Considering Monasticism

Goodbye

2010-06-21T14:06:00.002-06:00

Well, to all those who have faithfully read this blog, I bid thee farewell. I am striking out on my own, or maybe I'm just sick of being compared to Kory. Anyways, check out http://www.justinowen.me. That's where I'll be . . .

Gall Bladders and Jazz Games

2010-05-06T19:29:00.001-06:00

You don't have to know someone well to love them.

As I drive home in a hurry after work, I feel a vibration in my pocket and hear a familiar ring.

“Hello?”

“Justin?” My grandfather's voice has remained unchanged over the years, the same voice I used to hear as he took me for rides on his lawn mower. Sometimes, he'd let me steer.

“Hi Grandpa, how are you?”

This is no idle pleasantry - his life has been a constant battle with health problems, especially those cardiovascular in nature. He's had two quadruple bypasses, and the doctors refuse to do another because half his heart is slowly dying. Once in a while, he reports chest pains and scares our family, but so far he keeps hanging on. Recently he was diagnosed with adult onset diabetes. This seemingly bad news has turned out to be a blessing; his prescribed diet changes resulted in moderate weight loss and more energy.

Behind his back I speak with my parents about the consequences of eating a diet high in cholesterol for decades, but I don't mention it to him. Time now is too precious and such decisions have already been made. Better now, I judge, to spend what time we have left together.

“I'm pretty good,” his response is honest; he would tell me if something was wrong. At least, I think he would. “Are you going to come catch the game tonight?”

Sometimes I have a hard time relating to him. We're from very different worlds. Clarkston, Utah is his home town, a place where Main Street and 1^st Street have a yield sign and cows healthily out number people. He made his living on the farm, dropping out of high school and working his way up in the business of cows, milk, and cheese. That world is as foreign as the Middle East to me; we really don't have much to talk about. Sports, however, are an interest for both of us, and now the Jazz are in the playoffs.

“Absolutely. Should I bring anything?”

“No, I'll have burgers for you.”

“You spoil me, Grandpa.”

“That's a grandfather's privilege.”

That's the typical length of our conversations: now the game is on. We don't say much for the rest of the night. His new TV shows us basketball in high definition.

During halftime, timeouts, and injury attorney commercials, he gives me glimpses of his life. When they were young adults, my grandmother worked at a local diner, and he used to go there just to see her. One time, while his dad was gone, he stole the horse for a few hours and won a race among the neighborhood boys. He used to referee local church basketball and enjoyed ejecting the players who got a little too mouthy.

Not getting an education is his biggest regret: he didn't apply for a job in Oregon because he didn't think he qualified. These tidbits are precious; I hold onto them and try to piece the puzzle together. Every new piece gives color to a portion of who I am.

After a while, doctors all seem to blend together; they become Hermes, ferrying messages of well-being or disease from the gods. Last winter, my grandpa called my mother informing her that he was having chest pains again. After numerous tests, the doctors informed him that he could either live with the pain or have his gall bladder removed.

I sat in the hospital room, just the two of us, discussing the very surgery that claimed my other grandfather's life ten years ago. Tubes were in his arms, dripping who knows what into his veins. I just sat and listened.

“I know I'm old, and if it is my time to go, there's something one the other side that will make me very happy.” My grandmother passed away six years ago, and he made no attempt at concealing the longing in his eyes.

What do you say to someone who is ready to die? I hardly know anything about his life. Maybe I've wasted my time.

The game is over now, and the Jazz came out on top.

“Can I expect you next time, Justin?”

“Wouldn't miss it. Thanks, grandpa.”

Maybe, before the end inevitably comes, I will know him a little better.

"Danny Boy" or "Mmm, Bop?": The Quest For the World's Greatest Song

2010-03-03T12:22:00.003-07:00

First of all, let me give you a piece of advice: never ask someone what the greatest song of all time is.
Is it because they will be wrong? No. Of course they will be wrong. This is a given. A panel of experts, made up of myself and my brother, has proven long ago that the greatest song ever written is "Louie, Louie," by the Kingsmen, closely followed by Judy Garland's performance of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," Gruber and Mohr's "Silent Night," and "The Theme to the Cosby Show."
The reason you should never ask someone what the greatest song of all time is this: sometimes, you will not be able to tell if they are joking.
Now, we in the column business are hesitant to write about music, because music makes up a quarter of the Wheel O' the Offended (the other three quarters are religion, politics, and the Twilight series). None of these four topics can be addressed without torrents of spittle-dripping, venomous, quotation mark-laden e-mails being e-thrust into our e-faces. They always seem to sound like this:
"Hey, Dung-for-Brains! I can't believe you think bands like Journey and Boston and Kansas and Styx and Rush and Foreigner are "all the same band!" So what if they all sound "exactly alike." So what if the "tightness of their leather pants cuts off the circulation to the musically creative parts of their brains." If I ever find out who you are, I'm going to shave obscenities in your hair while you're sleeping! And you're a bad writer! And ugly!"
Recently, I conducted a very scientific and accurate poll of my closest friends and family (via text message) to find out what they thought was the greatest song of all time. Some people shrugged the request, citing the "too many musical genres." Wimps. Most people, however, tightened their belts and gave their answers.
Expectedly, repeat responses were given. "Danny Boy," "Greensleeves," "O, Holy Night," "The Hallelujah Chorus," and "Stairway to Heaven" were some of the pre-1900's classics listed. The Beatles made the list at least eight times, with "Hey Jude," "Eleanor Rigby," "Blackbird," "That One Awful Song They Let Ringo Write," "Stairway to Heaven," and "The Theme to the Cosby Show." Michael Jackson showed up more than a few times, as did both Billy Joel and Elton John. Even Journey made the list a few times with "Don't Stop Believin'," "Tom Sawyer," "Come Sail Away," and "Stairway to Heaven." All these responses are valid ones, though technically wrong (ref. paragraph 1).
A few respectable token songs also made the list. Songs like Sting's "Fields of Gold," Eric Clapton's "Change the World," and James Taylor's "Gone to Carolina" meant something to somebody, and though they may not be academically superior to other works (ref. "Louie, Louie"), they are good simply for the fact that you can't hear them without humming them. I'm pretty sure no one has ever said, "Oh, no! Not James Taylor! He's awful! Quick, change it to Flock of Seagulls!"
I begrudgingly accepted multiple country music songs as answers, though I died a little. "Then," by Brad Paisley," "Amazed," by Lonestar, "Something Sappy and Catchy," by Rascal Flatts, the Dixie Chicks' "Stairway to Heaven," and "Patriotic Nostalgia in My Home Kitchen," by Dwayne "Ford Endorsement" McMustache, all made the list.
What makes this poll a problem are answers (all real) like "Mmm, Bop," "Love Shack," "Blue (da-ba-dee, da-ba-die)," and anything by Neil Diamond. Was someone out there simply being impish, thinking that an outlier like "I'm a Barbie Girl" would burn a hole through the bottom of the graph and ruin the poll? Or were they really sitting, dripping perspiration, making pro and con lists, debating whether Rod Stewart's "Sometimes, When We Touch" or Madonna's "Like a Virgin" was historically more significant?
At any rate, it's hard to define what makes good music good music. The main thing to remember is, though some music may be technically better than other music, that technically does not make it better than other music which is technically worse, though it is better, technically. And what may have meaning (though sometimes inexplicably) to someone else may sound to me like "Mmm, Bop."

The Candy Man

2010-02-08T17:52:00.004-07:00

An older man
Comes in and fills the office candy machine.
I see him now and then,
He walks awkwardly with the weight.

I wonder what his family's like,
And if he really likes those sweets.
How did he get that job?
Did he retire but it's not enough?

Usually his pants hang a bit low
I don't really know him, and so
We pass each other in the hallway
Without saying a word - me on my side, and he on his.

The River, a Moose, and my Grandpa

2009-12-27T16:51:00.003-07:00

The following is a paper I wrote for a class last semester - it's an attempt at creative non-fiction using water as a symbol. I was supposed to keep it to 600 words, which is difficult but makes you force your writing to be better.

Filtering water shouldn't be this hard, I grumbled to myself.

My forearms throbbed, but I ignored the pain and continued to pump. Stopping mean there wouldn't be any clean water to drink that day, and there was no way I was drinking straight from the river. The bottom of the six inch side-pool that my pump drew from wasn't even visible.

I had wondered from time to time how the Green River got its name, and now it seemed obvious. Here, near the headwaters of the Green in Wyoming's Wind River Mountains, glacial silt gives the river its namesake color. No manufactured pigment can compare. Fish are rare, and the water is nearly opaque. The silt completely clogged my filter after one day, but the water I drank was clean.

The next day we searched for a clearer source. Through wide glacial valleys, the Green begins its journey toward the ocean. These valleys are nature’s half-pipe. The only lake within 10 miles was up and over the nearly impassable side, under the gaze of Square Top Mountain. This granite behemoth is visible for miles in all directions, a watchful protector of a precious resource. Upon arrival, we rested and caught so many fish that I grew tired of it. Nobody else crossed our path that day.

Downstream lies Flaming Gorge reservoir, which is a second home for me. It is a place where my cares dissipate and I enjoy both nature and my family. Memories here are as abundant as calories in a French fry. Even today, I remember where I built a stick fort as a child. I remember where my uncle saw the mountain lion. One year, beyond Skull Creek campground, my father and I stopped to rest and observe a herd of elk grazing on a distant mountain. Grass crunched as something approached us from behind. Casually turning to see what it was, a large, dark biomass with antlers the size of Maryland stared back. The moose ignored our existence as he walked briskly between us. We trembled and continued munching on our trail mix. Maybe he was scared, too.

My late grandpa comes to mind whenever I’m here. I remember card games and campfires. “Keep the fire in the fire!” he would scold whenever I torched various sticks which I had found exploring earlier that day. Once, we took a German exchange student boating through the scarlet cliffs of Red Canyon. His eyes were wider than chicken eggs. I guess stupendous cliffs are rare in Niedersachsen.

As it continues downstream, the Green descends a desert staircase. Winding through sandstone canyons, it continually hones the formations that make southern Utah famous.

Recently, as two of my fellow desert rats and I approached Moab, we turned go up the highway that runs parallel to the Green, toward Castle Valley. On the right side of the road, there is a pipe that comes straight out of the cliff. It’s tradition to fill Camelbaks here. The water was clean and delicious. This time, we were all disappointed to see that the pipe is dry. Perhaps pollution forced the government to turn it off. I heard there was a uranium mine nearby. Maybe no one actually got sick, and some bureaucrat just didn't want to risk liability. Whatever the cause, my trips won't be the same.

Like the glacial valleys and sandstone it cuts through, the Green River has helped shape me. It supports life everywhere it goes. It provides places of solitude, adventure, and refuge. The river is constantly changing the world around it, and man is constantly changing the river for himself.

That moose is gone. My grandpa is gone. The river remains.

Untitled

2009-12-24T09:47:00.002-07:00

A late night trip to Denny's,
Hot chocolate and chicken noodle soup.
Discussing Rembrandt and Disney movies,
I fostered my foolish hopes.

SHMOOEY THE WONDER BOY

2009-11-04T10:57:00.001-07:00

This year for Halloween, I'm dressing as Shmooey the Wonder Boy.
Who is this Shmooey the Wonder Boy? Where might I purchase his costume? Is it in anyway an ethnic slur? These are questions I'm sure you're asking, and I'd be delighted to answer.
Shmooey the Wonder Boy is the everyman's Superhero, invented by my childhood neighbors, the Tucker boys (name changed). The Tuckers were a motley troop. Each one was skinnier than an Ethiopian pigeon, and paler than a vampire with the flu. There were at least seven boys, though experts believe there might be as many as five more lurking in the basement.
The Tuckers loved Halloween, because they each required a daily 13,000 calories (purely derived from sugar) to function. They trick-or-treated like Green Berets. No prisoners were taken. Any house that did not strictly adhere to the Halloweenic Code of Ogden (composed by Mike Tucker on the back of his math homework in 1991) was in for trouble. Eggs and toilet paper were merely the fringe of their arsenal. It is rumored that one year, a gang of Tuckers convened on Miss Edna Cragun's lawn at three in the morning and, using Bic lighters and hairspray, burned into her lawn the words "JUST TRY AND GIVE US WALNUTS NEXT YEAR."
Despite their ghoulish zeal, the Tuckers were faced with two recurring problems every Halloween: 1) they were too poor to afford real costumes, and 2) Halloween was the one night of the year their mother could sit quietly by herself in a dark room and re-think her life. This meant that neither K-Mart nor Mrs. Tucker would be providing their attire for the evening. So, each little Tucker was on his own to scrounge and rummage through storage bins, garage cabinets, church dumpsters, the neighbor's yard, and their father's closet to put together a suitable trick-or-treating costume. The result was always Shmooey the Wonder Boy. It was a hodgepodgey stew of a Super Hero. It was Superman-meets-Western Family.
Every Halloween, seven (or possibly twelve) little Shmooeys would flit about the streets of Ogden, their sticky pillow sacks swinging with caloric glee. I remember Wade Tucker bouncing in sugary merriment down Mountain Road, sporting size 12 cowboy boots, a cape made from a doormat (it said, "WIPE YOUR PAWS HERE"), a mask fashioned from bike helmet-padding, and lavender corduroys. His older, more impish brother Tyler modeled what fashion moguls would call the "Army Fatigues and Underwear Over Your Pants" look, topped by a sombrero and gigantic football pads.
I tried once to mimic their attempts, but it came off like a Hollywood remake: more flair, less creativity. I would scour the house for moon boots, eye patches, old sports jackets, and ugly ties, compiling what I thought must be quintessentially haphazard, but alas, it always felt forced and insufficiently shoddy. In the moving words of Richard Tucker, "It looks like you went to a thrift store and bought stupid things."
I was so unsystematic that I had become systematic. My Shmooey was a pristine, store-bought birthday cake, devoid of flavor and draped in multi-hue icing, and the Tucker Shmooey was a gooey, misshapen, delectable dish of brownies. I shrugged my strained and slapdash garb in exchange for a hobo costume.
But not this year. No! This year, I will make the Tuckers proud. My Shmooey will reign supreme! I will not force spontaneity, but embrace it. I will not sell out. I will wear my unfashionable Shmooey costume with pride. I want to be the best Shmooey I can possibly be!
I also might be Indiana Jones.

BUMPER STICKERS AND UNFLINCHING ZAXES

2009-11-04T10:54:00.002-07:00

I’m not sure who first started this trend of tattooing personal beliefs on the back of a car.
It used to be parents of honor students or owners of terriers or fans of the Raiders would reserve their bumpers as a display-case of pride, but lately, this honored spot has become a soapbox. Maybe it’s the free advertising. Maybe there’s a sticker surplus. Most likely, it’s because the Raiders no longer have fans.
No opinion of mine has ever been changed by a bumper sticker. I can’t remember ever following a sticker on the freeway and thinking, “Gee, NO-bama. That’s pretty clever. I’m changing my vote.” Conversely, I’ve also never re-contemplated circumcision after tailing my high school English teacher’s 1979 Datsun.
But bumper stickers have nothing to do with political conversion. They secretly serve the same purpose as gray and blue uniforms. We adorn our bumpers so everyone around us will know how we think, and thus they’ll see us standing at the pole we most want to represent. If we want to be viewed as a conservative, we “Support Our Troops.” If we’d rather be seen as liberal, we seek “Change and Honesty.” Problems ensue when a liberal wants to support the troops, but doesn’t support a war, or a conservative thinks change and honesty sound like good things, but her family says that means hating babies.
We are unknowingly fighting a war, and the enemy isn’t hiding in a country that ends in Stan. Polarization’s a deadly enemy. Take the recent D.C. incident. President Obama was addressing various Suits about plans for healthcare reform, and after stating that, contrary to popular Republican opinion, his new plan would not insure illegal immigrants, a brash Senator from South Carolina by the name of Joe Wilson yelled out, “You lie!”
Now, the issue here does not concern the accuracy of Rep. Wilson’s statement, but rather the appropriateness of its delivery. To some conservatives, he was Paul Revere, flying in the face of authority to stand for the right (no pun intended). To some liberals, he was more like Stonewall Jackson. Personally, I think Rep. Wilson thought he was in the Maury Povich audience (“Is He My Baby’s Daddy?”).
And what about Obama’s recent Nobel Prize? Do you blindly hate him for receiving an award Fox News tells you he doesn’t deserve? Do you blindly love him for standing as the medallion-draped figurehead of your Democratic party? Are you somewhere in the (gasp!) middle?
Let’s remember Dr. Seuss’s tale of the North-going Zax and the South-going Zax, who meet face to face in the Prairie of Prax. Neither Zax accepts the fact that he might have to move over to let the other one by, thus halting his own progress. They stand nose-to-nose forever, neither one getting to go where he wants, while freeways and skyscrapers go up around them.
We can continue stretching ourselves until we snap. We can take our ball and go home. We can dig deeper into our political trenches, or we can crawl out and (gasp again!) compromise.
Political polarization represents a self-defeating war being fought on American soil. Be a part of the peace talks. Remember that everyone carries a different set of formational experiences. Don’t assume a religious affiliation directly correlates with a political party. Bear in mind that sometimes, there are gray areas. Take a moment to understand why your left-or-right-leaning neighbor leans left or right, instead of deciding what you think of your neighbor when you discover his leaning.
Please, don’t be a Uni-directional Zax. The All-Terrain model is much more fun.

STAY IN PAPUA NEW GUINEA, YOU YELLOW DEMON-FRUIT!

2009-11-04T10:52:00.002-07:00

We all thought the enemies of the world were skulking in caves in Afghanistan, or hovering over missile-launch buttons in Iran, or lurking in Internet chat rooms, waiting to steal away our children, but we were wrong. Our newest, most dastardly enemy comes from Papua New Guinea.
That's right, good people of Earth. I speak of the banana.
"But that can't be!" you cry. The banana has never done anything to harm me. On the list of insidious fruits, the banana always seemed to be at the bottom, between peaches and kumquats. Oh, sure, maybe some fruits have an evil slant, like that pretentious avocado or the androgynous tomato (we all know you're really a vegetable, you little red punk), but never the banana! Its soothing yellow hue and chalky mildness forms the base of millions of smoothies and ice cream sundaes, and the peel alone has inspired comedians worldwide. How could the banana be wicked?
Well, the answer is simple. Bananas are stealing our water. Though green in color, the banana tree is not a green solution to landscaping. According to David Ellis, who is the editor of The American Gardener, the magazine of the American Horticultural Society, the banana tree is 90 percent water (and 10 percent malevolence), and will soak up a great deal of the moisture directed towards needier, less comedic plants.
"Species such as banana, commonly used in landscaping, come from tropical regions that get a lot of rain," continues Ellis. "These plants tend to have fairly high water requirements." He goes on to encourage Americans in removing their banana trees, hibiscus, impatiens, whangdoodles, and other foreign plants that honestly could be completely fake, and we would never know.
Ellis also writes of a new trend called xeriscaping, which is generally defined as landscaping that looks like Arizona threw up. Technically, it's landscaping that reduces the need for supplemental water, but this is a hard thing for Americans to accept. Picture frolicking and frisbeeing with your children across a gorgeous, manicured lawn of yucca. Or agave. Or neatly-arranged boulders. Or lamb's ear. Or buffalo grass (we're not sure, but this sounds like the kind of grass that spears you through the soles of your shoes).
This may sound bleak to a lot of people who still value the American dream of a perfectly trimmed emerald green lawn, but xeriscaping holds a lot of merit. First of all, it would purge our country of the depraved banana tree. Also, it would help us learn to embrace our native flora (like the Moab woodyaster). And it would save water, which we reportedly all need so much of, although I'm partially convinced that it's just another fad, like antioxidants or not eating carbs or mercury-marinated fish.
Maybe there are some out there who feel that a decision to become more green will have little-to-no effect on the environment. Just a drop in a bucket, they say. We're fine as we are. Well, I'm sorry, but I think we're doing some things wrong, and a small change for all of us would equal a larger change in the end. There is nothing nerdy or obsequious about being environmentally conscious and replacing your leeching landscaping with something a bit more dry. So maybe your bottle green lawn looks a tad more rocky and brown after it's completely replaced with brown rocks. And maybe your banana tree will resent being uprooted by a lavender bush. It's ok. Bananas need to pedal their iniquity someplace else.
In other news, thousands of monkeys marched on Washington today in protest of new anti-banana legislation.

