A Deficit of Attention

Moab Body Shots

2011-06-27T14:50:00.000-07:00

A friend said: "Kiss a red rock for me!" Instead of just kissing a red rock while in Moab this weekend, I decided to do one better. I took a body shot off of her. I found a salt deposit on a red cliff face, licked it off, took a long slug of silver tequila, then bit directly into a whole lime. I won't lie... it was the manliest shot ever.

So, it turns out there is quite a job market in Moab for the adventurish and bummish... of which I am both. I will leave as soon as possible. I will make sure to still find ways to see the girls, but with no more alimony to pay, and with the possibility of keeping my office job intact whilst taking a few months off, well, it is hard to stay.

I moved to the suburbs for the girls, only to have them move away. Thought I had cleared that up, but I was wrong. Life here is full of angst and alcohol. Life in Moab is calm, quiet, serene. I can actually fill my stress leave as I drive into town there, and then feel it return in Salt Lake county.

I plan to tend bar, work as a river guide, fly hot air balloons... really just do whatever I can to make a few bucks here and there. I plan to live in a tent down the river, with a bike and a bar of soap.

IF I happen to die while living in Moab by a rattlesnake bite, water moccasin bite, tiny scorpion bite while I hike too far and dehydrated from camp... well, so be it. Have my body cremated and put in a brown paper bag. Remember three things:

1. I did NOT do it on purpose.
2. EVERYTHING goes to my daughters. I left Jenny as the beneficiary on everything, but the life insurance policies and everything I own goes to Emma and Abbi. I want college and weddings paid for. I want my ashes scattered over the rim in Moab. Let the wind carry me down to the Colorado and then eventually to the sea. No Mormon bullshit at the service. Let Spencer tell the story about how we found "FUCK" in the stars and then everyone enjoy their time outside in my honor. I want the house she buys purchased in THEIR name. She can live there with her guy if she wants, but if I find out my life insurance went to whiskey, Wendover, and sex toys... well, I will haunt them! ;)
3. I love those little girls more than anything in this world. They are everything to me. They make life make sense. Whatever you tell them about me... never let them doubt my love for them.

Sort of a weird title for a Last Will and Testament but I don't have plans on letting my life end at 29. I plan on owning Moab. I plan on getting everything out of almost 30 years of life that I have wanted within 3 months. I plan to spend every minute in the NOW and just moving from one experience to the next. I plan on returning better than I left. And, well, right now I don't have the bar set too high. It should be easy.

I will do my best to go to town and check my phone once every couple of days. Call in a search party if you haven't heard from me by September. Vaya con dios, bitches!

Moab

2011-04-29T22:53:00.000-07:00

What You See Is What You Get

I planned on waiting until I got home to write this, but as I drove away from Moab, my own personal Mecca, I felt like something was still missing. I had told a friend that I planned to "rinse off" all of the ugliness from the last little while by taking a swim in the Colorado.

Between all of the Jeeping and barefoot strolls on the sandstone, I had plenty of time to think and clear my head, but didn't have a chance for a dip in the river.

So, I pulled off in Green River just a few minutes ago and drove into Green River State Park right at dusk. The nice guy at the booth didn't even make me pay. I drove down to the boat ramp and parked with my headlights on the dock, quickly stripped to my swimsuit (underwear for the day) and sprinted toward the edge. Sploosh! It is already down below 50 degrees with a pretty chilly breeze. The water wasn't anywhere near warm either. I stayed in long enough to brush the sand and grit from my skin. Drifted downstream about 30 yards, scared some geese, and paddled for the bank.

I found the shore when the fingers of my broken hand sunk into the mud. Damn. The cold and pain were both such an explosion but my eyes and grin were both wide when I came out of the water. I certainly won't call it a "baptism" or anything like that, but it was a great way to end this trip and I do feel so alive.

So, here I am in the parking lot of the Green River Senior Center writing this on my phone instead of waiting to do it at home.

What did I learn?

Wow. Where to begin...

I think first of all it was important for me to realize that throughout my life I have always tried to find a way to define myself. I was a Mormon, a drummer, an adrenaline junkie, a husband, and most recently... a Bionic Gigolo. (Long story and not one we need to get into right now.)

Well, being Jenny's husband was obviously the biggest defining factor of my life. It led to me also being able to define myself as a father.

There is folly in all of this. I get that now. I can only be me. I can only be Dan. As Dan I can choose the activities of my life, but I can't keep allowing this concept of "self" to be such a fluid one.

I also realize that I like the Dan I am quite a bit. I'm a little worse for wear these days but there are still a lot of good miles left in these tires. I've got a good heart that overwhelms me with emotion sometimes, but I think it also makes me a pretty good dad and friend to those I care about.

I do have a LOT to work on though. I need to be okay being alone in my own skin, and this weekend has made that a reality. I relished in the moments I could drift away from the group and bask on the sandstone like a lazy lizard.

I know I need to stop trying to "escape" any of this. There are better and healthier (albeit more difficult) ways to process things.

So, no more hard alcohol until my 29th birthday. I love a good tequila or whiskey, but recently they have caused a lot more problems than fun.

The broken hand... lesson learned. I don't want to be that guy. I hate feeling that much rage. I can't remember what 90's movie it was where the guy gets shot in the leg and his commanding officer says "Want me to give you something to take your mind off that leg?" Then he breaks the guy's finger. Anyway, there may have been some of that going on.

There were plenty of times it felt like the knife in my chest was being twisted deliberately, but I'm done thinking about all of that. I'm done trying to understand why things went the way they did or torturing myself with all of the "what if?" questions. I am done wishing for second chances. Time to just move on. Get all of the papers finished ASAP and get Jenny's name taken off my back. Haha. It makes me chuckle to realize I literally have to get her off my back. But, I am also glad to now be at a point where I'm not doing it in a moment of hurt or anger. It is just time.

Surprisingly, I also found out on this trip that there is some correlation between my relationship with Jenny and my relationship with "God" or whatever else might be out there.

1. I don't understand either of them
2. I don't want to have any hard feelings toward either of them
3. I don't want to have to rely on either of them or allow them to control my mind and emotions
4. I want to feel more gratitude toward them than anything else
5. I really REALLY don't understand either of them... but I'm okay with that. I don't need to. The existence of God and the way Jenny's mind works can both remain a mystery to me. I'm cool with that now.

I don't plan on setting foot back in a church or praying for help to find my keys. But, this trip has put me back in touch with something. Standing on top of a 1,000 foot cliff and watching the shadows of clouds as they pass the valley floor below. Running red sand through my fingers. Watching a bird hover in the wind. Noticing how fast I am already healing and how geniunely awesome it is that my body can create new skin out of cheeseburgers and thin air. All of those things make me HOPE that there is something bigger than me out there. Those things and so many others make me grateful for what I have.

During 2011 I have felt more intense pain than I ever thought possible, but I also have to keep things in perspective. So many people have dealt with so much worse. Just because it hurts more than I've ever known doesn't mean I'm not being a crybaby. It could be worse. I don't need to analyze why the only relationship I've ever had that lasted more than 3 weeks was a 7-year marriage. There is a LOT of things I'm done trying to analyze.

They joy my daughters have given me is infinitely greater than the pain their mother has caused. I should be grateful for that. I should be glad that I still have a job, no criminal record, no DUI charges, no STDs, etc.

Most of all I should be grateful that I still have such a wonderful relationship with my daughters and grateful that their mother encourages that. I should be happy to be alive. I don't want anything else taken away before I realize how much they mean to me.

I want calm and serenity. I don't want fights. I don't want the angst and confusion of unanswerable questions. I just want to work on being me. I have nothing to hide. I'm laying all of the bad out there with the good. No secrets. No skeletons. Really, what you see is what you get. If that makes me impossible to stay married to, so be it.

And, like Dave Matthews says, "If God don't like me he can send me to hell."

I need to make improvements and patch up some pretty big holes, but I can't try to define myself as anything other than Dan or feel like I have to keep apologizing to people for who I am.

Here I am. I'm grateful for all that I have. I'm far from perfect. Take it or leave it.

Oh yeah, and thank you for Moab... whoever/whatever you are.

Dan.

The Season of Fresh Starts

2011-04-18T07:54:00.000-07:00

Last day of tax season and the fourth day of fresh air. 2011 has been full of surprises. The last week has been full of new beginnings. Plain and simple - I just feel good. Sometimes I miss my little girls more than I can stand but I am grateful for the support system they have and know that when all is said and done, both of their parents want the same thing - for them to be safe and happy.

I'm sure I have a long list of apologies to make after the last few months. Someday I'll have the energy and backbone to get to each of them individually, but for now let's just say that I hold no grudges and just want to let bygones be bygones. It's Spring. It's a new day. All we can do with the past is accept that it will remain firmly cemented behind us... as long as we keep facing forward, that is. Sometimes good people make uncharictaristically bad choices, I know that better than anyone. Fourtunately that doesn't make them bad people. I'm so grateful to have old friends back and to have made some new ones.

I want to be happy. I want the mother of my daughters to be happy. We both want the best for them. Despite anything else that happens/happened, that still puts us on the same "team" doesn't it? I mean, it has to.

I think [hope] the ride is over

2011-04-17T14:18:00.000-07:00

Hurt, anger, confusion, fear... all of these powerful forces that can combine into a Molotov Cocktail of emotions. When that burning rag reaches the neck of the bottle, the explosion can drive people to do and say things they normally wouldn't dream of.

When you're riding an avalanche you know better than anyone that you're pointed downhill. All you can do is just fight for every inch in the hope that you'll still be able to dig yourself out once it's all over. Fingers crossed that it really is safe to start digging.

So, yeah, now what?

2011-04-13T06:27:00.000-07:00

I have felt that writing tickle so many times during the last month but I haven't known where to go with it since my last post. So much has happened. So much I really DON'T want to talk about. I don't want to rehash old relationships or discuss new ones. I don't want to expunge my moments of pain onto paper.

I am really trying hard to remember the truce. I am trying hard to remember the rule about keeping your mouth shut unless you have something nice to say. My jaw aches from the effort it takes to keep my mouth shut.

Oh well. It is all just one side of the story. I have to just do my own thing and try to make the good days outnumber the bad ones. I have also made it a goal to only surround myself with people who genuinely care about my well-being. In the past few weeks I have looked for the easiest distraction. That attitude "worked" for a while but it isn't going to leave me in any better shape than before I started. I need to keep good people in my corner. The fact that they are also fun people is just a cool bonus!

Spending time with my daughters always puts everything back into perspective and instantly lines up all of the skipping gears in my life. It is like the moment I lay eyes on them... everything is okay. Everything is pure and good and the world is a kinder place.

I won't get into what happens when I have to take them "home" and their positive influence is removed. But if you can imagine how seeing them immediately brings things together for me, you can probably also imagine the awful racket and clattering those pieces make as they fall back to the floor when I have to watch them walk/drive away. Some days I can handle that better than others, but the drive away from them is always a cold and dark process. Seeing how much they change from one week to the next is also excruciating. Realizing how much I am missing out on - brutal.

But gratitude will always reign supreme as long as I keep my head above water. I get to have those beautiful little girls in my life. I still get to spend time with them. They still love me and miss me when I'm not around. Things could really be so much worse, and I have to remind myself that.

I am trying to focus on the things that get me out of my head - in a good way. Longboarding - playing guitar - listening to music - working on a book - talking with stable and intelligent friends. Unfortunately, there are also other means of escape that don't take nearly as much effort, but those lead to guilt, hangovers and the occasional broken hand.

Usually when I sit down to write I have a general idea of where I am headed. Even though that isn't the case today, I do want to be able to still use my blog.

"If you don't have anything nice to write, don't write anything at all."

That chasm is both wide and deep and the ledge surrounding it keeps getting more narrow and crumbly, but I think it is still walkable. I am trying. I did call a truce.

Remember the truce.

"It's a long story, full of sighs."

2011-02-28T16:19:00.000-08:00

I made the mistake earlier of trying to call this the "full" story. I realize now that what I was calling "full" was really just me deciding that page 5 was a good stopping point. Of course it can't include every detail but from my point of view it is as complete as an account of a crumbling marriage could be in the given space.

People continuously ask me why Jenny and I are getting a divorce. What I have written below is how I saw things play out, but I know it certainly isn't the "full" story and doesn't include every sordid detail.

Despite contrary opinions, it is honest. Brute honesty is all I have had energy for lately. The brain/mouth filter that was functioning poorly while I was married has now been completely removed. I'm straight-piping it now. Loud and obnoxious, but I think that is the only way to roll when you've got nothing left to lose.

This is how I saw things play out and the key moments in the mutual decision as I saw them. Jenny might give you a different answer if you asked her the same question. I'm sure she would at least be kind enough to give you a shorter answer! ;)

I still love Jenny dearly. She is still the best thing that has ever happened to me. We are still best friends. We want to work together for as long as we live to raise our beautiful daughters as a team and always be there for them and each other in any way that we can.

But, the question remains; Does all of the above mean that we should do those things as husband and wife?

Since April 24, 2004, I have moved Jenny all over the place. We lived in Florida, Indiana, Texas, and all over Utah. She even spent the better part of a month living in a cow pasture in Wyoming so that I could try writing for a newspaper. We have gone from one side of the religious spectrum to the other. We have fluctuated wildly in so many aspects of our lives – financially, emotionally, physically, sexually, spiritually… the list goes on and on.

Jenny is like a glassy lake at dawn. She is a natural nester and the embodiment of patience. She is a giver and always aims to please. She is very hard not to love. She is amazing.

I am chaos personified. I am a nomad, an adventurer, a cultivator of crazy ideas and unrealistic schemes.

In our clashing, we somehow fit. People talk about how opposites attract, and that may have been the case. I may have provided Jenny with an excitement that she needed and she has worked her ass off every day of our relationship to keep my feet on the ground.

I relied on her for everything. I made her take the responsibility of being my voice of reason. I let my daydreams carry me into the clouds without a second thought and always left her tugging the rope to bring me back to earth. The fact that I didn't realize I was doing all of that until now does not change the toll it took on her. In fact, it is barely more than a shitty consolation prize.

I was Phillip, the hyper-hypo. Jenny was my harness. Or better yet, my Jungle Gym, considering how often I dragged her around. Our marriage was the harness.

Do I think I am to “blame” for the demise of our marriage? Yes and no. I really did try. In fact, I always kept her at the very top of my priority list. I wrote her a book. I tattooed her name on my back. I never imagined life without her. We were always faithful to each other. We rarely fought. At times, we were the couple everyone else wanted to be. Our relationship made other people jealous. We were incredible together.

A while ago I was driving to work, still half asleep. It was about 6:50 in the morning and I was running late… again. For some reason, I felt very compelled to take the Beck Street exit. I almost always take 600 North into downtown. I don’t know why I felt that need. I don’t know who or what was responsible for it. God, intuition, the universe, the devil… the damned flying spaghetti monster, who knows? Who cares? Does it really even matter at this point?

I don’t think so.

I also almost always remember to wear my seatbelt, at least on the freeway. That morning I didn’t. I was speeding, doing over 50 mph on Beck Street and reaching into the back seat to pull a lemonade Rockstar out of the box I had back there.

When I turned to look back at the road, I was face to face with a Tesoro semi that was barreling diagonally across all 4 lanes into oncoming traffic. He was so far over that I my only option was to swerve left. We were mere inches apart. I was amazed that I even kept my mirror.

I popped out behind the trailer to find myself in the far oncoming lane and face to face with another car. That time I went right, but there was another in that lane so I had to come back left. I bounced over the curb and ended up on the lawn by the old museum there. The whole thing was over in a matter of seconds. There were no accidents. When I was able to peel my fingers from the wheel and look around, the semi and two other cars were gone.

I got ahold of myself and backed the Civic onto the road and went to work.

I knew that if I had hit the semi head-on I would have died. There really is no question about it. Even if I had been wearing a seatbelt, my survival chances would have been slim.

A few days later I started reading a little more about near death experiences and the emotional and psychological impact they can have. I understood the accounts from other people about feeling an intense mental clarity and love. I felt like every minute I had was a bonus minute. I felt a stronger, deeper love for Jenny than I think I ever have.

In that state of heightened mental clarity, I could also see how much chaos I had created for Jenny and the girls. I realized that I was always the one rocking the boat. I wondered if she could go back and talk to her 19-year-old self, would she encourage her to marry me?

The answer to that might still be yes. Despite the complications I created for Jenny, I do feel like I was good for her in many ways. I helped her realize how much she has to offer. I helped her stand up for herself and not get walked all over. I think I opened up her world a little bit – maybe not always for the better but she does have those experiences now.

Also, Emma and Abbi are incredible kids. We should both be very happy and grateful for the time we had together because of the beautiful children it generated.

The old adage, “If you love something set it free” was in my mind that morning after my close call.

So, I sat down and poured it onto paper - in much of the same way I am now, I suppose. I told her that I didn’t want anything to change. I told her that I loved her more than anything. I told her that I wanted to stay together. But, I also told her that I didn’t want to do any of that at her expense. I offered to be there as her best friend and loving father to our children. I gave her an invitation… an opportunity to second-guess the decision she’d made almost 7 years earlier. I wanted her to think about it and what it would mean for the next 40 years of her life.

She did exactly that. She took some time and thought about it. She came back scared by what she realized. She also didn’t want anything to change but understood that what I was saying made a lot of sense.

Jenny is so selfless and giving that she rarely thinks about herself and the things that are getting to her unless someone points it out to her. Then she lets go of that stress and is amazed by how relieved she feels to have it gone. That is basically what happened in this case. I am too smart for my own good sometimes. I could see it playing out in my head and dreaded the consequences, but the love was so intense that morning that it almost felt like I couldn't spend another day without offering to let her go. The days of me regretting sending that email are not over, I'm damn sure of that. But when she looked me in the eyes a week or so later and admitted that she was relieved she wasn't going to be married to me anymore, I knew I should have seen it coming. I had given her a glimpse of "freedom" from the Dan tornado and I don't blame her in the slightest for wanting it.

Picture the Jungle Gym, being yanked again and again and again. Picture Mike Myers in his helmet, jumping and pulling and struggling - totally oblivious to what is going on behind him. He thinks it will be really fun to live in a trailer on 40 acres in a cow pasture. He thinks we should leave all of our electronics behind and live in the Montana cabin for an entire summer. He thinks it would be really cool to cash out the 401(k) and go live in Panama with the kids. He wants to cliff dive and bungee jump and fly in a wingsuit. He is a pasty, chunky and whiney glob all winter, and wannabe mountain man in the summer, brimming with more testosterone than a slab of hormonally treated beef. He pulls and he pulls and he pulls.

“Let’s just go for it! Let’s have an adventure! I don’t want to plan it. I don’t want to hear about schedules. Come with me! It will be fun!”

That harness pops and twangs as he pulls. It goes from slack to tight, snapping over, and over, and over…

And the Jungle Gym just stays there and takes it.

Now, what if instead of giving the hyper-hypo chocolate you instead cut the harness? You aren’t really sure where the he will run with his new freedom, but you do know where the Jungle Gym will be – cemented into the same spot. Finally having a chance to take a deep breath of fresh air – time to relax and listen to the laughter of playing children. Time to enjoy the afternoon breeze.

The truth is, the hyper-hypo will run and thrash for a little while. He will sprint back and forth past the Jungle Gym, glancing over at the cut harness and not really sure what to do about it. He will buy a new pocket knife because he thinks he might ride his motorcycle to Moab to clear his head. Then he will drive to Wyoming and get a job working on an oil rig - a job that he won't ever really start because the atrophied logic quadrant of his brain is kicking off the cobwebs and firing back into working order. With the Jungle Gym there to keep him tethered, he never needed to use that part of his brain. He let it run out of gas and forgot about it completely.

Eventually he will calm down and sit on a bench at the other side of the playground, close enough to still have the Jungle Gym in view. (In this case the bench is a rented room on Foothill drive.)

That is pretty much how it happened. That morning I realized what I had been doing all of this time. I wanted her to have the chance to experience that relief and decide whether or not she wanted to make it permanent. I wanted her to have calm and consistency. I wanted her to have the man and life I think she deserves, even if I am not able to deliver. I also didn’t want either of us to try to be any more or less than who we are. For all of these years I really felt like I was meeting her in the middle, though I realize now that she was pulling a lot more weight than I was. I stayed at the office job I despise because I always wanted to feel like I was taking care of her. All things considered, we were very good for each other.

This whole situation reminded me of a Buddhist teaching I once read. It is about a man who is on a long journey and reaches a wide river that he must cross. At the bank of the river he finds a boat. He climbs in and paddles the boat to the other side. During his time in the river, the boat is the most important thing to him. He needs it. It is crucial to his journey.

However, when he reaches the other side of the river, he must leave the boat behind. It makes no sense for him to haul it out of the water and drag it over land. That wouldn’t be sensible, it would just be exhausting. He may be very grateful to the boat for the important part it played in his journey, but to continue he must leave it behind.

