Magic Bones

Dia de los Muertos

2010-11-01T19:51:00.002-06:00

Tiny Home

2010-10-26T13:55:00.006-06:00

Gabe Dominguez and Sonya Cotton played at our house this weekend as Tiny Home, their new folk duet. The music, food, and friends were all delicious.

Asian Shirt Folding

2009-11-12T17:31:00.000-07:00

Step Off the Train, Sir

2009-11-08T16:06:00.005-07:00

Once I stowed away on TRAX without buying a pass. Instead of being vigilant and watching for UTA cops to board, I zoned out and rode illegally with no regard for my own well being. So when the cop asked to see my ticket, I told him I had none.

"Step off the train with me, sir," he instructed. I obeyed. There was also a girl about my age that got busted and deboarded.

As the two cops walked us over to a bench, she whispered to me, "Please say you'll be my witness in all of this." I didn't know if she was talking about religion or what. The uniformed busters looked called her name and info in, and were told that the girl had been banned from riding TRAX until 2040. That's the year 2040. She gave them tons of lip and harassment, which ended up working in my favor, because when they came to me I fully fessed up to the error of my ways and gave them nothing but polite responses and meek countenance. I think they were so burned out on the hippy-hellion girl that they let me go with nothing but an official warning.

They still made me walk home, though.

When I Grow Up ...

2009-05-05T12:22:00.000-06:00

In Love With a Japanese Man

2009-05-03T21:25:00.004-06:00

A couple of weekends ago I climbed Mt. Shasta in northern California, then skied down it. It was a two day endeavor and we had to set up base camp at the foot of this super steep, long, grueling slope that lead up to a rocky cliff band, around and through some spires, then up a section called Misery Row or Misery Hill or something before hoisting us up onto the bony summit of a 14ooo-ft. peak.

We set our alarm to 4am to get a good start from base camp on the second day. We were ready to hit it by 5am--packs on, skis on, gear all ready. There was a Japanese threesome of climbers standing around twiddling their thumbs as we were about to get moving, they said they were waiting for someone (presumably waiting for their partner so they could do the same thing we were about to do). Just as we began to leave, the Japanese guy left the two women he was standing with and started to climb into CJ's tent.

"Hey, what are you doing?" asked CJ, shocked.

"I'm getting in this tent," the guy replied.

"That's my tent--where's yours?"

"Hey man, I'm just starting to get cold and I want to get inside of this tent."

CJ talked him out of it, then we left. A friend of ours stayed behind at base camp and told us later that once some other climbers had left camp, he went and got inside their tent. I've thought a lot about that guy since then, and can't get over how forward he was about occupying somebody else's tent. I've come to realize that I love that Japanese climber for what he did and who he is. And I can only hope that he feels the same way about me.

Big Dump Utah

2009-01-21T13:54:00.002-07:00

I don’t know why nobody came up with the idea for Big Dump Utah sooner. It’s basically a single source for all things related to Utah skiers and snowboarders. It has current mountain weather conditions and five-day forecasts for every Utah resort, a place to buy or sell your gear as well as get brand new gear from some of Utah’s sweetest outdoor providers. It even has video games. While it is still in the growing process, it has already become a valuable resource for snowmonkeys from the Wasatch Range, and even up into Logan or way down willy near Brian Head.

It will eventually be fully rocking with discussion forums, killer deal notices, avalanche info and specialty shop, events postings, and instant powder email alerts, as well as pic-of-the-day, easy video upload, and the latest of mountain-related news. It’s sort of like an easier-to-navigate TGR, but focused primarily on Utah locals.

Cease Not to Shake It

2009-01-16T12:58:00.005-07:00

You might want to turn your volume down a bit for this one.

Freddy vs.Jason

2009-01-12T18:50:00.006-07:00

Once Holly and I went up to Jackson, Wyoming to climb the Middle Teton. If you've been in the Tetons, then you know of the magnetic effect they have on non-evil people. The effect they have on evil people is totally different--it's sort of like dipping a million needles in acid, then sticking them in your eyeballs and all over your face. You look freakier than Pinhead, that dude from all those scary movies back like ten to twenty years ago. What's up with scary movies having so many sequels? What's the point? So many of them have such a similar plot as each other, they might as well all be sequels of each other anyway, so why bother making one an official sequel of another? Many even crossbreed, like Freddy vs. Jason.

Anyway, we were trying to get to the top of the Middle Teton, but a huge storm came in and forced us off the mountain. We had to hike back down, crossing several steep glacier fields on the way. We had ice axes that had helped us get up, and we decided to glissade down the ice fields on our feet and/or butts, and use the axes as brakes so we wouldn't go rocketing out of control. I went first and slid about half way down, then stopped, turned around, and waited for Holly to come. She's totally hot and really athletic, so she stood in some sort of advanced European ski stance and started flying down towards me. She was going way too fast, so she spun around and hacked her axe into the ice. The axe stuck, but her speed caused the wrist strap to snap right off, sending her speeding helplessly down the glacier. At the bottom were rocks and boulders--she would certainly die if she hit them. She tried digging her hands and feet in, but it was to no avail.

My Terminator senses kicked in. I quickly moved into her path and slammed my axe into the ice as hard as I could. Then, using all the force I had, I kicked my feet into the snow so I'd have as much stable grip as possible. When she slid under me, I fell on top of her, stopping her. I then dee aitched her until my hips were sore. "I thought I was going to lose you," I cried. "You saved my life," she replied. We hugged and dee aitched some more right there on the glacier.

I still get the willies when I think of how close she came to kickin' the bucket. Right before this happened, we met a guy on the trail that told us a story of a woman that had died up there two weeks previous by losing her footing and sliding down a glacier. Holly is damn lucky to be alive. Too bad she broke her leg this New Year's Eve and is now in a cast that goes to her hip. Big Dump Utah, bigdumputah.com

Putting Up a Fight

2008-12-07T14:41:00.008-07:00

Dear Friend, this is urgent.

As you are probably aware, the Utah BLM, under mandate from President George W. Bush, will be auctioning off several parcels of Utah’s wildest and most beautiful land to big oil corporations on December 19th. This lease auction comes... Read the rest of this post at StateOfTheHive.blogspot.com

Robot Child Slave Labor

2008-12-01T14:50:00.004-07:00

I had a robot named Andar when I was rich and lived in Morocco. He used to bring me food and rub my back. It wasn't until I was twelve that I realized he wasn't a robot at all, but a real live human being with feelings, emotions, and desires. My father had been exploiting him as a child slave and telling me he was a robot so I wouldn't feel bad for him or get attached. The one thing my father didn't count on was that I DID get attached and was planning to free the enslaved robot, but once I found out he was just a boring old human I put him to work double time, especially with the back rubs.

Bush and BLM Selling Utah Wilderness to Highest Bidding Oil Companies

2008-11-30T21:49:00.006-07:00

As a goodbye gift to himself and oil companies, our current president has mandated that public land agencies "eliminate obstacles in the way of drilling," ... The rest of this post is at my other blog--StateOfThe Hive.blogspot.com. I'm slowly transitioning my serious political rants to that one so those of you who want all comedy all the time don't have to endure my preaching here at Ye Olde Magick Bones

Proposition Opposition

2008-11-13T11:14:00.005-07:00

Since November 4th, the Obama hype has settled down considerably. The Proposition 8 discussion, however, continues on with immediate backlash and side effects. People opposed to the outcome are speaking out in despair and outrage, some going as far as to boycott the entire State of Utah (which means not visiting here, buying products from Utah-based companies, or in any other way putting money into the Utah economy—it’s very similar to the embargo the US has maintained against Cuba since JFK). People proud of the outcome are “bracing for persecution” as one email put it. I have received more chain letters, heard more people discussing, and read more online about Proposition 8 since the election than I did pre-November 4th. Being a Mormon has made it even more interesting for me as I hear arguments for one side from friends and co-workers (many of who are not LDS, though some are), and arguments for the other side from friends and family (many of who are LDS, though some are not).

I absolutely oppose the church’s involvement in the Proposition 8 issue and in anti-gay marriage efforts in general. I’d like to state the reasons why, as well as address the reasons people have given me for supporting it, and maybe even ask a few questions to those who favor Prop. 8, since I am perplexed as to why so many Mormons support what seems to me an obviously unfair and unchristian measure. I’m open to discussion and alternative ideas, and hope to learn from this discussion as well as maybe open people’s eyes to a different way of looking at it.

However, my letter to Prop. 8 is way too long to post here, so I've created another page for it. Click here to read it, and feel free to leave comments or questions. It might be cool if you left them on this here magicbones blog as well so people could see them without having to surf the webular.

Stealth Babies and Silent Attack Dogs

2008-11-10T15:53:00.003-07:00

There's a tv show on these days that teaches little kids sign language. I don't know what it's called, but I love the idea of it. Holly's little nephew was running around looking for something the other day and instead of screaming what it was he wanted, he kept doing the sign for it. His mom said it was kind of a mix between the sign for "dad" and the sign for "eat," so we never really knew exactly what he wanted, but the point is he was quiet instead of screaming. Like those German Shepherds whose voice boxes have been removed so that you don't hear them coming before they attack you. That's some seriously messed up and scary as crap stuff ... can you imagine being attacked by a stealth killing machine that never makes a sound? That's what I'm like when I play hoops.

Orson Scott Card Lives In a Sci-Fi World

2008-11-03T17:17:00.009-07:00

I recently read an article written by Mormon author Orson Scott Card in which Card places nearly full blame for today's economic disaster on Bill Clinton specifically, as well the Democratic party in general. I will never affiliate myself with either of the two main parties, I think they are both beyond corrupt. However, Card's argument leads us deeper into a dark hole of getting suckered and then sucker-punched by corporate power that controls our politicians and our government's policies, thus removing any "Is this what's truly right for the people?" thought to be allowed to cross our "leader's" minds. To read Card's article, go here. This is my response. If it's too long, break it up and read a paragraph a day. The response is actually much shorter than I would like to give, it's just that I didn't want to lose any readers by dragging on. If you'd like more, you're welcome to ask me personally about how I feel on any of the points brought up below. Here we go:

Uh oh,

I have to totally disagree with the Orson Scott Card article. To place the blame for today's economic crisis on a certain political party rather than America's obese buy-now-pay-later, gimme gimme gimme personality only allows us to shovel our guilt off onto someone else and continue the sick practice of excessive consumerism and I-want-more-stuff lifestyle that we are getting more and more comfortable with. To blame the government for loosening loan restrictions rather than blame the huge corporations (Fannie, Freddie, et al) that preyed on low-income home buyers seems foolish to me. People took out huge loans for homes that they couldn't afford, but no one talks about that because it's an accepted practice that probably many of us are also guilty of. Are those people not to be held somewhat responsible? The government loosened restrictions, true, but I don't see how that removes the guilt from the individuals who spent beyond their means.

However, I don't make the individuals as the number one culprit. Do the richer-than-God corporations that knowingly handed loans out to obviously undeserving recipients hold no blame? Who do you think lobbied the government to ease the loan restrictions? Card's article somehow tries to paint a black and white picture of evil Democrats and holy Republicans. Do we really believe that the politicians from either side (whose campaigns are funded by, and in some cases whose pocketbooks are padded by and whose lush and lavish lifestyles are partially provided by these huge companies) aren't swayed by money and power? Card tries to convince us that Republican politicians (who have great and special interest in companies like Fannie and Freddie) weren't reveling in the profits coming in from said companies. I have a hard time believing that politicians from both parties weren't benefiting and propagating the practices of these mortgage companies.