TECHNOPHOBIA: THE SCI-FI CHANNEL TELLS ME I'M JUSTIFIED.

2009-11-04T10:50:00.002-07:00

I have a recurring nightmare. In this episode, I sit down at our family computer. After it boots up and I start my important work (Battle Chess 2006), the screen goes black and a sinister, red face with angry eyebrows pops up and starts laughing monotonically. As it rears its two-dimensional head in electronic throes of evil mirth, all the appliances in my house become self-aware. And we’ve all seen enough movies to know what happens when machines become self-aware. They start to kill humans.
Why is it that when technology becomes self-aware, the first instinct is to destroy humanity? Why not do something constructive, like form a book club?
By this point, I’m battling back an electric stapler, flinging old AOL discs like throwing stars and trying to stop the phone from dialing old girlfriends and insulting them. I duel with a motorized turkey carver, and as it knocks the spatula from my hand and backs me into a wall, I wake up in a cold sweat and realize something.
I am a technophobe.
This is hard to admit. When I think of technophobes, I picture old women sobbing over the blue screen of a 1998 Dell, wanting to write a simple thank-you note to cousin Melba, cursing the day they switched over from the typewriter. I picture my uncle shaking his fist at the parental occupants of a minivan whose offspring are watching Madagascar on their Mondo Vehicular T.V. Child-Distracter.
This is not me, but I walk a slippery slope. I don’t own an IPOD. I think USB is a college. Podcasts sound like a sci-fi movie idea (“Run, Glenn! The Podcasts are hatching!”). The only thing I know about Twitter is how excited it makes sports reporters. ESPN had a 3-day party when Terrell Owens started tweeting.
My apprehension for all things technological stems from ignorance. Ignorance primarily causes fear of most things. An example of this is our friend, the clown. These days, we only see clowns in horror movies, but if we ever really took the time to get to know one, I’m sure we’d find it to be a lovely person. Until it eats our brains.
People who understand technology don’t understand why people like me have such a hard time with it. In the words of William Gibson, “The future has already arrived. It’s just not evenly distributed yet.” We technophobes want to keep up. We don’t want to be the algae churned up in the wake of progress.
The more I learn about technology, the less scared it makes me, although I’m still convinced there’s a few robots out there trying to take over the entertainment industry (i.e. Kevin Costner, Keanu Reeves). Robots are also most likely behind those awful comments on online news stories, because there’s no way something human could write things so mean or so filled with inappropriately “placed” quotation marks.
Technology is not all bad, though, and if we try hard enough, we can find multiple uses for it. For instance, earlier this week, I came down with the flu, and my body was overcome by the shivers. I was colder than an Eskimo’s ex-girlfriend, and no amount of blankets and layers of pajamas could warm me. I looked around frantically for something, anything, to stop me from shivering, and the best solution I found was our family’s archaic laptop. I laid it down on top of all the blankets, and its warmth helped me pull through. So, in a way, I have technology to thank for my health.
At least, until Kevin Costner comes after me with an electric turkey carver.

RAH, RAH, REE, KICK HIM IN THE KNEE! RAH, RAH, RASS, KICK HIM IN THE OTHER KNEE!

2009-11-04T10:47:00.002-07:00

It’s Homecoming Week, everybody, which means…FOOTBALL!
The American football field hosts a weekly war, both terrible and artistic, a bloody poem in spandex and grease paint. Here, battles are won and lost, both at the ten-yard line and in line to buy bratwurst. Coaches govern teams in militaristic fashion, encouraging effort, focus, and an occasional ripped tendon. Athletes the size of Buicks sprint headlong into each other. The resultant skull-crashing and tooth-dislodging resembles a tin of mints being thrown into a high-powered fan.
Wait, you say you’re more of a soccer fan? The sight of blood and ruptured organs makes you cringe? Blasphemy! Football is as American as ABBA, Taco Bell, the Beatles, or Arnold Schwarzenegger.
The rules of football are too complicated, you say? Perhaps to the casual observer, but fear not, because from now on, we as a columnist have officially decreed Football Appreciation 101 to be a required course for university freshmen. Here’s a little preview of the course material. First, we offer a brief history of the sport and synopsis of the rules.
According to experts, football was invented somewhere between the years 1870 and 1960. The sport was originally played with a normal, round ball, but the ball’s shape was reputedly changed to its current two-pointed, maniacal state by a Rutgers University fraternity who enjoyed watching heavyset linemen chase fumbles that could spontaneously bounce backwards and lodge in their nasal cavities.
Football was sustained in its conceptual years by various males with lots of free time on weekends, and continued in relative obscurity until around the year 1998, which is the year we as a columnist started watching football (Go, Colts!).
To help further your football understanding, this new course will go into a position-by-position analysis.
The Quarterback: Usually the best-looking player (if teen movies are still accurate), quarterbacks are the trigger. They date supermodels, endorse Rolexes, and control everything that happens on offense, unless something goes wrong, in which case it was completely the fault of…
The Offensive Line: Arguably the most affable athletes in sports, offensive lineman are the true heart of the team, sacrificing both knees and years of their life to gain large amounts of weight, all to keep the quarterback in Rolex ads.
The Wide Receivers: Receivers start training early in life to be noticed. This is why they are always on television giving interviews. They develop expensive hobbies, complain, and are always about to be traded.
The Running Back: The RB’s job is to run two yards up the middle on every play, making football more boring to watch for the casual observer. Also, they are keeping a large wing of the drug industry afloat.
The Kicker: This guy’s like your 8-yr. old sister. He can do or say whatever he wants to you, but as soon as you rough him up a little or call him a name, you’re the one who gets penalized.
And on defense…
Linebackers: The linebacker always has a funny name, like Dick Butkus, or Brian Urlacher, or Ray “Nancy” Lewis, but you would never make fun of one. They are the most curious footballers, in that they are always trying to rip off the Quarterback’s helmet and examine its contents.
Defensive Line/Ends/Backs/Safeties: Also big and scary.
Special Teams: Not what you think.
And there, in a nutshell, is the first week of our Introduction to Football course. Remember to support the team this week in the Homecoming game. For help with authentic cheers and taunts, see page 38 in the course textbook (Chapter 3: “Are You Blind, Ref?...And Other Helpful Yelling Hints).

WE'RE ALL AS CRAZY AS THE PRINCE OF POP

2009-11-04T10:44:00.001-07:00

Recently, Michael Jackson died.
I don’t know if you heard about this, and I’m sorry if I’m the one to break the news. I mention his passing in passing, merely to demonstrate a point.
We all know that he wasn’t exactly a normal guy. We get that. We’ve heard all about it. And yet, while viewing the hours of memorial media coverage, I was fascinated to hear how many times people mentioned he was crazy.
Ok, fine, he slept in an oxygen chamber. His gender was, at times, indiscernible. His best friend was a python. Only a couple of his siblings had real names. He might have been an alien (further study is required). But what we really need to look at, folks, is how different from Michael Jackson we are not. The only difference between Michael Jackson and us is that he had absurd amounts of money. And he could moonwalk.
Don’t believe me? Fine. I will provide proof showing why the average person is completely bonkers.
We go to amusement parks and worry about whether or not the Macho Doom Coaster is safe, and fasten ourselves into the seat six different ways, and scream and throw up and cry, and when we’re done, we strap ourselves into two-thousand pound death machines and hurtle down the freeway at high speeds, weaving through construction barriers, all while driving inches away from other cars, while simultaneously phoning our friend about the Mets’ starting rotation, munching a bag of chocolate-covered cinnamon bears, and singing “Hey Jude” at the top of our lungs, all without even getting sweaty palms.
We spend hundreds of dollars and hours in preparation of our high school prom, and actually dance for maybe one song (usually “With Or Without You” by U2).
We continue to support the L.A. Clippers as a professional sports franchise.
We still think that local sports radio call-in shows are a good idea. (“Well, I’ll tell you, Tom, here’s why I think that Jerry Sloan should run for governor…”)
We think that no one will notice our toupee.
We spend millions of dollars on home exercise equipment, healthier cookbooks, organic ingredients, gym memberships, and Tae Bo videos, and then get in our car and drive for thirty seconds to church. Or take the elevator for two floors.
We elected (insert whichever person your favorite news channel tells you to hate here) to be (President/Vice President/Senator/American Idol). Man, that person is/was such a (Nincompoop/Tyrant/Philanderer/Marxist/George W. Bush/Child-Devouring Ogre).
We’re more scared of the swine flu than heart disease.
We support/have supported the careers of the following people: Carson Daly, Winona Ryder, Michael Bolton, Tara Reid, Kenny G, Orlando Bloom, Neil Diamond, Pauly Shore, Allen Iverson, Matthew McConaughey, Kevin Federline, Vince Carter, and Ben Affleck.
Also, Carrot Top.
Probably the biggest indicator of our societal nuttiness is how unnecessarily difficult we make the dating process. Men will pretend to like Enya. Women will lure men in by feigning complete disinterest in them.
So Michael Jackson only wore one sequined glove. Some of us wear windshield-sized sunglasses. Maybe Michael had an altered nose the size of a Hershey’s kiss. Some guys walk around their whole lives with their stomachs sucked in. Michael had a theme park in his backyard. Some people like professional wrestling.
And to anyone out there who thinks they are nothing like Michael Jackson, I say to you: “Just beat it (beat it), beat it (beat it).” (Beat It, 1982)

OF FREEDOM AND PARKING

2009-11-04T10:43:00.001-07:00

Like so many of you, I was driving around campus one morning from 9:20 to 10:35, trying to find a parking space with my special W pass.
Owning a W pass is like scoring backstage passes to a concert, then arriving at the concert and realizing that Burger King handed out a free backstage pass to anyone who purchased a large soda. I was driven to that expletive precipice, cursing the driver of the white 1992 Honda Civic (you know who you are) who just snaked my parking space. I had been following a woman from the Browning Center to her car to get this space. I don’t understand why the Honda felt he deserved this spot, since my license plate numbers were nearly imprinted on the back of this woman’s legs several times.
I sat in the middle of the parking aisle, wishing flaming, hot death upon the Civic’s driver, and bemoaning my oppressed existence. College students have no freedom, I grumbled. Our schedules are slave to the number of parking spots on campus. Our professors heap homework upon us, severely limiting occasions for guys like me to be rejected by women. Our employers forget what it was like to be in college. We’re already poor, but we still get ticketed by cops in Rawlins, Wyoming, for driving 84 in a 75. Honestly? On a rural Wyoming freeway, where the nearest car to me could have stopped, gotten out, danced the entire Macarena on the freeway, and then driven off before they even saw my headlights?
I was rolling in my gutter of self-pity, when I remembered my assignment to write in reflection of the anniversary of the Emancipation Proclamation. I screwed up my face and deliberated. What did I have to feel emancipated about? I’m about as majority as it gets around here. The last time my ancestors really needed emancipating was when they were coming through Wyoming on handcarts and amputated feet (I have to say, Wyoming, you’re not so welcoming). More recently, my ancestors only needed emancipating when they forgot their Café Rio punchcard and had to pay for what they thought would be a free burrito.
I flipped on the radio, seeking guidance. It was tuned to a political pundit who is fierce and unrelenting, his opinions shooting forth like unmerciful hellfire. Cringing, I switched the station to public radio, which is about as fierce as taffy. There was a reporter talking about some horrible explosion in some country East or West of here. Meanwhile, two journalists were still missing after publishing their new tell-all about a corrupt Slavic government. And miraculously, the victory in another country’s election went unanimously to the bully already in power.
Just ahead of me, a tan Suburban left the two parking spots it had been occupying, and I gleefully tiptoed into one of them. Feeling more appreciative, I started the tardy scurry, my mind racing along with my feet. What freedoms do I enjoy, after all?
I have the freedom to get a college education, in whichever study I choose. I drive there in my car, which is one of my family’s four vehicles. I can write whatever I want (within reason) in this column without going missing, and if I can’t write it here, I can go online and join the Blowhard Blogger Society. I can drive through Wyoming and get ticketed without being dragged to prison or beaten to a pulp.
I stopped mid-campus and smiled. I also have the freedom to leave a passive-aggressive note on the windshield of a white Honda Civic.

NINJA SERVICE

2009-11-04T10:41:00.001-07:00

A friend of mine was feeling down in the dumps last semester, both from his mind-numbing job and too many general classes. Everything he did was self-serving, and he was becoming a stagnant pool of himself. One day on the way home from school, he drove gloomily past a massive grocery store parking lot, and watched as a healthy woman on her cell phone unloaded her Diet Coke into the rear of her SUV, looked back and forth from behind her windshield-sized sunglasses, then coolly shoved the shopping cart away into oblivion.
He couldn't believe it. Twenty yards away from her car was the metal cart depository. Thirty yards away was the entrance to the store. He swerved maniacally into the lot and parked noisily as the woman puttered distractedly off. His door flew open, and he seized the cart, steering it into the correct place with vigor.
He looked around and noticed at least twenty shopping carts strewn helter-skelter amongst the vehicles. This was the product of a self-centered society, and embarrassment overcame him. He got back into his car, sat, thought for a moment, then hopped back out. Deftly moving around the parking lot, he steered each cart back to its home. After about fifteen minutes, he paused next to his car and admired the uncluttered parking lot, sweating contentedly.
Pretty soon, he started noticing other missing squares in the quilt of common decency, and he stopped to patch them up. Another funny thing happened: the holes in his own self were being filled every time he stopped to make something better. One day, he walked behind a wall of bushes bordering a building on campus, and picked up every piece of trash. It took him more than one go, but between his classes, he managed to get all of it done.
No one noticed, of course, but that was part of what made it feel so good. He would swoop down onto a needy scene, like a jolly ninja, and poof away with a HI-YAH! and a flash of smoke, leaving the area clean and beautiful. And not only were these acts therapeutic, they genuinely made the world better. In fact, these little acts of service became so common, he began to plan them. Every day, he would pick out a half hour and write down "Ninja Service" in his planner.
So, Grasshopper, it is time to learn the ways of the Service Ninja. The rules are simple. First, like the true ninja, you must stay invisible. Second, any small act is great, but the bigger the service, the bigger the impact. And finally, make sure you're not doing something unwanted ("Hey! You there! Stop pruning my prize azaleas!").
Here are a few other ideas:
1. Walk into a restaurant, point out a random family, and pay for their meal anonymously.
2. Read twenty different blogs you normally wouldn't care about and leave positive comments on all of them.
3. Find a street and de-litter the whole thing.
4. Smile at each person you walk past on campus for a day.
5. Hold an international summit standardizing terms for nuclear disarmament and AIDS prevention worldwide.
6. Sit outside a busy building on campus as class gets out and hold the door open until everyone is settled.
Now, these are just a few ideas, and they may not all be within your reach, unless you are Oprah. But the thing is, some of them are. So, what are you waiting for? Ninja...attack! HI-YAH!

PROOF OF EVOLUTION CAN BE SEEN IN SOME RELATIVES

2009-11-04T10:37:00.002-07:00

As an active member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, I've seen situations where concepts and beliefs I hold dear were challenged, disputed, and occasionally mocked. Tragically, I've seen circumstances where the reverse was also true. A predominant mob-arousing idea in these parts, at least as far as I have noticed, is that pesky little devil, Evolution. There is a lot more room for us as participating members of our church to be open-minded about evolution.
Whoa! Whoa! Hey! Put down the pitchforks and eggs, people. Hear me out for a moment. Whether you like it or not, we live in a world of science and scientific theory. Historically, there have been many scientific ideas originally rejected by the major religious bodies that are now cherished and accepted by all (excluding my friend, who thinks the world is actually shaped like a microwave burrito).
Now, church leaders of our faith have never taken any sort of stance against science. In fact, we have a strong history of embracing it. Elder Russell M. Nelson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles is a world-renowned heart surgeon. Elder Richard G. Scott was a nuclear engineer. Advances in varied sciences like oncology and aerodynamics and psychology have blessed the lives of millions, including members of our church. The hand of God has been evidenced in these fields. Why should fields like archaeology, anthropology, and paleontology be excluded?
Here are a few facts everyone can generally agree on. Things evolve. This is documented, and it affects many creatures. Finches on the Galapagos Islands developed different-shaped beaks depending on their favorite foods. Horses and donkeys were once the same creature, as substantiated by their odd little offspring, the mule. Two-time Academy Award-winning actress Hilary Swank started out in Karate Kid 3.
Are we descended from monkeys? I have a brother whose very existence could open my family up to investigation. Really, though, the similarities are startling. Humans and monkeys both have opposable thumbs. Both use tools. Both clap and laugh hysterically when someone hands them a toy, like a stuffed animal or a Wii. They both throw their own waste (again, my brother). And they both were in the 1996 film Dunston Checks In (starring Jason Alexander and Sam the Orangutan, but I can't remember which one played the monkey).
Strict evolutionists will proclaim from the windows of their hybrid cars that God is inexplicable and contradictory. Zealous creationists will scream Monday through Saturday that the fossil record has too many gaping holes.
Mark Twain, in his book Huckleberry Finn, sets Huck and his friend Jim on the banks of the Mississippi, looking up at the stars. They are innocently discussing the fabric of life, and who or what made this and that. Huckleberry, in his impish wisdom, says the following. "We had the sky up there, all speckled with stars, and we used to lay on our backs and look up at them, and discuss whether they was made or only just happened." (Chapter 19, paragraph 5). Well, why can't the answer be both? Why can't things have been made to just happen?
Some members of our church will say that the theory of evolution attempts to explain God's ways for him, but it seems to me that harshly dismissing the theory does the same thing. Would it take a miracle for something like evolution to be true? Yes.
But aren't miracles something that we believe in?

A FAREWELL TO ROLLER SKATES

2009-08-07T23:35:00.004-06:00

A FAREWELL TO ROLLER SKATES - Kory Wood

"I want to be alone." Greta Garbo

"Ugh...Is she still there?"
Will and I hunkered close to the wooden pylons at the top of the jungle gym, avoiding scratchy splinters and swatting away wasps. Will sat slightly elevated, his hand perched above his brow in a keen look-out.
"Oh man, there she is! Erin! Disgusting." Will signaled for me to duck down even farther. His wiry frame and light lock of brown hair snapped in the wind. "How far away do you think she is, General Mike?" he yelled down from our roost.
"Estimating one hundred feet away, General Will and General Kory. She's looking around and crying. What a dork." Mike cupped his hands around his eyes, focusing his imaginary binoculars. He stood crouched at the base of our fortress, deftly hidden behind a large tire. There wasn't much of Mike to hide, though his vibrantly pale skin stuck out next to the solid black of the tire like a white flag.
I pressed down close to the platform, squinting away sweat and praying that Erin Brown wouldn't find me again. Please, for all that was holy, let me enjoy one recess to myself. No more pandering to some needy, silly little girl.
Living through the fourth grade at Horace Mann Elementary School was already perilous without introducing females into the equation. I had moved back for this school year, and had enjoyed a higher popularity than I was used to, but with that "new kid" novelty came the unwanted attention of the grosser sex, particularly Erin. I could barely turn around these days without bumping into her. Heavens, but she needed attention.
Erin followed me everywhere, lavishing me with compliments, giving me small gifts, and generally just staring. When we played tag, she always seemed to slow down when I was it. Thank heavens I was at the dentist the day one of the fifth graders suggested we play kissing tag. I might never have recovered after direct lip contact from one of her species. Thankfully, the game was swiftly outlawed upon its discovery by our playground Gestapo, the militaristic and frighteningly androgynous Mrs. Franklin.
Oh, Erin was cute enough, I guess. If you liked that kind of thing. Girls, I mean. But she was starting to get a little creepy. That morning, she unsportingly approached me while I was caught up in a rousing game of pogs.
"Hi, Kory."
Blast! The dozing sentries Mike and Will looked at me guiltily. They would be dealt with later.
"Oh, uh, hey Erin. Did you want to play pogs? Because I was just leaving for...the other side of the playground. You can take my spot."
"Oh....no. I don't know how to play pogs. How does it work? You just hit the....What do you do?"
"Well, you use this big one to......um, you hit the....you know, I'm not entirely sure myself." I was a slave to trends.
"That's fine, I don't really want to learn, anyway. I just wanted to show you this." She pulled from the top of her Sesame Street T-Shirt a small, bronze locket. "Look what's inside." She opened it and handed the small necklace to my quivering fingers. Inside the locket was a picture of me.
After I am dead, I am going to take a visit to the great video archive in the sky, loan out a projector, and watch several moments from my life. This would be one of them. I'm sure that a study of the combination of emotions on my face will provide hours of after-life entertainment for me.
I stood, both beet-faced and drained of color, flabbergasted and focused in rage, panicky and serene. I didn't know in what way to react. Should I show thanks or throttle her? No idea. What scared me most, though, was that beneath this jambalaya of emotions, in a cool cave, there waited an unwearied feeling, a little man with a reaction I'd ne'er felt before, a kind of grinding, churning, biting feeling only brought on by Erin. Was I....flattered? Joyful, even?
No, never. What would the guys think? My fingers relaxed and the locket swung back towards her chest. "That's....wow, Erin....Where did you get a picture of me?"
"I brought my dad's camera to school yesterday. It was while you were swinging. You love swinging."
"That's....great...." I looked at Mike and Will, and not-so-subtly mouthed, Help!
Well, the best solution either of them came up with was for Mike to suddenly stand up and push Erin down. We bolted like bank robbers and reconvened inside the large, cement tube on the other side of the playground. We laughed at the sounds of Erin's friends cursing us and all our descendants, and our victorious joy was capped by Erin's tearful wail lilting alluringly across the lawn.
Lilting alluringly? No, I'm sorry.
The next few weeks traveled the same route. Erin somehow stayed enamored with me, and we did our best to dodge her pursuance. Every time we would sneak out of an Erin trap, we would meet up and slap each other on the backs and guffaw and laud the redeeming qualities of man and discuss Erin's many character flaws and funny nose and general girlish defects.
Somewhere down in the cool cave, a man hopped up and down, gallantly defending her through the fog of insults and cursing my friends and me for not reveling in her attentions. I snuffed him out and sat brooding, fearful of my hidden feelings and not knowing exactly what they were.

