This is from Spring '06 at BYU, I believe.
Nothing quite like getting your shorts completely ripped off of you while playing some intramural flag football. Remember when Bush 41 puked in the lap of the Prime Minister of Japan at that state dinner? Pretty embarrassing, right? This is on that same level.
Bank of America is my bank. They just launched a new set of commercials with Kiefer Sutherland as the narrator.
Now, if there is anything that TV (24) and movies (Phone Booth, The Lost Boys) have taught us about Kiefer, it is that he is an emotionally unstable psychotic. Need an illustration? This is from Season 1 of 24, where he is about to torture someone he needs information from:"You wouldn't think I could force this towel down your throat, but you'd be wrong. Russian soldiers in Katjata shove towels down prisoners' throats during interrogation. They leave them there until the stomach starts to digest, which only takes a couple of minutes, and then pull the towel out... taking the prisoner's stomach lining with it."
See why I would hesitate to entrust my money to this man? It's not so much that he doesn't instill confidence, but more that he instills fear:
Do I really want the guy who was the creepy caller in Phone Booth handling my mortgage?
What if he's my teller at the bank and he shortchanges me? If I call him on it, I run the risk of him beating me senseless with an improvised weapon (likely a sockful of quarters) just because I questioned him, right?
What if I try to negotiate the rate on my car loan? Do I walk out of there only after he's ripped my fingernails off one at a time?
...I guess what I'm saying is that I am now officially scared to go into my local branch to do anything. This is the worst marketing campaign ever.*
Oh, and don't tell me I'm confusing reality with fiction.
*I guess the only way it could be worse is if they had Anthony Hopkins narrating with his Hannibal Lechter voice.
I just found further reason to hibernate until the spring:
The Wolverine movie:
...and the Terminator movie:
May 2009 is basically going to be the nirvana of action movies.
Sing it with me: "Ch- Ch- Ch- Chia!"
Seriously, though. Would it surprise you if this was a college prank gone awry? Like a few of this guy's frat brothers snuck into his room while he was sleeping, applied some of that ChiaPet cream to his eyebrows, and this was the result -- that he hasn't been able to rid himself of for 30 years?
C'mon. It's possible.
(This is from a German website. I know nothing about this guy because I don't read German, but who cares? His eyebrows speak universally to all of us, and refute the old maxim that "bigger is better")
As some of you know, I talked about training for a marathon.
Well, I am now officially committed to the 14 Nov 2009 Run the River Marathon from Folsom, CA to Sacramento, CA. I heard that they give the runners a 50-meter headstart, then release the prisoners from Folsom Prison to chase after us -- like the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona. Added incentive to run faster than we normally would, I suppose.
I acquired a coach about two weeks ago -- he's my sister's coach and was kind enough to take me on after I applied for admission. (Actually, between you and me, I'm convinced affirmative action played a role in the decision...with my sister being only half-Asian, and Coach undoubtedly needing to fill his quota of at least one full-Asian runner, I was allowed in)
Anyway, I logged my longest run to date yesterday: 6 miles. I know. This is chump change to you seasoned distance runners, but it was raining and freezing out there. And those running/training montages from the Rocky movies? Not nearly as cool or inspiring when you're the one doing it.
Anyway, here's the running diary from yesterday's run:
Mile 0.02 - I hate this. I want to quit.
Mile 1 - Still hate this. Want to quit.
Mile 1.5 - Need to start brainstorming possible injuries that justify quitting.
Mile 2.5 - Thank you, thank you, thank you for iPods.
Mile 5 - Focus. All. Effort. On. Breathing.
Mile 6 - Just chant it. Tylenol. Advil. Motrin. Tylenol. Advil. Motrin.
Cooldown - There was a 30 minute span of time where I don't remember anything, so I'm assuming I blacked out.
My cell phone got run over last week. I got out of the car for a second and it must have fallen out of my pocket onto the road without my noticing. It was obliterated by the next day:
Thanks to Megs for gathering up the pieces that were scattered across the road the day after. I don't think I would have gotten closure otherwise.
Apologies to my phone for flushing our two-year relationship down the drain by abandoning you in the middle of the road to suffer a pitifully lonesome death.
Kind of like when Ben Affleck left Bruce Willis to die alone on the asteroid in Armageddon. Only instead of death by nuclear explosion in order to save the world, my phone probably just got run over by a Ford F-150 or something.