I think it's convenient for these sort of letters to circulate a month or less before the election. Card tries to attack the "liberal" media for hiding story after story of Democrat scandal while blowing out of proportion Republican scandal. He cites John Edwards' infidelity and Palin's daughter's out-of-wedlock pregnancy. He pretends that the former was swept under the rug while the latter was detonated in the faces of every news watcher/reader in the country. That scenario is totally invented by Card, but certainly isn't the truth of how things really are. Edwards' scandal made front page news all over the place, as did Palin's daughter's pregnancy. In fact, I think people expected Democrats to pounce on the whole teenage pregnancy, but for the most part Democrats (except for comedians) left it alone. Conservatives and Liberals alike feel picked on when the opposing party attacks them.

To pretend that both parties don't jump on any little crumb of potentially slanderous information about opposing candidates is to close your eyes to the reality of modern day politics. I'm not excusing it--in fact, I detest it. I think that both major parties have long since sold their souls to big money, and at this point to engage in the pathetic "look how pure my party is and how dirty your party is" argument (like that of Card's) is to ignore the real problem and only keeps us in a false mentality of "I'm right, you're wrong, politicians really are fighting for my best interests." The truth is that Washington politicians, especially presidential candidates, are slaves to wealthy special interest groups whose sole concern is their own bottom line. Politicians' campaigns are funded almost entirely by big corporations who donate with the strong expectation to get something in return. Many donors (like AT&T and several others) donate huge amounts to both candidates so that, regardless of who wins, huge favors are owed. Obama, despite his emphasizing that the majority of his donations came from small independent donors, actually received 3/4ths of his donated sum from major corporations and wealthy special interest. There were obviously fewer of those donations, but they were for MUCH higher sums. The small donations, though many, didn't add up to that much.

Noam Chomsky said that there is really only one party in America, the Big Business Party. If watching the practiced, memorized, and packaged presidential debates teaches us one thing, it's that the current system produces two versions of the same egomaniacal robot and then makes us somehow believe that we have a choice between two very different people. The truth is that politicians will say and do almost anything to get into office, then once there they don't feel any responsibility to stick to any of their promises. That's evident from Bush Sr.'s "read my lips, no new taxes" trick, Clinton's signing of the Helms-Burton Act (which harshened the immoral embargo against Cuba), and Gee Dubya's going back on his campaign promise to, in his words, "jawbone OPEC leaders and personally lobby oil cartel leaders" to lower the price of oil (not that anyone really expected George "I Drink OPEC Oil For Breakfast AND Get Richer Everytime I Do It" Bush to bully around his oil cohorts in the Mid East).

Card would make life easy for himself and for us by allowing us all to believe that Clinton is really to blame for this mess. He would wrap up a pretty, shiny parcel of finger-pointing, deliver it the Democrats, relieve us from having to feel guilty for the life of greed and unchecked consumption that we like to live, and pardon the predatory mortgage companies (who are experts in the field and surely knew better than anyone exactly what would happen if they continued to hand out sub-prime loans like candy, getting richer with each one) of any wrong doing. In doing so, he convinces people that one candidate (and that candidate's party) is obviously stupid, unethical, and entirely to blame for the huge mess our country is in, while on the other hand the other candidate (and his party) was telling us all along how to fix the problem and that he is obviously smarter, uncorrupt, and much more qualified to lead us (like sheep). Card is wrong. The fact that he's a Democrat has nothing to do with it. People often vote against their party. It's convenient to bring it up because it makes us think that his opinion is somehow unbiased or that even the democrats know Obama is a kook. But party affiliation one way or the other doesn't prove much, does it? This election, maybe more than any other presidential election in history, will have many registered Republicans voting for Obama. If Card's being a Democrat somehow means McCain and the Republicans are right, then all the Repubs voting blue tomorrow must, by Card's status, mean that Obama is right. Personally, I find it crazy to align yourself with any specific political party. They are both way too full of holes to hold any ethical water.

I think both parties are wrong. I think the two-party system not only denies us the chance to elect a candidate that isn't over-influenced by big money, but also robs us of any real choice at all. George Carlin said the only choice we have anymore is "paper or plastic, smoking or non." There's some truth to his joke. The presidential debates are run by the Commission on Presidential Debates, an organization headed by Frank Fahrenkopf (former head of the Republican National Committee--a corporation, and Paul Kirk, a former head of the Democratic National Committee, a corporation). They close the debates to other parties' candidates unless those candidates can gain a 15% popularity ranking in the polls, something nearly impossible for third party candidates to do since they have to spend most of their money just getting on the individual states' ballots and aren't left with much campaign money. The two main parties have a surplus of money since they are funded by big business, who, of course, has very special and specific interest in influencing and swaying the candidates.

Sorry to make this so long. I'll cut myself off here, but I just want to say one last thing. The most pressing issue facing our country today isn't the war in Iraq, Afghanistan, or the future war in Iran. It's not the economy or what to do with illegal immigrants. It's campaign reform. Until we are given a real choice in presidential candidates, we will continue electing equally crappy presidents (party affiliation doesn't matter) who get caught up in scandal, who lie to us over and over again, who blow our tax money in unwise places, and who are really nothing more than slaves to huge corporations and special interest groups while pretending to care about acting in our best interest.

I won't vote for a Republican or a Democrat tomorrow. I won't vote for O'Cain or McBama. I'll vote third party even though I know he won't win this time. The lesser of two evils is still evil. I won't go against my own morals and vote for someone that ethically opposes me. But in four years, a few more people will vote third party. In eight years, many more will be fed up with the current and broken system and they'll vote third party. I really believe that people will become more and more fed up with the candidates we're given to lead our country and they'll start looking outside of the Rep and Dem parties, and that sometime down the road we really will be given quality choices. The thing is, this country is full of awesome people that DO have integrity and would make great leaders rather than pander to Exxon Valdez, Phillip Morris, JP Morgan, Smith & Wesson, McDonalds, Nike, Wal-Mart, AT&T, etc. Under the current system, though, it's impossible for anyone like that to make it to the final playoff round. People like Card will still try to trap us in a childish argument of proving that one of the two meager options is definitely right and righteous and the other is wrong and wicked, when in reality they are both, as Haley's friends might say, totally wack. But I guess writers have a flare for drama (me included), so I can kind of see where he's coming from.

No Such Thing as Freedom in Puerto Rico When a Crazy Dude Knows Where You're Sleeping

2008-10-30T17:03:00.009-06:00

That reminds me of the time in Puerto Rico that we were staying at this hostel and this crazy dude named Cody was there and he was freakin' everyone out with sayin' all this stuff and the fire of Dick Cheney in his eyes and when no one was supposedly lookin' (although I was lookin') he was raising his arms to the sky and jabbering completely unintelligible jibberish. Then Phil invited him to tag along with us for the rest of the week for some reason and Matt and I were like NOOOO!!! and so the next morning Matt saw him and he asked Matt what time we were all leaving and Matt said I don't know. Then when the dude was in his room on the second floor we took our shoes off and snuck down the stairs from our third floor room, walked right past his room, down the stairs more until we were at the front door. Oh no, we forgot the key to get out, so I had to sneak back up for the key then back down. We hid around the corner as we waited for the rental car dude to show up and whisk us away to freedom, man that half hour was one of the most stressful of my life because this guy was seriously whacked out on something and seemed like he had it in him to flip out and kill us if we screwed him over which is exactly what we were doing but then the rental car dude showed up and we told him to step on it. For a while we thought we were free but then we realized we had told the crazy dude exactly where we'd be camping for the next few days so he could come find us and mangle us in our sleep man we were freaked out and it just goes to show there's no such thing as real freedom.

Antelope Island

2008-10-27T10:40:00.009-06:00

... a quick jaunt over a short causeway and pretty soon we are at the ocean where the buffalo roam and the shoreline climbs three rungs until it finally reaches the mainland.

Sensitive Ned and the Bathing Bandita

2008-10-24T09:35:00.009-06:00

Another edition of my advice column for your entertainment:

Dear Sensitive Ned,

My home features a lovely in-ground swimming pool. My husband has issued an open invitation to just about everyone to use the pool anytime. While most people have enough couth to not actually take him up on his offer, one of his cousins is taking full advantage. She uses our pool at least once a week, never calling ahead to see if it's ok. I am tired of seeing her car in my driveway on evenings when I come home from work and hearing her children frolicking in my yard. I can't even use my own pool in peace.My husband does not want me to say anything because he is afraid that it will hurt his aunt and uncle and damage his relationship with them. His family has a history of holding grudges over perceived slights for years at a time. Thoughts?

Pool Owner

Dear Pool Owner,

You bet I have some thoughts. Oh ya, I’ve got some major thoughts. Here they are:

1) They say that nothing can tear a family apart faster than a pack of wild dogs. Imagine what a few wild dogs could do to just one person! Get yourself some wild dogs, lock them up in a cage in the backyard and only feed them enough to keep them alive, but damn hungry. Next time your husband’s cousin comes over, wait until she’s in the water then lock the gate to your backyard (and seal off any other possible exits, as well). Release the dogs. They’ll jump in the pool and swim straight at her like Mick Jagger’s sperm swimming towards a groupie’s uterus. If she was out of the water, she might have a chance—maybe she could get to the fence and hop it before the starving beasts reached her. But she is in the water and the dogs will most likely come at her from all sides. The only thing you’ll need to worry about is emptying the bloody pool water and refilling it with clean water. That’s a lot of water and it will cost you a little bit of dough, especially with the perma-drought we seem to be in, but that’s what you get for building a swimming pool in the desert.

Or…

2) Invite her over for a night swim. Before she gets there, drain the pool and cover the pool’s floor with Saran Wrap. The shimmer will give it the appearance of being full of water. Tell your husband’s intrusive cousin that you challenge her to a dive contest and that the winner gets the pool for keeps and that she can go first. The only rule is she has to jump head first (no cannonballs, screwdrivers, or karate kicks). If she’s about to jump, but then asks “Hey, are you sure there’s water in the pool?” then you can just respond, “Oh ya, it looks like that because of the night time, plus have you jumped yet? HURRY!” The added social pressure will force her to jump even if she’s not sure about the water. That’s been proven through countless sociological studies. How do you think I got my editor to punch that kid in the wheelchair? People just want to please people. It’s in our jeans.

If either of these ideas get you in trouble with the law, please don’t try to contact me. In fact, I’m just a figment of your imagination, your evil alter ego—like that Fight Club movie. You came up with these sick ideas all by your sick self.

Your inner-self,
Sensitive Ned

* If you are starving for advice, attention, food and water, or underage you-know-what, feel free to write to Sensitive Ned at SensitveNed@RegalSeagull.com. He reads everything anyone sends him, even stuff in other languages (he’s VERY smart). If he deems your question worthy of an answer, he’ll reply with wisdom and knowledge beyond his years (he’s 12). If not, it was probably a very stupid question.

Caribbean Communism and Cuban Jazz

2008-10-13T17:19:00.004-06:00

Cubans are getting double-whammied. The US government blockades Cuba with the embargo and by punishing other countries that trade with Cuba, then the Cuban government blockades its own people with loads of red-tape bureaucracy and strict rules regulating business. It was cool to see all of the old Spanish architecture, hear all the amazing live music, and meet so many exciting and excited people. It was disheartening to see the economical effects the US' embargo has had. It seems so unfair that a huge wealthy nation that is by no means guilt-free from dirty dealings in the world would be allowed to inflict such a harsh and heavy extended blow against a small island country for so long. The reasons behind the embargo are gray, iffy, hypocritical, and politician/big business-backed and motivated, and we continue to mercilessly enforce restrictions that place a giant burden on the backs of the Cuban nation, causing extreme hurt and damage to many innocent people on that beautiful Caribbean island.