* * *

"God created man and, finding him not sufficiently alone, gave him a companion to make him feel his solitude more keenly." Paul Valery

I remember it was during one of Mrs. Barlow's art lessons that my fears came to a boil. We were drawing pumpkins and then cutting them up into small strips, after which we would assemble and paste the strips into the correct order again on a separate sheet of paper. The after-effect was a pumpkin that didn't look as good as it did before we cut it, plus it was covered in paste. I don't know why we did this, but Mrs. Barlow insisted it made us more artistic.
As she walked around the room, admiring our disfigured gluey gourds, smiling and nodding, she stopped suddenly and smacked herself in the forehead. "Good heavens, I'd almost forgotten. The roller skating activity!"
For some unknown reason, my heart simultaneously stopped beating and still felt as if it would burst clean out of my chest.
"Class, we are going to the 9th Street Roller Rink a week from today. Make sure and take these permission slips home to..." I was already day-dreaming. Roller-skating. Fantastic. Another way to embarrass myself. My family was not gifted athletically, and when things like balance were thrown in, well...I was sure I would spend most of the time licking the floor and nursing wounded elbows and knees.
"...and at the end, we'll have time for partners' skating, so start looking for that Special Sweetie now, gentleman." Mrs. Barlow chuckled in a high titter, and went back to perusing our pumpkins.
A quiet roar swept across the classroom. Girls exchanged knowing glances and feminine gasps, while boys sunk lower into their seats or feigned vomiting. But from across the classroom, through the back-left of my skull, I could feel the burning glare of two eyes. I blushed like a fire hydrant, never turning around. An excited terror melted all the bones in my body, and I sank down in my desk till my eyes were level with my Jurassic Park pencil case.

* * *

"Once the toothpaste is out of the tube, it's awfully hard to get it back in." H.R. Haldeman

Gliding along to the music of Billy Joel and Whitney Houston, my classmates chortled and whooped on the floor of the roller skating rink. I had been tying my laces for the last half hour, the psychedelic lights bouncing around the room. Previous to tying my laces, I had managed to waste an hour switching out pairs of roller skates that were too small, too long, too tight, etc. The last pair I had given back on the grounds that they were “too girly.” Their appearance differed in no way from the other pairs, but I did my best in insisting that their cut was markedly ladylike.
I was at my stalling edge, though. My friends stopped by on every rotation and stared at me incredulously, beckoning with widened eyes and waves of their heads. I really, really, REALLY did not want to skate. I had tried skating on the carpet just from the bench to the bathroom, and that had ended in a close study of the ceiling as I lay on my back, my wheels spinning madly. Genetically speaking, I had a high center of gravity. Roller skating for me was like placing a filing cabinet on a skateboard. Physics were my enemy.
Mostly, though, I was using any opportunity to avoid being in the rink at the same time as Erin. I did not want to skate next to her. I would rather have all my toenails ripped off. There were just too many risks involved. First of all, there was no telling what types of diseases could be contracted simply from close proximity to a girl. Second, if anyone saw us skating together, it would be my downfall. I was already a lousy athlete, and didn’t need further barbs directed at my manliness.
“Hi, Kory.” I spun to my right and beheld Erin, resting on the edge of the bench about three inches from my person, but sitting in the opposite direction. My jaw dropped at her sneakiness. I was repulsed by the sight of her nauseating, cute little button nose, and was hypnotically mesmerized as her revolting silhouette was framed by the flashing, colored lights behind her. My eyes met hers, and the little man in the cool cave shot off a Roman candle.
“Oh. Erin. Hi.”
“Why aren’t you skating yet?” She stared at me so intently, the urge to vomit seemed nearly unavoidable, though it seemed to be a good vomiting. That didn’t make sense to me at all. Snappiness and short answers seemed the way to go.
“Couldn’t find skates that fit. Is that ok with you?” I accompanied this last sentence with what I thought to be a cool eyebrow lift.
She seemed a bit hurt, but clutched her hand to her chest and came even closer to my face, sadness and stars glinting in her eyes. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to tease you. If you don’t like skating, that’s totally cool. I don’t really like it that much.” Her face moved a few inches away from mine again, which was great, because I didn’t want to toss my nervous cookies directly onto her nose. “I don’t like skating that much…by myself, I mean.”
The air hung still momentarily, the lights stopped flashing, and Billy Joel rested mid-verse. “Oh,” I loquaciously spouted. “Well, I, eh….Skating is dumb, anyway.” I hadn’t taken a breath since I had noticed her sitting next to me, and decided now would be an optimum time.
“Yeah, for sure. Skating is dumb…..by yourself…”
I stared longingly and blankly. “No, it’s just always dumb.”
“Kory, do you want to skate around the rink with me?”
Panic. “No. I can’t. I…don’t want….Skating…..It isn’t….” I leaped from my bench and rolled to the men’s bathroom (I use the term “rolled” not in the sense of traveling by roller skates, but more in the sense that, because I was wearing roller skates, I was rolled end-over-end, snowball-like, towards the men’s room). Once inside, my breaths caught up with me, and sweat poured off my brow like a flattened sponge. I swayed and bobbled over to the first stall, quickly entered, and sat on the toilet, staring at the tan wall of the stall door in front of me.

* * *

“I wanna hold your hand,
I wanna hold your hand.
I wanna hold your hand.”
-The Beatles

“But dude, you HAVE to, man!”
“But I really, really don’t want to.”
“Dude, she asked you to roll around the rink with her. You have to do it.” Will stared at me through the crack in the door to my Fortress of Solitude.
I sat on the pot, hugging my knees up to my chin, my discarded roller skates on the ground in front of me. “No, I don’t have to do it. I don’t have to do anything. What happens if I don’t? Nothing. Maybe if I don’t, she’ll even think I’m a jerk and start ignoring me. Which would be fabulous.” The little man in the cool cave took off his shoe and threw it at my stomach wall.
“Man, I’ve already done it. It’s not that bad.”
“You’ve what?! Erin asked you to roll around with her? That’s…that’s gross! Did she hold your hand? What was it like? Does she…does she even want to do it with me anymore?”
Will grunted in exasperation. “No, nerd, not Erin. Ashley Benson asked me. And yes, I did hold her hand.”
I gasped and choked back a gag reflex. “Could you feel the germs?”
“No,” said Will, glancing around secretively. “Can I tell you something? You can’t tell anyone.”
“Sure! I promise, cross my heart, I won’t say anything.”
I saw Will’s eyebrow and the corner of his mouth both lift into mischievous grins. “I think I liked it.”
As my world shattered and tumbled around me, the little man in the cool cave smirked up at me knowingly. “I’ve been trying to tell you,” he said.

* * *

"Hell, madam, is to love no more." -Georges Bernanos

The moment I exited the door of the restroom, I was hit by a wave of righteous female indignation.
“Ooo-ooo-ooh, Kory, you bozo, I can’t believe you told Erin no! What a jerk.”
Thanks, Shelley, good to see you, too.
“If you don’t go over RIGHT NOW and ask her to skate with you,” said a girl with massive, brown curly hair, “I will kick you in the knee every recess for the rest of the school year.”
Geez. “Alright, alright, good honk, where is she?” My eyes darted around nervously. “She’s not still crying, is she? It’s not like I punched her in nose or anything.”
“Oooooh, boys!” Shelley clenched her face and stamped her foot. “You just don’t get it at all.”
We approached the bench where Erin sat, though trying to see her through the throng of comforting females was tricky. They patted her back and cooed and shot flaming, hot looks of molten death at me.
“What?! Alright, alright, I’ll talk to her! Just…everyone clear out, ok?”
Will and Mike snapped to. “Yeah, yeah, everybody, move away! Step away, step away, move along….”
The mob grumbled back onto the skating rink, disappointed in missing their spectacle but quickly swept up in the flashing lights and pop music.
Erin’s head was still down, her small body hopping up and down every few seconds from the tears. I sat down next to her hesitantly. My hand hovered momentarily over her shoulders, then dropped back down to my side, lost and confused. She shuddered silently. Something in me wanted to hold her and stroke her hair, but a stronger part of me wanted to push her off the bench and run screaming from the building.
“So…” I said. “Are you….doing fine?”
She stopped shaking momentarily and turned her face up to stare at me through her fingers. Her blotchiness was evident even in the poor lighting.
“Really, Kory?”
My head dropped and I sighed in exasperation. “Look, Erin, I didn’t know that you wanted to….well, I mean, I…..I’m gonna be honest with you, I don’t know what I should do now. I can’t really….I mean, not that I don’t want to, I just….Skating is hard… for me….and you are….How is….eh….”
“OH, HONESTLY!” gasped Erin. “Just go skate with me, you stupid jerk.”
“Ok, thank you.”
She stood up, sniffed impressively and skated gracefully out to the edge of the rink. She turned around and stared at me, waiting.
Like a wounded buffalo, I trundled my way over and followed her onto the floor. She skated next to me as I hugged the wall, relying mostly on an unseen wind behind me to propel my rigid form forward.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her rolling along, smiling at me, her hands clasping and unclasping. From across the rink, I watched as Mike and Will poked their heads above the skate racks. They held their hands above their heads and laced the fingers, grinning maliciously.
“Maybe we should hold hands,” said Erin.
“No, I don’t think we should do that.”
“Ok.”
We continued our hampered stroll ‘round the rink. I felt the eyes of my class boring holes through my body.
“Should we hold hands now?”
“Please, Erin, I’m rolling in a circle with you. Can that not be enough?”
More wheeling, more silence. The D.J. came over the speakers.
HISSSS POP “Hey, guys! That’s all for today. Thanks for coming out to 9th Street Roller Rink. Drive safely!”
I summoned all my powers of balance and started working my way back towards the exit, but fell almost immediately. Grunting with irritation, I rapidly unlaced my roller skates and threw them across the rink, bolting through the exit. I was relieved and disappointed, free and frustrated. The little man pushed against my stomach lining, trying mightily to drag me back to Erin’s side.

* * *

“Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love.” – Song of Solomon 2:5

“General Will! General Kory! Avast! She approaches at 2 o’clock!” Mike gesticulated wildly to his front. “She’s closing in!”
Will and I conferred. “General Mike, General Will and I think it’s closer to 11:00. Where is she?”
Mike shook his head and grunted, then pointed.
Oh, no. There she was. Erin, again. I Superman-ed into the tunnel slide and hid. Ever since that day at the roller rink, she and I had managed to avoid each other. In fact, I hadn’t even caught her looking at me once in class, and when we played tag, she didn’t even hover back to let me catch her.
“Here she comes! Hide! Deeper in the slide!” Will waved me down. I cowered against the static friction of the slide wall and waited fearfully.
Mike’s salutation drifted up to our platform. “Hey, Erin, what do you want? Don’t come too close, we don’t know for sure what diseases girls have.” I burrowed in my trepidation, expecting her unwanted attention.
“Will, do you want to come down and play tag with me and my friends?”
My mind blanked.
“I...eh….” Will looked at me and shrugged perplexedly. “We…well, I guess I could come play.” I shot him as infuriated a look as I could muster, but he hopped out onto the fireman’s pole and dropped out of sight.
Extracting myself from the slide, I stood on the platform and dazedly watched as Will walked away with Erin. The little man in the cool cave sat down in his lawn chair and opened the book of crossword puzzles, resting for a few more months. Will kept a safe distance from Erin as she stared him down. She chattered at him sweetly.
“Would you like to see what’s in my locket, Will?”

WAY OUT WHERE THE DAN-DEE-LINES GROW

2009-05-09T18:15:00.006-06:00

WAY OUT WHERE THE DAN-DEE-LINES GROW

"I play right field.
It's important, y'know!
Ya gotta know how to catch.
Ya gotta know how to throw.
That's why I'm playin' right field,
Way out where the dan-dee-lines grow."
-Classic Pizza Hut commercial jingle. You remember it.