I told Jenny about that story and theorized that our marriage has been a lot like that. I think I was her boat. Although, in our version we had a little more fun with it – instead of a man and a boat it is a hot chick and a Jet Ski!

The concept is still there. Neither of us wants Jenny to have to haul around that Jet Ski any longer.

I hope this puts any rumors or questions to rest. There was no big fight. There was no cheating. There was no big skeleton discovered in someone’s closet.

We held each other and sobbed and confessed our love for each other. We both want so badly for the other to be as happy as they can be. We want the other to be exactly who they are and feel no need to try to adapt or change unnaturally in an attempt to “fit” the marriage. We spent 24 hours in the car the next day, holding hands and laughing with the girls as we listened to Despicable Me for the 19th time. We went home and made love.

It hasn’t all been easy. There have been nights of bitter tears. We have coped with the transition very differently. Jenny, still a calm as a glassy lake has thrown herself into holding it together for the girls and trying to keep our family machine running the way she always has. She works out and organizes and gradually I am trying to help “un-Dan” the house.

I, on the other hand, had a brief and ugly destructive stint. It really is just another example of how opposite we are. Jenny cleans out a cabinet. I get drunk and sob behind a bar. I sign up for a cage fight. I have another beer and try to fight a Dodge.

Jenny has a clean and organized cabinet. I have a broken hand.

Are you starting to get the picture? I hope so.

She has been kind and generous and selfless throughout this process. She hasn't asked for anything and has even given back some of what I left her. She carefully packed bins of silverware, plates, cups, towels and other essentials I had forgotten. It is strange to start over. You go grocery shopping and go back to your place to fix a salad and then realize that you don't own a fork. She is still taking care of me.

I have had moments of selfish weakness. I have begged her to take me back, but those were only the times I was thinking more for myself than I was for her.

I will always love Jenny. As this transition moves on that love is also changing. Sure, I still think she is smoking hot but now that romantic love is being replaced by the growing love I have for the person she is. I love the mother she is to our girls. I am forever grateful to her and in her debt for the part she has played in my life. I want nothing more than for her to be happy.

For our friends and loved ones: please don’t walk on eggshells around us. We don’t! There are no sides to this. You don’t need to pick allegiances. There won’t be a divvying up of friends process down the road.

Jenny and I hung out all day yesterday. We drove and held hands and talked for hours. We caught up on what is going on in the other one’s life. She brought the girls out and saw my place. We got a coffee. It was just delightful! Seeing them always makes my day. Watching them drive away is still hard – on both of us, I think.

But we remain convicted that this is the right move for us. That may change. This is all still very new and we are both in uncharted waters right now.

We are moving on, though. And, most importantly, just like when we were married we both want our relationship to keep getting better.

I think we are doing a pretty good job of working toward that future – maybe not married, but still together.

The "Summertime" List

2010-12-15T13:58:00.000-08:00

These 85- to 90-hour workweeks are getting brutal. Despite my 2,000 IU Vitamin D "Super High Potency" supplements, the winter blues are creeping in early.

I am going to do my best to stay positive. On the few days the skies aren't gray and smoggy, I'm going to make a real effort to see the beauty in the snowy mountains. I'm going to take my wife snowboarding and go sledding with the girls.

And, I am going to keep working. I'm going to work like a mad man. I am going to plow through the overtime hours during the time of year when I don't want to be outside to save money for the time of year I do. I am going to pour as much money into savings as I can and for every $10 I put into a house fund, I'm going to put $2 or $3 into a "fun" fund.

Oh yeah, and I'm going to daydream a little bit while I plan it out. The list of things I want to do during the warm months of 2011 is already being composed. I know I'm supposed to be focusing on living in the moment, but when I fail to do that I feel like focusing on something you are looking forward to might be second best.

When I saw this video and realized it was shot in Alpine, Utah - the first line on the list filled itself in pretty damn quick!

I did this once before at Gunlock Reservoir with Johnny and CJ back in 2001. We strapped a wooden ramp to the end of a dock. I got "like three feet of air" that time. That boat ramp approach didn't lend us nearly as much gravity as this dirt hill does.

So far, Moab and Lake Powell also fall appropriately high on the list.

Winter months may be long and cold, but when tax season overtime is unlimited, at least the dreary hours will pay well.

Born in 1982

2010-12-14T09:29:00.000-08:00

I never thought I would be a motorcycle guy. Back in high school and my first year of college, I did own a 1987 YZ 125 dirt bike that I loved. I raised all sorts of 2-Stroke hell in Kaysville; jumping over the roads in a new subdivision and racing it through dirt lots back when open land still existed in Kaysville. The fields and marshes I road it through are now the backyards of $500,000 to $750,000 homes. The Russian Olive tree I slid the bike into was torn up years ago, but I still have the scar by which to remember it.

I broke 6 ribs over the handlebars of that motorcycle down in the sand dunes by Delta, Utah. I kept up with brand new CR 250's at the larger red dunes of the Mojave near Baker, California. During that same trip my rear hydraulic shock exploded and the rear brake cable snapped off and ripped through a few of the spokes.

I am an intelligent guy, so I decided to keep riding and trying to keep up with the bigger bikes, even during the jump contests. When your dirt bike still has a rear spring but no hydraulic absorber, it makes the jumps even more exciting. The back end of the bike compresses as you approach and then "SNAP!" it cracks back into place, throwing you into an involuntary front flip so you lean back as far as you can, trying to yank the front wheel level before you hit the ground. Some times you pull hard enough and manage to land. Most of the time your corrective measures are too little or too much, and the resulting wrecks are as spectacular as they are entertaining to your buddies.

As dangerous and idiotic as all of that may sound, I always thought it was safer than riding a road bike. I don't trust other drivers. I know there is a reason for the "Start Seeing Motorcycle" bumper stickers. I once heard that your life expectancy drops to 6 days as soon as you buy a bullet bike.

Don't worry, I didn't buy a bullet bike.

But, after a few conversations with Jenny and the stunning revelation that she wants to go on motorcycle road trips when we get older, I suddenly fell in love with the idea of getting a road bike.

I wanted to get something cheap and smaller to begin with. I even looked at a few 250cc bikes until my buddy Josh warned me that I would look like a circus bear on a motorcycle of that size.

I looked for a 650cc or 750cc, but instantly fell in love with a 1982 Honda 450cc Nighthawk (the fact that the bike was "manufactured" the same year as I was didn't hurt, call me nostalgic if you must.)

The bike is big enough to take on the freeway once I feel comfortable and confident enough to do so, but it is only about 350 pounds, vs. the 1,000 pound bike Jenny and I will most likely purchase when we get older, maybe a 1,200cc or 1,600cc.

On Saturday we drove to Richfield to pick it up. Spencer was kind enough to donate his truck and his time to the task. It was a fun little road trip.

Unlike most machines pushing 30 years (myself included) this bike has been meticulously maintained. It was purchased new and then passed from the original owner to his grandson. I am technically the third owner, but only because the first passed away long before the bike did. It only has 8,000 original miles on it (unlike the 30,000 or 35,000 you would expect from a bike this old) and has always been garaged.

Last night, I took my first "long" ride--at least as long as it took for my fingers to go numb at 11 p.m. in December. It made me want to read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance again. I think I will understand it much better this time around.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not naive enough to think that 20 minute ride was enough to consider myself "experienced" by any means, but it did give me a glimpse of what compels so many people to reduce their highway cruising from four wheels to two. There is something incredibly freeing and therapeutic about it.

Damn. Winter hasn't even started and I'm already counting down the days until Spring.

"You don't have a church?!!"

2010-11-26T06:23:00.001-08:00

Today, with my digestion in overdrive, I try to write through my food coma discomfort. I feel none of the standard creative tingle, but I do have to jot down the funniest thing that happened yesterday.

We went to Thanksgiving dinner with my mom's side of the family, and it was actually a lot of fun. The girls enjoyed themselves and behaved beautifully.

My aunt, Jen, is about a year and a half older than I am. So, even though it seems like her kids should be cousins with my kids, they are actually my cousins.

We had Thanksgiving at her church, which was great and completely expected, but the real laugh came right after we started eating. Her middle daughter, Jaydee, who is three or four, explained to everyone that we were in "her church."

She then asks us, "where is your church?"

I laughed but then thought hard about what I could say without confusing this little girl. So, on perhaps an evasive whim, I said, "well, it is far away from here."

Then, Emma, (I love her honesty) said plain and simple, "We don't have a church."

Jen's oldest child, Kameron, dropped his fork and said in utter disbelief, "YOU DON'T HAVE A CHURCH?!!"

I was trying so hard to cover my face so they didn't see me laughing, but then couldn't contain it when Abbi (apparently thinking that Kameron hadn't quite heard Emma) clarified by yelling, "WE DON'T HAVE A CHURCH!!!!"

It was amazing. I couldn't help but just bust out laughing. I don't know if anyone else thought it was funny, but I'm pretty sure there were a few chuckles. I can't even describe how much I love those little girls.

We had a conversation on the way home about how important church is for many people in our family and that we always want to be respectful of that. We told them that it is something very special and that if--when they're older--they decide they would like to go to church, we will support them. But, we also told them that we don't want them to ever feel bad that we don't go to church as a family, even if other kids don't understand that and think it is strange.

All in all, it was really a great way to finally find some humor in an otherwise awkward conversation. You can always count on children to disregard the unspoken rule that some topics are off limits and get to the heart of the matter. They always seem to get straight to the point and I think there is plenty for us to learn by their example, especially for me.

Marry me, Juliette

2010-11-17T06:55:00.001-08:00

I could think of plenty of worse role models for my daughters. They are HUGE fans of Taylor Swift. In fact, they put on concerts for us all the time. They crank up the CD player in their room and dance around in their "princess" dresses. They bring in the instruments from the Wii Rockband game and "play" along.

Oh, and don't let me forget the singing. I would have expected to hear little girls singing along with their favorite band by the time they reach age 10, maybe 8, but I doubt there are many things cuter than seeing a 5-year-old and a 3-year-old with play microphones, just belting it. (Watch your back, sneezing baby panda.)

Taylor Swift is playing in our house and car SO much, that I have experienced a recurring song-in-my-head-isode every morning for weeks. Through my grainy, sleep-deprived eyes I wander through the house getting ready for work, brushing my teeth, and always thinking or humming, "Marry me, Juliette..."

And, compared to the Barney years, this is just delightful.

My Amazing Aunt Laura (1954 - 2010)

2010-11-11T08:48:00.000-08:00

I almost feel ashamed to be associating my incredible aunt Laura with the other drivel that has spilled onto these pages, but I needed a venue to share my thoughts about her funeral yesterday.

My sweet wife has been a friend of the Savage family since preschool. Their home was a refuge from the normally judgmental Utah suburbs. When we heard of Laura's accident, I was upset. Jenny was distraught. When we heard of her passing, I was heartbroken, but Jenny was absolutely floored.

Here I was learning of the death of my own aunt, and needing to console my wife who had no blood relation to her but who had still been so impacted by the life of this wonderful woman that she couldn't even keep her footing. I guess that already tells you a lot about Laura.

My initial feeling is one of deep regret -- that I didn't know more about my own aunt. I wish I had spent more time in her home. I wish when I was a child that I hadn't been such a complete jerk to her daughters. Despite my childish, mean words and lack of respect, she still loved me.

I never knew what an incredible writer she was. I held it all together until her daughter Heather read a poem that Laura kept in their home. And then I really lost in when I listened to one of her own poems written at the age of 11, read in my grandfather's choked voice. I have never seen that man cry, and it was overwhelming.

I don't remember the exact verse Heather read, but from what I can find online it was something like this:

"Cleaning and scrubbing will wait 'till tomorrow, but children grow up, as I've learned to my sorrow. So quite down cobwebs! Dust go to sleep! I'm rocking my baby. Babies don't keep."

When I heard that "Babies don't keep" line I just broke. Laura's legacy made me want to race home and hold my own daughters and beg them to forgive me for every single time I have been too hard on them. She reminded me of one of the last movies I watched with the girls, and the harsh realization that I have become more like a Mr. Wilson, the old curmudgeon and less like a Dennis the Menace.

Laura, with her love for life and her endless drive to do everything she could for her daughters and grandchildren, seems to have striven for the latter throughout her years, despite her struggles. Luckily, at her graveside I realized that I was not alone. Her life was reminding many of us (if not all of us) to be kinder to our children. To hold them close and love them completely. To do everything we could to boost their confidence and live as an example of love and acceptance. To ask ourselves the tough question "what will this really cost me?" in every situation where we might feel "inconvenienced" by our offspring.

She showed us what a truly successful life looks like.

Another thing that amazed me is the people she brought together. All of the petty garbage was set aside so that people could join to celebrate her life. Without hesitation Jenny and I joined in hymns, prayers, and set foot back in an LDS chapel after years of avoidance. We didn't give it a second thought. It also made me realize that there is a direct correlation between your last visit to a Mormon church and your last taste of potatoes topped with Corn Flakes, which are beyond delicious. ;)

Laura's funeral also brought together three women in my life I would never have expected to see in the same room. My mother, my ex-step mother, and my current step mother. They didn't sit together and hold hands or anything, but I can tell you that it was a genuine MIRACLE that they were all able to forget about their relationship quarrels during Laura's service.

I wish I had known more about my aunt. I wish I had spent more time with her and known what an incredible writer she was.

From a religious standpoint, I was so grateful for the peace that the gospel has provided to her family and loved ones. Part of me envied their certainty and I genuinely, deeply hope that they are right.

Yesterday I felt something I haven't felt in a while. I don't mind at all associating that feeling with what I used to call "The Spirit" and I certainly don't discredit that.

Even though I can't bring myself to associate those feelings with a particular religious affiliation, I can say without a doubt that they do make me want to be a better man. Laura's life makes me want to do more with my own. She makes me want to be a better husband and a better father. She makes me want to seek out more areas of improvement in my own life and give more to those around me. She makes me want to focus even harder on that which truly matters, and aggressively cast aside all of the other time-wasters that do not.

And for all of those things, I will always be grateful for her and indebted to her life and example.

The Suit Dilemma

2010-11-05T06:56:00.000-07:00

I am going to tell you ahead of time that this post is not meant for you. Please feel free to read along if you would like, but I will warn you beforehand that what follows is yet another futile attempt by Dan's colliding brain hemispheres to debate an internal argument.

Today's Debate: Suiting Up - Bunker Gear vs. Pinstripes

Why don't we just agree right off the bat that Dan Workman is one finicky bastard? Seeming to be tossed to and fro by every gusting wind of choice while simultaneously suffering his mini-midlife, this self-centered boy watches gray hairs emerge and realizes the time to become a man is at hand. Will he choose the best path for his family? Will he grow up and finally set aside his cargo shorts and skate shoes? We'll find out... on next week's episode!!!

Just what the hell am I supposed to do with my life?!

For some reason the "Get busy living..." line from Shawshank Redemption has been in my mind lately. Anyone who reads this blog (though I can't for the life of me imagine why) already knows of my fascination with the passing of finite minutes.

As of today, November 5, 2010 I have spent exactly 28.35 years on this earth and internally that seems to be the exact deadline to stop "floating" through my career.

Smarter men make this decision much earlier in life. Braver men never feel the need to make this decision at all. I, on the other hand, am flogged every waking minute with the urgent need to stop wasting my potential, whatever that may be.

And here I am, 28 years and change into my life in probably the best overall shape I've ever been in with a job that I'm not passionate about but at the same time in a very advantageous position. I also happen to have a great boss who truly wants me to succeed at whatever I decide to do. This is where the battle begins...

In the red corner we have the "natural man" (no religious connotation intended). This version of Dan is so dominant over the being that he must be restrained in order for any progress to be made. He is the one who will pull over on the side of the freeway, delighted by the discovery of a free hat or t-shirt. He loathes spending more than $6 on an entire outfit and--were it an actual possibility--would spend his days running through the forest barefoot in only tattered shorts with a knife in one hand and a spear in the other. He believes firmly in a life without technology, wants to spend time every day chopping wood and dipping beeswax candles and would NEVER be caught dead writing on a blog. This version of Dan wants to embrace everything animalistic within him. He wants to wield an axe and kick down doors. He wants to gorge on undercooked or even raw meat and spend the rest of his days with grime packed underneath his fingernails. He is a nomad. He is brimming with testosterone and craves adrenaline. He is always uncouth. He drives without a seatbelt and raises his middle finger to anything established or organized. He is a man of action, rushing headfirst into every new adventure and wanting to experience everything that life has to offer. Because of all of this, he probably won't live to see 40. He also desperately wants to be a firefighter.

In the blue corner, we have the "rational" version of Dan. This loving father and husband wants nothing more than to provide for his girls. He wants to give them every comfort they desire and then some. He needs work, and help, but has the potential to be the post-bath version of the Encino Man. He cleans up pretty well when he wants to and actually looks alright in a suit. He has a pretty good head on his shoulders and has the potential to excel at a career that requires creativity and people skills. In a blurry haze, a distant future, he can see himself playing golf with clients and picking up his clothes from the dry cleaner. He keeps a schedule and never lets himself forget that he is an adult. He only wears his cargo shorts on the weekend and even then, he ALWAYS remembers to wear socks with his skate shoes to minimize the smell. He shaves and flosses with regularity, not just while driving and running late. He doesn't worry about money, because he makes more than he ever dreamed possible. He still lives in a humble home. His wife drives a 2009 Subaru Forester and he drives a 2005 Tacoma. In the garage next to it sits a $3,000 to $4,000 motorcycle which he always rides whilst helmeted, because safety is more important that thrill. Maybe he still cliff dives or bungee jumps or sky dives once a year to keep from becoming a complete and total pussy, but he works hard to make that adrenaline rush last at least 8-12 months. He sips at it and savors it, rather than looking for every chance to bathe in it. When his kids watch the latest Pixar movie, they get it on Blueray in 1080p and on at least 50 inches. And, most importantly, even though they don't expect it of him, he has the means to take his kids to Disneyland and his wife on an anniversary cruise, just because he feels like it. He thinks about things like retirement and college funds. He wants to give his children a better future than his parents and his wife's parents left to them. Maybe he works for a volunteer fire department once or twice a week. And, only very rarely, when nobody is looking, does he eat steak with his fingers.

The decision looms, demanding attention before January. On one hand we have a ticking clock, reminding me that I will never be able to become a firefighter after age 32 in some departments, age 35 in others. I have a slot waiting for me at the DATC fire academy and applications floating around all over the country. I have the opportunity to do something that excites me personally, but somewhat at the expense of my family. Will daddy come home after work this week? Will I be left raising these kids on my own? Will we have enough money to make ends meet? Is choosing a job for myself and my passion an act of selfishness?

At the same time, dozens (if not hundreds) of men with more credentials and qualifications fight in this job market to get a position just like the one I already hold. Without meaning to I have been working toward a promotion since 2006. I have developed skills and qualifications that may very well have opened up the entire country and the potential of a six-figure income. I have a manager who is backing me 110%, a very limited number of other people standing in front of a very limited number of doors, and only my own dragging feet to hold me back. I am working for a company that will explode with opportunities for advancement during the next 5 years. I don't care about money but after years of working in finance I do understand what it can mean for my wife and daughters. With that in mind, I feel a little like Scrooge McDuck, poised on diving board of gold with a welcoming pile of cash below.

Do I take the plunge or do I throw it away? I don't care about wealth and I know that regardless of my income I will do everything in my power to instill a sense of humility and work ethic in my daughters, but does that mean I should stay poor on principle?

Is there really a line between selling yourself short and selling out?

The brutal truth is this:

On the firefighting front, I am already coming in late to the game. Aside from possible physical changes (for better or worse) I won't be bringing anything new to the table at age 31 than I am now. Now or 3 years from now I am going to be testing against 18-year-olds, which doesn't concern me from a physical standpoint but will always be the case in this career.

During that three year period, at lot could happen with my current job. I could probably get those promotions and there would be new offices opening up all over the country. "You look at a map and tell me where you want to work," my boss says to me. "We'll make it happen." That is, of course, no guarantee. But at the same time, in this industry assurances like that are few and far between.

So, the rational thing here is to give the white collar work a little more time. It makes sense. It is reasonable. But even with that understanding I can't seem to make myself give up my slot at the DATC, even though I know that money might go to waste. I also can't imagine turning down an offer if I make it through the testing process for the Wichita Falls Fire Department in Texas that I will be starting next week.

I don't expect any of you to read this, let alone help me make my decision. But maybe 15 years down the road I will be able to look back at this with either gratitude or regret in my mind. Maybe I'll be working in a nice office and feeling my heart ache every time I see a firefighter in the jump seat driving past my window. Or, maybe I'll be struggling to pay the bills, working a second job on my days off and wincing as I haul some fatass out of a window after my third shoulder surgery and wishing I'd allowed the more mentally sound version of myself take the wheel back in 2010. Either way I am determined to hit the ground running once I choose which direction to take in this fork of life's road. I like to meet all of my bad decisions face first at a sprint.

