite that, I wish to express my thoughts regarding the purported forthcoming depiction of an LDS Temple Ceremony on the show “Big Love”.

I am LDS, and like most members of my faith, consider the temple to be a holy place. I believe that in temples I can draw closer to my Creator than anywhere else on Earth. Think about that for a moment.

You may not have the same beliefs as I do, but if you consider what such a place would mean, you will quickly see why we hold temples to be so holy. That being the case, I cannot consider the depiction of the ceremonies performed inside the temple for entertainment purposes as anything but mere mockery and disrespect for my beliefs. That is not to say that I will be devastated, that I cannot handle your television show being in existence, or that my beliefs will be crushed by a little opposition. I will, of course, go on in my belief in God and the teachings of Jesus Christ as I ever have. After all, this won’t be the first time that someone has been insensitive to my faith.

However, before running the forthcoming episode, please consider those things that you hold most dear in your life – those things that mean more to you than you can convey in words. If you do not have such things in your life, I am sorry. If you do, but you are willing to have them paraded around for the sake of entertainment – and that is your undeniable right – again, I feel sorry for you. On the other hand, if there are things in your life that you do consider holy or sacred, things that you do hold dear to you heart and you would not want those things mocked and trampled on, please recognize that by airing the aforementioned episode you are about to do that to someone else.

Thank you.

I Love To See The Temple

I love to see the temple.
I'm going there someday
To feel the Holy Spirit,
To listen and to pray.

For the temple is a house of God,
A place of love and beauty.
I'll prepare myself while I am young;
This is my sacred duty.

I love to see the temple.
I'll go inside someday.
I'll cov'nant with my Father;
I'll promise to obey.

For the temple is a holy place
Where we are sealed together.
As a child of God, I've learned this truth;
A fam'ly is forever.

I went skiing backcountry last night

and saw footprints of a deer that pondered, then followed...

30 years ago...

I had plenty of time to ride my bike.

World Peace is worth a thousand bucks.

I finished dry-walling the basement last night and today I called Mr. Bowles ("That's Bowles as in more than one bowl, not more than one bowel" ...oops. My mistake Mr. one organ past the intestines). He came over to give me a bid on finishing the mud, tape and texture (aka hiding all of my handy work) and it's more than I wanted to pay but I gave him the go ahead anyway after a quick analysis of the situation;

Yah I could finish the basement. I can mud. I can tape. I can probably even figure out how to texture. But it will take me forever and I will do an imperfect job that I'll regret so long as we own this house. I'll point out all of the imperfections to everyone who comes over and lies to my face telling me, "It looks great Dave". I'll bemoan the whole deal and curse myself into a rotten mood and I'll take it out on my wife. She'd kick me out. I'd have to live in our pop-tent trailer somewhere in Oklahoma. Max and Whatever-we're-going-to-call-her would grow up without a dad. They'd do drugs. Max wouldn't go on a mission and Whatever-we're-going-to-call-her would be pregnant before she graduates high school. And for what? A thousand bucks?! FORGET IT! We're hiring this out because the inverse is so sweet;

See, I won't have to do it. It will look good. Professional even. I'll kick back on the couch and catch a game. I'll go skiing. Ride my bike. I'll wake up with a smile on my face. My wife will adore my cheerful demeanor and my warm embrace. She won't be able to keep her hands off me. Our children will idolize me, mimic my every move. They will become successful in the home and successful in the workplace. They'll open orphanages. Bring world peace. The world will be a better place for everyone.

Now THAT is worth a thousand bucks.

This explains it Ash... it's against my religion.

My mom only loves me for my blog...

I got an email from my mom today. And this is all it said,

"Dave, it’s time for a new blog…..love mom."

On the brighter side, my mom and dad are flying in for some skiing. Well, my dad will be skiing. My mum will be going to the British Shop with Ashlee spending gads of money on sub-par black licorice and nasty "Digestive Biscuits". Seriously? "Digestive Biscuits"? You couldn't come up with a better name for a chocolate covered graham cracker? Howabout "chocolate covered graham cracker"? That's far more likely to entice me than "Digestive Biscuit".

Hypothetical conversation:

"I say, would you happen to have any Digestive Biscuits?"

"Sorry lad. We're flush out, howabout you try some Fleet."

Anyway, what was I saying? Right; my folks are flying in for the annual Vogelsberg ski week. And that always reminds me of the day my mom wanted to divorce my dad. In fact, I think if there had been a judge and a pen on sight that day, it would have been over. Thank goodness there wasn't, because my mum would have dragged us kids back to the land of Eng and I would have had the most British-proper, gobbley-gook accent ever. No offense mum.