Also unlike Ben Affleck's situation, I didn't go home to Liv Tyler.
I think I'm on my fifth cell phone now, and this was by far the most violent death of any of them. What have been the worst fates of yours?
I saw a book cover in the bookstore the other day, and I need someone to explain it to me.
The part that has me confused is "Nora Roberts writing as JD Robb." Before this, I was fairly sure I understood the purpose of a pen name, but just to make sure I turned to the un/educated masses on Wikipedia and found this:
Respected authors have used pen names to conceal identity and to provide differentiation when they have crossed into newer genres, etc. If Mark Twain/Samuel Clemens did it, I can't really argue against the practice.
(Apologies to Mr. Twain, who no doubt just rolled over in his grave because I mentioned him in the same entry as Nora Roberts. I'm debating which he would perceive as more insulting: Mentioning him and Nora Roberts in the same breath, or rounding up all remaining first editions of Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and burning them right in front of his eyes.)
I guess what I take issue with is why you create a pen name for yourself and then immediately identify yourself by your real name on the same book cover. This woman wouldn't last a second in the Witness Protection Program.
Am I missing something? I better be, and somebody better have an explanation, because I just threw Nora Roberts' name all over my blog and I'm feeling pretty insecure about it.
So I was driving home from work. The car in front of me was lecturing me on my moral inferiority using five-word bumper sticker catchphrases. Look, I understand why people have bumper stickers. I have a Japan sticker and a BYU one on my car, because those are things I identify closely with.
However, there is pride in things that are important to you, and then there is excess:
This spurred me to develop a theory: The more bumper stickers on your car, in excess of three or four, the less people care about what you want to say.
...an equation:
Lecture over.
Read more...
I got a tour of the West Wing a month and a half ago.
W and Dana P were out sick, so they asked me to fill in. Here's me taking questions from Reuters or some other media guy in the White House Press Room.
This got me thinking about the myriad of reasons why I would be a subpar to horrible president:
Reporter: How do you feel right now? I mean, you trained for four years and came to represent your country at the Olympics, and had all these expectations, and totally lived up to none of them. How do you feel about letting your country down?I absolutely lose it when I watch interviews like this. My press conferences would likely consist of me fielding one or two ridiculous questions, getting agitated, upending the podium, and storming off.
I hate traffic. Hate it. Like Michael Scott hates Toby. The only thing that elicits more profanity from me is watching BYU football games.
Last year I wrote about my attempts to stay entertained in the car. In Virginia, the best way to do this is attempting to decipher the overabundance of vanity plates that drivers decide to hang on their cars. Recently, I found this CNN article, which claims that 1 out of 10 vanity plates in America belong to my fellow Virginians.
After two years of being a VA driver, I have found there are three types of plates, and that I have three distinct reactions to each kind:
--Type 1 - The Paris Hilton Plate: It is obviously a customized plate and grabbing for/needing attention. Its message is -- 99% of the time -- oversimplistic, annoying, and of no benefit to humanity. The only redeeming quality is that its message is clear: You don't need to think deeply in order understand what it's trying to say. I can tolerate these. Did I just semi-compliment Paris Hilton? I sure hope not.
Example: Remember that "Seinfeld" where Kramer gets "ASSMAN" as his license plate because the DMV accidentally swapped his plates with a proctologist's? See, those kind of Type 1s make this type tolerable.
--Type 2 - The Kanye West / Tom Cruise / Rosie O'Donnell Plate: These plates are obviously customized, so you know the owner wants attention. But unless you know the owner, the message they are attempting to convey is complete drivel. Incomprehensible gibberish. These annoy me to no end. I just don't understand why you would put such an esoteric message in so public a place. It's like preceding a speech with "What I am about to say is of importance" and then delivering the speech in Klingon.
--Type 3 - The Normal Plate - These are the ones that were randomly assigned numbers and letters. There is no deeper meaning or hidden message.
The problem is, thanks to Type 2, I already KNOW these have no meaning, yet I still look for them. And then I'll start conjuring up crazy things to make them fit.
Example: I saw a plate, "KBL-6602." I thought to myself "Oh, I see. The guy probably lived in Kabul from 1966-2002, then he moved to the US." I KNOW. I told you. CRAZY. This whole looking for non-existent clues, coupled with my interpreting of messages that aren't there, reminds me of why I was perpetually horrible at "Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?"