Eenie... Meenie... Miney... Mo? But even that just leaves me with the new decision on whether or not to include the friggin Tiger's Toe verse...

“All our final decisions are made in a state of mind that is not going to last.” -Marcel Proust

"Native American" Summer

2010-10-16T07:13:00.000-07:00

A year ago, we expected to still be in Texas for another Halloween. Trick-or-Treating in Texas was a riot. It had a similar feel to when Jenny and I were kids. People still made haunted houses in their front yards. The neighborhood was packed with tiny Princesses and Transformers. They didn't seem to have succumbed as fully as Utah to the dreaded "Trunk-or-Treat" BS that seems to be packing our children with even more sugar without even making them walk around the block to get it.

And it was so warm...

I wandered around behind my own Tinkerbell and Snow White. They had no need to cover their costumes with winter coats and I was comfortable in shorts, Jenny in her tank top. It was a lot of fun.

The Sun-Lover in me will miss the Texas climate this year. It was a lot of fun to see people mowing lawns around their Christmas yard decorations. But I can't remember a fall in Utah that I have enjoyed as much as this one. The warm days and lack of freak October snow storms has helped me ease out of summer better than previous years. It seems like this year the leaves will actually have time to drop one by one, rather than being ripped down full branches at a time by the weight of early snowfall.

We've had a great time this fall going for relaxing walks, taking trips to the park, visiting a number of corn mazes and even playing in the woods for an afternoon, launching boats of bark and twigs into the stream.

As far as work goes; the overtime has been a little brutal. I don't know if I will be able to do back-to-back 80-hour weeks again anytime soon. But, the paychecks have opened the door for a lot of fun, a bit of catching up with year-end expenses such as new tires and car repairs, and maybe even a little savings to make plans for next summer.

Winter, we'll see you when you get here. No need to rush. Travel safe and take ALL the time you need.

"The" Gays

2010-10-11T10:27:00.000-07:00

(I am adding to this because I feel like this post has become an important and civil conversation with one of the smartest women I know. Melissa, I hope you don't mind.)

This is one I seriously debated blogging about. My history with Mormonism makes my current relationship with the church and its members a tenuous one. I have been very reluctant to directly discuss my personal reasons for leaving the church, because (as I have mentioned in the past) I do not want anyone to feel like I think my reasons should be anyone else's reasons. I hope that make sense.

However, recent events make me feel the need to express my opinion - not based solely on a church matter but instead a civil rights matter. I no longer watch General Conference, but during the last few years I have read talks that have been forwarded to me by friends and family members. For the most part I have still enjoyed them as much as I did when I was a member of the church. They generally carry an uplifting message directed toward the family or goodwill to mankind - topics I can ALWAYS get behind as long as nobody is trying to exclusively claim them.

But, Elder Packer's comments about homosexuality really upset me. While I was still part of the church, I had the opportunity to become friends with several guys my age who were struggling with their conflicting identities of gay and Mormon. One of them even told me about his suicide attempt after being kicked out of the house when he "came out" to his Mormon parents.

He had grown to HATE the part of him that was gay and I could tell from his story that he wanted nothing else but to "overcome" his "tendencies." He had even considered self mutilation and chemical castration.

It was something that I couldn't relate to but at the same time seemed to understand perfectly. I knew what it was like to be ashamed of my own sexual inclinations. Even though my attraction was of the hetero- variety, I still felt like it was something I always had to battle against. I knew what it was like to hate my own urges because they have no place in an unmarried Mormon's life.

When I heard the introductory lines to this segment of Elder Packer's talk, my heart sank. There is already so much implication to the words "There are those who would tolerate..."

In my opinion, it just goes downhill from there. How horribly disheartening it must be for struggling Mormon youth to hear this from one of their highest earthly leaders. Imagine the guilt, shame and fear you would feel to be told by "on high" that this part of you, a part that feels so natural and ingrained, is inherently evil. You can understand why gays and the family and friends of gays (both Mormon and non-Mormon alike) have been so concerned by these comments.

While Elder Packer made it clear in his talk that the church will not change, I was reminded of comments by Brigham Young in the Journal of Discourses that had very similar implications for African Americans.

Also note that for the first time in nearly 40 years, changes have been made to the conference talk after it was delivered. (Side note; after some research I found that the "book" in reference was None Dare Call It Conspiracy by Gary Allen.)

While it has significant scientific backing, I will still consider it my "opinion" that some people are born gay. With that in mind, I wrote the following letter to the Utah Pride Center:

"To tell you a little about myself, I am straight, happily married, and
ex-mormon for about two years now. I have tried several times to get
my family out of Utah into an area that is more accepting and open
minded, but family ties and close friends keep bringing us back.

When I was mormon, I was devout and even a solid missionary. I worked
hard to serve the people of Mexico in my own way (mostly by helping
them dig ditches and harvest crops, rather than try to "change" them
religiously) but I suppose you could say that I was still a
"successful" missionary - as the church would call it.

I do not regret leaving the church. In fact, it was probably one of the best
decisions I have ever made. My wife and I are in a much better place
and I feel like my children will have the opportunity to grow up in an
environment of love, acceptance and open-mindedness.

My one regret is that I haven't made more of an effort to diversify my
group of friends. It's not that I feel like I should seek out or treat
differently those of different races or sexual orientations, but when
I look around my group of friends I am struck by the same frustrating
realization as when I look at the majority of Utah: we are almost all
white and straight. In some ways I think it would be wrong to seek out
friends based on their darker skin tone or gayness, like some twisted
sort of diversity hire. At the same time, though, I feel like those of
us who love and accept you should be going out of our way to include
you when so many in this state are working hard to exclude you.

I just want you in the LGBT community to know that there is a quiet
portion of the community like us who genuinely love and support you
for who you are, and even though we may have been raised with a
backwards mentality, we know now that you have been wronged in the
deepest sense of the word. We want desperately to know you and become
friends with you, but just like seeking out black friends would almost
be a form of racism, we know there is something a little off about
trying to make gay friends. That may sound odd but in a way we feel
like the greatest form of service we can provide you with is by not
treating you differently, but by instead being kind to everyone -
regardless of race, creed or sexual orientation. Perhaps I am just
rambling and still backwards (if so please tell me and help me move
forward) but I want you to know that we are here and we support you.

For those of you who are still Mormon; I want you to know there is
still hope. Please don't let recent comments bring you down. After
all, Brigham Young said similar things about African Americans 151
years ago. So, don't be disheartened by Packer's comments. With that in
mind I offer to you my new bumper sticker idea:

"Gay: The new Black of the Mormon church."

Just remember, it is only a matter of time! ;-)"

(Melissa's comment still hasn't shown up, so I am including it in the post itself, because I think it is a wonderful perspective of the other side of this conversation.)

Please, please, please tell me you've actually watched or read the
actual talk, in it's entirety.

It concerns me, the divisiveness created by those (not you, not your
honest and concerned post) who haven't actually listened to the man.

He did NOT say that gays are NOT born that way.

He did NOT say that a person can just "change" their sexual preference,
or even elude to it.

He did NOT suggest that the "tendencies" and "temptations" themselves
are sins. It is the acts that are sins. The LDS website has / had
posted there it's official stance on the matter and stated this very
clearly. Tendencies are not the problem, not the sin, nor will they
keep you from serving within the church, nor will they keep you from
the blessings of heaven. We all must face and overcome the natural man.

When Packer said in his talk that such tendencies can be "overcome" he
did not exclusively elude to homosexuality, but included and stated,
ALL immoral, impure acts and human tendencies(according to LDS
doctrine). Which includes the example you gave of being a heterosexual,
but expected to be celibate until you are married -- and celibacy even
if you never marry (is that our nature, to be celibate? Or even
monogomous? I married at 19 and that was hard enough).

Still, his message stated that the God's laws won't change (which you
disagree with, ok) but that we can all, ALL OF US, take comfort in
knowing that we can overcome those temptations that contradict
progression and the laws of the gospel. He said that we are all capable
of obeying the commandments, we can do it. That we are not given more
tempation than we can bear - that's the promise and message of the talk
(I think).

I have not brought up this topic with anyone else and I only bring it
up with you because;

You are so willing to be open and try really hard not to be combative
and I trust that you know I'm not trying to fight either, even if I
disagree with some things.

I'm not even trying to change your mind or "fix" your opinion, either.
Especially since you come from a place of compassion and concern. I
just thought maybe I would straighten up some of the accusations and
misquotes I keep hearing about (it's bugging me).

I guess I feel defensive, because I do have a testimony of the gospel
and I also believe that Jesus is the ultimate example. It makes me so
sad to think that your friend was kicked out when opening up to his
parents. That's so not what Jesus would do. It's contrary to the
teachings of the gospel as I have come to understand it in my searching
and studying.

I think that is one area that is improving in this LDS culture and I
pray and hope, hope, hope that it's members will really embrace
wholeheartedly the Savior's example. He never, ever condoned sin, but
He also never, EVER turns anyone away when they need Him. Ever. Always
it was and is Love.

I do have a few gay friends/relatives, some mormon, some not. I live in
an area that's pretty diverse for Utah (many, many languages spoken
just on my street, like 7 or so) - That doesn't mean anything other
than I agree with you, about the benefits of living in a diverse place.
Different cultures and lifestyles are not so scary when you serve and
love others, especially those different from you. I think some people
don't want to wrestle with it. But it's so worth it when we are talking
about God's children on earth.

That's all, I've rambled enough for a lifetime.

Love You. And I'm not just saying that so you won't hate me after this
LOOOOOOOOONG and preachy comment.

(I am adding the following, not because I want to have the last word but because I want this conversation to continue.)

Melissa,

Thank you so much for the comment. I got the email but then it didn't appear on here, so I hope you didn't delete it.

First of all, I did not find anything you said to be "preachy" in any way. I loved everything you wrote which is why I really hope it stays on the blog. I appreciate it and in some ways I think you did call me out, which is always necessary.

Yes, I did watch the whole talk because it is important for me to understand the context of quotes. I realize that there are plenty of things that I wrote here that could be taken as very "snarky" or jabbing comments. For those I apologize.

I really love your conviction and I know I've told you before how much I admire it. I do understand the church's stance on the family and in many ways agree with it. I do not blame the church as a whole for the actions of those very un-Christlike parents.

I understand that, in full context, Elder Packer's comments can be applied to all who are striving to overcome temptation. While he did not say that they are not born that way, he did say, "We teach a standard of moral conduct that will protect us from Satan’s many substitutes or counterfeits for marriage. We must understand that any persuasion to enter into any relationship that is not in harmony with the principles of the gospel must be wrong. From the Book of Mormon we learn that “wickedness never was happiness.”

Some suppose that they were preset and cannot overcome what they feel are inborn temptations toward the impure and unnatural. Not so! Remember, God is our Heavenly Father."

To immediately follow a clear statement regarding relationships that are not harmonious with the gospel (married man and woman) and then clearly state that these individuals cannot "suppose that they were preset" is what is concerning me and so many others.

(Talk in full context here)

I suppose that is where we must disagree. I have met people (the aforementioned friend included) who wanted nothing more than to be "normal" and wish that they had never been subject to their "queer" (and by that I do mean odd - pun intended) feelings.

What stands out so strongly to me is the abuse and bullying that many of these individuals experience from a very young age. For many of them, despite their efforts to be what their parents or those around them want them to be, they can't escape something inside them.

I do believe there are those who perhaps have a "wide" range of sexual attractions and maybe "choose" to focus on their same-sex rather than opposite-sex attractions. But, I really do think that the majority can recognize their "tendency" (not "temptation") from a very young age.

Elder Packer asks "Why would Heavenly Father do that to anyone?" and I think that is a great question… from both sides of Theism.

Why would anyone who wants nothing more than to be ridded of their homosexual tendencies make the "choice" to be outcast and ridiculed by nearly everyone they love if they really had the option? If being gay was once and for all determined to be a chemical or mental dysfunction rather than a genetic marker (which hasn't happened as far as I know, despite some past hype about a "gay gene"), and scientists finally discovered a miracle pill that would “set the gays straight”, how many of them do you think would be lined up with credit cards in hand, ready to pay any price?

How many black Mormons would have done the same before 1978 if they were told that by making a certain church contribution they would finally have their “mark of Cain” removed as they had been promised if it meant they could partake in the acceptance and blessings of their gospel?

How many "reformed homosexuals" really exist? Wouldn't it be more likely that there are simply some who have done a better job of suppressing a part of themselves and commit to a life of lies and misery because of the overwhelming pressure of their church/family/society?

I have never had to suffer through something that I imagine to be that heart wrenching but to a certain degree I know what it is like to try to be two people. It is hell and I would never wish that on anyone.

Like I wrote before, I know it can only be considered my "opinion" (despite the studies that have been presented), that people are born gay.

Isn't it unfortunate that there are people living today who aren't victimizing anybody but still want desperately to be something other than what they are? Sure, there are those at this point who I've seen try to argue that a pedophile or rapist don't feel like they can change their sexual urges either. I don't feel like this even merits argument because there is a world of difference between two consenting and loving males or females who want to live a committed relationship and someone who takes a woman or child by force? Doesn't that boil down to an issue of power and control rather than sex?

But back to the talk... when so many young people are committing suicide, being bullied, or even being murdered because they cannot change or refuse to reject who they are, it must be devastating to be told by such a prominent church leader that they simply must overcome their temptation. Granted, Elder Packer's approach is 1,000 times better than the truly hateful christian extremists who spit and scream and hoist their "God Hates Fags" signs.

I think everyone is tested in their lives, if not by God than simply by life itself. My concern is for individuals who are already in such a deep personal agony because they feel that there is something "evil" or "wrong" with them, to be told that the reason they haven't been able to change is essentially their fault. I know Elder Packer never says that, but his talk does imply that if they simply work harder and pray more diligently, they will be fixed. And that is what I have the hardest time with.

It was probably unfair for me to make the comparison between the gay Mormons of today and the black Mormons of 1977 and earlier. There is no need for us to get into or debate whether or not certain church revelations have coincidentally followed political pressures.

In fact, it may have been a very insensitive joke and maybe I am still missing the whole point. Maybe I’m just venting my overall frustration toward anyone who tries to make the consenting-adult-behind-closed-doors activities of other people their business. Maybe I am just that much more entwined in Satan’s grasp. But, I can get behind Packer’s BOM quote that “wickedness never was happiness” because I’d imagine it goes both ways. I don't feel like true happiness can be wicked. And, the happiest I’ve ever been was the moment I decided that I am still worthwhile, even with all of my faults and imperfections. That was the moment that I decided that it was okay for me take charge of my own life and responsibility for my own progression. It may be very “wrong” of me to feel like I get to pick and choose the areas of my life I want to improve and the pace with which I want to improve them, but I feel like it is healthy. And, I feel like if a lot of confused youth and teenagers were given that kind of go-ahead we’d find a lot fewer of them hanging in their closets. We’d see far fewer marriages and families shattered 10 -15 years in because someone decides they have lived the lie as long as they could.

Who knows though – my blog my opinion, right? I look forward to responses, especially if they can be as constructive and educational as Melissa's. Thanks again, Melissa.

Those Crazy Workmans...

2010-10-10T10:56:00.000-07:00

Warning: This will be a long post.

Jenny and I have been emailing each other today. We have been trying to figure out why our sense of complacency only seems to last six months at a time. What I am going to include below is an email exchange we've had today. I am doing this because I am sure our family and friends have wondered why in the hell the Workman family keeps moving around (Utah to Wyoming back to Utah then to Texas then back to Utah and now to... Mexico? Panama? Australia?)

Yes, we have seriously considered it.

The question is... why?

Today we seriously asked ourselves this question, and I don't think I've ever seen an email exchange that more clearly displays the thought process of two individuals who are really trying hard to work together for the best possible outcome. I don't mean to say that we are exceptionally bright individuals; in fact our previous attempts and failures would attest to the contrary.

But, the truth is we really want to make sure we do whatever we can to get ourselves and our children into a situation of our design. That means trying desperately to leave behind the priorities of those around us and society as a whole and really gutting our lives down to the core of what is really important... to us.

Based on our long conversation last night (which should be adequately re-capped through the following emails), Jenny writes the following:

Jenny:

I love you! Sorry for all the restlessness.

Me:

Don't worry about the restlessness. I think Spencer made a good point last night about how much friends are a part of your life. In reality, so much of our lives have revolved around our group of friends, and that would be something nearly impossible to replace. I want to give you a home and I think that is something I'm working toward. I think we can forget about the caretaker jobs and things like that because they would feel as temporary as this situation. What I think we really need to discuss is whether or not we should be working toward buying (or building) a house. Maybe we should start looking at building lots out in Farr West or something like that. Maybe we should start considering our options for creating an actual home. Or, maybe we should forget this cruise and instead set a goal in mind for the next 5 years. If we really set our minds to it, only ate out like once a month, lived on a VERY strict budget, worked off rent at Josh's house and I plowed through overtime as much as possible, we could probably save up enough to buy a house with cash, or at least put 50% to 60% down and get a very cheap 15 year mortgage.

Maybe that is the way to go. If we are able to budget on that type of situation in a farming community like that, maybe I could be working as a manager of a feed store or doing some other job that let me work near the girls. More than anything it would be giving you a small home that you know is yours and you don't have to ever leave. Ogden will keep growing as they improve the image and I could probably find something there in the future, especially if I finish my degree.

There are options but we probably have to stop fantasizing about Mexico and Tennessee, because I think we both know those are only temporary solutions. Then again, it is hard not to when we both feel like life may be very temporary. Stupid 2012, making us feel like it is foolish to keep money in savings.

Jenny:

Sorry- I am really happy where we are. I don't want to pressure you to buy a house. I don't even know where i want to live so buying a house until we know for sure what we want is not an option. I feel like you feel like I am expecting you to provide this little impossible fantasy for me, but I'm not. I will be fine here for a long time. It all just comes back to not wasting our time. I know our relationships with our friends are very important. It is just hard sometimes to think about that over the other frustrations with Utah. It is important to remember that though. It's just so frustrating to be stuck in this cycle and to have tried a few different times to get out of it and to just keep coming back to it. I know it's my fault that we keep coming back. I am sorry I feel crazy sometimes...

Me:

It is nobody's "fault" that we came back and I am not upset about any of the decisions we made. I feel like coming home from Texas was a no brainer, and I feel like we got what we needed out Wyoming. I think we both are looking for simplicity and there are a few things we know we agree on:

1. We do NOT want to live in the suburbs
2. We do not care about image or luxury
3. We do not want to uproot our children more than we need to, we want to feel settled
4. We both know that our current situation is good, but cannot be permanent, which probably makes us feel restless
5. We both feel some pressure to find out where we CAN feel settled, but that hasn't happened because (like always) there are too many options
6. We both want to stay near our friends - staying near family and babysitters happens to be a bonus, but not a requirement
7. Neither of us want to make decisions based on other people's opinions or priorities
8. We both want to maximize our time together as a family, which we are not doing at the moment - so we feel like a change needs to take place

In reality, these conversations have probably been coming up just because this last week was so shitty. That is the truth. We haven't had hardly any time together and that has been rough. On the other hand, it makes me wonder how well we will handle the next couple of years of school. If this week was so hard on us, can we buckle down and do this for 200 weeks to get me my degree? I don't know.

Jenny:

I really love that list. It is perfect. Thanks for understanding how my brain works better than i do! I think all of those things are true. One thing, how important is getting a degree to us? Is it something that we really want? Is is worth the time put in. It has the potential to get you a job that involves writing, but is it more for that or for following what we're "supposed" to do. It has the potential of making us more money in the future. It will be hard to wait for the future, but I know we can do it if we think it is a priority and is important for US. Maybe we just need to have clearer goals in mind to get through the "getting there" part. It is hard to not look at our other options of how or where we could be living. The different options are endless. The friend thing is what keeps us here. I feel like that is all, and that is why it's hard not to look elsewhere. I need to come to terms that that is enough to keep us rooted here. But, is that a selfish decision because of how living here will affect our kids, or is it better for them if we are near our friends. I know it's important to them that we're happy. That makes a difference in how they are raised and how we interact with them. I can't straighten my brain out right now. Too much swirling around all at once. Maybe this is how you always feel Haha!

Me:

Yes, that is pretty close to how I always feel. There are so many factors and for some reason they always bring me back full circle to where I started.

Here is what I am thinking about the school thing:

1. I really HATE being away from you girls. I mean, I despise it. But, I know that right now I can't be a provider and spend all day with you, and being the former seems more important at this phase of life. The truth is; the girls need you around a LOT more than they need me. To survive and be comfortable they need the money I can provide. To be safe and secure and smart and loved, they need you. I have come to terms with that. It doesn't mean I don't want to be with you all of the time, but it seems like if there was ever a time I should be gritting my teeth and getting through school, it should be now. Technically, it should have been BEFORE we had kids but that is no longer an option.

2. So, my choices are: do I continue the course we have gone during the last couple of years and hope for a different result (which is the definition of insanity), or do I hope that we do have a future that carries over more than the next few years and buckle down to work for something better.