The orange-brick houses and drying lawns flashed by the truck window as my father drove me to the park. My new uniform hugged my skinny fifth-grade body like cellophane. My pants, stopping just below the knees, were pristine and white, glowing contrastingly below the cheap, black Florida Marlins Imitation T-shirt we had all been assigned. My socks came halfway up my thighs, turquoise and stretchy. My new baseball cleats squeaked like rocking chairs as I flexed them back and forth on the floor of the truck.
My left hand ached happily inside my new mitt. It felt like I had jammed my hand clean through a rock. I'd been wearing the thing for the past three hours in anticipation of the first day of practice on my first little league baseball team ever. I barely had a working knowledge of how the sport worked, but something about playing baseball felt like the natural thing for an American boy to do, like watching Saturday morning cartoons or shooting back pixie sticks. It was so...Rockwellian.
Admittedly, I was terrified. Genetically, I was already a bit doomed to failure. If the world were the Major Leagues, the Wood family would be the Washington Nationals. Our walls are adorned with "Best Sportsmanship" awards, the literal translation of which we all know is "Most Accepting of Non-Active Role on This Team." I remember once, when playing in a basketball game, where I successfully ran the entire 45 minutes without touching the ball. This was really quite the feat, since there were only five kids on our team.
My Dad had done a good job of teaching me to at least catch and throw the ball. I was no Willy Mays in my overall skill level, but, having no other players with which to compare myself but my brothers, I felt a fair comparison could be made between myself and, say, Jose Canseco. I felt fairly confident that I could at worst avoid grossly embarrassing myself.
We pulled up through the parking lot and I hopped out, my cleats clacking out a hollow cadence across the summer night of the asphalt. I walked up apprehensively behind my father, who was easily twice my size. As we crossed the lot, a big, white truck swung in around us and halted snugly inside of two parking spaces. Blaring red in the back window was a sticker of a fastball, aflame, highlighting the words "LIFE'S A PITCH."
The door swung open, and out stepped a Rottweiler of a man in a baggy white Baseball Camp T-Shirt. He wore a pair of light blue, tight-fitting jeans, and a green cap with its half-circle brim pulled down to the tops of his sunglasses. These sunglasses, I would soon learn, never left his face, and covered any trace of eyeballs. His lower jaw jutted out just a hair past his upper one, further marked by the continuous mass destruction of sunflower seeds. His name was Coach Jensen, and he was a man of few words. Most of the ones he did use were motivational references to parts of our anatomies.
His son hopped out after him, a year older than me and already at least eight feet tall. Jeff looked like he was born with his cleats on, casually laying a clutch of bats over his left shoulder while a bucket of balls dangled from his right hand.
Coach and my Dad talked a bit on the way to the mound, and I followed quietly, my stomach starting to boil a bit more fervently. What was I getting myself into? The Coach looked like the son of a Gorilla and Mickey Mantle, and his son was probably already shaving. Jeff asked me a few baseball-related questions, like, "Have you had a lot of infielder's experience?" and "What do you usually squat?" I told him that I didn't think this was something normal people typically measured, and he looked at me like I had a cucumber in my nose.
Halfway through the parking lot, Coach Jensen met up with his assistant, Coach Chavez, and his son, Anthony. They were duplicates, different only in size, both smiling at all times, with long hair down to their shoulders and thin moustaches.
We met up with the other players under the shade of the oak trees behind the dugout. There were five or six kids already there, throwing back and forth with what looked to me like rocket-propelled balls of white, synthetic leather. The burner underneath my stomach raised another fifty degrees. Oh, man, another opportunity to showcase my athletic prowess. I might as well just lean my back up against an oak and pull out a book for the rest of practice.
My Dad watched me retreat into the comfortable cave of myself, and exhorted me loudly and patiently to have fun and start throwing with someone, pointing emphatically back towards the kids. Reluctantly, I walked over and asked a pair of boys already throwing, in a murmured voice audible only to canines, "Hey, uh, I....baseball.... IsitokayifIthrowwithyouguyscoolthanks." My Dad walked off, one eyebrow raised, and told me he'd be back in a couple hours.
I looked back at the two boys welcoming me. One was Darren, our shortstop, who was perfect at everything he did. I knew him vaguely from school, and all I knew about him was that he was a completely likeable guy who we all, for some strange reason, hated. Success trailed in his wake like algae churned up by a sleek yacht. His short, curly hair blossomed out beneath his hat, and he smiled affably at everyone. He was the first one to run up to me and say hi, and willingly accepted me into his throwing duet, and lo, how I hated him. I would learn later on in life that pride-looking-up would be quite the common emotion for me, much worsened when girls entered the picture.
The second boy was named Jimmy, and the sight of him buoyed up my spirits like a warm, gooey chocolate cake. I glanced around quickly, counting the boys on my team. One, two, three.....ten. Ten total. I knew enough about baseball to know that nine boys played on the field at one time, and there was absolutely NO way in heck that Jimmy was going to beat me out for a spot in right field.
He was three-foot-nothing, 60 lbs. at most, and wearing light-up Beauty and the Beast sneakers. His curly blond hair cascaded down the back of his neck, though the hair was buzzed short at the sides of his head. His inch-thick glasses were at least as large as our coach's, and were connected in back by a long, fluorscent purple string that might not even have been short enough to save his glasses from shattering in the event that they did spill off of his nearly nonexistent nose.
As I tossed him the ball, I chuckled silently in evil hilarity as he simultaneously brought up his mitt (which was the size of his torso) and turned his head backwards, his eyes closed shut, while his throwing arm shielded his face and his left leg left the ground, scrunching his body into a standing, half-fetal position resembling a flamingo with a disease of the nervous system.
I felt a little bit wrong for exploiting his athletic ineptitudes, but not as bad as I would feel from sitting around behind a chain-link fence for an entire season. I was going to stand out in right field, the lowest-risk position in modern sports, and be the best inconsequential outfielder there ever was, gosh-dang-it.
Our coach worked us through the first day of practice, and we soon became aware of the abilities of those around us. Jeff and Anthony were pitcher and catcher, respectively, and none of us could even touch the cheese Jeff was slinging. Many a kid on many a team has complained about the coach's son gettting the most playing time, but the reality of the situation is that, usually, the coach's son is the best kid on the team. Indira Ghandi didn't grow up to be a ballerina. Anyhow, during our batting practice, these two boys traded off knocking inside-the-park-home runs past those of us unfortunate enough to be manning the outfield.
I learned then that, while I was functional at catching a ball, I could not for the life of me manage to accurately get that ball from me to anywhere else. I would rear back and throw towards second base with all of my might, and would watch as the ball soared majestically skyward, then plummet down, blisteringly, to land a full 15 paces from where I stood. Darren, the cut-off man looked at me with an understanding smile, and said, "Great try, Kory!" Then, he sprinted up, grabbed the ball, and rocketed it off to home to stop Anthony from scoring again. I seethed with rage at myself and at his dumb curly hair and perfect stupid bionic arm.
Hitting was even worse. While I was on deck, awaiting my chance to effectively humiliate myself, Jimmy was up to bat, and on the very first pitch, the ball dinged off the handle of the bat, ricocheting straight down onto Jimmy's toes, dropping Jimmy instantly into a rolling, swearing ball of pain.
Thus terrified, I approached the batter's box in wretched anticipation of my first batting opportunity. Standing on the mound and grinning, Coach Chavez bellowed heartily, "Ok, joo don't worry, man, I just going to throw one across the plate reeeeel slow and easy for joo." I nodded, trembling, the gargantuan bat getting heavier and heavier on my nearly-absent shoulder. Coach pulled back and threw one across the plate.
Suddenly, I was in war-torn Eastern Europe, and a surface-to-air missile was streaking directly towards my person, shrieking like a banshee, hell-bent on my annihilation. In perhaps the greatest athletic moment of my life up to that point, I leaped backwards a full ninety feet, sweat cascading from me like a popped water balloon. I landed just in time to see the ball drift lazily across the plate.
The catcher snickered under his breath. Darren smiled lovingly. Jimmy whimpered in pain from where he lay, stretched out on the bench. I gripped the handle, rotating my hands against the harsh friction of the rubber, vowing never to look the blatant sissy again.
Back up to the plate I came, still trembling, but with the glint of recklessness in my eye. Coach Jensen yelled through his sunflower seeds, "Alright, Wood, no matter what it looks like, I want you to just swing and tear the hide off the ball, you got me?" Coach Chavez, holding back some wicked chuckles, said, "Ok, joo don't need to worry, really, this one will be slower, ok, chief? Just keep jore eye on de ball. Pretend it's the face of jore little brother, or somethin'." He pulled back and lobbed it, free-throw like, down towards home plate.
I watched as the face of my little brother floated merrily towards me, mocking. Suddenly, the ball changed to Jimmy's face, his eyes bulging in terror behind the translucent glasses. Than, it was Darren, nodding encouragingly. Then, it was just a ball weaing coach's sunglasses, zig-zagging back and forth, chanting, "Back-up right field......back-up right field......back-up right field......"
Blinking back tears of anger, I swung as hard as my twiggy arms could turn.
PHOOMP, into the catcher's mitt.
"Eh heh heh heh heh...Try opening jore eyes when joo swing, bud!" said Coach Chavez. The catcher grunted in malicious glee, and Darren yelled something about a good hustle.
The rest of practice progressed in a similar manner. I rode home, and entered my room in a youthful depression. Dropped flies and whiffing bats filled my dreams.
The next morning, I took my brother, Casey, outside with me and made him sit there while I threw baseballs at him. This went on for a couple of hours, progressing to the point of actually throwing some within his reach, though he frequently would dive crazily to the side, screaming, in order to avoid those balls thrown with extra velocity. (In one instance, a ball hurtled past a dodging Casey and crashed through a basement window, causing a tumultuous session of hurled blame, which was followed by a vigorous seeking of refuge from our parents, and ended with a brain-storming session to think of ways to blame Nick, the next brother, for the broken window, but this is all irrelevant).
Feeling satisfactorily prepared, I arrived at my first game, trotting jauntily out to right field, taking my spot amidst the bald spots of dirt and the discarded tootsie roll wrappers and the dandelions.
PHEW-EET!, whistled Coach Jensen. "Hey, Wood! You're on the bench for the first inning, bud. Jimmy, get your tail out there."
I stared, open-mouthed, then looked to center field to see if maybe my neighboring outfielder shared a common surname. Alas, he was of Tongan descent. No luck there.
My shoulders slackened and I sulked back to the bench, the weight of my mitt dragging me down as it bounced again and again off my knee.
I was worse than Jimmy.
I felt my innards go stiff as Jimmy walked dazedly past me, out to his starting spot in right field, his mother yelling from the stands, "Don't git caught pickin' yer nose out there, baby!" Darren met me at the opening to the dugout, a hand warmly extended in the ultimate put-down, the high five. "Alright, man! See you out there in a couple of innings!"
I summoned all the strenght left in my 5th-grade frame, raising up my arm to limply press my palm against his, and as he yelled, "Alright! Go, Marlins!" and ran past, my arm dropped back down to its original position like a wet rope. I assumed my familiar position on the bench and watched, dejectedly, as Jeff smoked fastballs past the unbelieving Dodgers.
A few innings passed with similar results. Our team was up 13-0, and I had not been up to bat yet. My mood was improved by our success, though, and I stood, leaning against the fence, enjoying my time learning bilingual baseball chatter with Coach Chavez.
In the fifth inning, Coach Jensen called me over and said I would be going in for Jimmy, who, by this time, looked like the tragic victim of a vampire attack. I sprinted out to right field and stoically took my crucial back-up place in defense of our narrow 18-1 lead. Nothing would get past me today. Nothing!
I only dropped two fly balls, and only missed the cut-off man twice. Ok, so, they only hit the ball to right field twice, and that was after a mortified Jimmy subbed in at pitcher for Jeff, who was reclining on the bench with his 18-yr. old girlfriend. I messed up enough times, though, that if dandelions could talk, the right field dandelions would have a fairly wide vocabulary of fifth-grade profanities.
Hitting in the games went along the same lines. I was largely unsuccesful in my role as back-up back-up back-up back-up back-up clean-up hitter. I did, however, make it to first base quite often. I found suprisingly great success that season by being completely paralyzed at the plate. I would only be struck out half the time if I never swung and shrank my strike zone down to near-nothingness by scrunching up my body in anticipation.
The rest of the season progressed in a similar manner. Our team (Mighty Jeff and the Marlins) destroyed everyone by at least 10 runs, and we won the championship easily, mainly from my important combined contributions of not messing up the plays I wasn't involved in, and sitting on the bench and developing an intense rating scale for the different Airhead flavors sold at the concessions' stand.
In one of the most exciting nights of my life, I got to play third base once when the third baseman's uncle died, and even got to second base in a rare instance of my bat actually making contact with the ball. It was not even my fault if I benefited from the distraction caused by Jimmy being knocked out by the third baseman on that play.
The highlight of my statistical season was one at-bat where I decided I was going to swing at every single pitch, thus resulting in a hitting streak of eight (yes, eight, count 'em, eight) foul balls hit in a row. My team cheered wildly at my newfound courage, and was especially entertained when one of those foul balls careened helter-skelter into the opposing team's dug-out and stuck fast into the chain-link fence right above their pitcher's head. My team rejoiced racously at this attempted assassination, and I enjoyed a secret happiness every time I came back up to hit after that, watching the opposing team duck down and hold the tops of their heads in fright.
As I drove back home after our last game of the season, my "Best Sportsmanship" award cradled between my knees, I realized that, all-in-all, baseball was more fun than not. I wish I had played more, but then, I might have actually impacted the games, which could have been a terrible thing. I did learn quite a bit from the experience, anyway.
I learned that sometimes, it is completely acceptable to not only ride the success of those surrounding you to victory, but to enjoy that success.
I learned that, sometimes, Jimmy gets the start.
I learned that perfectly nice guys like Darren with straight teeth would plague me for the rest of my life.
I learned the exact length to which an Airhead can be stretched before snapping.
I learned that dandelions don't like cussing.
I learned how to effectively communicate the term "belly-itcher" in Spanish.
I learned that the sun can be blamed for nearly any error.
And I learned that, truly, life can be a pitch.

The Geeks Re-made

2009-03-31T16:32:00.004-06:00

"Eureka!" I cried.
All the years I had labored and tried
Had at last peaked in glorious fruition!
A flash, a bang, a sudden premonition:
No more glasses to wear,
No more wedgies to bear,
Soon Gunther and Sven would dominate the dating scene!

I had done what so many goofballs could not:
I, and I alone, isolated the dork gene.

Chess players the world 'round
Would rejoice, when they discovered I found
The source of their zits
The cure for sweaty pits
Deep voices in store,
Superfluous athletic ability and what's more
They would no longer think Leia was the bee's knees.

I took my new message of hope
To those who rarely use soap
And awaited their eager expectation
Of the gene's removal and their subsequent social mutation.

"Dungeons and Dragons no more!
"Magic: the Gathering's a bore!
"Your computer will soon gather dust!"
"Come throw the football a bit
"And with the cheerleaders sit
"The old world order's now bust!"

I am slightly ashamed,
That none of them came.

Then I took a closer look
At these creatures often mistook
For social misfits, desperate in their plight.
I was surprised by the sight
That so many were pleased with who they are,
Watching the jocks from afar.

And so I now hold my tongue.
Why disturb those content?
Why change those whom God sent
To balance out the rugged and mean?

No, I thought, much better instead,
To leave those with o'er-inflated heads
And let them be proud of their Star Trek action figure collection.
Others will score touchdowns, and they will proudly continue
To program, duel and execute organized grasshopper dissection.

JUST HELP ME OUT!

2009-02-27T02:38:00.002-07:00

JUST HELP ME OUT - Kory Wood

In the gender race, men are behind.
So, our Senate should swiftly combine,
To write up a bill
That effectively will
Force all women to carry large signs.

These signs, flashing, neon, and bright,
Would assist male-kind's woebegone plight,
For each sign would display
What each girl WANTS to say,
And thus, bring each man to the light.

"I'd rather not date you, pin-head."
"That shirt makes you look over-fed."
"I want flowers at work."
"Your best friend's a huge jerk."
"Were you listening to what I just said?"

"Call again, and there'll be a law-suit."
"Your gym bag smells like a Malamute."
"I am NOT in the mood."
"No, Steve, belching is rude."
"I'm just laughing so you'll think I'm cute."

And thus, men would know how to please,
And stop sweating, with shakes in their knees.
Boys would woo, girls would grin.
Men would finally win,
And would skip through their love-lives with ease.

Large, Expensive Clock

2009-02-26T13:20:00.004-07:00

Macaroni, old spaghetti, reheated apple pie,
You helped us live conveniently
And now I don't know why
You had to choose to leave us here
Dwelling on this rock.
Now, all you are to me
Is a large, expensive clock.

IN PURSUIT OF VIRTUES

2009-02-24T18:10:00.002-07:00

In Pursuit of Virtues - Kory Wood

Charity enamors me,
Yet she demands too high a fee.
Faith and Hope I'd work to get,
But failure seems a surer bet.
Patience - Taxing, tiring, tough.
Grace - Just left me on my duff.
Sad to say, but Chastity
Gives me not sufficient glee.
With Destiny, I missed my date.
Lost chances: my eternal fate.
Seems they all weren't meant for me;
I guess I'll just go call Nancy.

Untitled - Kory Wood

2009-02-24T18:04:00.003-07:00

I've
Never
Understood
Why
Poems
Have
To
Look so nice and neat when there's
So
Many
Different
Ways
To
Scrawl
Them
'Pon
Your
Sheet.

First Mate

2009-02-02T17:35:00.002-07:00

The winds were blowing, the waves were high,
The gale was raging and death was nigh.
The mast was broken, our stores were bare.
I dared not raise my head, for who could be there?
You, you, my faithful first mate,
Were there to steer me through the narrow gate.
We reached the harbor and finished our journey,
Turned to set forth again, and surely,
As you were once here,
Now you are gone.
And I must face the ocean,
Alone.

Full-color Cross Section

2009-01-27T16:54:00.003-07:00

I must be a mother's nightmare. I think the reason that my sister waited so long to come down here is because my parents needed a break. Is there anything worse than seeing the light fade from a child's eyes, his belief in fantasy and his hope for the world shattered?

I was blessed and cursed with a very analytic brand of thought, one that strives for coorelation and causation. It was not important that the VCR played videos, or that my red remote control car zoomed all over my mother's now not-so-spotless tile. What I so desired to find out was HOW these things happened. How in the world could a hunk of molded petroleum derivative hooked up to a metallic cylinder filled with electrons bring my mother such agony? How did the big black plastic box produce cute monster-shaped fabric with hands inside them? Why did they so cheerily recite the ABC's? Why didn't they blink? My room was littered with the remnants of tv remotes and flashlights long since forgotten. No toy escaped my greedy clutches. I still pull small gears out of unmentionable places.

This frame of thought led me to exploration of every aspect of the world around me. I spent hours cooped up in my room reading instruction manuals. Legos, Tinkertoys, and K'nex (yeah, remember those?) were my best friends, for only then could I exercise absolute control of my environment and know exactly how everything worked.

I watched water go down the drain, then dug canals in the sandbox whenever it rained. The mail man soon tired of my constant inquiries. ("I don't know how it works, kid, I just drive the truck!") My poor teachers' only hope for a moment's peace was to place me in a corner with a "Math for Smarty Pants" book.

Soon my young mind happened across a seemingly insurmountable clash of logic. My friends and parents testified of a fat jolly elf who came down the chimney in winter, bearing gifts for the well-behaved. I trusted my parents, for they had never led me astray. My rudimentary knowledge of physics, however, led me to a host of unresolved cognitive dissonances.

"Mom, Santa isn't real, is he." My chin was thrust out in intellectual defiance. My hands, strategically placed upon my hips, demanded a prompt answer. Had there been any pin to drop that was not currently holding my stuffed animals (who were scrupulously organized, not by height or color, but by the type of animal, a precursor to my later zoology studies) together, it would have resonated like an out-of-tune tuba. "'Cause there's no way he could visit all of the children of the world in one night."

My mother is an honest woman. She told me the truth.

It logically followed that the elves, reindeer, and other such mythical winter characters were nothing in my eyes but a two sided ploy. One goal was to get children to behave, the other to get parents to spend money. Both seemed to work surprisingly well, I thought. I chose not to divulge my hallowed secret to the weaker minded among my peers. I deduced that the Easter bunny was also a farce, along with his partner-in-crime, the Tooth Fairy. I insisted that my parents continue the income-producing ritual, with the condition that they leave the teeth, because "Those are cool!". I stashed them in a plastic cylinder, which I still have to this day. Years later, I would regret that my oral surgeon would not be able to complete the collection with my wisdom teeth.

Despite the obvious repercussions of my discoveries, my parents fostered my curious intellect, even going so far as to purchase a set of childrens' encyclopedias. These encyclopedias were my Red Rider BB gun. My eyes swelled when I first saw them. "Finally!" I thought, "Someone has figured everything out! They even put it in book form . . . I must descend upon this fountain of knowledge and devour it immediately!"

"Mom . . . what's this?" My poor mother's eyes followed my forearm down to my finger and then widened in horror at recognition of the full color cross section. How could her sweet young child be asking such questions? Why did a so-called children's encyclopedia even have such images? These questions had little relevance at this point. Pandora's box had been opened, and my mother knew that no half-baked explanations would do. Were she to attempt some sort of feigned explanation, the bombardment of questions that soon followed would completely overwhelm her defenses.

And thus my innocence fell. I knew where Christmas presents came from. I knew where babies came from. Since then, I have longed to return to a world of fantasy. Books and movies do little to quench my thirst. Whenever I try to believe, a voice nags me until I give in to logical explanations. I am doomed to languish in a world of hard facts and cold figures. Instead of being utterly enlightening, as I had hoped, I find it to be rather dull.

I will not buy my son an encyclopedia.

MY IMAGINARY FRIEND THINKS I'M BORING

2009-01-26T23:00:00.002-07:00

MY IMAGINARY FRIEND THINKS I'M BORING - By Kory Wood

Near the top of the list of Worst Phrases in the English Language, ahead of "Eat Less and Exercise" and "Batteries Not Included," and running nearly parallel with "He Thinks We're Dating Exclusively, But We're Not" is the beastly phrase "Over-Active Imagination."
This is the phrase that gets kids thrown outside for an entire Saturday, that drives the Christmas video game industry, that keeps Ritalin manufacturers in Porsches.
Scientists should be working harder to find a way to harness the raw energy lying dormant inside the brain of the 9-year old boy. Anyone who can prod for four hours straight under the same rock must know something the rest of us don't. And the knock-knock jokes! Oh, the knock-knock jokes. Nonsensical punchlines turn crystalline in pure hilarity.
Nothing is as cliched as a child's boundless imagination, but heck, nothing is as boundless as a child's imagination. Sadly, though, one day, I found my fairyland's iron gates. And they were wired with 20,000 volts.
I was, I guess, bright for a growing boy, though this is not saying much; various documented scientific studies show that boys ages 6-24 are ranked on an intellectual scale somewhere between "dryer lint" and "t.v. blender salesmen." Tests were done comparing a group of fifth-grade males to a random selection of border collies, but the tests had to be cancelled due to "...our dignity being severely wounded in the comparison," said the spokesman for the border collie group, Patches (lawsuits are pending).
My point is, for a male child, I was sailing fairly smoothly. I could make it through an entire day without getting an object lodged in any of my facial orifices, which is more than I could say for some of my friends. I remember pulling half a pencil out of my friend Richard's nose. I assumed, of course, that only half of the pencil was originally inserted into his nostril. Even now, he could still be walking around, smelling rubber eraser everywhere he goes.
Richard Ellis had maybe 15 brothers. No one has documented the exact number, since they are all born at the same height and all wore the same buzzed hair cut. Expeditions of biologists have been sent in to classify their species, and not one has come out, though one Dr. Stimpson was last seen streaking down their road, screaming in fear and covered in a thick layer of spitballs and spaghettios. Though fierce and untamed, this Ellis clan was a creative bunch. Invention's overflow spilled copiously from their ears. They could be entertained for years with the same 2-foot square of plywood, with a sack of pipe cleaners, with a roll of masking tape.
One thing they all had were imaginary friends. The number of fantasy buddies this family employed exceeded the known number of Gods in all combined Eastern religions. Richard's best "friend" was this hep cat named Leo. Leo was the Fonz's cooler older brother. Leo taught Jerry Seinfeld how to be funny, and gave Brad Pitt fashion tips. Leo was also completely bogus.
I, of course, knew this, and pointed it out frequently and eloquently to my friend. "You're faking it, stupid!"
"Nuh uh! No I'm not. Leo's standing right here, and he's totally making fun of you right now."
"No, he's not!" And I would jump liberally on the area that was Leo, punching wildly. "I.....DON'T.......FEEL.......ANYTHING! He's not here! There is no Leo!"
"He doesn't get hurt by people like us. He doesn't have a body. You just can't see him, because he only appears to people he likes who are cool."
Well, I didn't buy it, but I had to admire Richard's stoic dedication to this charade. He would hold lengthy conversations with him in my presence when I became tiresome, and would even elect to pass me over for an afternoon just with Leo. I would watch him, my face pushed up against the cold metal of the chain links separating our backyards, talking to his fake, not real, he's-a-big-dumb-liar friend which I didn't believe in at all. Obviously, Leo was made up as a way for Richard to have something that I didn't. There was no way he could be real. Things like imaginary friends just didn't exist. Right? Obviously?
But I began to become jealous. I didn't know why. How could I be jealous of an IMAGINARY friend? I could walk up to Richard and do the exact same thing, and it would make just as much sense. I could pretend to talk to my doppelganger and share cookies with him and dissect bugs with him just like Richard did with Leo.
That's when I decided I would play his little game. I could make up the best playmate ever. Way better than stupid diaper-head Richard's. So, slamming the fence with my palms, I sprinted away, the clanging chain links beating a cadence to my exit. I had decided to fake it.
Now, this lack of sincerity can be seen in most situations as an adult. The man who comes to church every week and professes faith, but never makes time to read his scriptures. The basketball player who tells reporters that he's working hard to just give his all, but hasn't shot a free throw in practice since he was 12.
I discovered quickly that sincerity is a hard thing to replicate, and that it was far more difficult than anticipated to fudge a friend.
"Hey, Richard. Guess who I brought with me?"
"Who? Is it yo momma? Ha ha chortle ha ha SNORT ha ha ha."
".........No, it...... It's my friend.....Leo.....Le.....Leon....Yeah, Leon! He's really cool. And he has a motorcycle, and, eh, he is a doctor already. And he can jump over buildings."
"Leon?"
".......yes.........Leon."
"Awesome! He seems cool. Do you wanna go dig in the compost heap?"
"I...sure...Ok."
"Cool. C'mon, Leo. You too, Leon. You can operate on any bugs we find. Let's go dig out some potato bugs, and we can sacrifice them on that anthill over by the basketball hoop."
As his stubbly head bounced off between the two transparent figures, I stood shocked. I don't believe it! He bought it! He thought I had an actual imaginary friend! Not only that, he was embracing the idea. What a sap. This was too easy.
It was a hard act to keep up, though. While Richard and Leo's conversation flowed effortlessly, I felt that Leon's silence made for an awful, one-sided prattling that I just couldn't fully invest in. It was like the three of them had been handed a script, and I never got one. I eventually gave up trying to plumb the depths of Leon's character and focused more on the maggots I had found in a blackened banana peel.
"Hey, do you mind if Leon comes over and stays the night with me and Leo?"
The question caught me off guard, and I had to say I was a little worried for the sanity of my friend. I mean, it was fun, but he knew that this was a game, right? I didn't believe for a second that Leon was sitting at my side, moping and ignored, drawing circles in the muck with a discarded spade. He was not a real person.
"I mean," said Richard, "I figured you probably get to talk to him all the time, so he could come play with us tonight. Is that ok?"
"I....yeah, sure! That'd be great! I'll tell you what, Leon makes a German chocolate cake that will make your head melt, it's so good. You...you kids have fun, I guess." And I hopped the fence and went home.
From my window, I continued to watch as my creation was poached. Their conversation appeared to be quite stimulating. Richard started laughing raucously at one point, rolling back and forth on the ground, unknowingly monitored and, again, envied.
The next day, I went back to reclaim my brainchild.
"OK, Leon needs to come home, now. He, eh, has to do a transplant today, or something."
"Leon doesn't want to come home. He thinks you're boring."
"............My.........imaginary friend..........that I made up yesterday...thinks.......I'm boring......."
"Hey, I'm not saying it, ok? He was just saying that last night, and I figured I'd say something for him."
"I.....why doesn't he tell me himself?" I stared blankly. "Huh? Leon? Go ahead, tell me you want to stay here."
Richard looked at me suspiciously. "Uh......He's not out here. Can't you tell that? He's inside playing chutes and ladders with Leo."
I stood there, flabbergasted. My imaginary friend, the seed of my gray matter, thought I was annoying. And my friend Richard had stolen him from me.
This was to begin a pattern of rejection in my life with which I would soon become accustomed.
I found myself that night in my room, staring blankly at the patterns on my ceiling.
I bored things that didn't exist. I bored things that not only didn't exist, but that I had control over.
I realized that day that I lacked sincerity. I lacked the key component in the normal fantasies of a child.
I did not believe them.
All those times I had dressed up in superhero outfits and set up chairs in the backyard and run around with my brothers, kicking the be-whats'-it out of those chairs, my brothers had truly been masked crusaders exacting justice on a crime-ridden backyard. I had been a boy with a two-holed piece of Styrofoam taped to my face and a cape made out of a ratty beach towel adorning my weak shoulders, and I was running around punting lawn chairs and yelling.
Every time I had thrown a G.I. Joe off the deck in my back yard, I was not actually executing an evil foreign spy. I was throwing a G.I. Joe off a deck in my back yard.
I'd like to say that I was re-born that day, but I wasn't. My childlike Belief had been dragged into the alley by Cynicism and Disappointment and Evidence and they had broken his kneecaps.
So, now I'm making up for lost time. I'm trying to be as illogically happy as I can everyday. I try to find the humor in everyday things. I laugh when someone says "poop." I tell stories about my bike. I believe most things that people tell me have been scientifically proven, because a) like it matters if they actually have, and b) I wouldn't know it if they hadn't.
To date, I have never had another imaginary friend, though sometimes I wish I did, because when you forget their birthdays you can just tell them they have a different one and they have to accept it.
Remember to go ahead and believe in stupid things. Introduce a little childlike sincerity into your life. Make a stupid joke. The best part about and imaginary friend is that they think everything you say is funny.