Back to the story. In 1982 my dad took the family to Alta (I think he wants his ashes sprinkled over Sugarloaf). And being the learn-from-your-own-experiences/make-your-own-decisions kind of guy that he is, he figured we'd be fine skiing the Sunnyside lift... without any practice. Oh wait, there were the few runs we managed by the rope-tow. But after three rides of hanging on for dear life, tripping all over our skis and poles and tearing our gloves to pieces, we were upgraded to the chairlift: ready to risk life and limb to save our gloves. Never-the-less, most of the family did fine. We skied with smiles and sweet outfits...

(btw, I make no apologies for my attire. My parents dressed me as embarrassingly as possible to keep the ladies away. Women were chasing me in harems even then)

...well, most of us skied with smiles. My mom was petrified. She took one look at the sloping mountain lying in wait and she lost it. Threw a fit. Cursed my dad. And then just cried. She proceeded to take off her skis and carried them down the mountain, leaving a trail of boot holes all along the way as she trudged back to the lodge.

I don't think she talked to my dad for the rest of the year.

Rest assured though, they stuck it out and my dad managed to make amends. In fact, from that year to current date, he still romantically picks up the last flowers available -usually a week old and dying- from whatever gas station he can find that is still open at 11:59 PM on Valentines Day. He's kind of made a tradition of it.

On an even brighter side: here's a sweet picture of my brother. I might mention here that though I undoubtedly warranted his abuse, he has never beat me up. Never even hit me (there was, however, the time I think he would have put me in a wheel-chair had I not outrun him after I hosed him down with the sprinkler in the back yard). He's really a pacifist. This might change that. Cheers bro!

I almost forgot! Dad, don't forget to bring the Juicy Fruit! Skiing is way more fun with Juicy Fruit.

Do we really need 20/20's help to figure this one out?

Dear World,

Look, since I know I am the source of unquestioned, non-biased, and strictly factual information for almost ones of people, I feel a need to clarify this super complex question for you. THIS IS NOT A MAN!!!

The following should help clear things up. It's an excerpt from my "Dave's Guide To Distinguishing A Man From A Pseudo-man Who Is Really Only A Shameless Fame-Chasing Bearded Woman":

Chapter 1

"THIS ISN'T A MAN!!! No it's not! Want to know how I know that? Because men can't have babies! Never, ever under any circumstances can a man have a baby. Arnold Schawrzenegger doesn't count because he isn't a man. He's a horned Barbarian. Nor does a seahorse count because a seahorse isn't a man either."

I hope this helps.

nos-tal-gia: 1. a wistful or sentimental longing for places, things, acquaintences, or conditions belonging to the past...

Climb.

deep woods
OLD MAN IN GRIEF _ Vincent van Gogh

to suffer

my self portrait _ 2nd grade

Warewolf fighting vampires... This is what women want? Really?

It is a well documented fact that I am a man and as such incognizant of femenine dealings. I have been single most of my life and have lived with the opposite sex (sisters don't count because they are like untouchables) a mere 9.6% of my life. In fact, prior to Ashlee beleive it or not, I had neither a wife, nor a girlfriend, nor any other kind of woman in my life that ever ammounted to anything more than "dating" which is really just a 3 month wait for the facade to come crashing down. As such, there is a long list of things that are now (thanks to marriage) present in my life which were absent before. A quick list would include:

Matching dinner plates

Food Network television and HGTV

Cute Christmas decorations

A working vacuum

Scented candles

Scented anything. Except fabric softener. I've always loved fabric softener.

Before Ashlee, I had lived with my male friends in very male houses / apartments. I've probably lived with 20 or more of my bros over the last 10 years and my point is this: I understand guys. I know how we think. I know what we like. And I know why we think about the things we think about and I know why we like the things we like. The inverse of that demographic, which involves women on the other hand, has always been a mystery to me. That’s not to say that I'm a complete idiot when it comes to ladies. I have a decent understanding of the farer sex, I think, but I try to be reasonable and that has unfortunately never put me in touch with the feminine population.

So ladies I'm asking for help with this one:

What is the deal with Twilight?! I mean just look at this trailer! What are you thinking?! I never would have thought that ever woman age 12-35 in the State of Utah (and the country for that matter) would have been consumed by this. You have been standing in line for the release of this movie like a shaky drunk on Election Day. If every Enrichment Night continues the way they've gone for the past month, I supsect the 2009 Relief Society photo will look like this.