3. This is where it becomes an all or nothing thing: I can either plan for the end of the world in the near future (which means cashing out savings and trying as hard as I can to put us in a situation where we can enjoy each other for every minute of every day) or I hope for more time (when the girls are 10 and 8 or somewhere along there) when I have used both my current job's income and the education it can help provide to try to give us time together at (what I see as) a crucial juncture of our daughters' lives - when they are old enough to hold onto the memories for a lifetime, but young enough to still want to spend time with us (me).

4. This is where school comes in; yes it will take away from a lot of my time. Yes it will keep from home. Yes it will result in tears of sweet girls who miss their dad. But, with FAFSA and tuition reimbursement, it actually has the potential to improve BOTH our current situation and future situation, which seems like a pertinent motivator. If I decide to go through school, work overtime and continue to push myself, my body and my sanity to the limits, I will be royally disappointed and pissed if some massive earthquake wipes out civilization (or at least the Wasatch front) in a few years. I do NOT want to die with money in savings!! But, then again, if I have simply been led to believe in some doomsday myth that has always existed throughout the last 100 years with just different names (second coming, cold war, bay of pigs, Obama administration) then getting through school while my children are still young enough to perhaps not remember is probably the most responsible thing because....

5. Who knows, by the time the next 5 years blow over, maybe we'll all be telecommuting to work. Maybe I will still be working for Fidelity, keeping my benefits and retirement plan, working from a home office doing emails or even chatting online with someone in Bangladesh who needs to restructure their IRA. I don't really know. Right now the real decision has to come down (in my opinion) to two fairly simple gambles:

A. Will the world last more than another 10-20 years?
B. Will going to school during the next 3 - 4 years actually make us money?

And the answer to both of those questions seems to be; "go for a semester and find out."

This is how my brain works. I'm sorry to have subjected you to it!

Jenny:

Sorry- I can't tell what you meant with that last line? Sorry to have subjected me to it? SO we are buckling down and getting through school. SO- lets do it then. No more craziness/restlessness. That is the plan- so lets get it done :) It will be hard, but it's definitely do-able. Love you!

Me:

I meant sorry to have subjected you to my crazy brain. I didn't mean any decision has been made, but I do feel like it would be foolish to NOT try at least a semester of school at the U when it is paid for and possibly profitable. Does that mean we will last long enough to finish my degree? I'm not sure, I guess we have to wait and find out.

Losing Face(book)

2010-10-07T15:22:00.000-07:00

I did it. I deleted my facebook account.

I had planned to wait until I could get home and save all of the pictures and notes and stuff, but it just felt like the right time to get rid of it.

A few months ago Jenny and I both had broken blackberrys and ended up using "loaner" phones with no internet for a while. During that time I hardly ever used facebook because logging on at the home computer felt like a real waste. I justified my facebook time by only doing it on my phone while multi-tasking with something else less important... like working or driving.

Honestly, facebook can be great for remembering birthdays and getting pictures of somebody's new baby. It keeps you up to date on your favorite bands' touring schedules and reminds you that your favorite tv show will be on that night. It does all of those things while chewing away at your life a few minutes at a time.

In Texas, we all got so into facebook that we would all sit around in the living room, everyone on a different computer or laptop and play virtual farming games. We would all be in the same room but somehow still miles apart. This is what we consider "socializing" these days.

Now, take a step back and think about that for a second...

Remember in the early 90's when our parents would tell us to turn off the Nintendo because we were wasting our time? Remember when they told us to go outside and play?

Now, 20 years later some of those same parents are sending us online requests for virtual seeds or fish food. We are replacing actual conversation with "pokes" and clever 420-character updates. Before long, this useful tool that allowed you to reconnect with lost friends is actually putting distance between you and those same individuals. Because, why pick up the phone or meet for dinner when you can write on someone's Wall?

Before long, getting caught up with your real "friends" takes longer and longer because for every one of them, there are five other people who you barely know or remember that have "collected" you as a friend. You are spending precious minutes your life sorting through requests to join online mafias or attend a Harry Potter costume birthday party for your fourth-cousin-thrice-removed. All of the sudden you wake up and realize that you are caught in this social web that constantly begs for your attention but provides very little real interaction.

You are forced to accept or deny the requests of a friend of a friend of a friend and begin to feel like Kevin Bacon in the middle of some twisted "six degrees" game.

Anyway, I just suddenly realized I'm done with it. I don't want to respond to any more friend requests with, "Now, remind me how we know each other." I don't want to have any more public debates about politics or religion or whether Max Hall's hatred is justified.

I love conversation. I even love a good, healthy, constructive debate - I am an ENTP personality type, after all. I just want to be able to see your face in the process. If we are going to disagree about something, I don't want to have to gauge how much of your anger is real and how much is just isolated keyboard courage.

I want my kids to grow up in a society where people still get together on a Wednesday afternoon to mill around in the backyard with a cooler of beer and soda--where the grill and the fold-out table are the only common network we need.

I know I can't make the change for anyone else, and I know that for a lot of people these online networks are their most comfortable means of connection. Personally though, leaving it all behind just feels like a step in the right direction.

Please just don't do it any faster than you have to.

2010-09-10T10:45:00.001-07:00

I mean, I know that Emma already started school a couple of weeks ago. I get that. But today was the first time I actually drove her to the elementary and dropped her off.

I'm not going to lie. Seeing her run down the sidewalk in the new school shoes we picked out together, her Tinkerbell backpack too big for her and bouncing as she ran - it fucked with my head a little bit. Normally I try to avoid such language in this blog, and if it offends you, I apologize. But this time there really isn't any better way for me to describe it.

Watching my little Emma, my first baby, the one they say looks so much like me... watching her walk into that building, grinning and waving at me as she went, it was like the process of losing her had officially started.

I know there are plenty of you who will say that she will always be my daughter. After all, the, "Daddy, I'll always be your little girl," line is one of the most cliche in the movie industry. But, the truth is that starting now she is steadily going to want more time with friends/activities/boyfriends and away from home. I hope she will always want to come back, and I know there are many years ahead of us. But the countdown has begun. From here on out the percentage of her time she wants to spend with me will be on a constant decline.

I know that is the way it is supposed to be, but that doesn't mean I have to like it. I understand that she has to grow up, and I want her to. I just want her to do it as slowly as possible.

The Day I Finally Lost It...

2010-08-25T08:26:00.000-07:00

This particular post has a soundtrack. For the full experience, please listen to this in the background while reading. Jenny, I know you're sick of 311, but even you. ;)

311 - Unity

You know those videos online of those office workers going completely berserk and beating up coworkers or smashing their computers and printers?

Well, that was me today.

Almost.

The other day my sweet wife told me that she really wants me to find a job that comes more naturally to me. She knows better than anyone how poorly I fit into this office environment. She knows I should be outside, getting dirty and working with my hands or something along those lines.

Today, sitting at my desk I had the closest thing to a panic attack I think I've ever felt. I have never been claustrophobic but I could feel the walls of that cubicle actually closing around me.

I had to run, to escape.

Considering my lack of other gainful employment, not to mention the benefits and insurance associated with my current position, I thought it best to simply grab my iPod and keys and walk away for a while, rather than just up and quit my job.

I know it probably sounds a little crazy, but I just ran. I mean, I bolted down the stairs three at a time and as soon as I was outside I just sprinted away from the office. My legs couldn't carry me fast enough.

Within less than a minute I was frantically unlocking my car and before long I was screeching tires out of the parking lot and practically rallying that little Civic toward the closest hill I could find.

I rolled the windows down and cranked the music. I breathed deeply of the fresh air and the farther away I got from my desk, the calmer I became.

Before long I was in the Avenues, east of downtown Salt Lake. I kept climbing, looking for an open road, but instead found a large church parking lot next to a park.

I turned my iPod as loud as it would go and ripped my shirt off as fast as I could. I popped the trunk and clawed aside the tool box and tire iron to get my longboard out.

With "Unity" pumping into my ears, I set off down the first slope on the north side of the parking lot. Immediately I could feel the breeze over my skin and scalp. The grin that peeled apart my lips still hasn't left my face.

It has been a while since I hopped on the board, and my first few pumps were a little awkward and choppy, but before long the rhythm smoothed itself out and I was carving down toward the road. I jumped off the board and picked it up so I could run back up to the top of the parking lot. During my second run I could hear a faint shouting through my music. I turned and saw a man in a shirt and tie standing at the open door of the church.

"You can't do that here!!" he shouted, apparently for the second or third time.

"Sorry," I said, and put my ear bud back in before rolling down to the far side of the parking lot. I picked up my board again and this time ran across the grass to the sidewalk track around the adjacent park.

The grin on my face widened at the "CLACK-CLUNK" sound of my wheels passing over the sidewalk cracks. I crouched as the hill began to slope and the clacks and clunks closed together as my speed increased.

Ahead of me the sidewalk took a sharp turn to the left around the baseball diamond. I was already getting a speed wobble and wasn't sure I'd be able to hang onto the turn. Heelside turns are not my strength on the longboard.

I slid my lead foot forward to even out the wobble and bore down on my heels as the turn approached. I drove downward with my quads and laughed out loud as the sidewalk brushed the fingertips of my left hand. My rear wheels began to break away from the concrete and I was sure I had lost it, but before I knew it I had pulled out of the turn and stood up. I was flying.

Then, a new obstacle arose on the horizon. A woman lying on the grass reading a book. Good for her. And, an elderly man walking a dog toward me on the sidewalk. There was no way I would be able to stop in time, so I did the next best thing and leaned back so I could ease the front left wheel of my board onto the grass. I made it maybe 10 or 15 feet before friction overtook speed and that wheel sunk into the sod. They must have watered last night.

Time stopped and I was airborne. Still wearing my dress pants and work ID badge, I watched in slow motion as the ground passed beneath me. I wrapped my left arm around my waist and began rotating before connecting with the earth. Favoring my left side turned out to be a bad idea. My right shoulder has been sore lately, but I doubt sliding on it would have hurt as much as sliding on my new tattoo did.

And did I slide.

I was laughing hysterically, feeling more alive than I have since my bungee jump. Based on where my board was when I stood up, I must have flown/slid at least 30 feet. My entire left side, from my bare shoulder to the ankle of my dress pants, was stained in green. The stinging in my ribs just added to the euphoria.

I collected my board and did one more run through the church parking lot before tossing it back into the trunk and driving back to work. I could feel the sweat evaporating on my back and chest and the tingle of the grass still clung to my side.

Sitting back at my desk, the cubicle walls don't seem so small anymore. The pile of processed junk food on the team cabinet no longer made me angry. Colors seemed brighter. Water tasted fresher.

It only took about 30 minutes to reclaim my life this morning, and I'm so glad I did. Whether my reaction was a step back toward sanity or farther from it... I don't even know. The funny thing is; I don't really give a shit.

Be The Fat Girl of the Bunch

2010-08-23T10:13:00.000-07:00

I hate to double-dip my blog day, but this is something I've had on my mind lately.

We often talk about "body image" these days. In reality, we just mean "self esteem" but since that is so directly tied to your figure in this culture, the two have unfortunately been meshed into one. Body fat percentage seems to directly correlate with self worth.

I've been trying hard this summer to get into shape. I do push-ups and pull-ups every day at work. I do dips every chance I get. I work out on the Bowflex at home and do P90-X with Jenny whenever I can muster the energy - though she is FAR more consistent than I am.

At my work, there is a steady barrage of crappy food. Every week someone brings in pastries or candy, and that is on the schedule. Aside from the Wednesday Treat Day, there are also constant pot lucks and company-wide "bonuses" like root beer floats, pizza, donuts... you name it. It is amazing that a company with the most sedentary employees would be so eager to pack them full of empty calories.

Not wanting to die of a heart attack by 40, or accidentally crush/disgust my wife with an obese and flabby figure, I almost always pass on these company treats. In fact, it has gotten to the point where my coworkers will actually make fun of me for not eating the ice cream bars they pass around. They have competitions to see who can down the most, and then tell me I'm being a "girl" because I won't have one. They laugh at me when I bring in a bunch of carrots for lunch.

The joke's on them though, because when my Wednesday rolls around and I have to bring treats, those bastards are stuck with eating fruit or nothing at all.

The other day our systems were down so the managers sent us to a movie. Before the movie started, there was some issue with the projector and one of the guys said, "have Dan go up there and knock some heads around!"

Then, when some teenage guys in front of us started to get rowdy, another one said, "maybe we can have Dan go over and beat them up!"

"Yeah, Dan, at least go scare them!"

"Scare them?" These same guys who give me crap for eating vegetables instead of twinkies treat me like some kind of mercenary. What is that?

I suppose it is "rare" for those in my office to hit the weights. Most cubicle drones succumb to the overwhelming lethargy and simply let go of themselves - chalking it all up to "the job" as if it is completely out of their control.

I'm not writing all of this because I feel like there is something exceptional about my attitude. I just think it is a strange phenomenon. It seems like we adjust our personal image for our setting. For example, while I might feel pretty good at my office just by being under 300 pounds, when I go work out on the Air Force base with Josh I feel like a weakling because I can't bench 400. Anything over about 5% body fat there is practically obese, considering the abundance of gymrats and muscleheads.

Anyway. Not exactly sure where I'm headed with this, but I guess what I'm realizing is that it is a bad idea to compare yourself to anyone if it is going to change your own body image - in a good or a bad way. Focus on your own progress and work on achieving your own personal goals. But, if the group you surround yourself with gives you the inclination to either keep pushing weights or keep slamming the nachos, the former is probably the healthier option.

Be the fatty of your group.

Let Them Build Forts

2010-08-23T07:40:00.000-07:00

I haven't been the best dad this week. Despite my efforts to be kind and patient, I have snapped at my kids more than once. Today I will bring home ice cream, and do my best to apologize while they are in their freshly-bribed sugary haze.

It was brisk outside this morning. I had to defrost my back window and even run the heater on the way to work. Summer is winding down.

I am listening to "Rant: An Oral Biography of Buster Casey" by the one and only Chuck Palahniuk again. In the book he talks about chewing road tar. I googled it to see if people really did that, and stumbled upon this article:

http://www.dallasnews.com/sharedcontent/dws/dn/localnews/columnists/sblow/stories/DN-blow_01met.ART.West.Edition1.4601573.html

I loved this article, and it makes me realize something else about the type of dad I have been. I can't say whether it is good or bad, but I am very protective of my girls. Perhaps overly so.

It made me ask myself the question, "If they were two boys, would I be raising them differently?" and the honest answer was a resounding, "hell yes!"

I don't think that is very fair to them, but I can't help but treating them like little princesses and wanting to pad the world around them. If they were boys, I would be telling them how much chicks dig scars and trying to toughen them up.

I started thinking about the world that we live in and wondering how necessary my protection really is. I started searching around online for statistics about crime during the last 30 years, and to my great surprise, violent crime rates were at their very peak during the late 80's and early 90's - just when I was running around the neighborhood.

Granted, at the time I was living in Centerville, Utah and spent my days catching grasshoppers and tadpoles. It wasn't exactly Detroit.

But are my daughters really at any more of a risk now than I was then, or Jenny was for that matter? We may be more aware these days of local sex offenders and cyber predators, but is that sick portion of our population really any more prevalent than they were 20 years ago?

I'm sure our parents wondered the same thing. They grew up in the 50's and 60's and probably didn't know what to make of our generation of Nintendo's and Walkman's.

I want my kids to be able to roam the neighborhood and have adventures. I want them to have a close group of friends and spend long summer nights begging for an extended curfew so they can play kick the can or capture the flag.

But with those desires for their childhood experiences comes an underlying fear. I was talking to one of my coworkers the other day. He has three kids and the oldest is his 8-year-old daughter. He and his wife have set a very strict rule of no sleepovers - ever. At first, I thought that was total overkill, but then he told me why they had come to that decision.

Last year his daughter had been good friends with another girl on the other side of the block. This other girl's father was a religious and local pillar of the community. The girls would spend all afternoon at their house, jumping on the tramp and playing games. This coworker told me, "If my daughter had asked me to have a sleepover at their house, I wouldn't have thought twice about it. I would have just told her to have fun."

A few months ago, that other father who was so liked and respected in their community and church was arrested and a giant stash of child pornography was found in the basement of his home. When this coworker told me about this, his face went pale.

I could tell that he felt guilty for having ever put his daughter in that situation. It was like he felt he should have possessed some sixth sense to weed out the creeps and sickos. I'm sure I would feel the same way. Unfortunately, these days it seems like more of a matter of luck than a matter of parental diligence. Nothing happened to his daughter, but anyone hearing the story probably gets the chills because you recognize how near to the viper's den she had actually been playing.

As parents, we are constantly surprised by our children. We are amazed by how quickly a two-year-old can escape from your sight and then use that split second to cut their foot or burn their hand. Things like that make us feel like massive failures.

Then again, other times you will wake up in the morning and find your five-year-old pouring a bowl of cereal for her little sister, and you can't help but want to trust them completely.

I hoped writing this would help me sort out the dilemma in my own head, but it hasn't. I guess all you can do is just be as diligent as possible. Keep track of your kids, but don't be that killjoy parent who is a pain in everyone's ass. I wish there was some easy-to-find line between neglectful and sheltering on the parenting style spectrum, but there isn't.

Maybe next year I will have them skip soccer and put them in karate instead...

"What?! You have a crush on him? Me too!!"

2010-08-18T06:43:00.000-07:00

Watching Dave put on his glasses and do a little dance around the stage was probably the highlight of the concert. After serious disappointment last year due to a canceled show; Dave and his Matthews Band may have made us wait longer than we'd have liked to but they more than made up for it.

The show last night was incredible.

After almost 7 years together, Jenny finally fessed-up to having feelings for another man. Luckily, I was also crushing pretty hard myself. Not falling in love with Dave Matthews is like not falling in love with a puppy in a pair of sunglasses.

In all seriousness, the level of musicality brought to table by each member of the band is astonishing. And yet, despite all of the individual talent, they manage to mesh perfectly without any one showboater trying to put himself above the music. Seeing them play live is something everyone should do at least once. I mean it. Even if you aren't a big fan of their music on the radio or not much of a concert person. You will still enjoy it.

I also wanted to toss in a couple of videos. The first one is just to give you an idea of the energy the band brings to live shows. Plus it is a "fun" song they only play live - as far as I know. It is an "adults only" theme, so heads up there! Oh, and be sure you are paying attention to the little dance at about 3:45 minutes in:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rUGhuzsLN_E&feature=related

The second one is such a beautiful example of the voice and lyrical genius that took Dave from waiting tables and acting part time to forming one of the most influential bands of our generation:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gl38_ypN0yM

And to think I paid them to do this to me...

2010-08-03T06:06:00.000-07:00

So, the other day some friends of ours invited us to come swim and hot tub with them. You know how swim shorts tend to billow in a hot tub? Well, they started giving me a hard time about my tan line and fish white thighs. I spend most of the summer shirtless, but rarely have an opportunity to sunbathe the way they do on those beaches in the south of France.

To avoid future taunting, I thought I would spend the $10 for a session in one of those nicer tanning beds. You know, the ones that supposedly don't have the "burning" rays?

Always trying to get the most bang for my buck, I said "sure!" when the lady asked me if I wanted to go the full 20 minutes.

Well, it worked. I no longer have a pasty white section in the middle of my body where my shorts usually are. The lines are still there, but now instead of going from brown to bright white, they go from brown to lobster red.

Why, oh why do I do these things that I do?

A Permanent Solution to Temporary Insanity

2010-07-29T22:26:00.000-07:00

So, yesterday was a crazy day. Awesome, but crazy. I don't think that level of euphoria is natural, but as far as I can remember, I didn't take anything. I did eat large quantities of fruit and peanut butter, but I doubt the two are related.

On yesterday's blog, I wrote about wanting to remember that feeling. I have been trying for a while to decide on a tattoo I could get that would help me stay focused on living, rather than drifting. Today, I re-read the post, already trying to recapture that sensation, and I came across the line " I hope that I can always live life with a sense of urgency, but not in a hurry."

I don't if everyone will feel the same way, but I started to feel like "urgent" was really the right word. One of its many meanings is "without delay" and that just really hit me today.

Determined to start living my new principle right away, I rushed into one of the things you should probably never rush into... and got it tattooed on me.

"Live Life Urgently"

All I had to decide on was the font. I chose old typewriter script because I thought that might be a secondary reminder to spend more time reading and writing. Who says you can't pack more than one meaning into your ink?

A Wednesday for the Record Books

2010-07-28T06:36:00.000-07:00

What a breathtaking morning it was. From every visible standpoint, today is a day like any other. I have no idea what is different about today, but I am in an exceptionally good mood. As soon as I splashed water on my face this morning, I felt unstoppable. I feel strong, capable, brimming with potential, and yet have no expectations of the future. Damn. I just feel good.

There was a light rain in the air on my way to work. The sun was hanging just below the horizon and the water-laden clouds were bursting with color. With the windows down, each breath was ambrosia. What a day!