To: Everyone From: Justin

2009-01-20T16:06:00.000-07:00

A few months ago, my friend and I were talking after class and he said, "You know, this is the first election I can remember where I've been embarassed or afraid to ask people who they support. It's like it's you're asking how much they weigh or something".

Barack Obama was sworn in today as the 44th president of the United States of America. There are plenty of strong opinions percolating among us. This is absolutely a good thing. I know a lot of you are, let's say, less than excited about what happened in this election. Others of you are apathetic, and some of you feel like he couldn't get into office fast enough.

There's a few things I hope all of us can remember today.

Firstly, take a look at how far this country has come. 200 years ago we were trapped in the mire of slavery and oppression. I say "we" because slavery is detrimental not only to those enslaved, but to the entire society. My parents were born when we were a segregated society. Now a man who would have been denied a seat on a bus is the leader of the free world.

Secondly, I believe that debate is healthy. That is the beauty of America. Checks and balances are an essential part of our government. They were instated in order to prevent suffering under the kind of tyranny that the colonies experienced under the rule of Britain. Everyone is welcome to disagree. I'm afraid; however, that our opinions, although often justified, blind us from the truth and the things that are most important.

I believe that we are all children of the same God. You're welcome to disagree with me on this, but whether you believe we're children of God, the latest version of the homo genus, or that we were planted here by extra-terrestrials, it is hard to make a case that we're not all the same. We all love, cry, want, sweat, work, play, live, and hope. That we may all have the unhindered opportunity to do so is the purest form of the American dream.

I hope that we all take the opportunity to hope for a better world. I know President Obama has used this word a lot. Couldn't we all use a little more hope? Hope that your children grow up violence free. Hope that the economy will get better. Hope that your neighbor will come home safely from Iraq. Hope that you do okay on your finals. Hope for the best your life can be.

Today is a day of hope. Come together. Take a step back from your routine. Make a new beginning. Work to make your life and those of your loved ones a little better. Smell a flower, play with the dog. Read Dr. King's "I Have Dream Speech". Tickle your little siblings, neices, or nephews. Get to know your neighbors. Volunteer. Reach out to those whose heads hang down. Read a book to a child. Do whatever you can to improve your community. Smile at total strangers.

Coming together and working for a better tomorrow is what this day is all about. Celebrate your freedom. Keep in mind those who don't have it. Celebrate the peaceful transfer of power. Be grateful. Pursue your happiness. If you don't do it now, who will?

Today is a new beginning. There's a rough road ahead. Won't it be better if we all go down it together?

LIFE'S PRETTY GOOD, Y'KNOW?

2008-12-09T21:36:00.000-07:00

Life's Pretty Good, Y'Know?

After a full day of eating on Thanksgiving, I lay in my bed, staring at my ceiling, having just fought through another tryptophanic nightmare in which the Pope burst into my room in a pillar of fire, forbidding me to ever brush my teeth again (not made up).
But really, apart from these gravy-induced visions, the day had been a good one. I had the opportunity to see lots of relatives and inform them that, no, I was not yet married. I tore through pies like clay pigeons, in a heated house, on a leather couch, and in front of a hi-definition football game.
Well, I was feeling mightily blessed, to say the least, and I remembered the list I had made a few months ago of things that bothered me. And yea, verily, I began to feel like a huge weenie.
Thus motivated by my burden of guilt, I got out of bed and forcibly wrote down a few things that I had to admit made my life a contented one, or at least a humorous one when rewound and played back on the great DVR of life.
However, what started out as a rememdy for a weighted conscience soon blossomed and blistered into a ravenous outpouring of ink as my writing hand was inundated with blessings that, I was painfully realizing, I did not show enough appreciation for. The logjam behind my ball-point didn't clear up till three in the morning, at which point my face was maybe a full inch from the surface of my desk. I threw myself back into bed and woke to edit what my pen had vomited during the night.
Well, I can't very well list everything I wrote down, partly for brevity's sake but also for fear of incrimination. I'd like to share this second list of some things that maybe make your life a little more liveable everyday. Some are small, some are grand, some are possibly the product of yam-based hallucinations. Enjoy.

I love......
1. A thick, new pair of socks.
2. When I order fast food, and Jimmy the fry cook accidentally puts an extra taco in my bag, and he "can't really, like, take it back, so just take it, dude. No charge." That's some gooood taco.
3. Bill Murray movies.
4. Cleaning out the dark recesses of my closet as an adult and finding toys that were the stinkin' coolest (e.g. Legos, Variations on the Ninja Turtle Theme, etc.) and sitting on my bed and playing with them for a half hour.
5. Going on a blind date, expecting to be paired up with Barath-Og the Dragon Woman, but actually meeting a really nice girl who ends up becoming a good friend.
6. But also, I have to love blind dates that are about as smooth as being dragged across the Bonneville Salt Flats behind a truck, because they make good stories later on and I'm sure help me more fully appreciate the one with whom I finish the race.
7. Friends who can laugh at the little things you do but never dislike you for them.
8. Extreme conservatives and liberals, because they give me someone to make fun of and make me feel reasonably normal.
9. Old paperback books that can be re-read countless times.
10. Compliments on things I do terribly (like when people say, "Great job on your solo in class today! That Debussy piece was perfect for your voice." And I say, "Oh, shucks..Thank you!" But really, I'm thinking, "That was an affront to the entire Romantic period of music, and I could possibly be executed for it in a number of European countries." Those compliments are almost as good and sustaining as the extra taco.)
11. The Muppets. You laugh, but I don't want to live in a world without them.
12. Also, Barney the Dinosaur (I recently came out as a closeted Barney-phile. It was hard at first, but I would never go back. I love him, and I'm pretty sure he loves me).
13. Leftovers that taste better the 2ND day.
14. Calling little kids the wrong name on purpose and watching their horrified, scrunch-faced indignation as they give you a look that says you're dumber than mud. ("My name is not Fred! It's Sara! I'm a girl!" "Whoa, whoa, Fred, no need to yell!" "IT'S NOOOOTTTT FFRRREEEEDDDDDDDD!!!!!" "What, Fred? I couldn't make that out.")
15. Otter pops. Particularly the red ones.
16. Writing something completely self-serving and giggling at it, knowing full well that it only amuses me, and then showing it to no one.
17. The infinite possibilities of the light bulb joke. One hundred years from now, in a Harvard English building, there will be a class entitled "21st Century Poetry: Free-Verse, Haiku, and Light Bulb Jokes."
18. Also, limericks. Try having a limerick-writing contest with someone. It's fun and educational.
19. Mormons who find it humorous to be made fun of, instead of just being offended by everything.
20. Nice old people who still remember common courtesies, like how to speak on the phone in a polite manner.
21. When little kids swear but don't know what they're saying. You try not to laugh. One of my fondest memories is walking up to my dad in zealous enthusiasm and bleating out the new word the neighbor kids taught me that day, waiting for his approval and watching him try really really hard not to laugh while he informed me that, though it rhymed with truck, it has nothing to do with one.
22. Any fourth quarter of a Utah Jazz game in which they can maintain a lead of ten points WITHOUT BLOWING IT AND GIVING ME ULCERS YOU STUPID PUNKS I KNOW PEOPLE IN COMAS WHO FIGHT HARDER FOR REBOUNDS!
23. Hymns performed as written.
24. Tater tots.
25. Finding a forgotten candy bar in my desk at work. Just try not to be happy when that happens. "Oh, man....A candy bar. That's horrible!"
22. Doing things like numbering lists incorrectly and watching peoples' faces scrunch up when they read it. Or singing a quarter-step flat in a chord, then looking around, practicing my anal-that's-the-wrong-pitch face while trying to catch the imaginary culprit and berate them with my raised eyebrows.
27. Foreign professional athletes who learned all of their English from other American professional athletes. ("Ya, we just is going to need give our A-game over 100% and you know, yeah. And crash de boards more so coach is happy man.")
28. Finding a shirt that's already ironed when you're in a hurry to get out the door.
29. Watching two dogs bark at each other through a fence.
30. Jigsaw puzzles. It's an acquired taste.
31. Also, maps. I could stare at a map for days. Africa, rural Iowa, inner-city Stockholm. Anything.
32. Reading a classic work and figuring out that, hey, this is one of those books that is not only famous, but actually enjoyable! How did that sneak past my professor?
33. GOOD cartoons, like the Ninja Turtles or Animaniacs. None of this Shiat-su, Princess Warrior of the Dead And Also Small Cute Pink Things garbage that kids watch these days.
34. Old, retired athletes who look up from their stock portfolios and real estate holdings and chuckle as today's Initialed Nicknames bear their bling across the gap of a mediocre, unremarkable career rife with dunks and missed free throws.
35. Badly-written sitcoms that are PG-rated on the worst day and about as deep as a cup of pudding. These beautiful shows can spend a half hour over the deep emotional complexities of Davey borrowing Bobby's sweater withough asking, and I love it.
36. Pudding cups.
37. 3 on 3 basketball games with a bunch of old, chubby guys with bad knees and white legs who like to stop and walk to the drinking fountain a lot. Also, they never get into fights over who exudes more testosterone, and they NEVER call each other for fouls.
38. Sight-reading a really difficult piece of music.
39. Christmas decorations I made in elementary school that Mom still puts out.
40. The smell of frying bacon.
41. People who can sit down and have a long conversation and don't see it as a waste of time. And by people, I mean girls. (That's right. I said it.)
42. People who not only say they aren't racists, but are, in fact, not racist.
43. When I fall asleep watching a movie and my cat briefly wakes me up by curling up on my chest and going to sleep.
44. Good-looking girls who say hi to me before I say hi to them. And also think nothing of it, knowing full well I have no shot. Like throwing bread to a duck, I know it's not that nutritious, but I'm pedaling my guts out for it every time.
45. When I get home and my dog is blissfully happy to see me and shoves her face between my calves and wags her tail and whines contentedly.
46. This may bug you, but I love Love LOVE it when the Sacrament meeting hymns are so slow that you can take a breath between every note.
47. People who understand when I'm making a joke.
48. People who do not understand when I'm making a joke, which is sometimes just as fun. For me.
49. Accidentally falling asleep on soft fuzzy carpet as the sun hits me through a window, then waking up and realizing it was only ten minutes, but I feel like I could run a marathon.
50. Huge Goliath-Burgers with everything on them that are so bad for me they verbally insult me as I'm eating them.
51. Running into an ex and seeing them with someone who's even goofier-looking than me. With less hair. Sadistic pleasure, I know, but a pleasure nonetheless.
52. Groucho Marx quotes. ("Time wounds all heels.")
And finally...
53. I don't know what to put here, but I'm leaving it open. I quite literally left hundreds of other things off this list, but I would greatly appreciate your contributions. So, contribute! Let me hear about the things you love. I might not agree, which probably makes you wrong, but you'll get at least a B for effort.

DEBATING DEBATING

2008-09-21T12:45:00.001-06:00

DEBATING DEBATING

If there was one quotation that would describe my philosophy on life, it would definitely have to be this quote (given from an anonymous quote donor): “Never teach a pig to sing; it wastes your time and annoys the pig.”
Basically, this quote suggests that no matter how hard or how much you argue a point, and no matter how right you are (which in my case, is every single time ever that I ever said something ever), you aren’t going to make a stubborn person change their opinion, just because you think that they should. All the arguing in the world isn’t going to change a single thing, except to spread hostility, and also open new positions in the field of law.
For instance, if the Pope and the Dalai Lama were to get into a heated debate over which religion was really the right one, the Pope wouldn’t suddenly change his whole perspective on life, just because the Dalai Lama kept up a relentless and heated discussion or said something really profound (“By heavens, you are right! What have I been doing with my life?”).
Think back to your childhood. Was there ever an instance in which you suddenly changed from “Nuh uh!’ – “Uh huh!” – “Nuh uh!” – “Uh huh!” – “Nuh uh!” – “Uh huh!” – to a less heated debate of “Nuh uh!” – “Oh, you know what? You’re probably right. Batman IS probably the superior of Spiderman. I really should take the time to expose myself to a wider array of opinions and information on the subject before attempting to disagree with you.”
The only thing that a head-bashing kind of argument between two stubborn people is going to accomplish is to busy the emergency room. Because of this inevitability, I always try to abide by this easy principle: agree to disagree. Just because people have opinions that are completely different from mine, I feel no compulsion to browbeat them until they fully revise to suit my needs, even if they are wrong. Which they probably are. Spiderman would wail on that rich boy Bruce Wayne.
So, in conclusion, pigs who can’t sing and just don’t really want to learn how don’t necessarily need to be made to sing, no matter how much musical vocalizing would benefit them. Even tone-deaf pigs make useful contributions to society. That’s where we get bacon.

ORIGINS OF A NICKNAME

2008-09-21T12:26:00.000-06:00

ORIGINS OF A NICKNAME

I had a perfectly happy childhood, nearly without complaint. I owned almost every single G.I. Joe, tried every brand of breakfast cereal (even the boxed kind!), and generally enjoyed all times as a young one. However, there is one enormous, gaping void in my soul that no little boy should have to suffer with, even worse than the one created by, say, sharing a room for the first sixteen years of my life with my younger brother. It is my lack of a nickname.
That’s right. I have no nickname. I am without my happy, boyhood moniker. No Buddy, Sport, Red, Knuckles, etc. I even have a great name for nicknames: Wood. The possibilities were endless, albeit problematic and, on occasion, slightly dirty. Yet sadly, no one has ever deemed me worthy of a lasting handle, nothing that identifies me as special or unique.
Now, I’m not talking about those slapdash, precipitate little nicknames where parents find it really cute to transform a Bartholomew James Smith into a “B.J.” This is a product of an unoriginal society. Back in the good old days, kids got their respective titles from accomplishment (“Hey, there goes Rubber-Shorts, from scout camp!”), physical anomalies (“No, I don’t want to pick Duck-Face! You pick Duck-Face.”), or those lucky guys who were blessed with last names that were already really messed up, usually of German ancestry (“Kuchenschlager, my man! Yo!”).
Among my friends growing up was one Brent Gubler (sounds like Goobler), who was fortunate enough to be born into a family with the best surname on human record. His name was so rife with possibility that I frequently forgot he had a first name, and was only reminded of his Brent-ness on double dates when girls were present. “Is Brent going to be driving tonight?” “Uh, I thought Goobs was going to drive, but he can if he wants. I didn’t know another guy was coming. Is he your brother, or something?” To me, he was, and is eternally, just Goob, or Goobs, or Gubler, or Goobie.
Some parents worry that giving their child a nickname might actually be damaging to his psyche. If a kid is given an embarrassing nickname like Tubby, self-esteem can be lowered and the child could be permanently scarred. Fortunately, most parents seem to be more sensitive and careful than that.
However, it can be said that “Tubby” is always going to get invited to the party, whereas “Steve” might not. And who doesn’t want to be friends with someone like “Bobo,” or “Billy the Human Sponge,” or “Communist Dave.”
One of the greatest evils of our time is the trend for sports players nick-naming themselves. Gone are the days of sportscaster-dubbed Earvin “Magic” Johnson, Ted “the Splendid Splinter” Williams, Babe “Herman” Ruth, Barney “The Rampaging Penguin” Fleckenstein. We now are privileged to listen to Tracy “T-Mac” Mac Grady, Alex “A-Rod” Rodriguez, Shaquille “Shaq” O’Neal, Roger “Roger” Federer, and other intellectual and creative players describe themselves with highly imaginative epithets. Kids see these guys, and they stop thinking up original names for each other, like “Stinky” and “Sasquatch,” and they start calling each other “O-Dogg” (which brings up the issue of malformed English skills, but that is another tirade for another day).
All I really want to say is that it is important for the spread of democracy and lasting drug prevention and wage increases and the cure for acne and everything else that is good and holy that we preserve the practice of the nickname! One of these days, you’re going to be sitting at home, and there will be a session of the Supreme Court running on the television, and you’ll say “Hey! It’s Chief Justice Bob “The Woodchuck” Mortenson! I went to junior high with him!” And your heart will fill with familiarity and pride.
Finally, to all those out there with a nickname, enjoy it wholeheartedly. Anyone willing to donate an old, used nickname can send them to Mike “Babyeater” Tyson, who would like to make an exchange.