Is this really what you want in life? To be rescued by a bloodless, pale vampire that can apparently fly? And since when can vampires fly? I thought they had to turn into bats first. Why does gravity not apply to the undead? I'm really confused by all of this. If I was told that a romance novel would grab the attention of the collective subconscious of every young female in America I would never guess that the storyline would include a family of vampires living in Forks, Washington. Fabio's not even on the cover.

My initial instinct is to mock and deride this absurd storyline and ridicule the fans for wallowing in cultural mediocrity. But that would be kind of hypocritical thing for a guy who got equally excited about the Star Wars prequils. Even after I knew they were junk, I still got up for them. There’s nothing wrong with embracing naive pleasures so ladies, enjoy your movie.

And instead of further alienating myself from my wife, who I am in fact very interested in, I figure I am going to take advantage of this anomaly to gain some insight to the female mind. Ladies and gentlemen, today I declare that I will read the first Twilight book. I figure I’ll get some inside information. Like looking at the enemy’s battle plans.

Pastel Portrait

I've seen them before.

. . . . During misty, winter nights:

. . . . . . . . . . . . a
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . smear

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . of
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . wet
. . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . snowflakes

. . . . dripping whiteness across the black, flaming sky.

as of 12/18/2008 (3:44PM): 11,997

Only three more to go and I've got 12,000 hits on my blog!? What do you people do all day? Surely its horrid... why else would you resort to this?

We were so close.

Apparently I am some kind of callused, insensitive jerk (Will someone second the motion?... Any opposed?).

I happened upon this article and read about how the lead singer of The Barenaked Ladies survived a plane crash and my immediate response wasn't, "Glad he's okay" or "Thank goodness the three other people on board are alright". Nope. It was more like "Dangit! We were so close to getting rid of that band forever."

Now before you gasp at my lack of empathy and condemn me with biblical triumph by asking how I would feel if I were in a plane crash, let me just make a few things very clear;

Number one: If I survived a plane crash I would be BRAGGING about it. I mean who can top that!? You've just earned yourself the mother of all trump stories pal.

Number two: I hate The Barenaked Ladies and not just because of the name mind you...but partially so. Any organization that tries to catch the attention of potential buyers with nothing more than a "naughty" little title (akin to Fuddruckers) should expect a boycott. You shameless marketers. Quit creating enterprises by trying to draw out the dirty side.

Oh man, I hate The Barenaked Ladies (food for thought: what if I had a million dollars and hired an assassin to take out this band?). When I hear that song I think to myself, "Oh Canada... how is it that you and I are of a common mother?". We'll take your Shatners and your Akroyds. We'll even take your Alanises (Alanisi?) and we might even take your Martin Shorts - but only when he is funny (which happens only on occasion and by "on occasion" I mean The Three Amigos and nada mas).

How exactly does Ed Robertson walk away from a plane crash and meanwhile Buddy Holly remains dead? There is no justice.

Now, I don't want to kill the Barenaked Ladies. Nor do I overtly wish that they were dead. But if they were to die, I really wouldn't shed many tears. To be honest, depending on the means of death, I might even giggle. Is that too harsh? Probably.

See, what I really want is for them to just go away quietly because if they were to die in a plane crash, then they would be memorialized ad nauseam. CNN would be playing their crappy music and Larry King would put his suspenders on again and do an interview. Then a producer would release a greatest hits tribute album and the tone deaf fans who made them popular to begin with would put them back on the charts. And worst of all, they would enter the fraternity of "musicians-who-have-died-in-a-plane-crash". Can we really tolerate the Barenaked Ladies to be mentioned in the same breath as wait... take another breath first... Buddy Holly, Ronny Van Zandt, Richie Valenz, The Big Bopper, Randy Rhodes and John Denver? And though some of the aforementioned are better musicians than others, they are all still "one million" times better than Bare-friggen-naked Ladies.

I just convinced myself that it is a good thing this guy wasn't hurt. Now, let's all do our part in making this crappy band disappear. Let them never be spoken of again.

Note: I'm not going to put up any pictures of the entire band for two reasons; 1) they don't deserve my effort in finding them and 2) there is no way I am going to do a Google Image search for "Barenaked Ladies" at work. I'm dumb, but not that dumb.

An open letter to the NBA.

Ashlee and I watched a Jazz game Friday night with what started out as 12th row seats.

By the end of the second period, my wife had winked and batted her eyes long enough to the right peeps and we ended up sitting courtside by half-time. Yah you heard me. COURTSIIIEED!

I felt like Seinfeld with that super hot girlfriend who could get him into crowded clubs, invite only events, out of speeding tickets and whatever other shenanigans he got himself into and all because of her good looks and warm smile.
It's just too bad she was staring at Korver all night.