I really can't explain the source of this feeling, but I wish I could. I would bottle it and save it for days to come. A mere dropperful of whatever this is would plow through even the worst of the winter blues.

I think the overwhelming sensation today is one of gratitude. I know I've beaten this dead horse to pieces, but every time I remember to focus on what I have, it makes for a brilliant day. A fully capable body, a sharp mind, the love of three beautiful girls, a marriage that would be hard to top, and the endless support of wonderful friends. I am financially poor but rich in all of the ways that truly matter.

I'm sure my wife and friends are sick and tired of hearing about Fight Club, but the more I read the book and watch the movie, the more it takes an almost biblical position in my life.

I am not my job.

I am not how much money I have in the bank.

I am not the car I drive.

I am not the contents of my wallet.

I am not my f*&%ing khakis.

At first (or maybe even fifth) glance, the premise of Fight Club seems nihilistic and chaotic. Neither the film nor book resolve anything. It provides no clear path or answers. But, every time I watch it or read the book, I am reminded to not waste time. Ironic, I know, that watching a movie would make me NOT want to waste my time. Funny enough, the DVD actually addresses this irony in a split-second warning that appears before the movie begins:

"If you are reading this then this warning is for you. Every word you read of this useless fine print is another second off your life. Don't you have other things to do? Is your life so empty that you honestly can't think of a better way to spend these moments? Or are you so impressed with authority that you give respect and credence to all who claim it? Do you read everything you're supposed to read? Do you think everything you're supposed to think? Buy what you're told you should want? Get out of your apartment. Meet a member of the opposite sex. Stop the excessive shopping and masturbation. Quit your job. Start a fight. Prove you're alive. If you don't claim your humanity you will become a statistic. You have been warned ....... Tyler"

I recently learned that I am an ENTP personality type. It was amazing how much you can learn about yourself by answering 4 simple questions, but so many of the things I read about the type helped me make sense of other aspects of my life. ENTP's don't do well with structure or organized religion. We hate schedules. We act ADD (which I thought I really was for years) because we love the concept of a new idea, project or challenge, but once we have figured out how to accomplish it, we find the actual follow-through tedious and boring. We feel exempt from the rules.

This is such a disjointed post, but these are things I needed to put into writing. I want to be able to go back and read this later on in life. I hope that just the memory of this day will give me a boost of gratitude for all that I have. I hope that it will be an attitude adjustment. I hope that I can always live life with a sense of urgency, but not in a hurry.

Anything could happen. Today could be the day the driver of the car next to me suffers an aneurysm and crushes my Civic with their jacked up pick-up truck. However it happens, it is inevitable. We are all living on borrowed time. The timer has already been set for all of us. Eventually, the "ding" will sound for each and every one of us. So be it. Doesn't that just make today that much more precious?

Hug your loved ones. Turn off the TV. Log off facebook. Get outside, it is beautiful out there. Escape from the hustle and man-made-mayhem. Run through the woods. Explore. Turn over rocks. Catch a butterfly. Eat something that used to gross you out. Call someone you haven't talked to in a while. Drive with the windows down. Let the world in.

P.S. This is my new favorite 311 song

She Knows Me Well...

2010-06-21T10:17:00.000-07:00

... And not in just the biblical sense. For a father's day/birthday gift, my sweet wife has scheduled me for two bungee jumps from the Glenn's Ferry bridge in Idaho. It is 170 feet down and allows you to "water dip" at the bottom. It is frikkin redonkulous how excited I am. June 26th can't get here fast enough.

"I was just thinking about how you have settled down since you became a dad and thought you needed an adrenaline rush," she tells me after revealing the big surprise. I love that woman.

Thanks, Jenny. It is the perfect gift!

You Stink

2010-05-07T15:11:00.001-07:00

Granted, nobody has actually said this to me today. But, given the necessary proximity, I'd imagine they would. In the stock market, we expected the demands of work to dimish once tax season ended. Alas, due to insane market conditions, there is more work than ever, which has resulted in my 60-hour work weeks.

Today, I decided to get some real Vitamin-D by walking from the office to Tony Caputo's deli, which serves extremely delicious, extremely over-priced Italian food. The guy in front of me left with a small paper bag filled with exotic cheeses and sausages. His total came to $99.10. I don't think you should spend that much on something that can fit in your back pocket unless it's an iPod.

I, on the other hand, managed to find a sale on smoked seabass - $1.50 a fillet. I have eaten three of them today. And, while they are full of protein and essential fatty acids, they friggin' reek. I smell like a fishing vessel that has been loaded up to its weight, run out of gas, and left rotting in the sun.

Oh well, nobody at my office should be getting close enough to me to experience the stench anyways. If they do, it's their own fault. I do feel sorry for my wife, though. And my kids. I know as soon as I get home Emma is going to give me a hug and say, "you stink, dad!" Abbi, on the other hand, is just going to say, "something smells yucky." Good girl. She doesn't yet place blame.

Anyway, $4.50 worth of smoked seabass later, all I really want is a big bowl of fruity pebbles. I know it doesn't go along with a caveman diet, but seriously, eating Paleolithic when there are so many delicious Neolithic foods available is tough.

Enough about food. Wish me luck on the firefighter exam tomorrow. I've been at work reviewing long division and fraction multiplication. It is amazing what I have forgotten since grade school. When dividing fractions, you multiply by the inverse. Right? Shit. Better hit the books again.

The "Mini" Mid-Life

2010-03-25T14:12:00.000-07:00

"So what if you're having a mini-midlife? It could be worse..."

Says Josh Skoglund, one of my best friends and probably the most level-headed, down-to-earth, and intelligent guys I know. We were jogging around the pond at Hill Air Force base after working out and discussing our upcoming survival weekend.

I had been talking Josh's ear off about my reasons for wanting to take the trip. It was a lot of whining about my office job and realizing that my 10-year high school reunion was coming up and how the decade had taken me from a lean, tan, Jeep-driving adrenaline junkie to a pudgy and pale office drone who commutes in a Civic.

The remedy? Three days and two nights of building shelters, hunting, snaring, fishing, friction-fire-starting and all around manliness. The destination - Porcupine Reservoir (pictured above), just outside of Avon, Utah.

We leave tomorrow at noon to give us time to cut firewood and build shelters. It's only supposed to be about 20 degrees at night, so we will set up tents with sleeping bags in case our pine bough beds and shelters get the better of us in the cold.

(Insert Tim Allen Home Improvement grunt here.)

Why This Chunky Brit Is Better Than Bear

2010-03-02T10:29:00.000-08:00

Don't get me wrong, I still think Bear Grylls (seen below drinking fresh turtle blood) is a badass. In my opinion the main problem with his show lies with the Discovery channel. It seems like they have turned him into more of a sideshow attraction than a survival guide.

I recently found Ray Mears on YouTube. His show is basically the BBC version of Man Vs. Wild, but with great information in place of all of the theatrics. Ray's show is packed with instructional survival information. Granted, it is not as excited as watching Bear do backflips off of everything and bite the heads off of snakes, but it teaches you quite a bit more about staying alive in the wild.

Booze, Sugar, and Sacrilege

2010-02-19T19:49:00.000-08:00

This is how Texans say goodbye.

My team at work blew me away with an amazing going away party on my last day. It was way more than I expected and really caught me off guard. They call me a "Traitor" for leaving Texas and got me a cake that they feel best represents their image of Utah. I thought is was pretty wonderful. Frankly, it left me a little speechless. I'll let the pictures speak for themselves.

In Utah

2010-02-18T18:09:00.000-08:00

Man. I'm not sure how I feel about this one. At around 7:30 p.m. Central time I was told that my first day back in Utah would be on March 1st. That gives me (us) 10 days to get a U-Haul, pack, and move back to Utah.

So, how am I feeling? I'm a little dazed. Honestly, there are so many things about Texas I already miss. I miss the green rolling fields and the pastures of longhorn cattle. I miss the hawks and falcons you see so frequently. I miss the trees and lakes. I miss the gym at work. I miss the cool parks and walking trails. I miss the free wine tasting at Albertson's. I miss the diversity.

The truth is, though, almost everything I miss about Texas is a thing, not a who. The "who's" are all in Utah. The faces I look forward to seeing, the conversations I look forward to having, the hugs from family members I look forward to receiving...

They are all ahead of me. In Utah.

Preparing For De-Evolution

2010-02-16T18:05:00.000-08:00

I've been reading a lot about the paleo (or Caveman) diet lately. Really, my interest in this approach to nutrition has stemmed from a year-long desire to eliminate processed "foods" - a disturbingly difficult task these days.

The new year Men's Health issue had a really cool, in-depth article about what nutritionists are now calling "Obesogens." It is depressing to learn how much of what we eat (and even what we eat it from) is jacking up our bodies and giving us cancer.

Not being a member of the 40% portion of the American population that believes the earth is only 6,000 years old, I've also been intrigued by the approach of these modern day Cavemen. it really makes you wonder what our ideal diet is as a species, considering that humans have been on the planet for 2,000,000 years and the first agricultural revolution was only about 10,000 years ago. That doesn't even take into consideration what we've been doing to food in the last 100 years.

In many interviews I have heard promoters of the Caveman Diet describe our current world as a zoo, with humans being the prominent animal on display. Like any good zookeeper, it is our responsibility to provide our animals with their most natural diet and habitat. So, if you were given a human and wanted to give them the food they were evolved to eat, what would that be? In one article I read something like, "you could keep a lion alive on Twinkies, but you wouldn't be feeding it its ideal diet."

By the way, you should really check out MovNat to learn more about their view of "natural" eating and exercise habits. They explain it much better than I can.

Erwan Le Corre, the founder of the movement was once described as "the fittest man alive." One of his close friends and New York co-founder John Durant was recently featured on Colbert, which scores him major points, of course.

Anyway, this is starting to feel like a sales pitch. Honestly though, the most compelling argument I've heard about their eating and exercise habits is, "watch how a child exercises." They run, jump, wrestle, climb, spend zero time on a treadmill, and yet they seem to have unstoppable energy, glowing skin, incredible flexibility, and natural athleticism. I would go as far as venturing a guess about how a child would choose to eat naturally, but it would be almost impossible to find a control group. As soon as they are old enough to ween most kids get loaded (poisoned) with high fructose corn syrup and partially hydrogenated... everything. I'm realizing that it really is a shitty time to live as far as food is concerned. Even our vegetables are riddled with pesticides and genetic modification, unless of course you can pay $8 a pound for organic green peppers.

It really puts things into perspective when you realize that eating a raw lizard is much cleaner and healthier than chowing down on a box of mac and cheese.

We've already started focusing our shopping efforts to the exterior of the store--ALWAYS a good idea. But, the more I read about the way we were designed to eat, the more eager I am to get a garden going and start eating more venison--and feeding it to my kids before I help ruin their perfect little bodies.

"C'mon, Baby, Light My Fire"

2010-02-12T18:41:00.000-08:00

“If you ever plan on writing a book, going on a diet, or training for a marathon… don’t tell anyone or they will encourage you to death.”

I’m sure I got that quote wrong, but I know I’ve read something along those lines. Well, I’ve already done the first two of those things and seriously considered the third. I would be all for a marathon if it weren’t for my seething hatred of running.

The problem is; I’m a talker. I’d say that at least two-thirds of my ideas turn out to be hair-brained schemes at best, so saying them out loud in front of more logical people sometimes helps keep me grounded.

I gotta admit, though… this one has kept me up at night.

The other day I was out walking by the lake and decided to jog around to the least-trafficked side of the building. It was a cold a blustery day, smelling sweetly of winter.

My work shoes are already trashed so I decided to just veer off into the woods, mud notwithstanding. While I was pushing my way through the brush I scraped my hand.

I’m not a masochist but there was something delightful in the pain. Real men are supposed to have a few scars.

Quote Chuck Palahnuik through the words of Tyler Durden through the mouth of Brad Pitt: “Hell, even the Mona Lisa’s falling apart.”

Also like Durden, I don’t want to die without any scars.

Clarity was waiting for me in those woods. Call it intuition. Call it God. Call it Fate. Call it The Architect of the Universe. Call it dumb-friggin-luck. Call it what you will.

It was an epiphany of sorts I guess. One I may regret. One I may wish I’d never had. One I may question time and time again. But, like every 6-year-old male on the planet… I realized that I really want to be a firefighter.

While I was working my way back into the office, something in me wanted desperately to just turn and flee deeper into the woods. The thought of sitting down at that stupid desk (consequently the one I’m at now) made me so sick to my stomach I almost couldn’t do it.

The weird thing is; I don’t hate my job. It’s pretty easy and the pay and benefits are more than fair. There is almost no stress to speak of. It is comfortable and soft. Why should I complain?

While I was in those woods I realized that I felt so disgusted by the thought of it exactly because it was so comfy and soft.

I’ve always thought that, while the female body was created as thing of beauty, a vessel of life, that the male body was designed strictly for utility.

Despite our similarities (and please don’t take this in a sexist way or to reflect my opinion of what women are capable of, I think they are incredible), in my mind their purposes were as different as that of a delicate orchid and a rusty hatchet.

When I first got my stock broker’s license, I was terrified that I would be exposed as a blue-collar tourist in a white-collar world. It took me almost four years to realize that wasn’t really right. The truth is; I’ve felt so out of place because I’m going against my nature. Working this office job is like swimming upriver.

I don’t mean the nature of man or the order of the world, just something in me.

Before I made the final decision to go on an LDS mission, I had spent a lot of time talking with the fire chief in Cedar City. He trained the smoke jumpers. I spent a lot of time at his house because his son was good friends with my roommate. The chief would make us homemade pizza while we sat in the basement and watched MTV’s Fear every Wednesday night. I was almost decided on it then. I can’t believe it but that was almost 10 years ago.

Back then, the allure of the job was adventure and the outdoors. I chose a mission because I felt convinced that my time spent would be more beneficial to others, and myself. I was right. I don’t regret a second of it.

The irony of it is that I left framing because it was too dangerous. All of the sudden I had a wife and kid to think about. I couldn’t get knocked off of a wall or had something dropped on me and leave them alone. Now I want nothing more than to do one of the most dangerous jobs on the planet.

What I realized the other day is that I only go to work for a paycheck. It’s not a bad paycheck and it keeps us comfortable, but that is seriously my ONLY reason for going to work. My kids know that I go to work for the money, and nothing else. Aside from the dollar signs, my time away from home contributes nothing.

Like it or not, I am the rusty hatchet. I’m built like a tree trunk. I may have a slightly under-developed self-preservation gland. I’m good at digging ditches and chopping firewood. I am the utility model of the human race. I’m not pretty and I’m not fast, but when it comes to moving large objects or pushing things down, I’m your guy. That’s just the card I was dealt and I feel like I’m wasting it, getting soft behind this damn computer. What if I could use those skills to actually make a difference? What if I could look my wife and daughter in the eyes each morning before work and tell them that I love them and that I was going to work to try and help people? What if my daughters knew that, even though daddy’s job was dangerous and kept him away from home, it might help somebody else, even save somebody else. Wouldn’t that give them a reason to be proud of their old man? Wouldn’t that make them a little more excited to bring dad around for career day?

I watch guys here sit and eat themselves to death at this job and know I don’t want to go that way. Yeah, I know, you can work in an office and still stay in shape. You can also go to SeaWorld and not get wet, but it requires a lot more steps than it’s worth.

When it comes to cereal, I’ve always reached for quantity over quality. Regarding your number of remaining minutes spent on earth; I’m beginning to realize that it’s the other way around.

I don’t want to choose money and comfort and soft safety over what feels natural to me. Give me the five-figure pay cut, the Halligan, the bangs and bruises and bad shoulders, and give me all of the memories and experiences that go with it—good and bad.

The Smelly Feet Protein Smorgasbord

2010-02-08T11:44:00.000-08:00

Trying a new approach to nutrition. If your food is extremely unappetizing, you may spread out your meals throughout the day. This is the recipe I invented this morning and still have not been able to finish:

- splash of sesame oil

- 5 eggs

- 2 cups of liquid egg whites

- 1 container of tofu

- splash of soy sauce

- splash of worchestershire sauce (can't spell it or say it)

- 1 giant handful of spinach

- 1/4 cup of blue cheese

Hold your breath as you scramble everything together. Cram it into a tupperware container and quickly snap on the lid.

Even if your food is chock-full of protein, vitamins, and good fat, it makes it easy to eat sparingly when your meal is brown with green spots and a potent odor of feet.

The Root (of the) Problem

2010-02-05T19:39:00.001-08:00

Laying down roots...

People talk about that. It's a novel concept, something that Jenny and I have been striving for during our entire relationship. Every time I hear about it I imagine something like the picture above. Something sturdy, wooden, locked into place.

Lately I'm realizing that, as a family, we are much more like a wad of gum than a majestic oak.

It seems like we pick ourselves up in hopes of setting down roots like those, when instead, by the act of moving, we leave trailing strands behind.

For both of us, the majority of our strands stay planted in Davis County Utah. That is the truth - like it or not. We've left behind varying-sized strands in Florida, Indiana, Wyoming, and now, Texas.

Like gum, these strands may weaken over time. They may become brittle and even break. Unlike gum, however, setting down these points of contact has not diminished our "wad" as a whole. (Probably the UGLIEST word I've ever used in comparison to my adorable family.)

Like the majestic oak, even gum can become a hardened and permanent fixture given enough time.

And I so look forward to becoming a stagnant piece of gum.

10 Embarrassing Public Confessions

2010-02-03T13:38:00.000-08:00

I saw this picture today while I was working on our department newsletter and it made me smile. I used to be an avid collector of Calvin and Hobbes books. This picture brings back a lot of good memories, but it also made me think, "Even when we're grown, most guys still do this in the mirror and consider themselves low-grade superheroes."

In my mind, the pronoun "we're" seemed fitting because I've convinced myself that I am not alone in this. The truth is, I'm pushing 30 and better men would have left behind such childish delusions by my age.

Like steps along a stone walkway, that led me to draw the connection to some other personal confessions:

1. Along the lines of the picture above, I still find myself bragging to Jenny about how much weight I lifted even though I know it makes me an incredible tool. Like a kid running to the pencil line on the kitchen entryway 3 times a day to see if he is any taller, I confirm my physical insecurities by getting home from work and saying things like, "I totally dumbbell shoulder-pressed 140 pounds today!" Jenny will smile placatingly and nod.

2. If it is too cold to roll my window down, I will wipe boogers on the floor mat of my car. Your assumptions surrounding that statement are probably true. And, yes, given the opportunity to flick, I DO try to hit other cars. Disgusting, I know.

3. Sometimes having daughters terrifies me so much that I want to sit them down and beg them to not say mean things to me when they get older. I am almost tempted to start a pony fund for each of them so that I have a sizable bribe to prevent them from making me cry. It seems like teenage girls have had the capacity to hurt my feelings since I was about 13.

4. I hate tucking in my shirt so much that I will usually wear a jacket at my desk. That is fine because I prefer being too warm over too tucked. Like a pantless news anchor, this policy works as long as I stay sitting down. I took my jacket off today and, after my workout, was too lazy to put it on or tuck my shirt in. So, I made my protein shake with the cold leftover coffee on my desk.

5. I really liked the movie Never Back Down. It is a predictable tweener movie with cardboard characters and eye-candy for girls, but I can't help but like it. It's like what Fight Club would have been if Stephenie Meyer had written it.

6. Sometimes I feel a sting of rejection if my wife doesn't "Like" my facebook status.

7. Speaking of facebook, John Armstrong posted a link to an Annoying Couple music video and, well, it made we worry that Jenny and I fit too many of those qualities. I also just watched the latest episode of How I Met Your Mother where Marshal and Lilly are shocked by how disgusted everyone is when they learn that the couple shares a toothbrush. Jenny and I totally share a toothbrush. I mean, we own two, but we just reach for whichever one is closest.

8. A few weeks ago Jenny threw away my old holey sneakers. I dug them out of the trash and hid them in the trunk of my car. They were the shoes I found in Moab... sitting on top of a dumpster. I now own shoes that have been retrieved from the trash on two separate occasions. Given the chance, I know I'll do it a third time.

9. I try to consider myself something of a writer, but I am so ignorant when it comes to grammar and the structure of our language that I had to google my use of "pronoun" in the second paragraph of this post. Still not sure if I used it right. In fact, when spellcheck doesn't recognize my word, it makes me feel like a badass, like I somehow invented a word.

10. Sometimes I crave an adrenaline rush so much that I will keep myself from peeing until the end of my shift. I will hold it for up to an hour just so I can pee in the parking garage, even though the bathroom is only 20 feet from my desk. I know it's stupid and petty and illegal and could get me fired, but--much like the urge to urinate--the urge to rebel seems to build over time. If I don't have to pee I will longboard through the parking garage instead.

Ah. That was surprising liberating - writing the post, not peeing. Though, I am tempted to remove the word "Public" from the title of this post since only 4 people read this blog.

P.S. - 11. When I first wrote the title, I misspelled it to read "10 Embarrassing Pubic Confessions" which would probably have suited #10 pretty well, especially if I'm caught in the act.