Therefore, I am enlisting your help. I need your help with the Type 2 Plates! I will try to get pictures of what I see on the road and provide my best guess. I need you to provide your best guesses in the comments -- decipher the meaning.
"Dented Jeans"? I have no clue.
At least this should provide some amusement.
I was blogging about something having to do with my childhood and remembered this poster that one of my old college roommates, Jason, received as a sort of gag gift. Even though he claimed he didn't like it, he held on to it for some reason, had it in a nice frame, and hung it in our kitchen.
I would just like to draw your attention to Tom's distinctive Asian features.
Apologies PoTW has been semi-lame as of the last couple of weeks... Been busy. I will rededicate myself.
Hannibal Lechter. Darth Vader. The Terminator. The Joker. Ben Wade (3:10 to Yuma). These are the characters that stand out to us as the archetypal villains. It is their disarming charisma, eccentricities, sociopathic tendencies, and calculating genius that captivate us as an audience.
And while I acknowledge the actors who played these roles and their stellar performances, I would like to recognize one who never shows up on any of the lists. Many of you don't recognize the actor's name (Christopher McDonald) who played him, but I assure you he is one of the most underrated villains of our time:
Shooter McGavin in Happy Gilmore.
What other villain has delivered a deluge of classic lines that we quote to each other all of the time?
Shooter McGavin [SM]: I eat pieces of sh** like you for breakfast.
Happy Gilmore: [laughing] you eat pieces of sh** for breakfast?
SM: No... I...
SM: I was down on 18 the other day, looked to my left, and there was two fat naked bikers having sex in the woods…how am I supposed to CHIP with that going on, Greg?!
Sm: Yeah, right! And Grizzly Adams had a beard.
Lee Trevino: Grizzly Adams did have a beard.
SM: I had to hit it off of Frankenstein's Fat foot here.
SM: Damn you people. Go back to your shanties.
SM: Let's get one thing straight, this is Shooter's tour. I've worked hard my whole life, paid my dues, and now it's Shooter's turn. And Shooter's not about to let his reign at the top be spoiled by some freak, sideshow, clown.
Here are two things to consider about the extent of his villainous-ness:
This is what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object...You won't kill me out of some misplaced sense of self-righteousness, and I won't kill you, because you're just too much fun. I think you and I are destined to do this forever.Can't you see Happy and Shooter having this face-to-face? No? OK, fine.
A week late, but I've been tardy posting as of late.
So I had the typical 18 November phone conversation with my dad -- the same one I've had for the past ten years:
JD: Hey dad! just calling to say happy birthday!And such it is with my dad. He doesn't like the spotlight and is perfectly content to do his own thing. I think a lot of people are surprised to find that I attribute a good deal of my own personality to him: some sarcasm, a tendency towards introvertedness, willing to let others make their own choices and not take control of the situation. I guess hands-offishness is the technical term I'm looking for. Encouraging might be another. All of these are great things, in my opinion.
D: I appreciate the phone call and you thinking of me. But I would prefer not to think about getting older...
Dad: Went to a concert.Gotta love it.
BG: The Bob Dylan one?
Dad: Yeah.
BG: I was there, too. Alright, go ahead.
Remember that integrity thing I was talking about earlier? Why don't you just go ahead and toss mine out.
The other day I was talking with my sister Jen on the phone, doing some catching up. She told me she just got back from running 13 miles. An immediate alarm went off in my head.
JD: Wait, Jen. Are you--? **deep breath** ...Are you training for a marathon?**Insert crotch-punched-feeling here**
Jen: Yeah. I was thinking about running one at the end of February.
I'm afraid I might go against everything I've preached for the last few years and choose to run a marathon. Something tells me I would suck at the negotiating table in international politics -- I'd buckle before the other guy even said anything.
With Halloween having recently passed and the release of Saw V -- the latest iteration of a movie series that easily falls under the "Survivor"** classification -- I present this week's photo.
The whole Halloween season reminded me of a very simple fact that I readily admit: I don't do scary movies. I just can't handle them. Especially ones with freaky children. I think deep down for a very long time I always knew this, but the manly side of me would never fess up to it.
But it all became glaringly apparent a few years back when some friends and I went and saw The Grudge in the theater.