That's when I realized that my wife will never have as big a crush on me as she does on Korver. Here. I'll show you:

See that look on my face? That's me realizing I will never be as handsome as Kyle Korver.

Now look at her face. That's Ashlee realizing I will never be as handsome as Kyle Korver.

No bother. I'm still far more good looking than the growing harem of greasy Eurotrash playas who are infecting the NBA with their socceresque basketball. You know who you are. You're the ones promoting the I-got-lost-without-a-shower-during-my-long-search-for-Middle Earth look. Listen. You are NOT one of the Riders of Rohan! You are an ogre paid to entertain the rest of us by running up and down a wooden plank throwing a ball through a circle. And to you I declare this:

If you make your living by sweating profusely on national television, keep yourself groomed. Contrary to what you might think, the whole long-hair-scruffy-beard thing does not make you look like a big strong Viking pillaging and plundering your way through a village. No. It makes you look like the unwashed armpit of a hobo. Not a good look. For anyone. Ever. Especially not you guys; Anderson Varejao, Jorge Garbajosa, Fabricio Oberto, Luis Scola

So just do us a favor and cut your hair. Those little, gay soccer player rubber band things aren't working either. Besides, if you really want to hold your hair back and keep it back, you should get a scrunchy?

See, the thing with the disheveled, half shaven beard and the oily hair is this; no matter how clean you may be in reality, you look like you reek. Just look at this picture of Pau Gasol. Man do I hate Pau Gasol. Filthy, dirty Lakers! But look at this picture long and hard. Now close your eyes and smell. Are you like me? Do you smell a bouquet of rotten cabbage drenched in man sweat, mixing with Ax body spray? That, my friends, is the suggestive power of the moistened half beard at work. Now, Gasol may very well be a sanitary man, but I have no evidence to support such a claim. All I know is what I see and what I fake smell.

Of course there are those who will go to the other extreme. They go to the feminine extent to take extra good care of their flowing man locks. Take Sasha Vujacic. Note the stupid little hair band thing. Dangit man! You are a professional athlete! You should not be packing a flat iron with you on road games. Is it not enough that your name is Sasha?

So look fellas. With the long hair, you either end up an unkempt bum or a metro looking d-bag. It’s a lose / lose scenario. So avoid the dilemma all together and Detlef Schrempf it off, you dang hippies!

I would like to make one more thing clear. The short hair principle only applies to white guys.

(stop your whining!)

The black guys can grow their hair out as long as they want because the NBA needs more Ben Wallace fro's.

What else do you say?

I stayed up late last night watching Tron. Yah that's right, I said Tron. And I'm not ashamed of it.

A great clip

I sat through a beauty school graduation once (you might not have known those even existed but they do. Oh how they do...) when the head beautician/world record holder for the longest-fingernails-in-the-whole-world-ever! stood up and offered a "speech". Said speech included references to the hardships of beauty school and even offered up a quote from Sir Winston Churchill. She told how "Winston" once delivered an address in which he walked to the lectern, stared at the gathered crowd and said, "Never. Never. Never, give up!" and then he sat down. The best part is, she explained all this while hoisting a poster which spelled out the quote in glittered writing.

Now, having slogged through all one billion pages of "The Last Lion" I found this story highly dubious. So dubious in fact, that while pondering the quote, I emailed winstonchurchill.org for a little clarification.

Turns out the story proves to be a total, over-the-top lie. Churchill had delivered a speech with the phrase, "Never, never, in nothing great or small, large or petty, never give in except to convictions of honour and good sense. Never yield to force; never yield to the apparently overwhelming might of the enemy." But he never, never, never gave the quote the beautician butchered. Never.

But here's my simple point. Anything written in glitter probably needs some verification. And while we're at it, lets pay particular attention to put that sparkly quote back into context, can we? I mean, I don't know Sir Churchill well enough to call him Winston, but I doubt if given the chance to speak at a beauty school graduation, he would have chosen to say "Never, never, never give up". But... at the same time, I also doubt that if Martin Luther King, Ghandi, or Mother Theresa ever had the chance to read my blog they would bother to say anything profound to me either. Rather, they would ask, "Why do you waste so much time blogging?" and I would say, "leave me alone you over-zealous, do-gooder ghosts."

This is late. I know. Get off my back. I had to root through 6 CDs (roughly 3,000 photos) to find these...

1978
1979
Nice mom and dad! ...so much for a well documented childhood...
We leap from 1979 to 1983 without a single jack-o-lantern line-up!?
On second thought... those were my fat years... thanks for leaving them out.

1983

Alright! What the heck!? I wasn't fat after 1984. Maybe because we stopped celebrating Halloween!

2008