Here are some of the photos from the adventure:

2008-10-13T15:53:00.014-06:00

Trading With the Enemy

2008-10-06T16:28:00.002-06:00

Trading with the enemy is a real crime with serious consequences. The enemy is any country or group that does something our government doesn't like, and isn't big enough to fight back. The moment a country becomes big enough to fight back, they cease being an enemy and simply become a threat or, in China's case, our number one provider of commercial goods.

Stay tuned for some soon-to-come top secret photos of known enemies and enemy places. In the mean time, listen to Chan Chan by the Buena Vista Social Club and pretend you're on a Caribbean beach drinking fresh (but illegal) pineapple juice.

Fight For Your Right To Party: The Legal and Moral Victory Against a Soul and Money Sucking Shark

2008-09-18T16:11:00.006-06:00

Holly and I went to the city planning commission’s public hearing on Wednesday to show our support for rejecting Wal-Mart’s bid to be granted a rezoning of its property on Parley’s Way. A rezoning of the property would have changed it from allowing a 15,000sq ft. building to allowing a 200,000sq ft. building. As some of you know, I have a great dislike (one might even call it burning hatred) for Sam Walton’s Box Store Gone Wild, Spring Break Edition. I hold it specifically responsible for many dishonest and crooked businesses practices at least, and several blatantly unethical and severely immoral crimes against humanity in general and individuals (both foreign and domestic) in particular at most.

But this hearing wasn’t about whether or not to allow Wal-Mart to build a store at said location—it has already purchased the land and is going to build a store there—rather, it was whether or not to allow them a rezone which would up dramatically the size of store they would be allowed to build. The hearing was packed—standing room barely. The room was chock-full of neighbors from the general vicinity of where the new store will be, as well as seven commission members, two mediator-type fellers, and a few reporters and cameramen.

And there on the front row in expensive suits, leather shoes that were shinier than a bucket of brand new pennies, and hairdos that could put Pat Sajak AND Vanna White to shame, sat an attack squadron of four highly trained you-don’t-look-like-you’re-from-‘round-here Wal-Mart lawyers. Their perfectly straight and white teeth made a shimmering glimmering fence that separated the people from the politicians, the masses from the masters, the locals from the legislatives. They presented their cookie-cutter case just as they had countless times before at countless other city meetings, probably word for word. In fact, I can’t prove that they weren’t high-tech holograms beamed in directly from Superstore headquarters in Bentonville, Arkansas. I never saw anyone touch them, they seriously could have been holograms.

After giving their pretty PowerPoint presentation (via projector, a.k.a. 2-dimensional hologram…the evidence is adding up), they smugly sat down and the public was given time to speak—two minutes per person, five minutes if you were speaking on behalf of a neighborhood council. I’d say thirty to forty people stood up at the podium to speak their mind, and out of forty people maybe three spoke in favor of approving Wal-Mart’s request. The rest spoke with wisdom and experience, articulately and effectively. Several WM claims were opened and exposed for the lies that they were, and in the end the shiny-toothed lawyers sat humiliated in their expensive suits, fumbling for excuses and fake explanation attempts.

When the planning commission cast its vote of 7 – 0 in favor of rejecting Wal-Mart’s request, happy sighs swept across the room. The crowd didn’t erupt in applause—this wasn’t a football rally or political party national convention. Instead, everyone smiled and hugged or shook hands with those around them and said “We did it” and “I’m so glad.” A sense of power filled the small individuals in the room who had come together and fought against an invading Goliath. People were reminded, or maybe learned for the first time, that you don’t have to be a huge company, a government, a wealthy organization to accomplish something big or to defend yourself against something giant and dark. It was a good lesson for me and I hope that it sparks the motivation to fight harder and more often on the side of good and against those things that are fundamentally bad, wrong, even evil.

Asians For World Peace

2008-09-03T10:03:00.010-06:00

Consider the irony:
A boy, a man, a machine. Guiding a large group of late-teen to early-twenties Japanese girls down the Colorado River outside of Moab. Trying to entertain those on my boat while I don’t speak Foreign and they don’t speak Regular. I teach them the commands for “paddle forward” and “paddle backward” and they have a great time gettin’ jiggy widdit. I enjoy the sun, the canyon walls, and the alien rock formations without conversing too much with my floating geisha house. I imagine the other boymanmachine guide on the second raft is having a similar experience. The only real difference between our two boats is that the guide on my boat (that’s me) has dirty blond hair and a wiry, bony build that makes him look like a three-dimensional stick figure, while the guide on the other boat is kind of squatty, brown haired, and looks like the kind of guy that could knock a cow out with one punch.

Trip ends. Boats on ramp. Before the asian ant army marches onto the tour bus, one of the girls asks me (through a series of hand gestures and giggles) if she can get her picture taken with me. I say “hai” and she pulls a water bucket over for me to sit on. I sit down, she hops on my lap, and Chuck, our Texan atheist salesman mustachio bus driver takes the photo. Me smiling politely. Her flashing the mandatory tilted peace-sign. She gets off my lap and before I can stand there is another Japanese girl jumping in to fill the space of the previous one. I look over and see that every single one of the dark-haired girls, even the ones that weren’t on my boat, has lined up to get a photo taken with me. I feel like some sort of perverted mix between a mall Santa Claus and Kevin Bacon. I’m eternally working the tip and therefore always obliging the guests so I stay seated and smile through about fifteen peace-sign flashing lap wigglers.

None say a word (just sit, peace, and smile) until the last girl. Surprisingly, she talks to me in decent, yet heavily accented English.

“Which one are you again?” she asks.

“What do you mean?” I respond, not knowing what group of somethings she’s trying to distinguish me from.

“Which guide are you?”

“Oh, I’m Hasen.”

Her reply drops my jaw, “Oh, you Americans all look the same.”

Violence

2008-08-27T10:00:00.003-06:00

Caution! This video contains gruesome footage, excessive violence, and images of children playing hockey without sticks, pucks, or nets.

F#%@!ng Nader!

2008-08-26T17:08:00.006-06:00

I want Ralph Nader to be our next president. O’Cain and McBama both suck in my eyes (but how did they get in my eyes?). They are puppets of big business—they owe major corporations so many favors that they have become slaves. But in order for Nader to make a run at it, he needs a powerful strategy. Real powerful. That’s where the F-word comes in. The F-word gets things done. When you use the F-word, people listen. Sometimes when I’m ordering a number 4 combo meal with Diet Coke, I use the F-word just so the old lady taking my order understands that I mean business. When my mom wants us to wash our hands before Sunday dinner, she uses the F-word. You think we show up to the table folding dirty arms after that? No. So Nader, if you love America and want to beat the two lying idiots who also happen to be the major candidates from the two major parties (which are both corporations themselves, by Brian the Todd way Williams), you need to wash your mouth with mud and start F-ing around.

I Love Quitting Jobs

2008-08-25T16:44:00.006-06:00

I love quitting jobs. It's the best feeling in the world. I do it all the time and I think more people should quit their jobs. In fact, I think most people should quit their jobs. Work is a good thing, unless it sucks your soul and makes you unhappy.

The idea of working for the sake of work is insane to me. Before the age of plastic surplus and invisible money in which we live, there existed fewer mind-numbing jobs, I think. More people worked the land, built from the hand and from the heart, made with pride and a sense of ownership and responsibility. Less people answered phone calls that were for somebody else, put plastic sleeves on conveyor-belted products before they entered the heat-shrinking oven, paid someone else's taxes with that someone else's money, babysat the emotionally lost children of irresponsible parents, sewed a replica button in a replica location on a replica shirt a thousand times a day. More people felt connected to the work they did, felt it was important and beneficial, and it was. Now the majority of people in the world work so that the wealthy can have unnecessary conveniences like bright plastic lawn ornaments, all-wheel drive installed with DVD player and satellite positioning system petroleum slurping vehicles, a number 4 combo meal with Diet Coke, 88 channels of commercial advertisements, high speed pornography, perkier boobs, and cellular phony communication devices.

Most people should quit their jobs because most people aren't happy at their jobs. It's depressing the entire world. What if we all did jobs that we loved? Because it doesn't pay enough? Then sell your moneypit car, move into a cheaper home, stop buying crap and other fecal products, and do what you love. It's not always easy to find that thing, but it's easy to tell when you've found something that ISN'T that thing. Every time you quit a job you hate, you've progressed closer to a job you love and you've also taken a little bit more control of your life and your happiness.

I love quitting jobs. I love dropping out of school. I love realizing that if something is stealing my happiness, I DON'T HAVE TO DO IT. It's empowering, it's responsible, and it benefits humanity.

The Rockin' Moroccan

2008-08-15T15:08:00.008-06:00

I used to live with a guy named Ahmed al-Shandoudi from Oman (it’s by Saudi Arabia) and his mom would call at three o’clock in the morning to talk to him. He nor I had cell phones, and the phone jack was in my room so I’d answer and she would say whatever it was she would say, and I would know that it was his mom calling for him. On a piece of paper I kept by the phone, he wrote down how to say “I will go get Ahmed for you.” in Arabic. He did it phonetically and helped me practice the pronunciation so that when the time came I could nail it. It was awesome.

He used to hang out with this girl from Morocco that my man-friends and I would see around campus and refer to as the Rockin’ Moroccan because she was so freaking hot. I asked him to set me up with her and he informed me that:

A) She already had a boyfriend, and

B) She only dates Arabic dudes, and

C) Him and his friends could waste any of me and my friends in soccer any day. He was right, those guys whaled.

I miss Ahmed. We became pretty good friends that year and even though he never hooked me up with the Rockin’ Moroccan, he wore awesome white robey pajamas that brought a great vibe to the apartment.

The Big Red Idiot

2008-08-13T10:31:00.003-06:00

It can be kind of fun working in Park City sometimes. The drive really isn’t that bad—about twenty-five minutes from my home in Sugarhouse to my office at Kimball Junction—and since I ride in the company vanpool, I never actually have to do the driving. I pay thirty bucks a month and get chauffeured to and from work everyday, saving a ton of mon from not having to buy gas. Being in the mountains invigorates and relaxes, and escaping the overstuffed beehive of the city minimizes stress.

I work with some cool people up here, and we have a good time shootin’ the breeze together on the drive up and down, or when we go out to lunch. Now here’s the story you’ve probably come for:

Sometimes I wear all red. Shirt, pants, and shoes. It started a few years back in college, Halloween actually. When dress up time came, I was stumped for a costume so I just wore all red. When people asked what I was, I responded “Big Red Idiot—isn’t it obvious?” I really liked how it felt to wear all red. It’s fun. Not as fun as wearing all white, but fun nonetheless.

The other day some of us goats went into Park City for lunch—some sort of teriyaki place. The place was packed, with a line of people running from the register out the door and onto the sidewalk. You’d think they were handing out free iPod mini-Nanos pre-installed with each “book-on-tape” of the Twilight book series about Mormon vampires who don’t suck blood out of their victims because it’s against the vampire word of wisdom, so they just suck out the water.

I got to the front of the line, ordered my meat and noodles, then found a standing place in the crowded restaurant to wait until they called number 43, which matched the plastic plaque in my hand. After a moment I felt a whap on my butt and heard a child’s voice say something. I turned around, wearing all red, and saw a little kid looking up at me with a mad look on his face.

“Huh?” I responded, not understanding what he had said.

“MOVE!” he replied. And by the look on his face I could tell that he meant business.

I laughed and stepped away, not wanting to make a little kid cry. His dad gave him this look like What’s wrong with you?

The boy looked at his father and said, talking about me, “He might kill me.”