All-Princess Weekend

2010-02-01T12:06:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away...

Like, Texas far...

Two beautiful princesses named Emma and Abbi were stuck inside their castle (rambler) because of the cold, rainy weather.

Their Father, the King and big spender, took his two princesses to a magical store of enchanted discs. $4.28 later they left the kingdom of Blockbuster in their Honda Odyssey chariot, each princess with their selection in hand.

Their Mother, the Queen, invented delicious and healthy homemade popcicles with plain yogurt, blueberries, bananas, and dark chocolate.

The walls of the castle were filled with princess songs from their chosen DVDs. So much so, that even after returning to his bread-winning duties on Monday, the King cannot forget that "there's something there that wasn't there before" between Belle and The Beast.

"What's there, Mama?"

Ah, Chip, you silly little bastard tea cup.

(I only call him a bastard because his father is nowhere to be found and it looks like he got knocked around a little.)

The number of Thing-A-Ma-Bobs belonging to Ariel still rings clearly, nay relentlessly, in his mind.

The disturbing realization of how many Disney villains fall to their deaths is still fresh.

In fact, the King and Queen laughed at each other after proving how immersed in the All-Princess Weekend they were by spending their Saturday night watching Atlantis.

To all of the other Kings and Queens with little princesses at home, I invite you to visit the Disney Princess website. We stumbled on it by accident and found that our little princesses really enjoyed picking dresses and accessories for their favorite princess. Enjoyed it for HOURS.

Sweet Reunion

2010-01-28T08:30:00.000-08:00

Back in 'oh eight I wrote one of my favorite essays entitled Sleeping Jenny. I put the link to it in case you would like to go back and check it out. I reference it now because something miraculous happened last night.

Working the afternoon shift does have some advantages (like shift differential pay and not setting an alarm clock) but it does put me home later than I'd like. Last night my manager invited a few of us to a place called Buffalo Wild Wings which is a bar and wing grill. Utah readers may have gone to Wingers or Pizza Hut to get wings, but it really doesn't compare to what they offer in Texas. In Texas you'd be hard-pressed to find a stripmall without a wing bar and donut shop. Forget the easy decision between honey bbq and regular, Buffalo Wild Wings has a range of spicyness including 14 flavors. Last night I tried the third from the hottest - Mango Habanero.

I could tell you how delicious the wings were, but that really isn't the point of my story. I could also tell you how one of my coworkers sent me home with their Asian Zing leftovers and what a good combination that was to the second showing of The Colbert Report, but that is also beside the point. What I want to tell you is what happened AFTER retreating to the bedroom.

I didn't turn on the light for fear of disturbing Sleeping Jenny. As the girls have grown she has become more tolerable and less violent, but I still don't want to poke the bear if you know what I mean.

I slid into bed about 1 AM. To my extreme surprise and delight, Sleeping Jenny performed a sudden and impressive horizontal 270 until she was smack-dab in the middle of the bed and pulling my arm around her. It's only a Queen so that left me with one arm over her and the other dangling toward the floor. Eventually my leg followed. But, the half of my body that was still on the bed loved it so much that I stayed there and cuddled her until 3, enjoying the scent of her hair like a junkie off the wagon. Eventually the need to return circulation to 115 pounds of me became too great to ignore. But while it lasted, it was awesome!

"Why do you have a hole in your face?"

2010-01-21T11:52:00.000-08:00

"Why do you have a hole in your face?" Emma would sometimes ask me. She would sit on my lap and poke at my cheek, a quizzical expression on her face.

"I don't know. It's just always been there I think." I would say.

"It looks really funny," she'd reply.

A while ago I was talking to my dad and he stopped the conversation to say, "Whoa, you're a pit viper just like me!" pointing to a hole in his face in the exact same spot. I guess the medical term is "Dilated Pore" but what it really looks like is a gaping hole. I think he meant to say something more like, "You've got a viper pit just like I do!"

Hole. Viper pit. Dilated pore. Genetic blemish. Sunscreen storage for later applications.

Call it what you will. It was annoying.

Today, I ventured beyond my blue-collar range into a land of Range Rovers and raspberry-infused water. I cast aside the shackles of lower-middle class to join the ranks of the rich and micro-dermibrased. I went to... the dermatologist.

I didn't really get microdermibrasion. I don't actually know how that works. I picture tiny surgeons driving Micro-Machines around your face with very small cheese graters attached to their bumpers like snow plows.

My dad said a dermatologist could do a punch biopsy to cut out the area around the hole and just throw in a few stitches to close it all up. Sounded pretty easy.

So, today I did. I sat in the waiting room (where they offered the standard magazines but also a surprising amount of C.S. Lewis) and read BusinessWeek in hopes of fitting in more.

The whole process was quick and fairly painless. It is strange to get a numbing shot so close to your eye but I would do it a thousand times before getting numbed for a vasectomy again!

While I was in the shop, I decided to get a mole on my back removed. Piece of cake. They were done before I realized they had started.

While the doctor was stitching my face she said, "We have to make sure we leave the smallest scar possible and avoid bruising. People may not be pretty when they come in here but they're pretty when they leave!"

That comment worried me a little as I began wondering if I was pretty enough for them to let me out, or if they caged the ugly people in back until nightfall.

"Mmmmmmm, cheese!"

2010-01-05T08:48:00.001-08:00

Jenny and I have done a much better job of limiting the amount of TV the girls watch. They usually get a show in the morning and one at night. Emma gets to watch a few shows and read books during her "quiet time" while Abbi is napping.

The winter months are difficult, however. Additionally, in our current living situation, it is very hard to keep the girls quiet while Daxton is napping if they're not engrossed in Dora or Mickey Mouse.

With my work schedule Jenny and I have not been getting enough sleep. The mornings we can both wake up with the girls and have breakfast before 8 AM are wonderful because they give us more time to enjoy each other's company before I have to be out the door for another 12-hour shift. Working 10 to 10 only feels good when I'm looking at my paycheck. Aside from that minute or two of excitement, it blows.

I would love to spend every free moment creating lasting memories with my daughters. If I could we would always be learning valuable lessons together, bounding through meadows and expanding our minds. But, the reality of life is that sometimes you just want to be able to all pile into bed together and cuddle and doze while Nick Jr. does the entertaining.

As much as I love getting drawn into the storylines myself, I have been trying to use that time to read. Lately Abbi has discovered that my back makes a suitable lounger when I am lying on my stomach. She stretches out and plants her little head between my shoulder blades. I stare at my book and pretend I'm not listening to Handy Manny's building tips.

Today Jenny brought the camera into the bedroom and started snapping photos of Abbi on my back. Abbi kept saying, "CHEESE!! CHEESE!! CHEESE!!" the way she normally does when someone is taking pictures.

I guess she was hungry because after a second she said, "Mmmmmmmm, cheese. I want some cheese!"

It was adorable.

Oh, yeah, and before I left for work... I brought her some cheese.

Big Papa Koontz

2009-12-29T13:48:00.000-08:00

I'm still working on reading every book ever published by Dean Koontz. As a writer he is an inspiration. I wasn't crazy about his last book, "Your Heart Belongs To Me". It wasn't bad, but it seemed like he'd been intrigued enough by an idea to write the book, but not enough to get truly invested into it.

But the book I'm reading now, "Breathless", is amazing. I love how he sprinkles these gem-like paragraphs into his books. Anyone who still wants to wrongfully classify him as a horror writer should read the following and tell me he doesn't have profound wisdom to offer:

"Each man or woman was a mansion in a condition between grandness and disrepair, and even in a grand palace, sometimes a room existed in which no one but the resident would ever be welcome. Cammy's heart contained more than one forbidden room, contained an entire wing of doors locked with bolts of guilt or grief, or both. Grady sensed that she denied ever herself the power to open them, to let in the light."

The Inner Mountain Man

2009-12-11T12:06:00.001-08:00

I've always had a small, deep-seated insecurity that my wife might like me better as a clean-cut, suit-wearing kind of guy. You know, someone who exudes power, success and confidence. A guy who drives a dark, luxury car and only does so while wearing leather gloves. Someone with an interest in fashion and art. Someone who owns a scarf. Someone who would never be caught dead eating with his fingers like some kind of animal. I have no genuine interest in power or monetary success so I knew an image like that would be a stretch for me. Plus, I really hate to iron.

During the last week, you may or may not have read about the steak and eggs incident. Actually those were two isolated incidents, but I don't think you can write about steak and eggs separately when both are on the figurative plate - they're just too irresistible.

The other day we were walking through Wal-Mart past the little heating island of rotisserie chickens and Jenny said, "You should just take a whole chicken to work for lunch and eat it with your fingers!"

I can't even describe how happy that advice made me.

To give you a little background, I used to be into hunting and guns. I think most young boys go through a phase of shooting birds and indulging in their morbid curiosity by pouring salt on snails. I think I was about 13 or 14 when I started to grow out of the phase. The appeal of hunting has left me almost entirely. A crucial transition was reached, and I was suddenly much more fascinated with the beauty of living birds in flight -- I no longer pictured them as moving targets.

That trend has continued, and as the years pass I find that my trigger finger becomes more somber by the day. On Friday, I realized how far I've come from that relatively bloodthirsty 9-year-old. I got out of the elevator on the 4th floor of our office and was surprised to find a large black spider crossing the elevator lobby. I almost felt like I was "supposed" to smash it, but I was so intrigued by its journey that I just watched it for a minute. It finished the long trek across the tile and disappeared into a crack.

I haven't gone vegan nor do I feel the urge to embrace a tree. I do, however, have a newfound respect for life and no longer want to do harm.

Then again...

There does seem to be something primal lurking within me. For example, when I went on the weekend "Man-venture" with Todd, Josh and Spencer, I crossed my fingers that someone would hit a rabbit while driving. I know it's horrible to wish for the death of a cute little bunny, but honestly I did. I wanted to skin it and roast it on the fire. I wanted to tear meat from the bones. I wanted to eat with my hands. I wanted blood to trickle down my chin. I wanted to be covered in dirt and soot. I wanted to blacken the underside of my fingernails. I wanted to push down trees and shoot the moon suspicious glares.

I could practically feel my beard growing.

That tiny mountain man within has gotten a lot quieter throughout the years... but he's still there. Last week Jenny again gave me the wonderful gift of acceptance when she told me that she is well aware of that side of me. In fact, she told me that the Grizzly Adams gene does NOT turn her off.

She actually kind of likes it.

... in a cubicle-shaped corporate nutshell

2009-12-09T14:29:00.001-08:00

(This picture has little to do with my post, but it makes me smile and gives me hope.)

I was asked to write an article about myself for the department newsletter. Like most editors, they hacked it to pieces. Here it is, in its virgin form:

Dan Workman is not coordinated. Most of his athletic ventures were awkward at best, until Jr. High when Dan discovered contact sports. Being bigger than most of the kids, Dan fit right in as an offensive lineman and defensive linebacker. In High School, Dan made the shift into rugby and hockey. A broken ankle took him out of rugby mid-season. At the end of hockey season, Dan was given the “Team Assassin” award and also held the season record for the most time in the penalty box. Not being the strongest skater or puck handler, the coaches instead gave Dan a list of jersey numbers at the beginning of each game and, like a 9-year-old in an unattended junk yard with a hammer, set him loose.

His juvenile affinity for hitting now subsided, Dan spends his free time painting tiny toenails and having tea parties. He has been married for 5 years to a gorgeous woman and they have two young daughters, Emma (4) and Abbi (2). They are currently working with Abbi, trying to teach her not to hit.

Dan has been with Fidelity since March, 2008, except for a month-long exodus to Wyoming to take a job writing for a newspaper. The scenery was almost as beautiful as the pay was poor. Dan returned to Fidelity and his family has moved to warmer climates by transferring from Salt Lake to Westlake in October. Now Dan’s only big life dilemma is deciding whether to side with the Aggies or the Longhorns.

"Protein, go for it" (John Cusack, The Sure Thing - 1985)

2009-12-08T17:45:00.000-08:00

I’ve been getting a lot of shit today about what/how I eat. I’ve dropped some weight lately, but I’m still in the 230 range, so the apple I grabbed on the way to work was not enough breakfast for me.

When I don’t have the time and/or foresight to make myself breakfast I usually go down the cafeteria at work. There are two employees working the grill; a guy and a girl. I’ve run into the girl a few times. The first time I ordered six scrambled eggs she said, “Six?” to make sure she heard me right, but went ahead and filled my order without another word.

This morning, I ordered my six eggs and the guy practically shouted, “You want six eggs?!”

“Yes. Yes I do. I want six eggs.”

He shook his head and mumbled, “six eggs” as he wrote it on the Styrofoam container. The girl walked past him and said, “It’s not the first time.” They both chuckled and shot each other a little glance.

“I’m standing right here!” I want to shout at them. Is that really weird? Does eating half-a-dozen eggs in one sitting really merit this type of reaction? Seriously, I want to know. I mean, I can understand a backward glance or two if I’d walked into Krispy Kreme and demanded two dozen donuts for myself.

At this point in my mental tirade, I’m standing on counter and screaming, “It’s the most important meal of the day!!”

And then, as I turn to the crowd I say, “Don’t you judge me.” (For some reason, in my mind that line always comes out with a southern accent.) After a short pause another slightly overweight man begins the slow clap which is followed by a musical montage.

Anyway, I’m working 13-hour shifts lately, so I have to grab three meals on my way out the door. Along with the apple I found half of a leftover steak and a Tupperware container of mashed potatoes. The steak was Todd’s or Becky’s, but they know my stance on old leftovers. If I am fairly certain that not eating something means it will get thrown away, I consider it fair game. In fact, the other day I stopped Jenny from tossing something in the garbage and Becky said, “You know you can’t clean out the fridge while Dan is around!”

I feel like a damned scavenger raccoon.

The new setting is my desk, Westlake Texas, around 4 PM… Central time.

I am cursing under my breath as the tines break off of my plastic fork, one at a time. As I saw away at the old, tough steak I feel like I might as well be trying to cut my way out of jail with the blade from a pencil sharpener.

Exasperated, muttering something along the lines of “Screw it” I grab the steak from the container and just rip off a chunk before throwing it back in.

I haven’t chewed twice before a voice behind me says, “What the…?”

“Did you just eat that steak with your fingers? What, are you camping?!”

Another voice says, "What's going on?"

I can hear the word and laughter beginning to spread that Dan is eating steak with his fingers so I just put my headphones back on, turn up my music and keep going till every scrap of that thing was gone.

I wish I was camping.

Snow

2009-12-02T19:22:00.001-08:00

One of the nice things about getting bigger is that this XXXL fleece jacket that Jenny bought me a few years ago now fits perfectly. It is thick, cozy, and probably the only jacket I have with a surplus of sleeve - the rest of them land about 3 inches shy of my wrist. It worked out well today because we got SNOW in Texas this morning!!!

Granted, it was only about half an inch and was gone by 10 AM, but still, snow.

(Later that day)

I'm sprawled on the floor of one of the conference rooms in our building with a beige telephone receiver to my ear. (I remembered my jacket today but forgot my cell phone again.) With my free hand I'm swinging the cord and imagining nun chucks. I feel like a teenager, lying on the floor and talking to a girl on a corded phone. Not sure what the opposite would be of cordless - cordful? cordy? corder?

The girl on the other end of the phone happens to be my 2-year-old daughter, Abbi. She is telling me about playing Play-Doh and, honestly, it makes me a little hungry. My grandma used to make edible Play-Doh out of peanut butter and flour.

I can hear Emma in the background saying that she doesn't really feel like talking to me right now, but she changes her mind before I hang up with Jenny.

"Are you mad at me?" I ask her when she gets on the phone.

"No," she says.

"Oh, I thought maybe you were upset with me and that's why you didn't feel like talking to me."

"Well, I am a little upset with you because you're at work."

And then, after a slight pause she says, "But sometimes I do like it when you go to work because you bring me treats."

So, here I am, close to the end of my shift wrapping fun-size bags of Teddy Grahams in the Foreign Bonds section of my free copy of The Wall Street Journal. Being a Stock Broker is really starting to pay off.

It's Not You, It's Me

2009-12-01T11:50:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago I wrote a blog in the form of a letter -- a semi-serious apology, alluding to my history with Utah as a rocky, complicated relationship. During the last year I have learned so much about myself, most importantly - how to feel whole and okay with who I really am; finding the line between complacency and dissatisfaction; trying to trust my intuition while at the same time constantly reminding myself how much I have left to learn and how little I really know.

I'd hoped that coming to terms with my own ignorance would make me a more accepting and open individual. I have tried to embrace the occasions when someone else can teach me something new and admit when I'm wrong - though I'm not sure how well I've accomplished that task.

In many aspects of my life, this has worked very well. I do feel that I have learned to be more accepting and gregarious than ever. I've tried to stand my ground when I feel strongly about something while at the same time keeping both sides of an argument in mind.

But, during the last year I have also been called "opinionated, manipulative," and (sarcastically) "always right." That last one was actually written in marker on my back during a party... another story.

I'm sure there was some truth to those statements, as much as I hate the idea of being that guy. I've enjoyed some very engaging discussions with friends and family during the last year. I really want to thank them for that. Probably because of more fault of mine than anyone else’s, many of those have turned into debates or even heated arguments.

Much of the pain of our separation from Mormonism has subsided. The book I wrote about the process has collected dust for months and I haven't thought much about it. It has actually felt very good to move on.

However, today I've been going through my blog and reading many of the posts from the last year. Last night my wonderful cousin Melissa told me that I was "Irreverently and inappropriately funny." I considered it a compliment because I think she meant it that way, but at the same time it carried a small sting because it made me wonder if I've been offending other people. I figure the chances are pretty high.

While reading my blogs in chronological order I can see that my writing has become noticeably more jaded and outspoken. I'm worried that I've gone too far and lost any sliver of respect my Mormon family and friends may have still had for me. If that is the case, I want to sincerely apologize.

Getting out the "bubble" has been a journey. I've loved learning so much about the way other people live, love and worship. I've tried so hard to understand the cultures, lifestyles and religions outside of the Utah I grew up in. The world out there really is so different; it's easy to notice with even just a glimpse.

Throughout this process I have worked hard to give more respect to other belief systems. I've made an effort to extend a tolerance I didn't allow myself before. In doing so, however, I feel that I've become MORE intolerant of Mormonism within Utah. That isn't right or fair.

I don't know if I will ever again be able to experience certainty in spiritual matters. In the movie "Doubt" I heard a line from Phillip Seymour Hoffman that hit me like Catholic bible to the head, "Even if you feel certainty, it is an emotion, not a fact."

That is something that rings true to me but you might not feel the same, and I respect that. I applaud your obedience and faithfulness, even if I've decided to try adopting a more Buddhist or Secular Humanist approach to morality. I could be wrong.

So, even though I will strive to be honest in my writing and speak my mind regardless of the audience, I may still need help from loved ones - keeping me in check to help minimize the number of them that I offend. I think everyone needs to find that line, right? I sure could learn a lesson or two about erring on the side of caution.

I love you guys. I'm sorry if I've said or written anything that has left you feeling personally attacked. I promise that wasn't my intention.

Fantastic Weekend = Bloated Monday Morning

2009-11-30T16:00:00.000-08:00

I don't remember the last time I rented 4 movies at once, but I did on Saturday. I picked one for everybody:

Funny People - Me (best choice, by the way)

G.I. Joe - Todd
Four Christmases - Becky

And I'm completely drawing a blank on the fourth one but it was the new cancer movie with Cameron Diaz, because sometimes I sort of want Jenny to cry without it being my fault.

I am a real fan of lounge weekends. I've been reading this delightfully sacrilegious book called "Lamb" by Christopher Moore. It is about the resurrection of Christ's childhood friend Biff. Biff is asked to write a more complete "gospel" about the early years with the messiah (who is named Josh in the story because Jesus is a Greek translation of Yeshua, which is Joshua). My wonderful Mormon friends and family would probably not get as much of a kick out of the book because, at 15, Jesus discovers coffee and goes on a healing frenzy, almost getting beat up after aggressively casting a demon from some guy's wife.

I think it's a great story and surprisingly endearing.

I laid on the couch in front of the window, wrapped in a thick fleece blanket and just read and dozed. On more than one occasion I woke up to see Abbi's smiling face about 2 inches from mine. I loved it.

We ate countless plates of nachos and played hours of pointless facebook games; cooking fake food, arranging non-existent jungle jewels, tending virtual farms. And yet, I did feel a small pang of guilt when I realized that I was neglecting my electronic fish. Poor Shiteater - sick from a lack of pixelated food and a dangerously high level of binary algae.

We stayed up late and let the girls climb into our bed first thing in the morning to watch hours of cartoons before actually getting started for the day. It never felt busy or rushed. Pure bliss.

It was the kind of weekend that leaves you in need of a strong laxative tea and at least an extra hour in the gym.