My friend Casey is an emotional guy. It usually manifests itself in hypercompetitiveness, but it also translates into the amplification of emotions while watching movies. In the case of The Grudge, that emotion was FEAR. Granted, had I not sat next to him, I still would have been scared. But sitting next to Casey sucked me in emotionally and multiplied my fear threefold.
Afterwards, my roommate, Rye, wanted to drive his girlfriend home, but I wouldn't let him leave me alone. Casey's wife, Jenna, just made fun of us for being scared.
And I think as a way to rub it in, Jenna rented The Exorcism of Emily Rose some time after that. You can imagine how the dialogue went as I was over at their apartment late one night:
JD: Well, what're our options [of things to do]?I think Jenna -- understandably annoyed at our cowardice -- ended up having to send it back to Netflix, unwatched.
**Casey remains silent**
J: I rented The Exorcism of Emily Rose. We should watch that.
JD: Oh no no no. I'm not watching that thing.
C: Come on, man. You gotta stay and watch it with us.
JD: No freakin way. Who has to drive home by himself after it's over?
C: Fine, fine. How about this. We watch it in the middle of a huge field in the middle of the day.
J: Okay, that's lame! No way we're watching it that way.
JD: I am not watching that movie. Period.
C: Well, I can't watch it by myself!
JD: You'll have Jenna here with you, dude.
C: She can't protect me!
Went to the Beastie Boys concert about three weeks ago. Time to check a life goal off of the list. I should probably set some real ones now.
Some famous writers have a "mailbag" of some sort, where they answer question from readers. I don't have one of these. I did, however, get a text question regarding the concert from a reader and will open with that:
Q: Well, did it change your body and soul?
JD: Yes, it did. I will attribute part of it to seeing the Beastie Boys live, but I will pin a larger part of my nirvanic experience on the contact high I got from the kids around me toking weed.
That mailbag was exhausting. While I'm at it ("it" = copying better writers), I will follow Bill Simmons' running diary format and take you through the "Get Out and Vote" concert I went to on 28 Oct.
6:59 -- Dave and I are sitting in the bleachers, waiting for the 7:00 start time; Dave is mid-sentence when Beastie Boys Mike D and MCA come out to MC. I'm halfway to the stage taking pictures with my camera before Dave realizes I'm gone.
7:00 -- Mike D and MCA introduce the opening singer, Santogold, with the obligatory "we're on the same tour, so we have to say she's super-talented, even though we've never listened to her music ourselves." Out walks a woman with two backup singers dressed in bug-eye sunglasses and shiny gold suits, like you would see alien invaders wear in old crappy sci-fi movies. Dave leans over to me and asks how much I want to bet that the backup singers are Santogold's two best friends from high school riding the gravy train. I chuckle my agreement.
But wait: Doesn't having a "gravy train" imply you've attained a level of success?
This is all a means to an end, I tell myself.
7:17 -- Santogold is still on stage and announces her next song. What is she still doing here? Weren't we courteous in tolerating her three songs? She is quickly becoming the Jar Jar Binks of this concert -- the annoying, unwanted sidekick whose presence the audience grows to hate.
7 freakin' 40 -- The excruciatingly long set -- 40 minutes -- ends to token applause containing undercurrents of resentment that Santogold took so much time.
Means to an end.
7:55 -- Norah Jones calms my nerves with her performance. I drift off to sleep and dream that her voice and Sarah Mclachlan's fight each other for my affection.
8:03 -- Norah spouts some politically-charged comments, and I am surprisingly OK with it. Hell, with that voice, she could advocate crystal meth usage, Tom Cruise for President, and nuclear war, and I'd agree with everything she had to say.
8:25 -- Jack Johnson walks on stage to huge applause. Also, this is apparently the universal cue for everyone to light up their joints. I didn't get the memo.
Which reminds me of one of my friends from high school who hot-boxed his cat once. Afterwards, the cat careened its way back to his parents' room. Five minutes later, his parents called him into their room: "Tim!" "Yeah?" "Why does the cat reak of dope?" "...because we hot-boxed him."
8:48 -- I notice that the guy in front of me, who is about the same height but weighs about 230lb, has been completely motionless with his hands in his pockets since Jack Johnson has started playing. I've seen roadkill move more than this guy. I'll be checking in with him later.