I almost swallowed the ice cube I was sucking on—it was that funny. I wondered if the kid had just seen the new Batman movie (which is totally freaking awesome times a billion) and thought that I was some sort of costumed bad guy. The Big Red Idiot doesn’t really sound like your normal bad guy name, but then again, I’m not your normal bad guy.

The Weaker Digits

2008-07-16T17:02:00.009-06:00

My name is Hasen, some call me "Has" for short. One of my best friends is named Phil. Proceed.

Recently I was introduced to a girl named Lindsay. Here's how the conversation went. Oh, and I'm going to omit the use of quotation marks because right now the thought of typing out a long dialogue and having to keep reaching my pinky (one of my weaker and less agile digits) way over there while hitting 'shift' with my other weak and un-agile digit makes me want to cuss the p.m. word. The p.m. word is "puta madre" and, though not an English phrase, still constitutes a pretty heavy cuss:

Nice to meet you, Lindsay.
You too, Austin.
Hasen.
Haustin?
Haw-sin.
Hasen?
That's right.
You seem familiar, Hasen. Where do I know you from?
Not sure, did you go to Utah State?
Yes! Wait a second...were you friends with my roommate Melissa Shipp? (*side note: Melissa Shipp is a very talented concert violinist, and I once declared her the prettiest girl at USU)
You bet I was. My friends and I used to play music with her.
Wait, I remember you now. You're Hasenphil!
(stall, wait, brief silence, not sure how to respond, then...) Yup, that's me. Hasenphil.
Ya, I remember you!

I guess she remembered hearing Melissa talk about "Has and Phil" and always thought it was one in the same person.

A Perfect Scandinavian World

2008-07-14T20:02:00.005-06:00

In a perfect world, Scandinavia would produce the biggest movie superstars on the planet. Spies wouldn't be British like James Bond. Instead of watching endless series with titles like "You Never Live Twice With the Same Golden Eyes Are Forever Never Lasts," we'd be focusing all of our spy movie energy on one trilogy and one trilogy only—The Bjorn Supremacy.

And instead of being jerked through an emotional roller coaster of intensity, confusion, love, and spaciness by the actor who played Han Solo in the original Star Wars movie, we'd be unanimously in love with a hot Scando hunk turned silver fox named none other than Harrison Fjord.

On the other hand, the most creative musicians would NOT come from the Northerlands. We'd be hypnotized by dark lullabies, mystic chants, and foggy anthem rock by the beautiful, the eccentric, the always innovate yet very non-Scando—Bork.

Grammar Hooligans and Meat-head Assailants

2008-07-11T09:40:00.008-06:00

Last night was the opening night of the free Salt Lake Summer Concert Series downtown at the Gallivan Plaza. Ever played Mad Gab?: Displace wasp act. Sound it out, don't stress, you can get it. Dis place was pact. Got it yet? That's as far as I can take you. If you haven't figured it out at this point, there's no one that can help you. You're best off resigning yourself to small town, finding a nice, pretty wall, and passing your time in a rocking chair staring at that wall. For excitement you can sing the first line to the chorus of We All Live in a Yellow Submarine. Just the first line, which is the line you just read. Repeat it over and over. Anymore than that could cause serious damage.

The place was overflowing with peeps. It was like the peeps machine at the peeps factory had malfunctioned and was cranking out the disgusting marshmallow Easter candies at an astronomical rate, filling the room, the entire factory, then even spilling into the town streets. In order to survive, people in Peepstown would have to get into canoes or just use their mattresses and paddle around the river of flowing peeps.

At the concert I ran into my friend A-Rod. Don’t worry, she was fine. We briefly hovered on the outskirts of the peeps disaster, then I told her that I wanted to get down in the middle of the action. The Roots was playing (who, previous to the announcement of the concert, was a band that I’d never heard of) and I wanted to get all up in there, feel the vibe, rock the Casbah, hit me with music, with or without you, I’m too sexy for your love, hey kid put your pants back on!

A-Rod lead the way as we worked through the sweet and condensed mass of pulsating people, trying to get closer to the action. Suddenly I felt a pair of strong hands wrap around my throat and squeeze. I was being suffocated from behind. I couldn’t turn around. I was being shaken, my throat being crushed by an unknown demon. Then I heard a deep growling voice yell, “Get behind me!” and I was thrown like a limp biscuit. I luckily landed on my feet (there really wasn’t any room to land in any other position), almost crushing some lady’s little kid.

I looked at the dude that had attacked me from behind. He was a huge squatty meat-head that had the fire of Dick Cheney in his eyes. His solid glare held me back like a wall—not that I had any intention of going back near him. I don’t know if I’ve seen rage like that in one person, especially rage directed at me.

I don’t know if it was the adrenaline or the surprise or what, but it wasn’t until about 30 seconds later that I really understood all that had happened. And that my throat started hurting. I contemplated my options:

1) Go find a chair, come back, and crack it over the bully’s skull, hopefully knocking him out or at least rendering him unretaliatable.

2) Try what my church softball coach told me when I was 15—if you’re in a fight with a guy that could probably pummel your brains out, punch him as hard as you can right in the nose. That will stun him, and probably swell up as it fills his eyes with tears, that way he can’t really attack you.

3) Pull a samurai sword out of my backpack and slice his thighs, Achilles’ tendons, and buttocks. Or…

4) Walk away from the loud noise, call the police, direct them to the criminal, and get him hauled off to the slammer.

In the end I decided to do nothing. My initial anger at getting man-handled like that subsided fairly quickly and I just walked away, eventually working my way up to the front row and having one of the funnest (which, for all you grammar hooligans living in the past, is an actual word) concert experiences I’ve had in a long time. Poor Squatty probably spent the rest of the night on his tip-toes trying to catch a glimpse of the action, while I moved on and became the action.

Thunder Down Under

2008-07-09T16:33:00.004-06:00

Australia is a great place. It’s like the US in a lot of ways—they drive cars (though on the opposite side of the road), they have McDonalds (though it’s considered a lot nicer of a restaurant there than here), they cuss (though damn and hell aren’t considered bad words, whereas bugger and bloody are).

It’s also very different in a lot of ways—all the animals are weird and freaky as hell, they don’t suffer from million-mile-an-hour syndrome in every aspect of life like we do here, and almost everybody drives around with ladders on top of their cars (not really sure why). I’m not kidding about that. You go anywhere, and tons of cars and trucks (they call trucks “utes,” and don’t have huge Fords and Chevys like we do here) have ladders strapped on top of them. It’s weird, man.

I went down one summer to live with the fam, who had moved to Brisbane a couple of years previous. My folks and I, and a couple of the old step-siblings all went through a scuba certification class so we could enjoy the wonders of the Great Barrier Reef below the surface of the water.

Part of the certification process involved passing a physical examination by a doctor. I set up an appointment, got work off, and showed up to the doctor’s office ready to cover my eye and read the chart that has a huge E at the top, and a bunch of other letters trickling down below it.

Explanation: As most of you know, English is the official language of Australia. They speak it, we speak it, everyone pretty much understands each other. There are, however, a few words they use down there that the average American bloke might not be familiar with. Like bloke, for instance, which means guy. Also, tucka means food, prawn means shrimp, avo means afternoon, bite your bum means be quiet, etc.

The receptionist called my name and I went in for my check-up. The doctor went through the routine stuff—open up and say ah, sit down while I bang your knee with this hammer, you know—the usual.

Then it came. “Take off your joggers,” politely commanded the Doctor from Down Under. In my head I quickly did a guessing mental translation of what he meant by joggers. I was wearing some sweat shorts (don’t judge me), and quickly deduced that he was referring to them. I stood up and dropped my drawers, undies included, trying to act as normal as possible while knowingly and intentionally showing some old dude my Yankee parts.

The doctor just kind of sat there for a moment, not doing much. I wondered when he was going to get down to business. Then he said five words that I’ll never forget. Ever.

“I meant your tennis shoes.”

Fish in the Pants

2008-07-08T16:42:00.001-06:00

So there we were, surfing the Puerto Rican Pipeline, rocking as we rolled and vice versa. The waves had to be double overhead and faster than a Utahn at a KFC 2-for-1 coupon give away. We rode, we got pummeled, we paddled, we swam. The sun bronzed our perfect bodies, bleached our Aryan hair, and freckled our Irish faces.

When we got back to the guest house we were staying at, Phil went into the hallway shower and I hopped in the shower that was in our room. As Phil took off his shorts (don’t worry, it doesn’t turn dirty at this point…if you want dirty, try this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vpdBMRlf2gI), two little fish fell out onto the floor. The fish were in his shorts, repeat, the fish were in his shorts. He says he felt a school of fish run into his legs as he was out in the water, but was unaware that they had set up shop in his trunks.

The Rich Port, or The Misadventures of Hasenphil Cline

2008-07-01T15:45:00.013-06:00

In Puerto Rico I saw a real-life submarine.

The Loo

2008-06-27T18:13:00.004-06:00

Before you judge me for writing another "Office Place Bathroom" story, just think of all the non-office place bathroom stories I've written. Focus on those (but still read this).

9:51am--I sit down for my morning massage. That's what I call my morning visit to the john. Not really sure what massage has to do with it, though--maybe it comes from the motion my innards employ to expel the gray matter. That's right--gray.

I am in the second stall, the handicap stall, because the first stall is occupied. I saw on an Oprah episode that, on average, the first stall is the least used because everyone thinks it's the most frequently used since it's the closest to the bathroom door, so they all move on to the next stalls. Makes sense. So I always shoot for the first stall. If it's taken, however, the handicap stall isn't a bad consolation. It's so spacious. If I end up in the handicap stall, I pretend that I'm in a bathroom in Dubai and that there are beautiful naked dolphins outside waiting to wash my hands by spewing clean, clear water out of their mouths (not out of their blow holes like you probably expected) once I come out.

As I sit there, I see a man (my worries that I might have accidentally entered the wrong bathroom are a put to rest) 's feet walk to the sink that is directly in front of my stall. At the same time, the latch on my stall's door somehow comes undone and the door slowly and smoothly swings wide open, stopping at the end of the arc. Being in the spacious handicap stall, the door is much too far away for me to lunge at. The stranger turns and looks at me. We make eye contact, him on his feet and I on my stool.

Rather than quickly turn away in shame, something amazing happens. No words are spoken, but we have a conversation with our eyes, man to man. He understands the potential humiliation I might be suffering as physics cruelly exposes my highthighs to all outside of my mis-assumed sanctuary, and I in turn comprehend deeply his need to be able to walk to the sink without being forced by the terrible humor of the universe to watch another man shart. The mutual understanding is immediately and profoundly felt, and we are both calmed. My new friend gives me a wise nod, then closes the door for me. As it connects, I lean forward and close the latch, this time making sure it goes all the way in, a little worried that I might drop a loose doodgie on my ankled pants. But I return with honor and without droppage to my porcelain chair, grateful for the power of the unspoken word, and for the innate desire of men to bond in the bathroom.

Voulez-vous Manger la Mangue?

2008-06-26T17:08:00.012-06:00

The first time I ever ate a mango I was in Mexico. I had never seen one before. I knew it was a tropical fruit, but I didn't understand the difference between mango, papaya, passion fruit, Richard Simmons, or guava. I knew they were all exotically fruity, but had no idea what they looked or tasted like. It's not that I had never had mango juice or guava juice or whatever--I'm sure I had had it throughout my life whenever I drank Ocean Spray or Capri Sun. It's just that I didn't recognize it for the specific fruit that it was. Rather, I just understood it was tropical and that's as far as I cared to think about it.