HUMILITY: SOCIETY'S MUCH-NEEDED VIRTUE

2008-09-21T11:56:00.000-06:00

HUMILITY:
Society’s Major Missing Virtue

“The late Lord Longford once burst into a London bookshop to scold the staff for not featuring his latest book more prominently in the store window. The book’s title? Humility.”

Humility is a core virtue of society that seems, sadly, lacking in today’s ambitious lifestyles. Humility is a vital trait to develop, and yet many look down on humility as a demonstration of weakness, as a lack of courage. Pride and ambition are glorified and admired, and success is coveted. Even according to Webster, to be “humbled” is to be “lower(ed) in condition or rank”, and humility itself is described as “having or showing a consciousness of one’s shortcomings."

Humility, however, is not a weakness. It is not a shortcoming. Humility is an asset, and the mark of a good person. Though tragically skipped over in society, humility is the foundation of good character. As Sir Thomas More, the British author and philosopher, eloquently stated:
“Humility, that low, sweet root,
From which all heavenly virtues shoot.”

The problem of pride is one that has been dealt with since the dawn of time. Ancient Greek mythological heroes like Odysseus and Achilles battled their “hubris,” that excessive, arrogant pride that often leads to the downfall of the hero. Examples of this pride, forever humility’s arch-nemesis, abound in both old literature and new celebrity.
In Shakespeare’s Macbeth, the title character is consumed with thoughts of taking the kingdom of Scotland for himself from the aging King Duncan. Prodded on by both his nagging wife and his feelings of pride and inferiority, Macbeth kills the king. From that point on, his life is a tragic downward spiral, with more evil deeds generating from the original one. If Macbeth had simply bided his time and been content with his own stewardship, he would have enjoyed a happy, long life, though possibly a life without such high attainments in power. A lack of needed humility caused the downfall of Macbeth, and several others of Shakespeare’s tragic characters, like Hamlet, Othello, and King Lear.
In a more modern anecdote, a “British newspaper once sent a questionnaire to several of the nation’s preeminent writers – including Jeanette Winterson (a famous writer during this time period). Among the questions was: “Whom do you consider to be the greatest living English prose stylist?” Winterson’s answer? Jeanette Winterson.”
In these modern days, there are “big” men like Donald Trump (1946-present), the American real estate developer and casino magnate. Trump is exceedingly wealthy and successful, but his ego far exceeds its limits. Among many things, Trump has owned the land the Empire State Building sits on, refers to himself as “The Trump” or “The Donald,” asked Larry King in a live interview if he could “sit back a little…because your breath is very bad,” has tried to trademark the phrase “You’re fired” (a phrase popularized by Trump’s self-aggrandizing hit television program “The Apprentice”), and once in the second grade, he punched his music teacher. “…I didn’t think he knew much about music,” said Trump. “I’m not proud of that, but it’s clear that early on I had a tendency to stand up.” Was it a tendency to stand up, or was it a tendency to push others down?
Donald came by it honestly, though. Donald’s father, Fred Trump, himself a construction magnate, taught little Donald the art of pride. “One day a cement contractor presented Fred Trump with a bill for $900,000 for work on one of his construction projects. Trump cut a $1,000,000 check – just for the pleasure of spending such a sum – and hand-delivered it to the delighted contractor.” Throwing around $100,000, just because one has the ability, hardly means that one should.
“I like thinking big,” Donald Trump once declared. “If you’re going to be thinking anything, you might as well think big.” Trump was certainly thinking big (if he was thinking at all) at the unveiling of the Trump Tower in 1979, Trump’s monument to himself, which at the time was in fact the world’s tallest reinforced concrete structure, unrivaled in its glory. “There has never been anything like this built,” he declared, “in four hundred years.” Is Trump’s personal Tower of Babel warranted because of his success?
Besides Trump, there are many others in society who find it very important that they appear important. There have been men like Winston Churchill, Admiral Horatio Lord Nelson, Napoleon Bonaparte, and Gen. Douglas MacArthur, who achieved truly remarkable heights in their lives and yet were constantly brought down by their own pride and huge egos. Had these men but kept themselves in check, history might view them in a less jaded light.
Religion has usually been the main source of keeping the pride of man in check, and regardless of religious opinion, humility is quality that all should strive to learn. The Bible is rife with passages on the importance of humility, many of them stemming from the mouth of the great teacher, Jesus Christ.
“And whosoever shall exalt himself shall be abased; and he that shall humble himself shall be exalted” (Matt.23:12) says Christ, in his famous Sermon on the Mount. “And whosoever will be chief among you, let him be your servant” (Matt.20:27), Christ goes on, showing that the best leader is chiefly concerned for his servants, not himself. “Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.”(Matt.5:5). This last scripture might conjure up a mental image of the meek of the world finally rising up in open rebellion and taking back what they deserve, but the intended meaning is more likely descriptive the meek people of the world already having what they need, and not vaunting it.
The Book of Job, held by many scholars to be a great work of literature, depicts the tale of a once successful landowner with fields, flocks, servants, and wealth beyond imagination. Through a series of horrid trials, Job loses all of his worldly possessions, most of his family, and his own good health. His friends come to him, confusedly inquiring why he doesn’t just curse God for his ruined state. Job refuses to shift the blame from himself, and sees his struggles as just another inconvenience. He continues to praise God and thank Him, despite the fact that his life is ruined. In reward of Job’s humility and continued allegiance, God allows Job to once again have his fields and flock, his family, his servants, and his wealth. Job doesn’t use this as an opportunity to boast, however, and he persists in his praise of the Lord. Though a possibly austere example for a non-believer, the story of Job is effective in demonstrating how hard humility can be sometimes.
In a more modern example of a Christian leader emphasizing the importance of humility, Ralph W. Sockman, formerly senior pastor of Christ Church (United Methodist) of New York City, said that “True humility is intelligent self-respect which keeps us from thinking too highly (or too meanly) of ourselves. It makes us modest by reminding us how far we have come short of what we can be.”
And Christians by no means have the humility market cornered. Meekness is admired in most cultures. Mohandas K. Gandhi, the great leader of men and devout Hindu, said “I claim to be a simple individual, liable to err like any other fellow mortal. I own, however, that I have humility enough to confess my errors and retrace my steps.” Swami Sivananda, the Hindu founder of the Divine Life Society, stated eloquently that “humility is not cowardice. Meekness is not weakness. Humility and meekness are indeed spiritual powers.” “Humility is the solid foundation of all virtues,” says the ancient Chinese philosopher Kong Fu Zi.
Some scientists, philosophers, and even occasional politicians value humility. Simone Veil, the French philosopher and social activist, defines real genius as “nothing else but the supernatural virtue of humility in the domain of thought.” Albert Einstein learned many lessons in humility during the course of his life, making many magnificent discoveries in his life but also going through heaps of work to get there. “No amount of experimentation can ever prove me right,” said Einstein, “and a single experiment can prove me wrong.” Ted Turner, the American media mogul and philanthropist, joked “If I only had a little humility, I’d be perfect!”
Even Abe Lincoln had something to say on humility, coming from such common, poor roots. “Common-looking people are the best in the world,” he said. “That is the reason the Lord makes so many of them.” Lincoln is a great example of humility, in that he accepted his flaws, knew what they were, but did not dwell on them, and continued to work to benefit man.
On the college level, competition is rampant. It is natural to seek success and crave competition, but many see the success of others only as success above their own. The goal for many students lies only at the top of the ladder, in getting the best grade in class, in nailing that internship over 30 other applicants. There is nothing wrong with this attitude. It is acceptable to be successful.
The true test, however, is for one to get as high as possible on that ladder, and then, to not only be content with one’s allotted spot, but to help others on their ascent. Applauding others’ achievements while hiding one’s own is a great mark of character, and those who practice this lost art are truly respected by their peers. “Do you wish to be great?” asks St. Augustine, the old Christian scholar and the first archbishop of Canterbury. “Think first about the foundations of humility. The higher your structure is to be, the deeper must be its foundation.”
After hearing all of this talk on humility, what can the reader do in his/her life to secure this foundation of humility? One may allow others to win sometimes. One could serve in stealth, and then blush upon being discovered in these acts of do-goodery. One could speak better and more frequently of others than of oneself. One might be trodden upon, but could meekly accept that inconvenience as an opportunity to be someone else’s stepping-stone.
Humility is often neglected, but is still important and admirable. If in doubt, just remember the words of the great Yankee’s catcher Yogi Berra. “It ain’t the heat; it’s the humility.”

THE MOST BOTHERSOME, IRKSOME THINGS

2008-08-14T00:53:00.000-06:00

THE MOST BOTHERSOME, IRKSOME THINGS. - KORY WOOD

I try to keep my complaining to a minimum. It seems that with the onslaught of the blogosphere, all writers have become just a school of piranhas floating about the internet. But, one day, I was eating out, and I ordered this salad, and it was just horrid. I mean, awful. Everything that did not belong on lettuce was thrown into this recipe. It was the Elton John of salads. If the conflict in the Middle East could have been symbolized in a serving of tossed veggies, this would have been it.
Anyway, I realized, then and there, that (A) weird salads really annoy me, and (B) there are quite a few things that just bug the be-whoozits out of me. Thus, having already descended into my entirely-annoyed state, I sat down and made a list of everything that bothers me. Call me easily irritated, perpetully pestered, or what have you. I need to get this off my chest (and this will be followed up by a list of things that I really like, I promise, so that I am not a hypocritic piranha). If I leave anything off the list, it's because I wasn't particularly bothered by it at the time of this essay's conception.

1. Beauracracies.
2. People surrounding me who don't have any goals or aspirations.
3. People surrounding me who have goals or aspirations that are obviously and blatantly unrealistic, but you can't say anything to them because they'll shrivel down into a human tumbleweed and blow away with the wind.
4. Mediocrity (in the words of my father, "If you're going to suck, be the suckiest.")
5. Music Videos. I'm sorry, but I just can't see what's going on.
6. Linebackers who tackle the running back after a 3-yd. gain, then celebrate like they just cured cancer or ended the war on terror or something.
7. People who go golfing with me for their very first time, and birdie the first hole. Ooh! That makes me mad.
8. Sopranoes who think everything is funny except for that joke you just made about them.
9. The Boils of Pride (this might not make sense, but just picture someone who is covered in boils, and if anyone bumps them, it causes them excruciating pain. Some people are like this, only they aren't literally covered in boils. They're just easily offended.)
10. Bad poetry that is posing as good poetry.
11. Guns in general (unless that makes you mad at me, in which case, see number 9 again).
12. Canned fruit.
13. People who use the phrases (pardon my keyboard) "Shut up!" and "S*e*w You!" and "I'm pi**ed off!"
14. Any question thrown in my direction before I have been awake for an hour. This one makes me really grumpy just writing it....
15. Old people in my college classes that contribute too much and visibly annoy the professor.
16. Awkward jokes at the beginning of speeches. Just roll right into the meat of it, man! No one wants to hear about lawyers or BYU football or what you thought when your Bishop called you.
17. Single girls who don't want to talk to me just because they're single and don't want to give off "that vibe."
18. "That vibe."
19. The Ruination of the Sacred Hymns. They're golden the way they're written. No need to add a drum track/machine gun vibrato/oft'-arpeggio-ed piano part to them.
20. Writers who think that any good writing has to "deal with issues the people aren't ready to hear, man." If I want to hear good writing, I'm going to watch Sesame Street, thank you very much.
21. Socks that have more holes in them than a Chinese newspaper.
22. Faucets that, upon being turned on, spray past the lip of the sink and soak the entire front of your pants, thus enabling those people who struggle in developing original humor to make comments like "Hey! You wet your pants!" Yes, thank you.
23. People who struggle in developing original humor (i.e. - "You started shaving? Boy, I could just put some milk on that and let the cat lick it off!", or "I'd tell you, but I'd have to kill you.", or pretty much any quote from a Monty Python movie).
24. English/Political Science majors who think that society would greatly benefit from a study of themselves.
25. Missed free throws. Dangit, c'mon!
26. That girl in class who does all the homework and has the best grade and aces the test but couldn't tell you anything about what it means.
27. Contrived spontenaity and forced randomization.
28. Trying to spell spontenaity...naety...tanaeitey....
29. People who think that music is only good if the lyrics are good.
30. People who think that music is only good if the music is good.
31. People who think that music is only good if Neil Diamond sings it.
32. The fact that I have to number this list. I'm so obsessive sometimes.
33. People who can't hear a question asked without answering it, even if it isn't directed at them.
34. The Talented-But-Tactless.
35. Being stuck in a vehicle that only plays late-90's pop music. It's like being stranded in the desert with a bag of Tootsie Rolls.
36. That angry older guy that shows up for the pick-up basketball game and calls fouls on every drive, then gets in a fight with someone.
37. Being the only person in the room who knows who Gary Hart is.
38. Bees. They know what they did.
39. Bands like (I'm sorry!) Journey, Boston, Kansas, Styx, Rush. They're not bad, they're not great. See number 4. And, if you don't agree with me, read number 9 again.
40. Being the lone manatee in a sea of dolphins.
41. Paper-cuts.
And, finally, number 42..........I don't really know. But I'm sure I'll wake up at 3:00 A.M. this morning screaming, "AAAGGGHHH!!! I forgot to put______on the list!!! I absolutely hate that....."
Feel free to add on to this list. I would love to hear your opinions, unless I disagree with them, in which case I will haughtily glance over them and fail to reply.
Boy, do I feel better.

The Luckiest

2008-08-02T10:57:00.000-06:00

I've been reluctant to post anything on the same blog as a writer as talented as Kory, but I wanted to write down some events that happened this week and perhaps bring a smile to someone's face.

Tuesday began as any other Tuesday would, with me stumbling around in a sleepy daze as I attempted to wake and get my sorry self off to work. My stomach wasn't feeling too great, but I ignored that and went to work. When you're a college student two things matter: girls and money. You can't have one without the other.

Work progressed as well as I could have hoped. Things have been pretty busy lately due to a vacancy in our department. Busy is definitely good, because the busier I am, the more commission I make. (See above).

I finished work and took off to take care of a couple errands. I had to run up to campus to meet with an advisor, and also needed to go to Layton to pick up a tux for a very good friend's wedding.

Now would be a good time to describe my truck. I drive a big, noisy, blue 1979 Chevy Pickup. It has a shell and a carpet kit, and more personality than Lucille Ball. Decades of dents and rust make Chuck, as we affectionately call him (Chuck the Big Blue Truck, a name I gave him when I was but three), truly unique. You can hear me coming from a mile away. Chuck has been a part of our family since I was a small child, and is full of memories of camp outs and road trips to California.

This was a day where almost nothing went as planned. I met with my advisor as planned, but that's where the good times ended. I forgot my wallet, and was thereby rendered a nobody by the system and was unable to buy books, register a few more credits, and several other things I needed to do. A man with no cards has no identity and no way to pay for things.

I took off in a rush for Layton. I had been in the day previously to make some last minute adjustments, so they didn't request my I.D. I grabbed my tux as quickly as possible (never trust a salesman in a lavender shirt). Yoink! I dragged my nauseous hiney out of there.

The further I drove on the way home, the sicker I got. I figured it was a race between me and my stomach. The prize: a nice bed and a glass of Alka-Seltzer.

If you've read this far, you deserve some sort of medal. Unfortunately, being a little short on medals at the moment, all you're going to get is the best part of the story.

As I was fighting back my own noxious fumes, I finally saw the last major milestone on my journey: the North Ogden Exit. I pressed down the gas, eager to win my prize. Chuck didn't respond to my coaxing. I pressed the gas down further, no response. I had just filled up. I noticed my temperature gauge was having the equivalent of a thermometer's seizure. Up. Down. Up. Down. Suddenly, my cab filled with smoke. No seeing. No breathing. Only coughing and hoping I could pull over.

I pulled over, all the while holding my breath, and dove out the passenger's side. 100 degrees. Sick stomach. I'm on the shoulder of I-15 within sight of my exit. Chuck is billowing smoke. I try to open the hood, but pull back yiping. I decide not to touch the hood for a while. Next, I call my mom, as any good son would. She agrees to come rescue me, as any mother would.

By this time, my stomach has decided to have a barmitzfa. I stand there looking stupidly at the cars passing, hoping one of them will be some good Samaritan who knows more about cars than I do. (Which isn't hard). My stomach decides to give me a little more grief, and I lean on Chuck to rest with my head down.

This is about the time the Highway Patrolman shows up. We agree that it's probably a bad idea to open the hood for fear of feeding the flames. He radios the firemen with a "Possible Number that Justin won't remember because he's too delirious." We stand and wait, and I feel like a Jack-in-the-Box that is almost ready to blow.

Fire truck arrives (followed shortly by my concerned mother), and they make the new guy (who has a sticker that says "The Boy Wonder" on his helmet) dress in full gear and open the hood. Smoke is abundant, but no flames are to be seen. The older fireman obviously has mechanical experience, and he quickly sees the problem: my heater core got a hole in it and started leaking water. No water in the radiator is apparently a bad thing.

They go and grab a water line from the truck (Cool!) and begin satisfying Chuck's thirst. This is about the time that my stomach has had enough, and I go a few steps away and unload my three previous meals onto the side of the freeway. Yes, I see carrots, and salad . . .

"Are you alright?"

"I've been better"

The kind firemen give me a bottle of water, instruct me to try and start the engine. It starts, but Chuck isn't the same. He seems sluggish. Or slothish. Slowish. He doesn't want to start, much less go anywhere. Our friendship has enough juice left for one last trip, and he makes it off the freeway. A few blocks later he gives up and won't start for anything.

Now my stomach. Let's give him a name, shall we? Gunther decides that he's not thirsty and would rather water the dead lawn at the abandoned house where Chuck broke down. Heaving on all fours is not how I had planned to spend my day. We call a tow truck, and I say goodbye to Chuck, hoping he'll be alright. My mom takes me home and I sleep for 16 hours, waking up in time to go to work and attend my friend's wedding.

This post turned out to be a lot longer than I intended, so I'll cut down the next part. The next day my dad's car broke down, and we quickly realized how much we rely on these vehicles. I spent quite a bit of time wallowing in self pity and trying to figure out how the heck I'm going to afford a car. I thought about how unlucky we were! Only one car between three drivers! How are we going to work this out? Then a man came in to work requesting that a memoriam be placed in the paper. His mother and one year old son died last year in a car accident. I get news of a person I don't even know having a swimming accident and being paralyzed from the neck down. Shattered dreams, ruined hopes. I realize: I am pretty lucky.

AN ODE TO RECOGNITION

2008-08-01T00:42:00.000-06:00

AN ODE TO RECOGNITION

It’s hard being both Ambitious and Meek,
Striving for Success and Humility.
It seems of Av’rice and Pride some men reek,
But others are downtrodden too eas’ly.
What matters most? Power and Achievement?
Forcing one’s name into respected lofts?
Getting one’s way like a fair-haired infant,
Demanding Attention and bursting oft’?
Or is it better a step-stone to be,
Supporting teeming masses on the back?
Allowing others in spotlights their glee,
Like Hephaestus, hamm’ring while Zeus attacks.
Recognition is heftily prized,
But for what do I want to be recognized?

PROCRASTINATION

2008-08-01T00:33:00.000-06:00

PROCRASTINATION

I can promise,
You’re not a wimp
If you’ve been feeling void of free time.
Completing vital tasks
Seems impossible.
Oh, the bleak irony.
There are so many
Absolutely necessary things
That are naught.
How does one so plagued
With to-do lists
Combat this age-old frustration?
I recommend a healthy dose
Of some good old
Procrastination.
Procrastination feels right
Because it’s secretly
Therapeutic.
Suck it down like warm root beer,
Left on the picnic table
From hours past.
Watch prior anxieties
Scatter off
As leaves ‘neath a lawnmower.
Take some time to waste some time.
There’s much to gain
From losing precious hours.
Meet responsibilities,
Of course,
And do enough to see success.
At least,
Your own interpretation of success,
Which only you know.
But there’s more value
In value-less activities
Than people think.
And doesn’t it always seem
That those hurried least
Are happiest most?