9:05 -- Sheryl Crow walks on-stage in a tightly tied black trenchcoat that screams either "I am completely naked under here" or "I am selling cheap watches out of this thing." She looks seriously haggard, as if she hasn't slept or eaten since she and Lance Armstrong broke up. Rough year for Ms. Crow.
9:28 -- I consider yelling out "home-wrecker!" in between songs but decide not to. Sheryl decides to spout political drivel at us, using cliched phrases like "you can make a difference! I know you can!" Spare me.
Besides blinking, Roadkill remains unmoved.
9:42 -- The percentage of Sheryl's set has shifted to 85% political rant, 15% music. I could see her pursuing a political career filled with pointless rhetoric and little action.
Means to an end...
10:06 -- Still have this sneaking suspicion that in between some songs, Sheryl will spout off some more political drivel and then tag on, almost as an aside: "Hah... funny thing... a portion of the ticket proceeds will actually go to my next botox treatment since I have missed my last two. Anyway, the next song is 'Every Day is a Winding Road.' Sing along if you know the words!"
10:10 -- I've been here for 3+ hours. What did I come here for? I can't remember anymore. Dave reminds me that I came to see the Beastie Boys.
10:15-11:15 -- Beasties enter to "Sure Shot," bring the house down, and I spend the next hour screaming every word to every song.
Roadkill remains unchanged the entire time. Unbelievable.
I like to think I'm a man of commitment and integrity. When I say I'm going to do something, I make an effort to follow through and do it.
I was recently put to the test.
In order to alleviate boredom when things get slow on a weekend shift at work, we change the channel on a couple of the TVs in the office to watch football, movies, etc. A week ago, during a particularly slow Sunday shift, my shiftmates decided to watch Titanic on TNT. I suppose this isn't anything extraordinary, considering the movie grossed more than the GDP of most African countries.
However, I promised myself long ago that I would never watch this movie, because I loathe it like Seinfeld loathes Newman. It's weaselly. It thinks more highly of itself than it should. And it keeps showing up at my door, wanting attention that I don't want to give it.
You know the opening 30-minutes of Saving Private Ryan? And how you as the viewer are completely drawn in, your eyes glued to the screen because you are entirely engulfed by the brutal reality of it all? Titanic is the antithesis of Saving Private Ryan for me. I'm repulsed by it. Somewhere between Kate Winslett getting naked and a love story crammed with more cliches than a "Grey's Anatomy" script, I developed a less-than-zero desire to see this movie.
And so when faced with the choice of watching Titanic or 4+ hours of boredom (the commercials for movies on TV are ridiculous), I chose boredom. At least I kept my integrity.
But seriously, that ship took forever to go down. I kept looking up at the TV, hoping the movie would be over. It kept dragging on.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to wipe up the venom I just drooled all over my keyboard.
In college, roommates are a roll of the dice. They can become best friends because you share all kinds of experiences with each other -- shooting ducks with paintball guns, playing Mariokart until 3am -- just to name a few. The flip side to that, of course, is you can end up getting your own personal Newman.
Aside from a roommate who had a semi- to completely disturbing obsession for "That 70s Show" -- the irony of this was his uncanny resemblance to the Fez character in the show* -- I was incredibly lucky. My college roommates are still my best friends. We laugh and reminisce about experiences, and still share those inside jokes/handshakes/greetings that bond us together and annoy outsiders.
Here's one inside greeting that never really panned out.
A few years ago, one roommate, Tim, was telling me about how his dad meets with some Japanese businessmen at a big meeting every year. At the end of the meeting, his dad always asks the businessmen where they want to go eat, and they always yell in Engrish "Fuh-wuckas!!!" (Fuddrucker's). It was a funny story, and we both had a good laugh.
Me: "Oh man, that's funny..."
Tim: "...yeah... Hey, we should do that."
Me: "Yeah, sure... Wait, do what?"
Tim: "We should yell that to each other as like a greeting when we see each other on campus or walking home or whatever."
**Substantial Pause**
Me: "You mean yell 'Fuh-wuckas!!!' really loud? When other people are around?"
Tim: "Yeah. C'mon, it'll be sweet."
Me: "OK. Fine." (my common sense had apparently decided to check out at this point)
A few days later, I spotted Tim on my way home from campus about 50 yards ahead of me. I looked around, hoping that no one was around, but had no such luck. Oh well. "Fuh-wuckas!!!" I yelled. Tim continued walking; everyone else in the vicinity turned to stare at the crazy Asian yelling weird phrases.