When a lady in Mexico gave me my first mango, I took it in my hand and stared at it, not knowing exactly what to do with it. How was I going to eat this slightly almondy-shaped, softball-sized food? It was covered in a thick skin, but by the feel of it I felt I could easily penetrate it without the help of a knife. What did it look like inside? Was it full of hundreds of tiny seeds? What color would it be? But my time for wondering was up. This nice woman had so generously offered me of her substance, and I could tell by the look in her eyes that she was very eager for me to partake. My strong sense of not wanting to offend (I know what you're thinking, you're thinking "Hasen, not wanting to offend? Then what's up with all those dirty jokes and obscene gestures he does in public?" Hey, why don't you just keep focused on the story and quit tryin' to ruin it for everyone, huh?) compelled me to take action.

I bit into that mango like John Candy biting into a huge steak, cooked or raw. The skin was tough, but I had resolved to eat the whole thing in front of this lady, so it didn't deter me. Imagine Godzilla breaking through a roadblock of a couple of small wooden sawhorses. I chomped, slurped, and tore my way through the skin, through the fruity meat, all the way down to the large single seed in the center, where I stopped. It was obvious I wasn't supposed to eat the seed.

That mango was delicious. I had never had anything like it. I had never heard of anything like it. Until that point, the best tasting fruit I knew about was peaches in Wheaties. I looked up at the generous woman who had shared her fruit with me (there's no metaphor there, in case you were looking) and she just kind of stared back in wonder, eyes wide, then an awkward smile crooked itself across her face. I thanked her for the gift, and left. When we were out of earshot of her front door, my friend named Elder, in very broken English, asked me why in the good name of gospel gumption did I do that.

"Do what?" I replied.

"Eat the skin of the mango."

Sleeping On the Job

2008-06-17T20:41:00.008-06:00

I was so tired at work yesterday that I decided to take a nap. I work in a standard office, you know. There's no place to lay down. So I decided to put on my sunglasses, slouch down in my chair, put my hand on my mouse (no penis jokes please, this is a family friendly website), and pointed my face towards my computer screen. I then zonked out for about 15 or 20 minutes. The funny thing about it is that I share a desk with someone (it's a big desk). She sits about a foot and a half away from me, right smack dab next to me, and she never noticed I was sleeping. I think I've stumbled onto something great.

Memorial Day at the Salt Flats

2008-06-02T19:44:00.014-06:00

This was one harkuva weekend. Vaccuum tossing, nudie races, corpse carrying, salt licking.

The Future

2008-05-29T11:49:00.002-06:00

Have you ever stared the future straight in the eyes and said "Listen here, you son of a gun, there's not room enough in this world for the both of us," and then waited to see what the future said? I have, and let's just say that I'm still here and the future isn't.

David Archuleta Seeks Advice From Sensitive Ned

2008-05-27T14:18:00.005-06:00

As you might know, I write an advice column for the Regal Seagull, an online news publication. This week's edition was entirely focused on David Archuleta. Archuleta actually wrote in asking me for advice on how to deal with his heartbreaking loss on American Idol.

Ask Sensitive Ned: Almost a Winner

Dear Sensitive Ned,

Where did I go wrong? How could I have failed? I’m miserable and don’t know what to do. I’m considering running away to Ogden, joining a gang, and becoming an alcoholic. Save me from myself.

David Archuleta

Dave,

You’re pathetic. You disgust me. When Art Garfunkel was fired by Paul Simon and left to fend for himself in this cold, dark world, did he give up hope? No! Well, maybe for a little while, but then about eight years ago I saw this cartoon where all the characters are little mole-looking creatures (not sure exactly what they are, but they look like moles), and they were visited by a wise, wandering troubadour that sounded just like Art, but also looked like a mole, but with an afro. Not that black people look like moles, I’m just saying he had a big round poofy hair-do. I suspect that the traveling sage was actually Art Garfunkel. He even says, “Hi, I’m Art Garfunkel,” which is one of the reasons I’m almost positive it was him. Art didn’t give up.

When Michael Bolton was mocked by millions for decades because of everything about him, did he quit? No! Why the hell not? Nobody knows. Michael, if you’re reading this, PLEASE END THE MISERY! Not yours—ours.

When most of the other Beatles died (probably poisoned by Yoko Ono, including John, but I can’t prove it), did Ringo throw in the towel? No way! He joined up with one of the greatest television shows ever made—Shining Time Station. He was The Conductor, and he helped bring beautiful songs and real toy trains with claymation faces to kids and adults across the country and parts of northern Mexico and southern Canada that were picking up US television waves. But then he was replaced by George Carlin because a judge ordered Carlin to perform one thousand hours of community service for saying the f-word to a whole kindergarten class full of Down’s syndrome kids. But Ringo never quit.

David, you listen to me. Suck it up. Wipe those tears off of your baby-face and look to the future. Life has fed you a mouth-full of New England Patriots pie, and you need to spit it out. Clean your vessel. Purge the pain and drop all that crazy talk about going to Ogden to end your life. Though you have lost the battle, you can still win this harsh war called life. Now get back on your prancing pony and ride.

I hope that got you pumped,

Sensitive Ned

* If you are starving for advice, attention, food and water, or underage you-know-what, feel free to write to Sensitive Ned at SensitveNed@RegalSeagull.com. He reads everything anyone sends him, even stuff in other languages (he’s VERY smart). If he deems your question worthy of an answer, he’ll reply with wisdom and knowledge beyond his years (he’s 12). If not, it was probably a very stupid question.

Dances With Wolves, the Extended Version

2008-05-19T20:04:00.008-06:00

How awesome is the extended version of Dances With Wolves? People don't give it the recognition it deserves, and that is totally messed up big time. Why do we feel the need to tear down Shumani Tutonka Owashee? Why is it that when we are at the video store trying to figure out what to rent and I suggest the extended version of Dances With Wolves, everyone makes that look that you get when you take a big swig out of the milk jug only to discover it is old and chunky and long-expired? Some people even have the ignorant gall to comment "The regular-length version is bad enough."

I am here to knock some sense into humanity. DWW-TEV offers something to every audience, and I'm about to prove it. Action: the opening Civil War scene where the North and South are at the battle field, and John Dunbar is about to get his leg amputated. Violence: The Sioux fill that fat guide with arrows and eat his pickled eggs. Comedy: "Somebody poked me in the butt--was that you?" Romance: "I go where you go, John Dunbar." Drama: The part of the buffalo hunt where the Sioux come up over the hill and see a field full of dead, skinned buffalo. Sex: John Dunbar is sleeping in the Chief's tent and wakes up in the middle of the night to see Chief and Squaw gettin' jiggy wid it.

If the proof is in the pudding, then this blog is a six-pack of Jell-O Snack Packs. And as if the plot, script, and cinematography didn't seal the deal, recall the amazingly inspirational soundtrack. I listen to that John Williams masterpiece before playing basketball and then I go out on the court and play ball like I live my life: I pretend that I'm John Dunbar and I'm riding that beautiful horse Cisco around the Great Plains saving Indian tribes from the white man, from other bad Indian tribes, and from buffalo gone crazy with Mad Buffalo Disease.

The world needs more Dances With Wolves, the Extended Versions. Personally, I am anxiously awaiting extended versions of The Princess Bride and Mr. Mom. They may never come, but if they do, I'll be ready. And if you haven't been totally absorbed in a world of dark hatred and World of Warcraft brainwash, maybe you'll get ready, too.

More Wall Art, Less Wal-Mart

2008-05-16T15:27:00.005-06:00

I don't want to hear about anyone getting their panties in a twist because I'm posting another video. I know you come here to read funny stories of all the weird stuff that happens to me, but this next one is truly worth your time. It is a stop-motion video made by some crazy loco coco in Buenos Aires, and I wouldn't post it here if I didn't think it would make you a better person. Or, in Matt Cline's case, a better robot.

MUTO a wall-painted animation by BLU from blu on Vimeo.

Most Inspirational Video on the Web Today

2008-05-14T19:21:00.005-06:00

Give me five minutes of your time. These are five minutes that you'll never get back, but they are also five minutes you'll never forget. Generally I don't care too much for extreme sports videos--they're usually full of obnoxious music and mediocre moves. But this is different. It's not only different, it's amazing. Turn your sound up--no, better yet, put on some really sweet-sounding headphones--maximize the screen, and enjoy. You can thank me later.

Winning isn't everything. Sharing is.

2008-05-01T20:07:00.007-06:00

What I'm about to tell you is true. No names have been changed to protect nobody. Anybody that went to Utah State Uni-fur-city (I included that because I dream of one day visiting a place called Fur City--I read about it a long time ago in an Orson Scott Card book. Not the really famous one, but some other one he wrote that never got published. Actually, it was a screenplay.) knows that each and every semester without fail, ASUSU sponsors a bingo night where thousands of people fill the ball room on campus and the largest bingo game this side of the Jordan River goes down. Tables are lined up end to end to end to...the point is that when all is said and done, one table is about as long as watching General Conference without falling asleep.

Everyone took their seat at one of the huge tables. We were all lined up staring down at our bingo cards. We looked like Asian women at a Nike sweatshop, focusing on our work in front of us, looking neither right or left. The prizes were serious. An old school Nintendo, a lava lamp, gift cards to local hotspots such as Hastings Video, the USU Bookstore, and Somebody's Attic. Everyone there was in it to win it, especially me.

I haven't won a lot of stuff in my life, but I know several people who have. One time I was sitting next to Jesse at a Warren Miller movie screening, and he won a season pass to Beaver Mountain. One time Andrew Cazier lent Phil a dollar to buy a raffle ticket at the Banff Film Festival, and Phil won the grand prize--an old-style beach cruiser with new school flare and pizazz. Another time Phil was sitting right next to me when his number was called to win a brand new pair of fancy twin-tip skis. Once I got in a car wreck with a guy that had just won the lottery. He got out of his vehicle and said, "You know what, don't worry about it. In fact, you can just keep my car." I didn't. I actually fled the scene because I was driving an unlicensed, unregistered car. I was outta there.

So when I win something, I get excited. I was sitting at the far end of one of the longest tables, seemingly miles away from the emcee that was calling the numbers. "B-11. G-42." Come on, baby, just one more. "N-30." Yes! I slammed my crayola crayon down on the table and yelled, "BINGO!" The victory music came on (I think it was Cher's Do You Believe In Life After Love) and I jumped up onto my chair, then onto the table. Instead of running down the aisle The Price Is Right style, I ran along the entire table top, kicking crayons and losing bingo cards out of the way. One girl yelled, "Hey, you broke my phone!" I ignored her because how dare somebody try to ruin my moment. I got to the end of table and in one perfect gazelle-like leap I jumped over the kid in the wheelchair that was sitting at the head of the table, and landed gracefully on the stage. People were cheering. Some were booing, I'm not sure if it was because they wanted to win, or because I accidentally barely nicked that wheelchair kid in the head with my foot when I jumped over him and there was a tiny itsy bitsy bit of blood by his eye now. Man, what is up with people trying to steal happy moments from someone that just won? Some folks are so selfish.

I was caught up in the moment. I was filled with energy and adrenaline. I grabbed the microphone from the emcee and said, "I just want to thank everybody for supporting me. I love you all. When this is all over tonight, I'm taking everyone that's interested to KFC!" The crowd erupted. I was a hero. I then got the entire audience to start chanting, "KFC, KFC, KFC." For that moment, I was loved by everyone. Even the cell phone girl and the wheelchair kid were on their feet (I know, it was a milagro de Jesus) chanting and cheering and crying.