WHAT'S IN A NAME?

2008-07-17T17:45:00.000-06:00

WHAT’S IN A NAME?

Rank and file, we all must live
As what our parents named us.
However, one wonders what it’d be like
If instead of Phil, you were called Mike,
Or, perhaps, Joe or Gus.

What’s in the name, that makes James Dean
The epitome of ‘cool’?
What if Brad Pitt had been Bernie McKay?
Would he still steal girls’ hearts away,
Or would he mop your school?

Would Michael Jordan still have soared
As Mortimer W. Bing?
I wonder if millions would have swooned
If Douglas Presley cooed and crooned.
Methinks, he’d not be “King.”

Nest time you see the Queen of England
Or Oprah, or someone of equal fame,
Think of her as Bernice Schmeldman
Or maybe she’d be Maybel Feldman.
Oh! How ‘bout Lulu Fannie O’Geldman?
See? What’s in name?.

NO ONE SHOULD BE PAID TO BE A ROLE MODEL

2008-05-22T22:03:00.000-06:00

I found myself in the middle of Pride and Prejudice, in awe at the character of Mr. Darcy. As with so many of Jane Austen’s male characters, they are at first misunderstood and slightly un-likeable, but upon further study, the reader begins to truly love them. And this made me think of something seemingly unrelated: Allen Iverson.
Yes, I mean the dread-locked, tattoo-laden, practice-skipping point guard for the Denver Nuggets, who has spent most of his career in Philadelphia. I used to hate this guy. I mean, frothing at the mouth, yelling at the t.v., venomously loathing this man. And then, I saw the game in which he returned to Philadelphia for the first time since being traded, and saw the crowd give him a five-minute ovation, and watched him cry, and heard the analysts telling stories of what this guy has done for the community there, and I was intrigued. Maybe I had misjudged him. Beneath the ink, bling, and posse, was he a worthy role model?

PROFESSIONAL ATHLETES: No One Should be Paid to be a Role Model

“I am not a role model. I am not paid to be a role model. I am paid to wreak havoc on the basketball court.”
Charles Barkley, the famous forward for the Phoenix Suns, revolutionized the world of sports debate in the early 1900’s with this simple statement. Sports stars had long been idolized (and still are) by young people for their athletic prowess, but did they bear any kind of a responsibility, subsequently, to be upstanding and noble in their private lives?
Are professional athletes really still our heroes? These men and women have trained most of their lives to become very good at what they do, but have other aspects of their lives, such as strength of character, become just as important in earning “idol” status among today’s people? Absolutely. A professional athlete with high standards is respected far more than one without said standards. As major public figures, athletes are and should act as role models.
Admittedly, athletes have it a little rough. Some come from very humble circumstances and communities. Some come from very little education. Some come from bad families, bad neighborhoods, and bad habits. After coming from these varied environments, however, they suddenly come into fame, masses of wealth, and public attention. It would be hard for anyone to stand up to the media onslaught most modern-day athletes endure, but harder still is coping with the sudden possibilities a life of wealth and fame bring. Those who are not ready and prepared for this life often make massive mistakes.
Athletes are also exposed to the public more often than other celebrities. An actor can really only be seen as often as his movie is seen, but a quarterback is seen every consecutive Sunday for weeks in the fall. Sinead O’Connor (an Irish songwriter) is heard only as often as she is listened to, but Shaquille O’Neal (Phoenix Suns center and basketball star) is seen 82 times in the winter and spring.
Should their lives be held to such intense scrutiny? They are, technically, just athletes. They are really good at making inflatable objects go through steel circles, or throwing things farther than other people, or running faster and jumping farther and winning seemingly pointless events. At no time did they sign a lifetime contract assuring the public they would be a model citizen in everything they do. But is that really something that needs to be written down?
It is important that these men and women in our professional sports keep high standards, and especially important is the influence athletes have on children. Kids look for heroes, and they should be given something to live up to, not down to. Little boys and girls don’t follow the careers of politicians, secretly hoping that someday they can be like John Edwards. All little boys would rather grow up to play under John Chaney (former Temple University basketball coach) than work for Dick Cheney (United States Vice President), and most modern little girls would rather be like Diana Taurasi (WNBA Basketball Star) than like Nancy Pelosi (Speaker of the House).
Unfortunately, there are bad examples out there of athletes-gone-wrong. There are men like Mike Tyson, who was a world champion boxer and a world champion brawler, threatening the lives of opponents’ families, getting in fights outside of bars, and losing all of his money in frivolous spending.
Bobby Knight, the former coach of the oft-successful Indiana Hoosiers men’s basketball team (he is presently in a state of consulting/retirement), coached his teams to titles, but verbally and physically abused his own players and threw explosive temper tantrums, not to mention folding chairs.
There’s Pete Rose, who is inarguably one of the best baseball players ever, but who has also been accused of gambling on his own sport, preventing him from being inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame, which he otherwise would so richly deserve.
And let’s not forget Kobe Bryant, who is admittedly a philanderer, if not a felon. He is absolutely amazing and virtually peerless on today’s basketball court, with a fade-away jumper that a high school ball player will work hours in imitating in his driveway, but his relationship with his wife is not one that should be emulated by these boys in their youthful pursuits.
In more recent news, Michael Vick, the extremely talented former quarterback of the Atlanta Falcons, who was considered by many to be the “new face of the National Football league”, was caught in a dog-fighting scandal. According to multiple sources, prior to the discovery of these atrocious acts, his popularity exceeded every other player in the NFL. Statistically, more kids wore his numbers than any other active player, but now many fathers don’t want their kids wearing those jerseys. Worse yet, while awaiting trial, it was revealed that Vick had tested positive for marijuana.
Marion Jones, who holds many Olympic records for the Summer Games and lit up the 1996 Atlanta Games, recently came forward and admitted she had knowingly used steroids at the time of competition. While it can and should be admired that she came forth and admitted guilt of her own free will, the admission in no way removes the example Jones gave of steroid use, and all her wins and successes will forever be forgotten under the haze of her error.
Barry Bonds, our most recently-crowned home run king, has been involved in scandal after scandal, including allegations of steroid use and affairs with women. However, Bonds’ least redeeming quality is probably his demeanor. He refuses to share rooms with teammates, speaks to the media in as surly a manner as possible, and gives no one credit for his success but himself. He hasn’t even taken time to be in his team picture the last three years. He just left the San Francisco Giants in the off-season, and shockingly, no other team has picked him up.
O.J. Simpson, formerly of the Buffalo Bills, who is one of the best running backs of all time, was tried for a double murder, but miraculously (and suspiciously) cleared of guilt. He had been living in relative obscurity until a recent, almost comical outburst in which Simpson, armed to the teeth, attacked a man thought to have been stealing the star’s football memorabilia. He now awaits yet another trial.
Then, there are stars like Tonya Harding (the ice-skating hitman-hirer), John Daly (the drunken golfer), and Terrel Owens, Chad Johnson, and Randy Moss (all three Pro Bowl wide receivers with very wide mouths). It seems, with all these examples, that our nation is doomed to hearing story after story of successful athletes leading unsuccessful lives.
But there is hope. Most athletes aren’t nearly that despicable, most are completely normal, and some are downright admirable.
Let’s look on the local stage: the Utah Jazz (Salt Lake City’s professional basketball team) is a haven for athletes of good reputation. John Stockton, the long-time point guard who played near-perfect basketball for ages, never once needed the spotlight on the court. He has a large family and loves his wife. Jeff Hornacek (former shooting guard) is loved and admired in Utah as one of the best 3-point shooters who has ever played, but most guys admire him more because he’s a nice guy and a great father. Jaron Collins (current center) graduated from Stanford, and though he averaged less than a minute of play this post-season, he is always willing to speak with the media, no matter the outcome of a game, with a big smile on his face and an intelligent, elpquent, humble delivery. Jerry Sloan, the career coach of the Jazz, though occasionally afflicted with a severe potty-mouth, took extended time off only once, and that was for his wife’s funeral. He attributes all of his success to her, and even tried to clean up his language at her request. Greg Ostertag, the former Jazz big man, is not as admired as the previous three men for his talent and skill (and that especially includes this writer, the big klutz), but he is admired by his sister. She is currently alive because Greg gave her his kidney.
Outside of Utah, there have been and still will be real heroes in professional sports. David Robinson was a lieutenant in the Navy and has donated much of his time and money to service and charities. Lance Armstrong overcame cancer to win the Tour De France a record seven times, inspiring millions. Wyoming long shot Rulon Gardner won a gold medal in wrestling, then was caught in a violent snowstorm, losing half of his toes, but was back up and training to win again in no time.
Manute Bol and Dikembe Mutumbo are both native Africans who made it big in the NBA, and both nearly went broke giving most of their money back to their home towns in Africa, trying to improve living conditions and education. Hakeem Olajuwon, a former league MVP and also a native African, took nearly a month during the middle of every season to go through a strict religious fast. Shawn Green, a Jewish baseball player for the New York Mets, holds to his religious convictions and refuses to play on the Jewish Sabbath, waiting until after the sun has gone down Saturday night (sometimes during the middle of a game) to start playing.
Lebron James has been a good example to the millions of kids aspiring to be pro basketball players. Young and successful, James hasn’t allowed this fame to go to his head. For the most part, he stays humble, does what his coach asks of him, and is kind to teammates, the press, and the fans.
Hank Aaron has recently been re-crowned America’s “real” home run king. After playing many years without the aid of steroids, Aaron meekly held the home run record for a long time until Bond’s recent success. Aaron, however, was also a superb teammate, attributed no success to himself, quietly broke records, and these days is working to help at-risk children develop the skills needed to leave their hard lives behind.
And let’s not forget the contributions of many noble women athletes. Venus and Serena Williams are two of the world’s best tennis players, but they were raised in a horrible neighborhood in Compton, L.A. Rising to success from that low of a level has been an inspiration to lots of young American kids. Nancy Lopez was a world champion golfer until she randomly decided to quit and raise a family, and is now leading an admirable life she finds even more enjoyable. Mia Hamm, the famous American soccer star, is a great example to lots of girls of the levels of success any woman can achieve. Kristy Yamaguchi and Michelle Kwan are both Olympic figure skaters of Asian descent that took the time to get solid educations.
In conclusion, it seems altogether fitting that this story of a hero named Maurice Cheeks be shared. In 2003, at a Portland Trailblazers’ game (basketball), a local girl got up to sing the Star-Spangled Banner. She was quite nervous to begin with, and singing in front of many thousands of people didn’t really help the situation much. Halfway through the song, she just stopped. Frantically, she tried to start again several times, but came up dead blank. She had forgotten the words to the national anthem, right in front of all those Trailblazers, at least those players who were on parole for the game (2003 was a hard year legally for the Portland franchise).
Unexpectedly, the Blazers’ coach, Maurice Cheeks, walked calmly over, put his arm around the girl, and started in with “and the rockets’ red glare…” The girl, mildly dazed, joined in with Cheeks and finished with him. Granted, Coach Cheeks was no amazing soloist, but to that girl, who tearfully hugged and thanked him afterward, he was a hero.
So, whether it is fair or not, those who are only trained to play sports have a civic duty to have political opinions, stay morally clean, and keep high standards. It becomes their responsibility as prolific citizens to lead lives worthy of emulation.
“I am not paid to be a role model.” Well, neither is anyone else.

POCKETKNIVES, BUG COLLECTIONS, AND LAUGHING DAISIES

2008-05-22T21:42:00.000-06:00

I went hiking recently, and found myself reveling in the simple, quiet beauties of nature. I would love to take an hour to just sit on a rock at the top of a hill and watch and think and breathe the cool, blowing air.
I then sat back and realized that there was a time when my gratitude for the surrounding world was poorly displayed, and a combination of my youthful angst and curiosity led me to destroy much of the local plant life. I learned the hard way that, though not easily provoked, Mother Nature can choose to slap someone silly. Or at least mock them.

POCKETKNIVES, BUG COLLECTIONS, AND LAUGHING DAISIES

While growing up, I always felt I was a reasonably intelligent child. I read a lot of good books, watched snippets of the news in between my cartoons, and, if captive in the car with my father, even half-listened to (shudder) talk radio. Yet, for some strange reason, I was occasionally brought back down to my cave-man roots, brought down to a place where the most sublime joy was easily found. I think that most any guy, grown or not, would agree with me in saying that the predominant occupation of the mind of every prepubescent male is not in the wooing of women, nor yet in the acquisition of food, but in wondering what happens to things when you break them.
Countless were the hours I spent with my suburban rabble of friends, finding potentially punishable material, and then dastardly contriving the mixed means of their respective obliterations. Other boys seemed to dabble more in the dry-ice arts, or even in the classic skill of fireworks-tampering. I was not so brave. Upon long observations of my compadres’ singed knuckles and absent eyebrows, I had developed a reluctance to use anything of a volatile nature in my experimentations.
And yet, somehow, my equipment of destruction always seemed infantile and pathetic when compared to the awesome destructive potential I held at my seven-year old finger-tips. This was not my fault. Our house was not exactly brimming with fun power tools and such, like the houses of my friends. Their fathers all had cool jobs, like welders and carpenters and mechanics, and they all had separate garages stuffed with a wondrous variety of devastating paraphernalia. My dad was just a music teacher, whose knowledge of things mechanical sat somewhere in between the levels of “nun” and “poet”.
Most of the time, I was forced to amuse myself by walking around our backyard in a down-trodden sulk, whipping the heads off my mother’s flowers with a long, skinny stick I had picked up. Though not nearly as rewarding as the sickening WHHOMPTH! from the explosion of a pop bottle filled with the innards of emptied fire-crackers, the more subtle WHHHHHHIP! ... THLUP of my rod of power satisfied my needs.
I spent many an hour back there, beating the air and surrounding foliage like a deranged symphonic conductor, my baton of annihilation sparing no daisy. Sometimes, I could even hear the flowers petitioning for leniency, begging empathy for their already short and meaningless lives. But my stick and I radiated frostiness. There was no deliverance for the daffodils, just a geranium genocide. I had no compassion for the cowslip, no sympathy for the sunflower, and no pity for the periwinkle. And the chrysanthemums? Well…they were just doomed.
When my friend Richard turned eight, his mother invited all of the neighborhood kids over for a birthday party. At least, it was in its formation a birthday party, but it inevitably ended up becoming more akin to a death march, as were all birthday parties for small boys. His mother paraded us around to miscellaneous organized activities that were never as entertaining as just running around and hitting each other with things.
Eventually, though, our rebellious uprisings and attempts at escape were too much for her, and she spent the last half of the party shut up inside her room, muttering to herself (“No…gosh-darnit…Don’t touch…Why can’t you just hit the stupid piñata, instead of every other boy in the room? And no peeking! ...What did I say about touching that!?...Lousy kids…”).
Richard was tall for his age, and skinnier than an Ethiopian pigeon, with almost-white hair and a tan-less complexion that would have made a polar bear look sideways. He had five brothers of indiscriminate age, all of whom looked exactly like him. Sometimes, I would be out wreaking havoc with Richard, and I would look up and realize that it was not Richard, but Mike, or Wade, or one of the others. Ultimately, this made no large difference, since their interests were all so similar (Interests: 1-Bugs, 2-Spaghettios, 3-Combining the aforementioned two interests).
Richard started opening his presents, which most likely would have consisted of eighty-four Ninja Turtles, five home-made bug collections, and dress socks. I was, at best, uninterested, and was considering going home to catch the Power Rangers (HAI-YAH!) when, out of the corner of my eye, a little flash of an impending life-alteration, in the form of a small box, wrapped in the business section, caught my youthful stare. Quickly unwrapping it, Richard ripped out its mysteriously glorious innards, bringing into the light a gorgeous, shining, crimson pocketknife. It was beautiful beyond all my imagination. I could hear Richard’s mother’s tulips screaming in hopelessness. Man, Richard had the best parents ever! And the possibilities were endless! I sat, in my own world, green with envy, plotting as to how I might come upon my own pocketknife.
I immediately began petitioning for a pocketknife of my own, much like the boy and his B.B. gun in the movie The Christmas Story. I reminded them that I would be a boy scout soon, and any boy scout lacking his trusty penknife would invariably be the societal leper. My parents seemed unsure, so I began to bombard them with a fusillade of very sensible reasons as to why I needed this knife. My baffling arguments included such possibilities as being stuck under a fallen boulder with a need to saw my own leg off, or fending off ravenous wolves that had come down from the foothills, and even a roving Biker gang that, “I swore,” Richard’s brother Mike had just seen, and so on. Naturally, they couldn’t compete with my brain-melting logic, and I began to sense their gradual acquiescence to my demands.
Finally, the day of my eight birthday arrived, and, lo and behold, there sat, shining in the sun, in all of its grandeur, a magnificent, sparkling, deep-red, multi-purpose…box.
But in that box was my pocketknife! Oh, Joy! Oh, sweet merciful heavens!
After opening and closing the blessed jack-knife in impatient glee for about the seven hundredth time, and after repeated cautions from my mother and chuckles from my father, I proceeded to run around frantically, searching out victims for my clean, menacing, cutting edge, my outlet of youthful rage. As I stepped over the threshold of my yard, I sensed thousands of daisies shuddering simultaneously.
It was just one blade, unhampered by any saws or fingernail clippers or lame corkscrews, and oh, what a blade it was! Within twenty minutes, I had whittled down every single twig and stick within a five-mile radius, and I had poked giant, glaring, jagged holes in all of our excess zucchini, and chopped through thousands of the stems of the little, inedible apples growing on the tree in our yard. I was flabbergasted at the sheer authority this keen dagger commanded in my backyard realm. A trail of flower heads adorned my wake, their bright colors petering out through their severed stems.
If only I had known then that I was about to be taught a lesson by someone who was tired of seeing her people oppressed. Mother Nature must have been infuriated, and she was about to drop the Red Sea on my pagan, barbarous little hiney.
Exhausted from my rampant destruction of the local vegetation, I dashed gleefully into my room and plopped down on the bed with my new baby. I lay there, holding it above me at a worshipful distance, and I opened it, closed it, opened it, closed it, opened it, closed it. I stopped to simply stare at my beautiful knife, rolling it over and over in my hands above my body, my palms sweaty from my invigorated afternoon.
I think that this is when Mother Nature got on the phone with her uncle, Gravity.
Abruptly, slipping from my excited, moist hands, the pocketknife dropped. It fell, faster and faster, seemingly falling through eternity. It gracefully altered its downward trajectory, rolling over just enough to ensure its killing point was at the bottom of its descent.
Through my mind coursed images of me, flailing, pinned to my bed, like a bug in Richard’s bug collection, thrashing out the last bursts of my life in useless death throes. I swore that I heard thousands of daisies outside, dancing on their little daisy crutches, laughing raucously at this turning of the tables. I closed my eyes, praying to God to stop the accidental slaughter of a foolish boy, remembering every single helpless honeysuckle I had brutally cut the life from, when…..
THUMP…CLATTER CLATTER clatter clatter!
I opened my eyes warily, expecting to be staring at a gushing fountain of blood, but was startled by the realization that…I was entirely okay. What had happened? Had God heard my doomed bleating and sent an angel to knock away the killing thrust? Had Gravity simply missed?
I looked down and realized that, yes, it had scored a direct hit right over my heart, leaving a mildly painful and moderately impressive bruise, though not big enough to my liking. And it had, in fact, hit me point down but, due to good fortune and shoddy American manufacturing, it had bounced right off my quivering self, clattering harmlessly to the floor.
I sat there a moment, staring fearfully at it, gasping for breath. I slowly rolled off the mattress, closed the demonic instrument carefully from feet away with a baseball bat and glove, kicked it under the bed, and never touched the evil thing again.
I learned an important lesson that day about my own adeptness with tools of destruction: I had none. Man’s curious fixation with taking things apart was never meant
to be my area of expertise.
And while there would always be those claiming “People kill people,” I knew in my heart that pocketknives could kill boy scouts, and I was very content to continue running safely around, flicking that dumb stick, though every time I approached my mother's flower beds, I swore I could hear the daisies tittering in protected glee.