To top it all off, Jenny wrote me the sweetest blog entry I've ever read. As someone who is prone to public, written expressions of love... it hit me right in the sweet spot and left me with a lump in the throat. She was speaking my language, which I'm learning is such an important key in a relationship. The "treat others the way you would like to be treated" rule also works in reverse. How many times have I sent Jenny a naughty text message to express my fondness of her when doing the laundry would have been so much more effective? Oh well, we are constantly learning more about each other and using that knowledge to improve our marriage. It really is incredible to be in a Give-Give relationship.

Sadly, most of this world is filled with Give-Take relationships. You won't ever see a Taker with another Taker - it's too easy for them to spot each other. But a Taker will latch onto a Giver with ease, and the relationship works well... for a while. Both parties are having their needs met. But, it really is only a matter of time before the Giver gets emotionally/sexually/financially/(take your pick, really) exhausted.

I don't mean to group the earth's population into two groups, and I realize that a broad spectrum lies beneath this generalization, but if you're a Giver you probably know exactly what I'm talking about. I'm sure I've written about this before - in fact I've toyed around with the idea of a book titled "Surviving as a Giver in a Taker's World" except I have absolutely no real credentials to speak of. I just know what it's like to feel like a prisoner in a relationship. And now, thanks to Jenny, I know how beautiful it can be when two people get together who are trying to "out give" each other.

The magic question to find out if you are the Giver in a Give-Take relationship is: "What would happen if I said 'no' to them?"

If you are terrified that they won't want anything to do with you and your usefulness will abruptly expire, I'm sorry, but you are.

Not quite sure how I ended up down this path, especially since I selected the action figures bagging a squirrel photo for this entry. But, hell, it's my blog and if I decide to soapbox midstream then eff it, I'm going to.

I've seen a lot of Give-Take relationships end, and it's usually a very messy ordeal. Sadly, it's almost inevitable - a matter of time - a clicking timebomb. It normally takes a Giver a long time to put their foot down. By that time many of them are so fed up that when they finally do, it comes down with a lot of noise.

Unfortunately, to add true fufillment to this type of relationship a genuine change has to take place within the Taker. The situation can't turn around without it. Hopefully we all know how futile it is to put our lives on hold while we wait for someone else to change.

Anyway, enough of that for now.

So, yeah, it was a great weekend. I guess the sensations of bloated and contemplative aren't mutually exclusive. Perhaps that's why so much of mankind's best thinking is done on the toilet.

Black Friday

2009-11-27T09:38:00.000-08:00

Today, on the day after Thanksgiving, I am not shopping. Instead, I am sitting at my desk, eating free popcorn and feeling some residual gratitude. I am thankful that my office provides free popcorn. I am even more grateful that they selected the "Butter Lovers" variety.

It is a "Jeans Day" at work and I am thankful that I don't have to wear dress slacks. No dress slacks also means no tucking in, which is a huge bonus. I don't think tucking your shirt in is ever really justified unless you're a groom or a beekeeper.

I am grateful that "The Men Who Stare At Goats" is finally online.

I am thankful that the especially vivid car chase/gun fight dream I had last night WAS just a dream. I was very pleased to find the family minivan sitting unharmed in the driveway this morning.

I am thankful for my cute wife who, with a giant grin on her face, surprised me and our two young daughters this morning by saying, "Come have pie for breakfast!!" We all squealed with delight and raced to the table. I won.

I am thankful that there is not anything really wrong with my brain or hearing, because I could swear I heard birds all morning. It turns out that the cap on my 2-Liter of "Diet Wild Cherry Pepsi" was just a little loose. The thin stream of CO2 escaping was responsible for the whistling sound.

I am grateful for this cool place we currently live and the sightseeing it allows. On my way to work I drove within 50 yards of a hawk, a coyote, a peregrine falcon, and a camel. No lie.

No Pain, No Gain

2009-11-24T10:41:00.000-08:00

I'm sitting in my cubicle and trying to type without letting my forearms touch the desk - a nearly impossible task. It feels like the radius and ulna bones of both arms have grown thousands of jagged little spikes. I'm beginning to wonder where the pain from tendonitis ends and the agony of compound fractures begins.

This weightlifting "hobby" has had some surprising results. I find myself reading more Men's Health and Muscle magazine articles. The last thing I want to do is become a gym-rat meathead, but adding a few extra pounds of upper body strength seems like a good idea on a number of different levels.

A couple of weeks ago I learned about doing "negatives" while benchpressing. You can do negatives by having spotters help you lower the weight slowly and then lifting it back up for you, or you can continuously increase the length of your extension while decreasing the weight.

You start by setting the bar about 12 inches below your full extension. You are strongest at the very top of your reach. By the time you finish, the rack is set low enough that you start with the bar practically on your chest.

Today I manged to lift 425 pounds at the top of my extension. Not a full benchpress, just one foot off the rack. But, still, I feel like that is a lot of weight and wanted to brag about it. To give that some perspective, I decided to convert it.

425 pounds equals:

213 Beto's breakfast burritos
1 Female Bengal Tiger

22.36 of those Indonesian 19-pound babies

5 supermodels

1,360 cans of tuna

850 Carl's Jr. Six Dollar Burgers

1/5 of a classic Volkswagen Beetle

GLad it wasn’t mUTTON

2009-11-20T19:20:00.001-08:00

You know how they always say Texas does things bigger? Well, it really is true. I just walked through the biggest hotel I’ve ever seen. You first enter the atrium after pushing your way through elephant-sized revolving doors. There are fountains, rivers, waterfalls and a massive man-made canyon running through the enormous courtyard. The 7 stories of hotel rooms surrounding the atrium give it the feel of an indoor football arena.

We made our way along the river to the Riverwalk Café, passing one koi pond after another. The area surrounding the café is designed to look like the famous river walk in San Antonio.

I’ve been to Vegas, Mesquite, Wendover, and Empire Buffet in Layton, Utah. I am no stranger to all-you-can eat.

The Riverwalk Café, however, offers king crab, jumbo shrimp, filet mignon, prime rib, salmon in red pepper sauce, New York strip steaks, raspberry cheesecake, fresh watermelon water, a fajita bar, and much, much more.

I was three plates in before I even considered slowing down. I’d been warned that the food was good and to go hungry – very hungry. I filled up my fourth plate with desert and took an apple for the road. It was incredible.

I ate blindly, like a goldfish whose toddler owner has an over-zealous feeding hand. As I left the building, I called Jenny to rant and rave about how delicious the food was. But, during our conversation I realized that my breathing was strained. My stomach pushed uncomfortably against my belt.

By the time I reached the car, I was reminded of the Brian Regan bit about hospitals: “I feel like everything on my inside wants to be on my outside.”

I pulled out of the parking lot and made it about three blocks before I had to turn into another parking lot – this one belonging to a closed hunting supply shop. I yanked the emergency brake as soon I was behind the building. I jumped out of the car and made to the bushes behind the dumpster before all of that food made its escape.

Every directional aspect of the event was backwards. Incoming ports became outgoing ports. I tasted the meal in reverse, beginning with that delicious chocolate cake and ending with appetizers. The cilantro hummus WAS delicious when it was on its way in. I enjoyed it less on its way out my nose.

The odor of vomit clings to the nostril walls. The gag reflex feels sensitive and your awareness of it is surprisingly high, like a tooth with a new filling. Oncoming burps threaten, the way farts do during a bout of the runs.

Do I feel miserable? Yes. Do I think it was worth it? Yes. Would I do it again? In a heartbeat.

Annoying Habits

2009-11-13T12:18:00.000-08:00

“I think you might have sleep apnea” Jenny tells me after I wake up this morning. “You hold your breath for like 2 minutes straight and just make this really weird high-pitched noise. I nudged your leg and you started breathing again.”

I broke a molar on a Skittle a couple of weeks ago (I guess that’s what I get for interrupting my 2-month streak without sugar). I don’t have money for dental co pays right now, let alone cash to spend on special machines for people who can’t manage to multi-task well enough to sleep and breathe at the same time.

I don’t know why I’m thinking about these things while straining to keep two 100-pound dumbbells from falling on my face, but I am. Lifting weights has become my little escape from work. The weird thing is; I don’t even feel like lifting today. I’d rather go sit by the lake and relax.

“Anthem for the Underdog” is being pumped into my ears. I think I like this song so much because it reminds me of the day Jenny and I interviewed Red. 12 Stones played that song for their sound check while we were visiting with bassist Randy Armstrong. It’s pretty damn catchy, too.

A little drop of spit flies out of my mouth as I exhale for the 6th rep. I really don’t feel like lifting right now. My form gets weak on number 8 so I drop both weights. They hit the floor with two exaggerated thuds.

I sit up and look into the mirror. I’m sweating and wearing a dress shirt. Bad combination.

There are dark bags under my eyes. I smile a little because the beard stubble, sweat, and tired eyes make me look pretty sick. I’m wondering if I look bad enough to get sent home if I tell my manager, “I think feel the pig aids coming on.”

I’m walking out of the gym and the girl at the front desk says, “See you at six, Dan!”

That’s a little odd, I think. How could she know when my next break is?

But then I realize that I, Dan Workman, for the first time in my life, have developed a routine.

When I got transferred to the Texas office I was so excited to have a gym in the building. My goal was (and still is, unrealistic as it might be) to give Jenny a six-pack for Christmas. I’d been reading the Men’s Health and Fitness articles and many of them indicated that if I used more weight with less reps, I could maximize the overall impact of my workout. It is also a well-known fact that more muscle burns more calories throughout the day.

So, I made it my goal to go to the gym on every break. That is three times a day for a total of one hour. It’s been surprisingly effective. I’ve dropped about 5 pounds but I’m pretty sure I’ve added on muscle. In fact, in one month I’ve increased my max bench weight from 240 to 325. That’s 85 pounds in a month. I think that’s pretty good considering the hormones in cheap milk are the closest thing I have to steroids.

The strange part, however, was developing a habit without meaning to. The moment my break starts, I walk down to the gym. Even if I don’t want to, it’s like my legs are on autopilot.

So I'm starting to wonder if there’s something to this routine thing. What would happen if I immediately went jogging first thing in the morning for a month, or automatically picked up a book every time I felt like watching TV, or instinctively drank a glass of water every time I felt like having an Ultra-Violet Diet Mt. Dew?

Who knows, really? It’s all probably voodoo anyway. Plus, I really like TV.

So I Bought You Socks Instead

2009-11-05T15:00:00.000-08:00

(For Jenny)

I awoke today in an excellent mood.
You were standing there smiling and holding food.

A plate of eggs, and coffee too.
Through my morning breath I utter, “Dang, I love you!”

I finish eating, and exit the room
So very happy you made me your groom

“Thanks, babe! That sure was delicious!”
“Not only that,” you say, “but also nutritious!”
With that ever-so-kissable sweet but sly grin,
You ask, “Did you notice the broccoli I decided to throw in?”

I knew right then and there that I wanted to do something special today,
Something unexpected and extraordinary to show that I love you in every way.

What would I do? What could I buy?
My dilemma was complex, too difficult to rhyme.

So, I axed the poem format and decided to just brainstorm possible gift ideas. Just like working through a bag of peanut butter M&M’s, it was a process of elimination.

At first, I thought about lingerie. I could buy you something scantly and silky, weighing approximately as much as a sparrow’s fart. But then I thought, no, that’s really not a gift for her.

I thought about that dog you rescued today, and how sweet you are with animals, so I thought about getting you a puppy. But then I thought, no, she’s already doing potty training right now with Abbi. That would be too many potty watches to keep dry.

So, I thought maybe I’d get you a new chick-flick DVD, maybe something with a quirky lead female character and a devilishly handsome male “friend” who gives her a lot of crap but secretly understands her. And maybe he helps her land the guy she’s wanted for years, but once she has him, she realizes that he’s kind of an ass to waiters/kids/animals/cab drivers and suddenly realizes that she misses the guy who drove her insane 45 minutes earlier in the film. So she goes to visit him but happens to walk in just when he’s being passionately kissed by her secretly evil best friend/bridesmaid/sister/roommate/mother and decides to run away. He’s forced to chase her by acquiring a stolen horse/car/golf cart/child’s bike and just happens to make it in time to see her leaving on her boat/plane/train/bus and, out of breath, curses and looks really broken-hearted. But then, just when all seems lost he finds her at a crowded party/wedding/bat-mitzva/corporate meeting and proceeds to confess his undying love to her in front of everyone. They kiss, and we presume that the rest of their lives together are free of problems. I was going to buy you one of those movies, but then I realized I just written one.

I thought about buying you a bar of that symphony chocolate with toffee that you like, but I know that you would say something about all of the leftover Halloween candy we already have.

I thought about buying you a gift certificate to get your nails done, but I know how those drive you crazy after a while.

And then, after all of those ideas, I thought about the way you smile when I wrap you up in your favorite blanket. I thought about the way you love to feel secure and warm. So, I took my lingerie/puppy/chick-flick/chocolate/free nails money and got online to buy you…

…10 pairs of super comfy socks.

The "Douchebag Ex-Boyfriend" Prose - Letter of Apology

2009-11-03T15:18:00.000-08:00

So, I wasn’t really sure how to tell you this, but I’ve been feeling like I owed you an apology. I was kind of a dick there at the end, you know, bad mouthing you and all. I made fun of you in front of your friends and even pointed out some of your flaws. That wasn’t cool. I shouldn’t have done that.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, we go way back. You’ll always be a part of my life. I guess I was just getting bored of the relationship. We’ve had good times and bad times, and I let myself focus on the bad. I’ll admit it, I still think about you sometimes.

I’ll be the first to say that you are absolutely smoking hot in the summer. I love it. Spring and Autumn are just fine, too. But you were always such a bitch in the winter; I couldn’t help but get a little distant. You put on that winter weight and get all frigid. I have to be honest, when you have that time of the year, I’m just not that attracted to you.

Like I said though, I shouldn’t have been trashing you in front of everyone. We really have had some great times, Utah. I loved getting up into your peaks whenever I could – and don’t even get me started about the times I went south! Good times. Good times.

I know we had that little falling out last year, when I started dating your roommate, Wyoming. But, Wyoming was a lot of fun, I won’t deny it. She was laid back and uncomplicated. I loved to just run my fingers through her air while we were driving - it smelled amazing. And don’t even get me started on her stars!

But, Wyoming was just a fling. You took me back and things were… well, they were okay I guess. I just don’t think we were ever the same after that.

And I talked a lot of shit, I shouldn’t have done that. But then, out of nowhere, this big steamy blonde walks in and I can’t take my eyes off her! You remember Texas, right? You used to be neighbors. Well, we had a great week together and she showed me an incredible time. I was love-struck. I got all wound up on barbeque and margaritas and before I knew it, she was asking me to move in. What was I supposed to say, Utah?! Huh? You tell me! The roughest year of our relationship and you decide to rain all June? Didn’t score yourself any big points there. Air quality warnings all winter?! I don’t mean to be a jerk, but if you aren’t letting me go outside I’m bound to start looking for it somewhere else. In the words of Stephen T. Colbert: “It’s a hungry dog that turns over the trash.”

Things are good here with Texas. You know, there’ve been some problems, normal new relationship stuff. She’s got this annoying habit of making simple things harder than they need to be. Hell, her roads make even your roads look good! But, between you and me, she’s been around a time or two! Some days I think she’ll let just anybody in.

One of my friends put up a blog post about their fall activities. And, well, there they were – your mountains in the background. You had on that sexy, flashy little fall number – you know the one. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t look twice! Never really did get tired of staring at those mountains. Truth be told, I actually feel a little disoriented without them.

Anyways, I’m not sure why I decided to write you. I guess I just feel a little guilty for being so hard on you. I was kind of an ass. I’m not saying I’m ready to get back together just now. I just wanted you to know I was thinking about you. We’ll talk again when you’re done with your winter cycle.

Texan in Training

2009-08-27T15:36:00.000-07:00

“Yeah, but you’re gonna hate the humidity,” they’d say.

“You’re not really serious about Texas, are you?” some would ask.

“You know you’re gonna be back, right? It’s just gonna be another Wyoming!” one especially delightful individual predicted.

And my favorite reaction was from an older coworker, who stopped me mid-sentence by simply screaming, “TEXAS?!”

Maybe they have some of the same misconceptions about Texas that I had. I’ll admit; I was expecting to find dusty little towns riddled with tumbleweeds, rattlers, stains from spitting tobacco, and skittering armadillos. I expected the nightlife to be non-existent unless you were willing to scoot and/or boogie your boots – and owned said pair of boots.

I knew that Texans were proud of their state. I knew that pride extended into most aspects of Texas, including the state’s unique shape. I assumed I’d see some Texas-shaped refrigerator magnets, clocks, maybe even a chicken-fried steak cut out to look like the state.

To my surprise, the first display of this shape-oriented pride was found in a tattoo on the back of some guy’s neck. He was covered in tattoos, and looked like someone you’d mosh with at the Warped Tour – not your “average” Texan. But, there he was in the DFW airport, full sleeves on both arms and the outline of Texas centered on the back of his neck.

We got outside and I immediately felt the humidity. It was hot, don’t get me wrong, but it wasn’t unbearable. In fact, we were all astonished when the thermometer in the car registered 103.

“I doesn’t feel that hot!!” we all kept saying. We continued to marvel at how much “softer” the heat in Texas is.

I tried to describe it several times, but couldn’t. I continued to reach by saying things like, “It’s sort of like the heat is wrapping you up instead of beating down on you.”

The truth is, I loved having some extra moisture with my heat. The doctor who did my laser eye surgery told me I had clogged tear ducts. I go though artificial tears like crazy and ALWAYS have red eyes. They seem to burn constantly. But by day two in Texas, I still hadn’t used any drops. I don’t know if it was the moisture, the air quality, or both, but I immediately noticed a huge improvement. By day four you could actually see the whites of my eyes! I was so excited. Imagine my disappointment when arriving back in Utah and feeling them burn on the way back from the airport.

On a side note, while we were driving my sister in law (who had come to pick us up) asked, “So, did you have any tornados down there?”

Without missing a beat, Jenny let her too-rarely-used smartass flag fly and said, “No. Did you have any earthquakes up here?” It was fantastic. I friggin’ love that woman.

Anyway, back to the trip itself, we’d gone down with several objectives. We wanted to feel the heat. We wanted to walk around in the city and drive the phallic interstates (look at a map of the roads between Dallas and Fort Worth and you’ll get that one). We wanted to eat the food. And, more than anything, we wanted to meet the people.

You always hear about how friendly they are in Texas. I was curious. Growing up in Utah, I’d spent my entire life around plenty of people acting the way a nice person would. We’d gotten a real taste of some genuine, down-to-earth people in Florida, Indiana and especially Wyoming. Texas had its work cut out for it.

On the first night, the girl at the checkout counter smiled and said, “Have a real great night, Y’all.” It was wonderful. She really meant it! It wasn’t like the way I normally say it – generic and bland. She actually wanted us to have a great night! Side note: this was not a redneck, “hick” girl. She had a cool little grunge, hippy look going. Nevertheless, the “Y’all” still sounded as natural as could be.

In the restaurants, they smiled at us and asked us to take our time. We never felt rushed. They were genuinely grateful for their tips and nearly all of them treated us like we’d been invited to eat in their home. Amazingly hospitable people.

While walking in the Stockyards (an actual “western” touristy section just outside of Fort Worth) we really put the “friendly” claim to test.

I was pushing Emma in her stroller. We were walking past a biker bar and three guys were standing outside on the sidewalk, sipping beer and shootin’ the shit. I have no stereotype against “bikers” but I think they pride themselves on being a somewhat rowdy bunch. They have never stricken me as “mean” or “violent” by nature. Then again, these guys were big (like three, three-fitty kinda BIG) and I wasn’t about to try to push my way through. The curb was steep so going around was going to be a chore.

One of the guys leaning against the building noticed us and smiled at Emma. His hand shot out, grasping a fistful of the other guy’s shirt. He yanked him off of the sidewalk and bellowed, “Get out the way and let this beautiful little princess pass!”

They smiled at us and waved at her. The one who’d been in the way looked at her and said, “Yup! I spect she’d run me right over!”

Here are three rough-n-tumble bikers talking to my daughter like southern women on their way home from church. I loved it. I couldn’t get enough of it.

We made friends everywhere we went. We chatted with people in the stores, at the burger joints, on the way to the Titans-Cowboys game, during the game, and on the way home from the game. We were hooked in no time.

Utah has some great things to offer. More than anything it’s home to most of our favorite people. We really do wish we could take you all with us. If you decide to stay in the beehive state – as they say in Texas – “Yawn yoan!” But, hey, who knows, maybe with enough time we’ll be able to talk you into visiting. If you do, you might also fall in love and want to just turn your vacation into a staycation.

Giving Birth to a Criminal Mastermind

2009-08-18T17:10:00.000-07:00

It’s a dark day when your toddler first outsmarts you. Emma has always been extremely bright for her age. She was speaking in full, concise sentences by 14 months. She knew all of her shapes, colors, and even letters by a year and a half. She could point out and recite the entire alphabet by age two. At the age of three she wrote her own name.