I don't remember much of what happened right after that. I eventually claimed my carwash kit prize (2 sponges, 3 different kinds of Armor-all, and a few of those smelly cardboard trees that you hang from your rearview mirror, or if you're really desperate for scent, you stick them in your heater vents) and exited the stage. Later that night some friends and I really did go to KFC, we got there right before closing time. I ordered a bag full of Chicken Snackers and gave them out to the three other people I was with. Right as we were about to get into the car to leave, another vehicle pulled up to us. "Hey, you're the KFC guy. Did you mean what you said earlier," the boy in the passenger seat asked. "You bet I did," I responded. I then pulled the last two Chicken Snackers in all of Logan out of the bag and handed one each to the couple in the car. That's when I recognized them--it was the cell phone girl and the wheelchair kid. Together. A warm feeling washed over me and I felt a tear in my eye. "Thanks man," said the boy as they slowly pulled away. "No, thank you," I thought to myself. "Thank you." And that's when I realized that winning isn't everything. Sharing is.

The Regal Seagull, Utah's #1 News Source

2008-04-25T16:00:00.006-06:00

I'd like to take a moment for some shameless self-promotion. I write for a new Utah news publication called The Regal Seagull. It focuses on Utah-related culture, events, and politics. If you care about me or about orphans who have had to fight through life the hard way, pulling themselves up by their own bootstraps (bootstrap bootstrap), battling hunger, hatred, and loneliness, then you will please take a quick second to jump over to RegalSeagull.com and check it out. As I write this, the site isn't completely finished, but it's functional enough to navigate, and it doesn't look half bad.

More blogs to come in the future, but in the meantime, please visit RegalSeagull.com. Or die. Don't worry, it's just a metaphor. For death.

Young Chap, part 2: Rear entry at the Trapp Door

2008-04-15T18:01:00.009-06:00

I know what you're thinking: Not another "Hasen's gay bar adventures" post. Well, what did you expect? Huh? Another boring lecture about air pollution? Or maybe more b-ball action? Well, too bad. It's gay bar story time. If you don't like it, go read this blog instead: http://katielovie.blogspot.com. Still here? Ok, let's get started. Once again I was invited to the gay bar. This time it was to the Trapp Door to watch Miss Gay Utah relinquish her crown. The night consisted of different drag queens going up on stage, dressed like the girl from katielovie.blogspot.com, and lip-syncing to songs like Strangers in the Night and some gay-oriented parody of Barbie Girl. The set ended with Miss Gay Utah getting up and knocking the crowd out with some well-choreographed dance to a european-sounding song with a beat that would make Dick Cheney want to dance. If he wasn't a robot. An evil robot dressed in the skin of some poor human farmer that he murdered just to "get in his pants" (that isn't a sex joke, it's a robot crawling into a dead human's skin joke).

After the show, staff cleared the tables and chairs and an enjoyable night at the theater soon became a thrashing throbbing dance-a-thonic supersonic beat-bustin' melee of night children dancing to survive. Bodies spun and leapt, sweat rained from every direction, people yelped as they thrust their bodies into Michael Jackson moves that would have impressed even the King of Pop himself (for those of you born after 1991, MJ is the King of Pop, not Bono--while I'm in parenthesis, if any of you have had enough, you are welcome to visit this blog instead: http://luhmanfamily.blogspot.com, or this one: http://hardwaredelpc.blogspot.com/). I must say, it's been years since I was so infected with the dance dengue fever. I lost myself. Soul left body and I became the music, the energy, the sweat. Gender took a back seat to passion and everyone was immediately beautiful--dancing because they didn't know what else to do, didn't know if there was anything else. In that moment, dancing became breathing became life.

That's when my pants split. Yup, wiiiiiiide open. My legs were spread wide--someone had just finished diving under them and disappearing into the pulsating crowd--and I lunged down to slap the ground with both hands. As I came up, I thrust my derriere straight back, intending to follow with my upper body in a slithery motion. In that instant of perfect fluid motion--I'm telling you, I was like hot water--I felt, and heard, the seat of my pants totally tear from tippety top to buttocksy bottom. It felt as if the record player came to a screeching halt. I stood straight up, wide-eyed, drop-jawed, no longer a mass of flowing liquid energy twisting through the crowd like a ribbon, but now a rigid tinman with unbending knees or elbows, terrified and confused, reeling in shock. As I froze, the room spun around me. Eternities passed in a second. And then, from somewhere deep within my unmoving corpse, came a voice. I could barely hear it the first time, didn't understand what it said. But then it got louder: "Dance" it told me. I couldn't move. "Dance" it said again, this time bolder. I was still frozen. But then something happened. Deep in my stomach I felt something churning--like an ocean in turmoil. Its intense warmth began to spread up into my chest, and down into my loins. Then it filled my throat, my shoulders, my thighs. In one final surge the ocean of energy filled my entire body and the voice screamed a third time: "DANCE!" I instantly exploded into a hurricane of flame and ecstacy, shaking it like it has never been shook before. I became a sudden Lord of the Dance, a moving work of art, a celestial body unconfined by lesser laws of physics. And I danced.

Pitbulls and Me: There's not enough room on my front lawn for both of us.

2008-03-31T19:28:00.008-06:00

The other day I got home from work, got out of my car, and started walking towards my front porch, when out of hell or somewhere a Pitbull came charging at me across my front lawn. It was screaming bloody dog-bark murder at me. I saw fire and Dick Cheney in its eyes and would have wet my pants in fear if any of my bodily systems worked. At the last second, instinct kicked in and I shouted, "NO!", with a quick raising of my arms. The sudden motion startled the raging demon-train of dog, causing it to jump back. That bought me just enough time to leap up my stair case and run inside, slamming the door like a bank vault behind me. I leaned back across my door for a moment, catching my breath. After the feeling of pure fear subsided a bit, I was suddenly filled with intense anger, realizing that most likely that dog belonged to someone out there, probably someone who was out there right then. Maybe they even witnessed the whole thing. I assumed they must know the personality of their dog, and I got madder and madder that they would let it outside with other people, including women and children and the elderly and people who seriously believe that G."WTF"B. has done a pretty good job, walking around. That they would recklessly release their weapon of mass destruction in my peaceful neighborhood did upset me so. I opened my door (more like just barely cracked it enough to fit my mouth out) and yelled into the dark night, "Hey! Keep that thing on a leash!" Man, Sugarhouse is a dangerous place.

Prodigious Child

2008-03-23T21:57:00.002-06:00

This Korean kid doesn't know any English, he just memorizes the sounds, with no idea what they mean. He learns all songs by ear and for his own amusement. He knows at least 27 Beatles songs and a bunch of other pop songs in English.

Overdraft Protection

2008-03-18T18:03:00.002-06:00

I don’t want to mention any names, but Wells Fargo Bank sucks. I’m signed up for overdraft protection in case I spend more than I have—I mean, does anyone really keep absolute track of all their spending when they always use their debit card? Please, that’s for suckers who still use check books. The problem is that when I do overdraw, the amount comes in from my credit card—all fine and good, that’s the whole point of the thing—but I still get charged around $15 for every overdrawn transaction. And I’m already paying for overdraft protection. So my question to you, Smells Fartgo, is WHERE THE HELL IS THE OVERDRAFT PROTECTION!? I posed the polite question to a banker at the unspecified bank (it’s Wells Fargo) and his response was, “Well at least you’re not paying the $30 fee those without overdraft protection are paying.” I asked another banker at another branch of the same bank which shall go nameless as to not deface any institution’s reputation (it’s Wells Fargo, they suck…I hope every single branch simultaneously burns down, but all the workers safely escape because they are just trying to earn a living, and they are too weak or scared or desperate for cash to tell their evil money-guzzling employer beast to shove it) and he told me the exact thing, almost verbatim. It immediately became apparent that they had been coached by a standardized higher authority on how to deflect potentially hostile questions like mine and quickly divert my attention to another topic, like “Would you like to sign up for a platinum credit card?”

At that moment I leapt across the counter, grabbed Chad by the tie, and shoved the end of his silky neck knot into the paper shredder. He screamed in terror as it pulled his face closer and closer to the spinning blades. Despite his best efforts to escape, his face was pulled in and shredded into tiny strips, leaving a headless teller. I was amazed that he didn’t die, though. At that point I realized that he was a robot. He stood up and went about his teller duties with a mess of blood and wires pouring out the stump where his head used to be.

“No, I don’t want another credit card,” I replied and walked out, vowing to move all of my business to a credit union. “Have a nice day,” I heard Robo-Chad say as the door closed behind me.

An Irish Limerick for St. Patty's Day

2008-03-18T09:27:00.006-06:00

Ann and CJ had another awesome party last night. Ann is, dare I say, obsessed with all things Irish. Her family hails from the Isle of Man, and she also loves Lord of the Rings, which was filmed in Ireland. Everyone had to bring a song or poem or story connected to Ireland. I hurriedly wrote and presented this limerick. Beau recited in spoken word the first verse of The Cranberries' Do You Have to Let it Linger. When you get to the singing parts (in italics), you'll need to come up with your own slow and pretty Irish-sounding tune, otherwise you'll lose the effect that the music is supposed to have. Now, without any further ado:

I once knew a man named Farney
Worked double time as a Carney
He painted sheep
To help him sleep
‘n sang songs ‘bout the legend of Blarney

A woman named Jenny O’Swill
Fell near death and stormily ill
Red spots on her face
And all over the place
Made her cry “’f God don’t take me, who will?”

Both lived alone, alone, alone
Both lived alone, alone

One day at the Carnival camp
Old Farney lit up his oil lamp
He said with a chuckle
As he tightened his buckle
“With a woman, I’d be a new man”

Sweet Jenny was lyin’ in bed
So white that she could’ve been dead
Her mother came in
Reaking of gin
“I’ll take you to doctor” she said

So she hoisted Jen up on the cart
Grunting away from the start
Wheeled ‘er through town
And spotted a clown
Who was buying a Guiness and tart

“What’s that clown doing here?” Jenny asked
Her mum took a chug from the flask
And replied with a whine
“It’s carnival time,
Now I’ve got to move you, and fast”

And Jenny felt so alone alone
Yes Jenny felt all alone

As they wheeled past the carnival camp
Jenny, she spotted the lamp
And from inside the tent
Came a tune, and it went
Just like this, in the voice of a man:

It went:
The stars they are reminders of
The people of the land
Their flashing is a hand that waves
The sky is like a man

If no one tilts their head to look
The stars they flash in vain
And man is left without a friend
To call him by his name

And man is left without a friend
To call him by his name

Now Jenny, she heard every word
Of the song that was sung like a bird
Tears filled her eyes
And to mother’s surprise
She stood up and walked ‘cross the yard

And sitting alone by the flame
Was a man, and she asked him his name
"I’m Farney, sweet miss”
Then she gave him a kiss
Said “I was sick, now I’m better again”

“There never was doctor nor nurse
Held medicine inside their purse
That healed who was sick
As whole or as quick
As your voice when it sang out in verse”

Sing:
Now time has rolled on like a fog
The days and years have past
And Farney’s love grows more and more
For Jenny, his sweet lass

And Jen loves Farney in return
He saved her in her cart
He healed her sickness with his song
She healed his lonely heart

He healed her sickness with his song
She healed his lonely heart

Basketball

2008-03-14T18:17:00.006-06:00

When I was a kid, I used to play basketball obsessively. Every day. In the summer, at least twice a day, sometimes three times a day, sometimes just once but it lasted all day. It was all I ever wanted to do…well, that and try to see down girls’ shirts. I remember my first time playing basketball. I was in the sixth grade and had just transferred to a new school where I hardly knew anybody. I was quickly adopted by the nerds (which is very typical of my life—don’t get me wrong, the nerds are great, it’s just that when you’re in elementary school your worst dream is either to poop your pants in the middle of gym class, or to be a nerd). We went outside for recess and someone had a basketball, so we started playing. I had never played before—I come from Texas where kids play football or just stand around punching each other—but I seemed to pick it up pretty quick. I soon became one of the best players among the nerds. That’s not very hard, because the whole reason they were nerds is because they weren’t very good at playing sports. Some people think the easiest way to climb the social ladder is to be good-looking. Wrong—it’s to be good at sports, at least in elementary school and if you are a boy. In elementary school none of the girls are “hot” yet, and most of the boys and girls look the same anyway, except for hair length. So the way to be a popular boy is to be good at sports.