WOMEN ARE NEVER LOVE-SICK PUPPIES

2008-05-22T21:31:00.000-06:00

While reading a William Blake poem about love, I was reminded of a few conversations I overheard during the build-up and after-shocks of Valentine’s Day. Some comments impressed me, and some horrified me, and some brought back life-altering experiences. A few comments brought me hope of one day having a successful relationship, while others took that hope and dragged it over the Salt Flats behind a truck.

WOMEN ARE NEVER LOVE-SICK PUPPIES

Though lacking in flair and panache,
Sally’s beau spent the bulk of his cash
To procure, for her, flowers.
Sadly, their floral powers
Served only to give her a rash.

“So, like, yesterday, I’m at work, right? And I’m just sitting there at my desk, taking calls, and then this HUGE bouquet of flowers gets delivered, I mean, at least a hundred roses, right? So I look at the card, and it says ‘To [Cindy]: Happy Valentine’s Day.’ And I’m all, ‘Oh, great, thanks, jerk.’ I mean, he didn’t even bother to write anything special on the card at all, and there were so many flowers, I couldn’t even carry them out to my car. I had to get one of my bosses to help me, and ohmygosh, it was so embarrassing, and I was so ticked off at him. Guys are such jerks.”
“I KNOW! Like, my husband comes home with a big box of chocolates and a necklace, and two tickets to see Rascal Flats, and he thinks he’s so amazing and impressive, but I know all he wanted was for me to make out with him. So I was just, like, “Thanks, hon.” And then I went back to doing my homework. Hah! When are guys going to start being original? I mean, what is this, the 1950’s? I swear, sometimes, I’m married to a caveman. How primitive can you be?”
I sat on the exercise bike, mouth like a trout’s, my legs robotically and slowly pumping, as I listened to the two women on the treadmills behind me. This was the point in my life where I realized that, when a man tries to impress a girl, it’s a bit like watching an elephant try to roll pennies into little cardboard bank tubes.
I didn’t even know what to think, how to go on. Was this the mindset of all women? Sweat poured down my brow, the brunt of it no longer stemming from physical exertion.
Was I doomed to blunder aimlessly through the Sahara of indifferent women? Would I be forever bobbing in the Sea of the Tactless, arms and legs paddling frantically, gasping for breath, and only breaking the surface long enough to suck down enough air to prolong my swimming anguish?
And what would happen when I did come to be attached to one of these women? Would I be stuck forever, rolling the Stone of Offerings up the Hill of the Unsatisfied and the Disappointed?
I have since come to the conclusion that men are not as inherently evil as generally perceived. Sure, we start the wars, pillage the villages, and corrupt the governments, but I am reasonably sure that never, not once, in the history of our, or any, modern civilization, has a man asked a woman to drive across town to get him a strawberry-kiwi Slushie from, you know, that one green convenience store, by the church-thing, and then make her take it back and get him a new one because it was too melty and it was from the wrong place anyway. It’s by the church-thing, darnit! And there’s a stoplight by one of the corners. Just go get it!
Once, when trying to impress a prospective feminine companion, I spent days preparing for a certain date. I had my clothes laid out two days before, fully meeting my ironing quota for an entire year. I showered twice every day that week, scouring every possible surface with the sharp, tangy goodness of Irish Spring.
My truck, though practical and loveable, like an old dog, was accented by a full length dent down the right side, a scar spawned from the combination of a late night, a crowded parking lot, and a bumper that (I swear) jumped a full foot out from a hunkering Volvo. I knew that no father would approve of this blemished vehicle, so I had prepared in advance to take my mother’s car, which was nearly as good as the day it was purchased, and had seen about as much action as an NFL kicker.
Options for the construction of the Supreme Date coursed through my head all week long. This diner would be a great place to eat, but the proletarian atmosphere might project a Philistine shadow on my character. This spot would be gorgeous at any time of day, but its isolated nature might lend to suggestive undertones, causing me to be blacklisted. That cologne would certainly mask any traces of immaturity, yet it could give me, as my brother put it, “old-man stink.”
I worried, fretted, fussed, re-ironed, day-dreamed, sweated, stuffed myself silly, went a day and a half without eating, shot free throws, ironed again, and found myself arriving home from school on that blissful, horrid Friday, with only four hours till launch. I showered again, scrubbing so hard I lost calluses. I then changed into my pristine, carefully selected outfit, and lay down, width-wise, across my bed, my head brushing up against the wall and the soles of my feet flat on the ground. I lay there, with my arms folded limply across my stomach, and stared at patterns in the ceiling for the full three hours, glancing at the clock every five minutes.
About an hour before my pubescent ritual was to begin, my daydreams were coming to a roaring climax. I had just single-handedly whipped every comrade of an invading Bolshevik regiment, all while holding her swooning form cradled in my left arm. After carrying her calmly away from their shattered carcasses, and following my gentle revival of her fainted figure, we gazed intently into each other’s eyes, moving heartrendingly closer and closer, until…
The phone rang.
“Hey….Yeah! I’m way excited!...No! I’m great, uh, how are….Yeah…Oh…Your friend just…No! Well, that’s too bad…Oh, uh huh…That’s awesome, you’re a great friend to go be with her after tha…Yeah, tell her I’m sorry about Brent…Hmm, I guess I see why she had to let him go like that…Ok…Have fun at the bowling alley! I’ll, uh, I’ll see you in, uh, yeah, chemistry…Monday…No, it’s okay! Really! I’ll talk to you later…Ok, bye…Bye...”
I sat there on the edge of my bed, hunched over, staring at the left toe of my shoe, the phone held limply in my upturned right hand, draped over the side of the mattress. I spent another hour in reflection, silently going over my good old mental checklist of personal character flaws and odd-looking physical features. I spent extra time checking “lack of abs” and “spontaneous wit deficiency,” just to make the process of recognizing my own gross ineptness more painful.
Two hours later, I was devouring an entire 5-Buck pizza and a quart of Ben and Jerry’s Chubby Hubby at Brent’s house, watching Bruce Willis make human wall paintings out of anybody who didn’t appreciate him, and discussing the finer attributes any quality 2-guard needed to win in the league these days. Brent didn’t look much better off than I did, but we both held it in like troopers, spackling the holes in our emotional sheetrock with plaster of Almond Joy. Neither of us mentioned our grievous wounds, and neither of us planned to.
Later on, after Bruce left us in a trail of broken glass and glory, we were surprised to find that a romantic comedy had accidentally worked its way onto the screen. “Do you want to change it?” “No…whatever…if you want to…” “Uh, it’s cool…I like anything Tom Hanks is in…” “You want some more cream soda and taquitos?”
The funniest part is, after that excruciatingly tortuous night, I kept asking girls on dates. Like a true addict, I felt that the pain never truly stacked up against the infrequent pleasures. And I’m still asking girls on dates! But that’s just how it has to be.
I’m going to keep on being a love-sick puppy.
I’m going to continue accepting “too much homework” as a worthy excuse for date-cancellations.
I’m going to persist in meeting half-smiling mothers and swollen-chested, all-knowing fathers.
I’m going to have many more awkward doorstep scenes where I grossly overestimate how much she really did enjoy the date.
I’m going to have a few where I grossly underestimate her, too.
You know what? I’ll bet even Bruce Willis and Tom Hanks don’t know what’s going on.

Elmo for President

2008-02-21T18:01:00.000-07:00

The following excerpt was inspired from my stumbling upon Sophocles’ quote on page 28 of our course packet: “The happiest life is to be without thought.” I was instantly pulled back to a time in my life when I was most happy. I was brought careening through time, back to sit in front of the old television set, a set complete with tinfoil-wrapped antennae, to watch the goings-on of a blissful, simple little place named Sesame Street, a place where Big Bird and Grover and Bert and Ernie encountered complex life situations, usually involving a lack of knowledge of the concept of something like “8” or “Near and Far.” They would then solve these life-altering problems with a hefty draught of sincerity and, perhaps, a peppy song. I have recently became aware that many people in our country are frequently less than happy, and sarcasm and pessimism are rampant, and I’ve come to the consideration that, if everyone in this country were forced to sit down once a week and watch an episode of Sesame Street, things could at least be no worse than they are now.

ALL I WANT IN A PRESIDENT IS ELMO

The days of the Bush dynasty are nearing an end, and our nation will be left without a character in the Oval Office. We will be asked, yet again, to select another person we inherently distrust and resent ruling over us. It seems that no candidate has been truly beloved by the masses in years, and none of our present-day hopefuls are close to being truly universally admired. They are, to a man (or woman), loved by some, hated by others. Not one man (or woman) of them stands out like noble King Arthur of old, gleaming sword rightfully clasped in hand, authority unquestionable by all, and backed strongly and affirmatively by every citizen.
No, once again, our nation will pick a candidate, and then spend four years picking on that poor soul. That’s why America needs a change. And no, I’m not talking about “change,” the oft-sputtered fall-back word of our current runners. I speak of change, a change in attitude, a new leaning towards optimism, a trust and love and respect for our country’s leadership again.

The answer to our back-breaking dilemma comes in one powerful word:
ELMO.

That’s it. The Elmo. From Sesame Street. The only possible solution to our ailing motherland’s fatal cynicism is a giggling ball of felt, red fur, and those ever-flailing arms tipped in two little, nubbed fingers.

Now, just think about this for a second. If there is one person our there that truly dislikes Elmo, they are either a liar or the tragic victim of some Muppet-related form of abuse. Face it; there is not a single American that hates Elmo. He is the bubbling, perky glue meant to piece our nation back together.

The Republicans will try to dismiss him initially, doubtless targeting his constant reliance on the hand of another, but the GOP will ultimately be won over by his playful willingness to teach the youth of our nation the basics with little to no monetary compensation, and also his surprising aptitude for tap-dancing.

Democrats will be distressed with Elmo’s tendency to hold back hand-outs of cookies for his needy friend, Cookie Monster, who is obviously hampered by an incapacitating speech impediment and a lack of education that prevents him from working a steady job (“Me no have speech impediment!”).

Nevertheless, they will eventually be forced to jump at the chance of supporting so diverse a contender as Mr. Elmo. After all, he would be the first President who is missing ears, the first President to run as a legally handicapped “little person,” the first President of non-Caucasian (and non-human) descent to win the race, and the second candidate to be of questionable planetary origin (Richard Nixon was the first, and the jury is still out on Ross Perot).
Of course, Elmo would need to be backed by a strong cabinet, his supporting cast of other beloved figures in American society, the men and women and Muppets of our world that stand above reproach and ridicule.

At the right hand of President Elmo would stand Vice President Tom Hanks. Tom would obviously handle the incalculably stressful press issues, using his everyman demeanor and trustworthy smile to put off the queries of more disparaging pundits. An intelligent and capable man, Mr. Hanks also bears the unique honor of appearing in at least one movie that every single person out there likes. He would not only attract both the earthier Turner and Hooch crowd and the more sensitive, predominantly feminine devotee of the romantic-comedy genre, but also the sophisticated, chic Forrest Gump fans, thus locking in both the Southern and female vote, plus the always-crucial police/canine bump.

Elmo’s Secretary of State post could easily be filled by Stevie Wonder, who is quite possibly the coolest man in the world. And our nation would feel so much better with Brett Favre quarterbacking our military efforts in the execution of his Secretary of Defense role, always giving 110% percent, one conflict at a time.

But why stop there? What about David Letterman as Secretary of Agriculture (“Let’s see what happens when we drop eight tons of watermelons off the roof of my studio, eh?”)? Oprah Winfrey would obviously excel as Speaker of the House, and Bill Cosby could lovingly father our Environmental Protection Agency. And wouldn’t good old Charlie Brown be fantastic as the head of NASA (“Good grief, I lost another one…”)?

Our Senate could be crammed with the combined casts of the Care Bears and Star Wars, the House swollen with Beatles, Elvis Presley, and Kiss impersonators, and our Supreme Court would be manned by a selection of players from the 1992 Olympic Dream Team, with Karl Malone he-self at the helm of Chief Justice (this would draw any negative attention away from President Elmo’s frequent use of the third person in his speeches).

Now, realistically, this ideological concept of political movement, one I have appropriately named “Progressive Elmoism,” would require vast public support, and a willingness from the general public to not just “change,” but change, and though Elmo is merely felt and hair, the unification and values he stands for are crucial to the healing of our sickly sphere. Elmo would be loved by all, and his sheer popularity would get things moving again in the direction of an encouraging new dawn.

And come on, it’s not like we aren’t already used to having a Muppet as the Commander-in-Chief.

-Kory

The Bus Stop, The Barf Seat, and My Brother

2008-02-21T17:57:00.000-07:00

My father often says, “Never teach a pig to sing, son. It wastes your time and annoys the pig.” I had always thought that this meant I shouldn’t try to teach a pig to sing. Symbolism was a concept I didn’t chance upon till later in life, though I wish had learned this life lesson earlier, and in a less abrupt way.

The fifth grade was absolutely terrible for me. Already a year of impending bodily “changes” and emotional upheavals, I was forced to go through this year in a foreign environment. My parents had decided to build a house in the suburbs of North Ogden, and we were financially obliged to leave our quaint little house in “old-people Ogden,” as we called it, to rent a house in South Ogden, while our new house neared the end of its construction. The rental home was small, cold, next to a highway, and filled with exotic spiders the size of puppies. I had been ripped from my childhood home and forced to live in this limbo-dwelling, knowing full well my time there would be short.

And, in fact, the fifth grade was the worst year of my life, not just because of our moving, but more due to the fact that, in this new society, my brothers and I had become the lepers.
I couldn’t understand it at first. I was used to being part of the herd, not one of the sick and dying, wounded beasts at its fringe. For years, I had assisted in mocking the weird kids, and now, I had joined their ranks.

It all started fairly quickly. The first few days were filled with forced introductions by parents in the neighborhood, mostly harmless and awkward. However, my younger brother, Casey Sean, had started in recent months to develop a mouth like a burning tire, spewing forth toxic smoke wherever he went. He was a good kid, but we had been raised to be fairly intelligent children, and it was important to him that everyone in our path become aware of this.

Armed with gobs of useless trivia, for instance, hundreds of Shakespearean insults, courtesy of our mother (“You should be women, and yet your beards forbid me to interpret that you are so…” – MacBeth, Act I Scene III), and dump trucks full of sports factoids from our father (he can still recite the winners and scores of every Super Bowl up to about the year 1995), we went forth to mingle and battle in the harsh, unforgiving streets with our co-children.
I was a non-confrontational child, avoiding combat wherever possible, but Casey’s frequent oral output often left me having to defend our persons from bodily injury, or at least from a stern white-washing and a wedgie.

I remember, in particular, one frozen morning at the bus stop. We were all there, a shivering flock of children, each one bundled up in layers of swishing snow clothes, waiting for the powerful heaters and warm (if not friendly) atmosphere of our daily transport.
Precisely upon our arrival, our neighbor, a scrunch-faced, sturdy, baggy-panted man-child named Ryan, the dominant male at our stop, was melting all the snow in a 10-foot radius with a fiery inundation of obscene jokes (most of which, none of us, including Ryan, understood) and curse words that poured steadily and unstoppably from his mouth (some men make swearing a true art form, but cursing from a boy never seems to sound completely natural, like watching Michael Jordan play baseball, or hearing Pavarotti sing the blues).

He soon ran out of colorful expressions, however, and his attentions were turned to making life more difficult for those around him who were already too low to fight back. “Hey, Diaper-heads,” bellowed Ryan. Fully aware of our own status, we at once acknowledged and ignored his salutation by raising our eyebrows and sinking deeper into our hoods, feigning little interest in his attentions.

“Hey, you two! You’re sitting on the barf-seat again today. If you don’t sit there, you’re dead.”
I’m thoroughly convinced, after having surveyed many thousands of former bus-riders, that every known school bus is pre-installed with a “barf-seat,” as Ryan so elegantly referred to it. This seat is always slightly off-colored, with patched leather, and is covered in faded stains torn holes, and sticky spots of an uncertain origin. Our job, as the community exiles, was to occupy that barf-seat, thus keeping other bus-patrons from having to sit there. Ours was a crucial role, much like that skinny kid who is always the last one out in a dodge-ball game (he never survives that long as a result of athletic prowess, mind you; he lives as a result of hiding behind larger players, always at the absolute furthest point from his enemies, dancing around meekly and quietly, until he is the last target left, while every usable ball sits idle on his side of the court, with him too scared to run up, grab one, and throw it back, thus prolonging the match).

It was no joy to sit on the chair of menacing blemishes, but it was by no means intolerable. The stains, though hazardous in appearance, were quite dry, and had no harmful effect on the body, or, at least, nothing of an immediate danger.

But Casey Sean couldn’t take it. His Irish blood boiled that day. “No. We’re not sitting on the barf-seat. You sit there, dummy,” murmured my brother, his eyebrows angrily furrowed in protestation beneath his Ninja Turtles took.

Ryan stared at him in that confident way, a way only the true bully can ever fully achieve, with his head cocked slightly to the right (approximately 85 degrees), and a combination of shock, aggression, and joyous anticipation crossing his face. “No, I don’t think so, doofus. You are going to sit there.” And with that, he nudged Casey full in the sternum with his iron-filled glove, his features flashing between a scowl and a leering grin every few milliseconds.

I had chosen not to react at all. If my brother wanted to fight the system, he was more than welcome to. Who knew, maybe he’d get lucky. I stood, watching innocently, as Ryan chortled with his lackeys, and my brother rubbed his scrawny chest in his bubbling, suppressed anger.

“Yeah, well, you better watch it, ‘cause Kory’ll fight you back, stupid.”

Oh, dear heavens. From this point on, I was being dragged out of Switzerland and into Bavaria, my blessed neutrality torn from me.

“Look…C’mon, Ryan, stop it. You’re going to get us all in trouble.” I had elected to take the moral high ground, subtly avoiding a fight while not necessarily conceding that I feared him. I was simply afraid of the resultant disciplinary circumstances that were always unavoidable.
Secretly, I would rather have hitch-hiked in a dress to school than face Ryan, who stood half a head shorter than me but a full thirty pounds heavier, with most of that difference resting in his forearms.

“What, are you scared to fight me?”

“No, I just think fighting is for morons. And cavemen.”

“Oh, so now you’re calling me a caveman, huh?” he asked threateningly, lifting his knuckles from the ground to point a hairy finger between my eyes.

Violence was imminent, and I had no option left to me and my bony frame but to use my superior intellect to beat him down to the uneducated, blue-collar, Philistine pulp that he was.

“Look, Ryan, you know what? You’re probably going to be working for me someday, okay? So just back off, or I might have to fire you later on, and that won’t help you much when you’re buying that truck you want, which is most likely going to end up being the most important thing you do in this life.”

Wow! What a crippling blow! A zinger! Surely, this paralytic bee-sting would burst his balloon, would silence his roar, would bring this thuggish tyrant to his knees, to the ovation of my peers.
His confused, odious stare peered into me for perhaps a full minute, and then it twisted into his more natural, pitbull-grin, and his arms shot out like pistons, knocking me a full twenty feet back through the air to land on my rear, spread-eagled, in the snow.

Thanks to my mother and her far-sighted preparation, my arctic bundling preserved my fragile frame from sustaining any actual physical damage, the majority of both impacts being absorbed by my over-large ski coat, but my dignity was unprotected. It had, in fact, been dragged into the back alley and shot in the kneecaps. I tried to play it cool, cheerfully accepting my circumstances, joking in a sickly, whispered voice, “Gee, it sure is cool down here. Comfortable and soft, too. Heh, heh.” I even attempted whistling.

“Good, moron, then don’t try to get up until the bus comes.”

And so I lay. A minute or two passed, and Casey once again shot off his mouth. He ultimately joined me in the slush, the both of us lying there, silently staring up into the cold, icy-blue sky.
The bus eventually pulled up, and we all piled on, the driver not bothering to question our sorry status. As the last two kids onto the bus, we assumed our rightful place on the barf-seat, continuing to sulk, and avoiding the gaze of the surrounding herd.

And so that year went. After the 5th grade, we moved to our new house, in a happy, delightful neighborhood, and we quickly made friends and led peaceful, normal lives. It was as if that horrid year had never really happened.

I am, however, glad for that year spent in an odd, foreign, harsh reality, the year spent on the fringe of civilization. I learned much about life, about the art of avoiding confrontation, and about knowing when you’re beaten.

But I’ve never had to sit on the barf-seat since.

- Kory