He is up there a ways; maybe he didn't hear me, I thought. . "Fuh-wuckas!!!" I yelled again. Nothing from Tim. People around me started taking out their cell phones to text their friends about the kid with Turret's that just walked by.
I got to the apartment and walked in to see Tim sitting on the couch, pretending to watch TV while trying to shield his face from looking at me. I held out my hands as an appeal for explanation. Tim continued to try to ignore me. "Timmy, what was that?? Did you not hear me? I bet our neighbors have called the mental hospital to tell them one of their crazies escaped."
"I'm sorry, dude. I was too embarrassed. I just couldn't bring myself to turn around or reply."
"Wasn't this thing your idea?"
"Yeah... again, sorry."
The betrayal was akin to Caeser being stabbed in the back by Brutus.
*So much so that my other roommate, White Josh, accidentally called him "Fez" to his face a few times.
Got a pretty good response to the last motivational poster I posted. I enjoyed this one.
Also, I'm tired and didn't have time to find much else. Apologies.
After missing the Elton John Concert, my friends and I continued, albeit despondently, to "Bridge Day" in Fayetteville, WV. Bridge Day is the one day a year that base-jumping is legalized in West Virginia and 200,000 people of lesser courage (ie myself) watch others of greater courage (also read: "lesser sanity," "greater testicular fortitude," or "inferior common sense") throw themselves off of an 876 ft bridge and let gravity and a parachute take care of the rest.
These guys jumped for hours and we just watched. You would think the redundancy of watching people jump off the same bridge would get old after awhile. But it didn't. It's like watching "24": If you've seen one season of Jack Bauer escaping captivity, defying authority for the greater good, torturing some bad guys, getting angry and snarling/yelling out some intimidating lines, sabotaging his personal relationships because of his maladjustment to societal norms (see the afore-listed items for reasons why), etc, you feel like you've seen all of the seasons of "24" (because in essence, you HAVE). But you still keep watching -- despite the repetition and predictability.
The day was interspersed with me shooting the fall foliage (I still feel effeminate using that wording), and the abundance of material for people-watching. WV is an absolute GOLD-MINE for this, and my one regret (besides letting my friends purchase two sausage biscuits for $1.50 at a roadside cafe) is not doing an extensive photo essay on the people we saw. Think men with braided beards down to their stomachs; think men with short cut-off jean shorts sporting rainbow lanyards; think my name next to "Pulitzer." It would have been timeless.
Then again, I guess I shouldn't say too much about people-watching -- these three were my travel companions:
We got bored walking the trail from the river back to the bridge, so we had a leaf catching competition. It got intense. The slideshow below does a good job of capturing it.
But back to manly things. Base-jumping. It is steadily gaining popularity, but definitely outside of the mainstream sports we have in America. I think if the organizers created some traditions -- something that we love about our sports here -- base jumping would catch on a little faster. Here are some ideas I have:
Read more...
...and clear, runaway leader for Photo of the Year, I might add.
Context: This photo was sent to my sister by her friends who were riding the University of Utah line of TRAX (public transpo system in Utah). Click the photo to get a larger view.
The humiliation. The crushing blow to my self-image. The instant I saw this I collapsed and pulled a Nancy Kerrigan: "Whyyy?!? Whyyyyyyy?!?" I wouldn't be surprised if Tonya Harding herself -- who happened to be riding the TRAX, was consumed by jealousy of my celebrity amongst the narrow BYU Independent Study-demographic -- hired Jeff Gillooly to do the job with a permanent sharpie.
I'll tell you why I find this offensive and reprehensible. First of all, my mustache doesn't grow like that: We all know it would never get that long. Second, I'm offended that the person didn't draw in a Fu Manchu beard. Where's the racial stereotyping? Why did they see fit to give me a creepy cowboy mustache from the 19th century? If they chose to go that route, they could have at least put in the extra effort and drawn in a hat, a trenchcoat and me brandishing some six-shooters. I'm deeply offended.
"I'm sorry, I can't be your huckleberry."