And another thing—I never considered myself a nerd. I always considered myself cool, but I just had to hang out with the nerds because none of the other cool kids knew that I was cool yet. It was just a matter of time until they found out, and then I would assume my deserved place in the social hierarchy of the public school system. I always felt that I was on the verge of breaking into coolness. I felt that way in 6^th grade, 7^th, and 8^th. By 9^th I realized that I had made it all the way through middle school without getting into the cool group, so I started to give up, but then I went to a new high school in a different area and my “I’m cool, they just don’t know it yet, but when they find out…oh baby” theory came back full force. 10^th, 11^th, and 12^th grades passed with no change in status.

But from 6^th grade all the way through 12^th, basketball was the most important thing in my life. Once I graduated high school and moved away, I no longer hung out with kids that played ball. My new friends were skiers and granolas and hippies and musicians and other non-hoopsters, so I basically dropped my obsession. I had no one to share it with...

...Until 2 days ago. Beau and I spontaneously decided to go play with his church basketball team. The team hadn’t won a single game all year. We walked into the gym and saw them. They were a sorry-looking bunch of ragamatags, droopy and beaten down by life’s hardships. Especially one of the guys was really droopy, and he was pretty tall so it made him look even droopier. Beau and I arrived with fresh energy and optimism. We were Tornado and Goose (though we never figured out which one of us was Tornado and which one was Goose), the dynamic duo come to resurrect the dead and breathe the hot and heavy (and slightly beef stewy—I had just eaten dinner before going over there) breath of life into these sweaty, shiny, droopy potato-looking players.

The game was incredible. We juked, we jived, we ran, we slid, we pushed ourselves and our team, we came out after three minutes because we were so tired and out of shape. But when it was all over and we had won, I felt as if a part of me had returned. My love for the game was back. My purpose in life restored. I am a new man, a basketball man. I am Tornado…or Goose, I’m still not sure.

Utter Fear

2008-03-06T17:06:00.006-07:00

The bathroom at work doesn't have a lock on it. I use the sit down part of the bathroom at least once a day, usually sometime in the morning before 10:30. I always experience a little bit of difficulty b-moving because I know that any second my boss could come busting through that door and totally see my nevis (to find out more about the nevis, see previous blog entry entitled Give the Young Chap Your Number), which faces the door directly when I'm using the sit down part of the bathroom. Why is there no lock on the door? Is it a simple error from when they built the bathroom and ordered the wrong door handle? Maybe they just assumed there would be a lock on the handle when they purchased it, when indeed there was none. I would file a complaint, but I've already filed a bathroom complaint with this company, so people might start to think I'm obsessed with the bathroom, and that could hurt my move-up-the-ladder potential. If you were a boss and you had an employee that was always filing bathroom complaints, would you consider him first in a long line of other potential employees that weren't always thinking about the bathroom? That's a question I hope none of us are ever faced with, because it's impossible to answer.

Give the Young Chap Your Number

2008-02-27T15:29:00.001-07:00

So a good friend of mine from work, we’ll just call him Sterling Silver, has been inviting me to come dancing at Club Try Angles, the local gay bar, for a while now. There are two things you should know about me: 1—I love to dance, and 2—I have a dark birthmark on my right thigh that doctors call a nevis. While the birthmark has nothing to do with this story, the dancing does. I’ve heard on several occasions that there are few better places to dance than a gay bar. The music is always fun, and you don’t have to worry about looking like a sissy in front of other dudes when you start pulling out your spinny moves. An added bonus is that the very fact that you are at the place makes women trust you, no matter if you are gay or straight (which you are probably at least one of those). If a woman trusts you, she will oftentimes approach you and strike up conversation! Can you believe that? I thought that only happened in Imaginaryland!

So my roommate Barnaby and I drove down to Try Angles and I purchased a temporary membership (you have to be a member to go in). As we were going in, I got a text message from Sterling Silver, who we were supposed to meet there, that he wouldn’t be able to make it. So it would just be Barnaby and I swimming in a sea of men. I’m glad we brought our swim suits. We went in and found a small table along the wall and observed for a few minutes. I had to go to the restroom, and when I came back Barnaby was gone. “Your friend went in the other room,” a neighboring table of two huge Polynesian guys informed me. I followed their direction and indeed found my Czech roommate in the billiards room, chatting it up with three young men. I joined the conversation and after a few minutes we were all having a grand old time. But the time to leave had come—we had a pirate poetry party to get to. As I got up to leave, one of the gents we had been hanging out with also stood up, “Hey, do you have a phone?” “Ya.” “Let me get your number.” Inside I froze, though on the outside I was as cool as a jazzman at The Birdhouse. I didn’t know if I should tell him I was straight, if I should give him a fake number, or if I should fake sudden illness and run to the bathroom as I made really loud throw up sounds. Oh, who cares, I thought to myself, just give the young chap your number. You could use some friends in this big new scary city. So I willingly recited my phone number, laughing hysterically inside at the fact that on the numeric keypad my digits spell SO GAY 41. If only my new friend knew.

Aaaaaaah SUSHI!

2008-02-13T21:39:00.007-07:00

Every Wednesday night I go to Ahh Sushi! for half off sushi rolls. It is awesome. It is the greatest and only city-type activity I know, since I'm fairly new here. Except for dollar fish taco Tuesday at Rubio's. And driving in tons of heavy traffic morning and night during both rush hours. Once I have lived here for a little more time, I will know of more city-type activities, then I will blog about them. Iblog.

But Ahh Sushi! California rolls and Funky Charlie rolls are many dollars off, as are some other things from various areas of the menu. And there are many friends there--mainly because I guilt them into coming. But the important thing is that they come. And they're there. And they feel guilty. The best is when you get the back party room and get to close the sliding paper doors. You go back there with all of your friends and put your legs in the hole under the table (which is just barely too far away from you to feel normal) and feel like you own the place, but you don't. Hiro Nigishama does. No he doesn't. I just made that up because I'm trying to appeal to a Japanese audience but I don't think it's working because my sensei just sent me a text message and told me that I was temporarily banned from his dojo for wearing my "Bruce Lee + Jackie Chan = 2 Gay Japs" t-shirt to karate practice. I haven't missed sushi night since I started going at the very beginning of December, except for one night that I was really sick and actually threw up. Not from nausea, but from coughing so hard that I puked.

Tacos, Temples and God's Wrath

2008-02-06T10:53:00.001-07:00

The taco cart "Las Gueras" that sets up in the parking lot at work is the best thing to hit Salt Lake since that tornado that tore through Temple Square a few years back, which was actually the worst thing to hit Salt Lake since the winter of '97/98, which was the best snow we had received since Snow the rapper came through here on his "Informer" tour about 12 or so years ago. If you don't follow, let me approach this in a different way. The Temple Square tornado was God's wrath coming upon us for all the Single's Ward and other Mo-Mo movies we have created. The winter of '97/98 was an incredible snow year. I was working at Snowbird that winter and was stuck up there for 3 days (poor me, poor powder) while the Utah Highway Patrol worked to clear the road up Little Cottonwood Canyon that had been completely covered by several avalanches. One lady that was trapped up there gave birth to a brand new slimy baby. It proves that even life has small miracles every day of every minute. Alisson Kraus was right. Snow is a reggae rapper that had an album called 12 Inches of Snow, referring not to depth of white stuff on the ground, rather the imaginary length of his own manhood. The taco cart outside is the best one I've known in years of taco carting. Absolutely. Rebeka makes these huge quesadillas where she throws a pile of cheese right on the grill, then puts the tortilla on top of it. Then she scoops it all up, puts the spicy meat of your choice inside, then serves it to you in a to-go box with rice, beans, grilled onions, and a roasted pepper. You load it with your preferred combination of toppings (pico de gallo, fresh blended guac, salsa verde or roja, squeezed lime and whatever else). The whole thing costs three bucks even and you can hardly eat it all. Tacos are one solid dollar a piece. She knows you by first name. I can't take this, I'm going out there right now.

Skating Invalid

2008-02-05T10:50:00.001-07:00

If I ever break my leg, I won't walk around with regular crutches. I will wear those kid shoes that have wheels in the heels. The crutches I will use will have a rollerblade wheel in each base. The part where my hands go will have brakes that I could squeeze to slow down or stop if I need to. I know it sounds dangerous, but kids go around on those wheelie shoes all the time without getting hurt. I think it is a safe and logical method of rehabilitative transportation, and that's why I'm voting today. And you're not.

The Nothing

2008-01-25T15:27:00.000-07:00

Everybody loves the internet. Except really old people, or really rich people that didn't earn their money using computers so they have always paid someone else to use the internet for them, thus never learning, thus never loving. I don't have the internet at home, but that doesn't mean I can't love it. The same does NOT hold true with cell phones. I don't love cell phones, I just use them because since everyone else does, the inconvenience of not having one outweighs not paying $60 a month to talk on the phone. When I started college, we had a land line that we split four or five ways depending on how many roommates we were. We'd each pay like eight bucks a month. There were enough of us holding out, avoiding the mobile revolution, to still feasibly keep the land line. But man cannot outrun machine, and one by one we were overtaken by the rolling charge. Like The Nothing from Neverending Story, which had a scary cover-my-eyes-and-tell-me-when-it's-over wolf scene. By the end of college, EVERYONE had cell phones, so people weren't willing to pay for a land line on top of their cell bill. I still cringe every time I get my phone bill and see how much money I am spending to be able to talk on the phone. But here I am, spending most my lives living in a gangster's paradise. With a cell phone.

Red Recess Warning

2008-01-24T13:16:00.002-07:00

On the radio this morning there was a RED burn day warning issued. Don't drive if you don't have to, don't light anything on fire, don't let the kids go out to recess, don't leave your home unless you absolutely have to, and don't do anything without your S.A.R.S. mask.
No recess?! What deep sickness have we spiraled down into to arrive at the point where we prohibit our children from playing outside? That sounds like something from a futuristic movie depicting society as dark and deteriorated, like Terminator or Soylent Green. One of the common signs of failed civilizations (the Anasazi, the Aztecs, Grunge, Roseanne Barr) is that just before their demise they instigated a ban on recess for their kids. And then they fell, and fell hard. We have willingly created a society that produces such harmful chemical air and water pollution that it is unsafe for children to go outside. Yet we somehow aren't spurred to any action towards change. We don't even think we need to change anything. It reminds me of the old The Ten Commandments movie and NASCAR. Not sure why. But I do know that during the chariot race scene in Ben Hur an actor was killed when he crashed in his chariot and was trampled by horses pulling men. Horses pulling men! Can you believe it? Next thing you know we'll have horses giving men pedicures and vice versa.
But back to recess. Kids are too young to stage a protest, even when they are living in a dirty, unhealthy, lung cancer causing environment. They deserve recess, it is in the U.S. Constitution. It's in one of the amendments. "Congress shall make no Law prohibiting the Practise of Recess. Any Action against Recess or the Practise thereof shall be Ceased and Tried by a federal Court of the People." Our actions have acted against recess. We are in direct violation of the Founding Fathers, Democracy in general, and the band Depeche Mode (who has been fighting for recess rights ever since they wrote the greatest mod love song of all time--Somebody, which talks about the world we live in, and life in general, obviously a direct reference to recess). Kids are too young to stage a protest so it is up to us, the beneficiaries of recess. We must unite in one voice, hopefully the beautiful voice of Celine Dion, and let our movie star leaders know that we're not gonna take it. No, we ain't gonna take it. We're not gonna take it anymore. Our kids are more important than us driving everywhere all the time, and they are more important than the weather phenomenon known as inversion that holds the bad air in and lets the good air out. And our kids are more important than other people's kids. So let Lady Liberty wrap us in her arms and breathe the clean fresh breath of democracy into our kids' lungs via mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. She will hear me scream through my megaphone, distorted by smog and smut but loud nonetheless. And maybe she will think I'm crazy just like my last three girlfriends did and their families and my family did. But she'll at least hear me out. And to finish quoting Depeche Mode's Somebody,
She'll hear me out
And won't easily be converted
To my way of thinking
In fact she'll often disagree
But at the end of it all
She will understand me
Aaaahhhhh....

On a Yoga Ball

2008-01-23T11:28:00.000-07:00

I've recently started using a yoga ball instead of a chair at work. I thought it could help strengthen my abdomen and back muscles since I was injured in a skiing accident and needed some self-administered rehabilitation. I also thought it could help improve my posture, since I have always had the posture of a mound of Jell-O. I didn't start using it to achieve a higher level of Eastern clarity and eventually have a zen-gasm. Now I find myself slouching all over it like chocolate syrup on vanilla ice cream. But it's bouncy and I can also do this really cool trick where I set the ball in an open path and run and dive at it, rolling all the way across it from my fingertips, down my extended arms, across my straightened body to the tips of tippy-toes. For a brief moment it feels like I am flying. On a yoga ball.

Don't let them kill the Green River

2007-12-13T22:12:00.000-07:00

The Good News: There are several places in Utah that are being considered for designation as Wild and Scenic Space. Sections of the Green River are included in that consideration. This would prohibit any future oil drilling/digging in these wild and remote havens. Desolation and Grays Canyon on the Green possess mass deposits of shale oil in the rock. Because of the difficult process needed to obtain petroleum from the rock (it's not liquid, it's stone) and the remote location of the oil, these canyons have so far been safe from major exploitation. However, knowing our nation's fierce addiction to all things petrol, Deso and Grays will only be safe for so long. That's why achieving this designation is so vital. It will permanently protect the area. For some reason that is beyond me, there is no Wild and Scenic wilderness in the state of Utah.

The Bad News: There is also a proposal to open this same general area of the Green River to increased ATV access, oil companies' prospecting, and unrestricted chaw spittin'. I've ran the Deso/Grays stretch of the Green River about 20 times. It is a place unlike any place. It is in the largest chunk of roadless land in the lower 48 states. It is closer to my heart than most places. I wrote this letter to the Souther Utah Wilderness Alliance (SUWA) to use in their campaign to protect the Green River. I post it here so that you can feel the importance of a place that is important to someone who is important to you.

Please, for the love of beauty, peace, unique surroundings, respect of spirituality, and responsible stewardship, do not open these holy lands to the use of gasoline guzzling, plant and environment destroying over-using machines. I am all for equal usership and fair access. However, I have grown up and lived in Utah for the last 20 years. I have found solace and peace in the perfect Utah desert when I couldn't find it anywhere else. It has offered me (and a huge number of others I personally know) a place to find answers and questions and light and freedom when I most needed those things. It does it in a way that nothing man-made can. I hope you have experienced this even to a slight degree. Please try to understand what I'm talking about, think of times in your own life when you have needed and found. The Utah desert is NOT an empty wasteland, it is full of life, energy and wisdom. My main concern isn't even the ATVs. I can handle seeing an occasional 4-wheeler or snowmobile in the backcountry. I would love to not cross the paths of those machines while trying to escape noise and smog and cement. But I understand and accept the fact that others love the excitement that comes from flying through the mountains at a million miles an hour. My greatest fear is that these sacred places will fall victim to the petroleum-addicted corporations and government that take without replacing, destroy without replenishing, and are willing to do anything in the name of development and prosperity. The Money Without Morals groups have enough power to rape, pillage and burn our homelands without any substantial opposition. It scares me to death. I hope this letter can somehow help counter the destruction of the things I and others love the most.

The 4 Horsemen of the Shopocolypse

2007-11-21T16:47:00.000-07:00

This weekend we put on our "Shop Outside the Box" parade downtown. It was great--we had a full police motorcycle escort, the city blocked off the streets and we marched our little selves, along with our floats, bikes, dogs, and not so hellish hellfire and brimstain on down to the City County Building, where we heard brief comments from local business owners. We also heard me reading this on the steps:

I put a lot of work into my garden. It's mine. It's mine. Not because a piece of paper says I own the land. I mean, can a person really own land? Just because I stick a flag in a pile of dirt—dirt that was there for thousands and millions of years before my great-grandparents were born and will still be there for thousands and millions after my great-grand kids are dead and buried in it. Dirt that will eat me like a cowboy eats beef...like a poet eats life...like an empire eats the cowboy and the poet and then eats itself.

Just because I stick a flag in a pile of dirt, does that make it mine? Did I create that dirt? Did I earn the dirt? Was I given the dirt by some all wise dirt-distributing genie that looks over the deeds of everyone great and small, then deems them fit or unfit to have dirt? What? The bank? The bank gave me the dirt? Who gave the bank the dirt?

I can't make dirt. My great-great-grandpa Orville Redenbaucher “Dirt Head” Thatcher, a prominent rancher and corn farmer in the young days of the West, could not make dirt. Chief Wabi Sabi Oatmeal Pie Head who walked these Salt Lake streets 2000 years ago, could not make dirt. Neither Adam, nor Eve, nor Steve could make dirt.

I think, generally speaking, if I make something then I can have it. If I make a sandwich, I can usually eat it. If I make a joke, I can claim it as my own. If I make a bust sculpture of the president's head, I can keep it. Unless that bust is made from a petroleum-based substance, in which case the president will surround me with armed soldiers and confiscate that bust. He will then take it to his Oval Bathtub, melt it down, swim in it, and then drink it down until there isn't a drop left. Not one drop.

But otherwise, generally speaking, if I create something then I can have it.

I can't create dirt. I can't make land. So when I say that this garden is mine, I don't mean that I own it. I mean that it is mine like a friend is mine. Like a song I used to listen to growing up is mine. I mean it is mine in the sense that I have spent hours working in it, with it, inside of it. As I have covered it, it has covered me. Its fruit has entered my mouth, turned in my stomach, spread through my veins, and come out as energy that I have used to till its surface, plant its rows, harvest and eat its fruit. It is mine AND I AM ITS.

I am this garden, and this person is mine. This person is me. This garden is me. I am this garden and I have spent hours working this man. I have opened up and swallowed his shovel, his water, his seeds. I've covered him in my dirt. I've planted in him my fruit so he would have the energy to plant in me his. I've planted in him peace, when he couldn't find it elsewhere. I've planted in him a sense of pride and accomplishment and work and rest. I have fed him like a baby, and he has fed me. My seeds are in him and his seeds are in me. We are one and we are married—but not legally.

This garden is mine. This neighborhood is mine. I grew up here. I swam in the canal, I crashed my bike on the hill, I made a dirt fort in the field. I played with every kid on ever block. I kissed some of the girls, ate dinner with some of the neighbors, door-bell ditched thousands of houses and played football at every park. This neighborhood has made me, has raised me. It is mine and I am it. THIS NEIGHBORHOOD IS MY GARDEN.

These mountains are mine, and if you have spent enough time in them to know what I am talking about, then they are yours. WE belong to them.

And I don't want Energy Solutions to build a huge sports arena on top of my favorite backcountry ski peak, even if it brings in millions. Millions of what? Who cares? I don't want to put an electric vending machine in my garden. I don't want a shiny, neon-lit with metal stuffed-animal grabbing claw, filled with plastic wrapped waxy chocolate and unnaturally bright and colorful candy pellets, eternally humming box in my garden. I don't want to hear Louis Armstrong play covers of all of Britney Spears' songs BECAUSE THEY GOT NO SOUL. THEY GOT NO SOUL!

They have no soul. They don't have any soul. They have no breath. If they do, then it's bad breath. They don't come from a garden, a neighborhood, a mountain.

I don't care if they will bring in MILLIONS of dollars. They are without SPIRIT. They are shells without turtles. They suck and drain and pretend to give back. They are the turkey dinner from National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. Remember what happened when Chevy Chase cut into the turkey?

No. This garden is mine and I am its. I will plant only seeds that will bring only beautiful delicious healthy fruit that will make me an my family and my neighborhood and my mountains beautiful and delicious and real and healthy.

Hindy Anchor EEK!

2007-11-13T16:25:00.001-07:00

Again to the desert, this time moving up up UP! The cracks in my fingers look like the cracks we climbed at Indian Creek. The weather was unexpected and perfect. The night was so quiet that I couldn't sleep. Nothing moved. I couldn't hear one plant brushing against itself or the ground or another plant. I couldn't hear one mouse or lizard. I heard some no-namer snoring his balls off, and was nervous to scootch too close to his sleeping wife. I have to live with the Midnight Groper. I am Dr. Jekyll knowingly living with the peligrous Mr. Hyde. But the night passed without sound and without incident, and the following birthday-day was doubly birthday to everyone. The Creek turned one billion and one years old, so we all got drunk on cupcakes, climbing routes, and each other. CJ and Holly also had birthdays, which combined didn't add up to half the age of The Creek.

Once again the desert brought us home; then home brought the desert again, once.

M is M

2007-10-28T00:09:00.001-06:00

Moab is medicine. My friends are the rocks and water and people. Here we all are in the desert where we are supposed to be. The reason I know that is because the Fremont Indians were here for hundreds of years and they freakin' loved it. Thousands of Fremonts can't be wrong. Just because they left doesn't mean it wasn't really cool while they were here. They probably just ran out of food or got pummelled in a war or something. But it's cool now, there is tons of food: Eddie McStiff's, Mondo's, The Pancake Haus and some greasy hotel diner-style breakfast joint, to name a few. And as for war? Please, the only desert war we are concerned with is in a desert on the other side of the world, so it doesn't affect us at all. Not at all. That reminds me of when Jehovah burnt a Bush in the desert. That might be a good solution to the desert war across the world.

Moab is medicine. If you don't know that, it could be really beneficial to find out what I mean. But do whatever you want.

2007-10-28T00:01:00.000-06:00

Bloggy Blogg, Froggy Frogg, I thought winter was here, but it was just Foggy Fogg. Where have all the lazers gone? We've been left to deal with ourselves, by ourselves and for ourselves. Even Ronald McDonald can't save us now. Sam Walton would, but he's dead. Plus he'd be too busy trying to fix his greedy kids, who are all tied for something like the 4th richest person in the world, and the 1st greediest person in the world. At least they haven't taken the mountains yet. We still have those hills for at least a few more years. Hopefully La Nina treats us good until then. The Walton kids would have no idea how to handle themselves in the mountains. They might do alright in the Kennecott copper mines, if anywhere.

Day 1

2007-10-08T16:09:00.002-06:00

This is Day 1 on my blog. I just figured out what Blog was. It was also Day 1 skiing this year. Alta was crusty, but beautiful.