I knew that to get the most out of my Beasties' concert experience and to guard against unforeseen contingencies, I needed to plan ahead. I made a pre-concert checklist; just to make sure I didn't miss anything. By 27 Oct, I must:
--As I am scheduled to work 28 Oct, place threatening and anonymous middle-of-the-night phone calls to co-workers until someone swaps shifts with me... check. This was the first attempt in my life at being intimidating, but I made sure my phone call verbiage contained phrases like "bottom of the river," "bust your head open," "broken kneecaps," and "say 'hi' to your mother for me." It worked. I got the day off.
The megalomania that "Rock Band" brings
I find the most random things when searching for photos to supplement other entries. I can't remember what sort of search keywords led me to this one.
With all of the hype that's been made of Chuck Norris in the Chuck Norris Facts, I figured this would serve as a nice reminder (although quoting God is a bit of a risky proposition). I love these readerboards outside of churches; they crack me up. I'm sure my friends who have lived down South for any period of time (Nartker? Anything off the top of your head?) can recall some amusing ones. I wonder what LDS chapels would do with them if we had them out in front of our buildings?
Remember how Chuck Norris was Mike Huckabee's biggest endorser for the Republican ticket? That was funny on a lot of levels.
Remember in Signs when a sober and pre-anti-Semitic version of Mel Gibson is talking to Joaquin Phoenix about how some people view events as "signs" or miracles and more than mere coincidence? In times of indecision, a lot of us look for the sign that will show us which is the correct decision to make.
I had one of those moments of indecision this past weekend.
Josh M (of the faux-stache) and Dave (of the beard) and I had planned to stay at a friend's place in Charlottesville, VA on Friday night and then head to Fayetteville, WV early Saturday morning to check out "Bridge Day" (more on this adventure later). As I am currently working a crappy work schedule, I was feeling exhausted Friday morning and told both of them I was wavering on going. Both of them tried to talk me into going. JoshM attacked via IM and Dave pounced via cellphone. A classic pincer attack.
Me: Man, I am not feeling good. These night shifts are killing me...I don't if I can handle this weekend.
JoshM: What?!? I gotta convince you to go.
Me: Good luck.
JoshM: Dude, did Dave tell you about the Elton John concert?
Me: The what??
JoshM: The guy we're staying with down in Charlottesville may have four tickets to the Elton John concert tonight.
Me: I don't know how to reply to that.
JoshM: Yeah, I know. Four guys going together to an Elton John concert is a little suspect. But I hear he puts on a pretty sweet show.
Me: Ech. I don't know how much Elton John I could handle.
JoshM: That's the thing. The tickets are free, so we can say we rubbed shoulders with some sissies and then bail if it's lame and not feel bad about it.
Me: I don't know if I want to be able to say I rubbed anything with anybody at an Elton John concert.
And so I remained unconvinced. Dave tried his best over the phone, but I still couldn't decide if I was up for it.
Then, it happened.
After I got off the phone with Dave I walked into the grocery store to buy some stuff. As I was going through the aisles, I realized that the music playing over the PA was "Rocket Man" -- an iconic Elton John song. This was my sign. Mel Gibson was right (about signs and miracles; NOT the Jews). And while Elton John would not be my first choice, I was meant to go on this road trip.
I called Dave on my way home to let him know I was in, and told him to call me when he was on his way to pick me up. He called a few hours later to let me know he was almost to my place:
"We're on our way. Oh yeah, dude...in the interests of full disclosure...we didn't get the Elton John tickets..."
I never thought I would be so crushed to miss an Elton John concert... But what about "Rocket Man" playing in the grocery store? What about my sign?
It's an absolute conspiracy, and I collectively blame Mel Gibson, Sir Elton John, and M. Night Shyamalan for my misfortune.
Reader: How do you explain this? What did the sign mean?
A quick, secondhand story that kills me every time, and demonstrates the power of what my group of friends has come to term "the one-liner." Admittedly, I haven't actually heard this story directly from the horse's mouth (where did this idiom come from?), so the story could have gained stature of its own over time.
When he was younger, my Mission President worked security at Temple Square in Salt Lake City. One night, a man was harassing a couple, waving anti-Mormon literature at them, and becoming quite animated. My Mission President approached the man, stated that he was on private property, and told him that he should leave. The man waved some pamphlets in his face and yelled: "What do you think of this?!? What do you think of this??"
Without missing a beat, my Mission President calmly replied: "I prefer Charmin."
"What??"
"I prefer Charmin. It's softer and gentler on my butt."
The man stormed off in a rage.
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