Where did we go wrong?

I didn’t expect to be asking myself that as a parent until her teenage years. I mean, sure, I figured I’d ruin the first kid somewhere down the line but I thought I’d at least wait until she got to school. That way I’d be able to shuffle blame toward “that slutty little friend of hers” or even a “broken education system.”

How wrong I was.

At the age of four, Emma already seems to be directing her efforts to evil. Beneath that heavenly sweet and adorable façade lurks the churning think-tank of a criminal mastermind. She appears to already have an aptitude for manipulation and deceit. She’s working the system. She’s finding the loopholes without effort. She’s messing with my head. She’s a loose cannon.

She must be stopped.

The other night, Jenny and I were enjoying a few minutes to ourselves after putting the girls to bed. Jenny was nibbling on the Symphony bar I’d bagged for her with my incredible hunter/gatherer skills. We were nestled together on the couch, watching Californication on the laptop.

“Thump, thump, thump,” echoes the small, quick, methodical footfalls from upstairs.

Jenny pauses the show. David Duchovny was frozen on screen, either in the middle of having sex, smoking a cigarette, making a witty remark, or all three – I don’t remember.

I crane my head toward the hallway just in time to see a flash of pink and purple at the top of the stairs.

“Emma?” we both shout.

Silence.

“Emma! We know you’re up there!”

As sweet as can be, she inches into view, smiling like she knows she’s not in trouble.

“You’re supposed to be in bed, kiddo. Why aren’t you?” I ask.

A sly smile creases the corners of her mouth and she begins to descend the stairs with confidence.

“I just wanted to give you both loves,” she says, running to give Jenny a hug.

“Ooooohhhhhhhhh! How sweet!!” Jenny says.

Hugging my wife, Emma turns to shoot me a look of pure maniacal glee. You’ve seen those movies, the ones where the guy pretending to be crippled uses his lie to get away with putting his hands all over the protagonist’s girl? You know that look he gives him while playing grab ass with the woman he loves?

That’s the look my four-year-old is giving me.

I still take her in for a hug before sitting her on my lap. The confrontation is eminent. She knows what she’s doing. I know what she’s doing. Time to shut it down.

“That was pretty sneaky, Emma!” I say, giving her props but also letting her know it’s not okay.

She smiles, nods, and chuckles.

“I’m on to you, you know!” I say. “You think you’re gonna have me wrapped around your finger by the time you’re 12, don’t you?”

That same sly smile begins pulling her face into a knowing grin. She pauses for dramatic effect before looking me directly in the eyes and saying…

“Or 10.”

Perspective

2009-08-05T08:42:00.000-07:00

I’ve been thinking a lot about perspective lately. Working in the financial industry, I spend a lot of time listening to people bitch about their money. Today, for example, I had a chat session with a “Premium” client. He had over 6 million dollars in his account. He came into the chat guns-a-blazing over a miscalculation of his margin balance. In my world of “Electronic Response” blazing guns means typing in all caps!

So, here I am, running numbers for Scrooge McDuck to find out where his “missing” money was. Guess how much he complained he was missing… 3 bucks.

How many times have we fantasized about having money?

“Oh, babe, if we just had a million dollars! We could practically live off of the interest!”

Do you know what I’m beginning to realize? Rich people are some of the most miserable people on earth! I’m serious. They always have something to be “furious” about. They talk to me about how they can’t “handle” the stress of their late order of free checks. The throw tantrums and have meltdowns. They send emails from some cottage in Italy, ranting about the execution they got on their trade.

I’m always tempted to say, “You’re in Italy! On vacation!!! Stop counting your fuggin’ money and enjoy it!!”

But they can’t. The wealth consumes them. Everything else – joy, family, relaxation… even common human decency – seems to fly out the window.

Do I like the idea of having that kind of money? Sure. Do I need it? Not in the slightest.

I sit on my ass in a climate controlled building and get paid $20 an hour for very little work. Do you know that I have gotten paid to watch hundreds, if not thousands of hours of television and movies? Let’s see… True Blood, Dexter, Smallville, Weeds, Californication, are the series I can think of off the top of my head that I’ve watched in FULL while on the clock! Did you know that I wrote the majority of my first book while getting paid? Oh yeah, and they just gave me a raise for my performance.

The bulk of the world lives in poverty on less than $2 a day. That’s less than $800 a year.

“Oh, darling, can you imagine living in America? We could make $10,000 a year and live like kings!”

So there’s the finances. Moving on.

I hate jogging. I feel like I’m always too tired to go for a run. Sometimes I wake up with a sore back. From time to time I’ll stand in front of the mirror before getting into the shower, looking like a naked, shaved gorilla, and wish I had my abs back. I’ll wish the veins in my arms stood out a little more. I’ll wish my hair was a little darker and thicker. I’ll wish I could sprint a little faster, jump a little higher, maybe even look like the ripped black dude on True Blood or do all the cool maneuvers those mercenary guys on Die Hard 4 could do. I’ll wish I could skate or BMX like the guys on the X-Games can.

I can run. I am totally capable of running. If I wasn’t lazy about it, I have the potential to be anything I physically want.

“I’m too lazy to run,” is a statement most of us would make if we were being honest. If we’re really willing to say something like that, shouldn’t we be willing to say it in front of someone in a wheelchair? Shouldn’t we be willing to gripe about our lack of arm definition in front of someone who suffers from cerebral palsy? Shouldn’t we bitch and moan about how hard it is to exercise in front of the population of individuals whose bodies have failed them in some form or another?

“Sure, I’m perfectly whole physically, but running is hard.”

I think the wheelchair guy would be perfectly justified (not to mention aligned) to give me a good, solid punch in the crotch.

“I hate this mole!” you say to the Elephant Man.

“This music is too loud!” you say to the deaf woman.

“The sun is too bright!” you whine to the blind man.

“My eight-hour shift was exhausting! I really need to lie down!” you complain to the bed-ridden child battling leukemia.

So there’s the physical. Moving on.

“These kids are driving me crazy!!” you say to the couple that can’t have children.

“My husband (of 12 years who you desperately love and who returns your affection) never puts the toilet seat down!!” you shout to the lonely coworker who is still searching for love.

“My best friend is being such a jerk!” you vent to the socially awkward autistic individual.

“School is so much work. I have to read all these books!” you tell the Down Syndrome kid from up the street.

“This meatloaf is kinda dry!” you say to the 12-year-old Ethiopian who has never experienced the sensation of a full stomach.

“I’m not even getting my bonus this year!” you tell the factory worker who just got laid off.

“Our tap water tastes funny!” you whine to the Australian family whose house just burned down.

“Obama’s gonna raise my taxes by 3%!” you yell at the orphan in Rwanda who lost her entire family and village to genocide.

“Life is really hard!” you complain to the teenager who just got struck and killed by a bus.

“You’re a big, fat, spoiled, brat,” you confess to yourself in the mirror.

I had $1,000 stolen from me today. That sucked. I wrote this mostly for myself, to remind me that I live like a king. I really hope you take it as the reminder we could ALL use from time to time.

I’m not sure if you’ve seen it or not, but this brings to mind the airplane bit by comedian Louis C.K. Here it is if you haven’t seen it yet. It’s fantastic…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-LkusicUL2s

Think about it. With the right perspective, wouldn’t another sunrise bring tears of joy to our eyes? Can you imagine being filled with wonder and gratitude by the mere act of getting out of bed and standing on your own feet? Wouldn’t you dance all the way to the breakfast table? Gawk at the walls and ceiling that keep you dry and safe! Blubber like child at the sight of your own? Kiss your loved ones like it was both the first and last time?

We get comfortable. We get callused. We get greedy. We get forgetful.

Perspective is everything. It doesn’t matter how shitty you think things are. Somebody would love your life.

Stinky Hippie Vs. The Skinwalkers

2009-06-23T22:52:00.000-07:00

I don’t remember whether or not she wore a bra. Considering her nickname, Stinky Hippie, I want to say no. But who knows. She had long dark hair and I think her first name was similar to “Candle” but I know it wasn’t “Candie.” Candie is a great stripper name but gains no respect within the hippie society.

One time she showed us pictures of her friend’s ankle after a nasty rock climbing fall. I remember trying to look away but not being able to. You could see the bones, ligaments and muscle. Apparently the foot had gotten lodged in the rocks during the fall and ripped almost all the way off. In the picture it clung to the rest of the leg by a small strip of skin.

Little Edmonton was dating the Stinky Hippie at the time. I was a virgin at the time so I was often both intrigued and embarrassed by the moaning noises that emanated from the bedroom while they were in there alone. Honestly though, they were probably just putting on a show to mess with us roommates.

At the time we were doing industrial roofing down by Four Corners. We spent half of the summer bouncing around Monticello and the rest of the time in Montezuma Creek. There’s a Taco Bell right off the highway at the base of a big red cliff. One time we were driving to the elementary school we were working on and we saw Indians from the reservation doing a dance out in the open, just a few miles away from the Taco Bell and off the side of the same highway.

The sky was totally clear that day. I mean clear—like blazing sun, fried corneas, 130-degrees on the roof clear. There were plateaus in the distance to the north and south. We were dousing our heads with our water bottles, trying desperately to ward off heat stroke, when the supervisor pointed to clouds hanging over the plateaus in the distance.

“I hope they make it this way,” he’d said before returning to work.

Like a vengeful answer to an unintentional prayer, the clouds in the north swelled and began racing toward us. We noticed clouds growing to the south as well. It was as though the plateaus themselves were giant smoke machines, cranked up to full capacity and sending billows of thick gray thunderheads toward us.

“Do you think we should get off the roof?” someone had asked nervously.

In awe we watched the clouds race at each other. I do not choose that word “race” lightly. None of us had ever seen clouds move that fast. The barreled toward each other like meteorological muscle cars in a game of chicken.

We had started gathering up our tools without as much as another word. I don’t think anyone felt like we had time to discuss what was taking place. None of us had grown up in hurricane or tornado-ridden places and had rarely seen weather change this quickly.

With morbid curiosity we stopped what we were doing when the tidal waves of cloud met immediately over our heads. They glanced off of each other and began to swirl at the point of impact.

“Shit!”

“Move your ass!”

“Son of a BITCH!”

“Get off the roof!!”

“Hustle, dude!!”

I don’t remember the exact expletives and warnings we shouted but there was plenty of yelling when a cold wind kicked up as soon as the two sides of the storm started to meld. I don’t know how hard the wind was blowing in term of gust speed, but have you ever seen those garbage can holders made out of quarter-inch metal bars and encased in a layer of concrete? The probably weigh at least 300 pounds. Well, the wind was strong enough to push those around the parking lot.

The lightning and instant thunder started booming as the first torrent of fat drops started cascading from the sky. Within seconds each of us looked the same way we did when we jumped into the San Juan River after work to cool off and rinse the Xylene out of our clothes.

When you spend time in the desert, it can get difficult to imagine drowning in the same ravines and washes you normally pick as camping spots. I don’t think any of us will ever scoff at flash flood warnings after that day. We watched a raging river appear, within seconds, and wash over the road as we drove away from the school.

The highway we’d driven dozens of times that summer without seeing more than a car or two was suddenly congested as people pulled over to honk and cheer at the Indians we’d seen dancing earlier that morning. We finally made it passed, nobody speaking but everybody thinking the words, “Rain Dance.”

The San Juan was probably two feet higher than it had been that morning. We drove across the bridge and gawked at the enormous red waterfalls cascading over the red cliffs behind the Taco Bell. I think the whole ordeal only increased our love and awe for Southern Utah.

So, when The Stinky Hippie invited us to Moab during one of our weekends, we gladly accepted. Packing little more than a pair of shorts each, we piled into her Jeep Cherokee and hit the road.

The details of that drive down are fuzzy, but if I remember correctly, Little Edmonton’s older brother (aptly named Big Edmonton for the purpose of this story) took advantage of the scenery to drop some education on us. He was/is by far the smartest guy most of us will ever know, a scientist by trade and a blazing rationalist. Big Ed never seemed to get hyped up by much of anything. His voice was calm even as he recounted stories of cannibalistic, devil worshiping Indians called Skinwalkers. He told us about his cousin’s, buddy’s uncle’s basketball coach (I don’t remember the degrees of separation so I’m erring on the side of caution) whom had been tormented during his Mormon mission by these superhuman menaces.

We sat riveted during the 4-hour drive, hearing about pale white Indians who could jump clean up onto the roof of a house, run alongside cars, turn into Coyotes, crawl along walls and bounce, flatfooted, back and forth over a missionary’s bed... all just for the hell of it.

Big Ed may have just been messing with us. I’m open to the idea but I doubt it. Who knows, maybe they were all just messing with me because I was (and am) notoriously gullible. Then again, given more than a few minutes to evaluate and digest, I usually have a pretty good bullshit detector. Big Ed never set it off once. In my recollection he was fully convinced of everything he told us.

We got into Moab and, as far as I remember, immediately set to rafting the Colorado River. I can’t tell you how many days/nights we stayed down there or how we spent them in detail. I do remember tying the raft to my lifejacket, diving in during the unbearably mellow sections of the trip, and earning the nickname “River Steed” while towing the boat. I also remember Little Ed taking advantage of my precarious position, tethered to the boat, by whipping me with willow reeds.

“Onward River Steed!!” he would shout. I’m guessing it worked and I pulled harder.

I also remember cliffjumping from an insanely beautiful spot on the outskirts of town. On the way in there was the most beautiful piece of graffiti I’ve ever seen during my days in Utah. It showed a menacing block if city buildings, skewed and evil looking. The word “Death” was written in their midst. I’ve always agreed with that sentiment—not just because of my claustrophobia among tall buildings.

We were winding down to a campsite along a steep road of narrow switchbacks. It was getting dark. The beam of the headlights reached another sharp curve and then stretched out endlessly into the empty air in front of us as we made the turn. Our collective breath caught as the blue-tinged glow washed over a coyote, seated in the center of the road. The normally skittish creature disobeyed its natural characteristics by not darting into the obscurity. Instead, it remained in place, staring at us as we wound around it.

“Creepy.” Little Ed said.

We all muttered in agreement.

We found the campsite shortly after reaching the bottom of the canyon. To our surprise, the Cherokee was the only car in the parking lot. We pulled up far enough to read the sign and map in the headlights. This particular campground featured seven different sites. We were stationed at its only entrance.

After a bit of contemplation we settled on campsite 7 because it was the last on the map. If other campers arrived we didn’t want them to be trekking past us after we’d settled in.

We hauled our minimal gear past six empty sites. As we walked we peered into the six fire pits. None of them had been used. The entire campground looked as though it had been deserted, unused, or recently cleaned.

I think all of our nerves were still shaken at that point, but we walked in silence, not giving voice to any of our fears. The flashlight looked like a glowing sword in the night as our shoes kicked up the fine, dry dust.

The lucky number 7 campsite was nestled at the base of a mesquite tree. We spread our sleeping bags under it, a few yards away from a thicket of scrub oak. I built a small fire but we were quick to get into our sleeping bags to rest for the next day.

As I write this, I’m realizing that all of this took place almost 8 years ago. Some of the images are seared into my memory and I know I won’t forget them. To be honest, however, some of the events may have been flipped in my mind—not to say they didn’t happen, but I can’t claim 100% accuracy regarding the order of events. For example, I don’t remember if the chanting or lightning happened first. Don’t worry; I’ll get to it…

That thicket of scrub oak really stands out in my mind. It was between us and the rock wall of the canyon. I remember hearing the snapping of twigs coming from it while I built the fire. We hurled chunks of sandstone into it a few times, hoping to scare out the rabbit or whatever else was hiding in it. I even collected and kept a small stack of stones next to my sleeping bag once I was ready to lie down. When your ears collect the sound of a snapping twig, your mind immediately goes to work… especially when you can’t visually confirm how the snapping took place. Your mind first registers the sound with surprise, and then, like dominoes, the questions begin to flip over in your head:

How loud was that?
Was the sound enhanced by the echo of the canyon?
How thick would the twig need to be to make that much noise?
How heavy would the paw, foot, scaled appendage, etc. need to be to snap that twig?
What type of creature could I expect living in a place like this?
If I shout and throw rocks at it, will it run away?
If I shout and throw rocks at it, will it make me feel better?
At what age is it no longer allowable to be afraid of the dark?

Don’t think about the coyote. Don’t think about the coyote. Don’t think about the coyote.

“WHAT THE F-- DID YOU SEE THAT??!!”

That was what I’m sure a few of us screamed when we saw it. It was the first and, I’m sure, ONLY time any of us will ever see lightning like that.

I know you can’t close your eyes while reading, but maybe take a moment to do so after this next paragraph.

You are on your back. You can feel the soft sand give under your weight as you shift to get more comfortable. In your vision, the sneer of a narrow canyon runs left to right. If you look up you can see the wall behind you. If you look down you can see the opposite wall just past your feet. The red on the rocks gives way to purple in the starlight. You look up at the thin strip of star-speckled sky. Imagine you are holding a volleyball. You close one eye and reach out as far as you can with the ball. With this perspective, the ball is easily large enough to get lodged between the canyon walls. Now, imagine a bolt of lightning shoots HORIZONTALLY along the mouth of the canyon. It is so thick that it easily fills one third or even one half of your view, perhaps the size of baseball.

You cringe and hold your breath, waiting for the boom of thunder you’re sure will rattle loose the fillings in your teeth. It never comes. Once again your brain starts flipping through the index of knowledge in search of an answer.

What kind of lightning shoots sideways and causes no thunder?

Nothing.

I think at that point somebody suggested packing it up. We should have listened.

Instead, we stayed put. We were slightly reassured by the voices echoing into the canyon. We assumed that more campers had arrived. Their words were not discernable, partly because the sound was reaching us after multiple “bank shots” from the canyon walls but mostly because they were not spoken in English. We’d met a woman from Germany just hours earlier so the concept of a multilingual campground did not throw up any red flags. Still, we strained our ears to see if we could at least figure out what language it was. No luck.

“Are they singing?” Big Ed asked.

“No,” said The Stinky Hippie. “I don’t think so.”

We tried to go back to sleep. I was having a hard time descending completely into the warm bath of slumber, but the hours I’d spent towing the boat were pulling me pretty hard.

I felt something on my chest. My mind instantly flashed to the cabin in Montana. My dad had built it with a buddy from medical school. Our families would go up there for a few weeks during the summer. Initially, we went to help strip the trees and build it. Later, to lounge on its porch and get away from the city. In fact, we got so far from the city that the night sky was not marred by any sort of city glow. Seeing the stars that clearly means also becoming intimate with nature. In my case, that meant sleeping on the ground floor of the cabin and having mice run back and forth over my sleeping bag during the night.

I could feel the weight of it on my chest. Still half asleep, I reached up to pluck it off. Expecting my fingers to find soft mammal fur I was jerked instantly awake when they made contact with something very different.

It twitched when I touched it. Its body was covered in joints and a course hair. Again, my mind selected mental images from my memory rolodex. I saw talk show hosts shrieking and being tormented by animal “experts” who laughed and said, “Don’t worry! This kind doesn’t bite!” I saw a coiled whip flicked nonchalantly by Indiana Jones. I saw an equally less-than-brilliant criminal scream in horror after receiving a similar surprise on the face in “Home Alone” from the younger, saner, Macaulay Culkin.

Unable to decide how best to grab the tarantula, I simply snatched it in my palm and threw it as fast and hard as I could. It was so big, I still remember the audible “thud” it made hitting the sand.

I could still hear the faint murmur of voices. But this time, the echoes were wrong. They were hitting my right ear. In my lying position, the opening of the canyon was on my left. I was pretty certain the canyon closed up completely a few hundred yards to my right, hence the seventh and final campground.

I drew slow deep breaths. Sound waves do funny things and, as far as I knew, tarantulas aren’t any more poisonous than the mice at the cabin. I told myself to stop being such a baby.

“Snap!”

I spun and started hurling my rocks into the thicket.

Nothing.

I dropped heavily back down onto my sleeping bag. “Relax. Stop being such a baby.”

I continued that mantra until I was asleep again. Then, I felt something on my chest again. I shouted some unintelligible obscenity and smacked it off with the back of my hand. I tried to hit it hard enough to brush it far away and kill it at the same time.

“What the hell?!” the Stinky Hippie said.

It had been her hand. Apparently, she’d rolled the wrong direction and placed a hand on my chest instead of Little Ed’s.

“Are you guys awake?” Big Ed said. His voice was more strained and weak than I’d ever heard it.

“Yeah,” we each said.

“Can we leave?” he asked. He sounded like he had been crying.

We packed in a hurry. Nobody spoke. We didn’t put out our smoldering fire or double check to make sure we’d gathered everything. We just left. We could barely keep from running to the Jeep.

Just as during our entrance, we shone the flashlight on each fire pit on our way out. Nobody had been here. There were no other campers. The Jeep was still the only vehicle in the parking area. We’d all heard the voices, nobody doubted that. I can’t speak for anyone else, but knowing that whoever those voices belonged to had come into that canyon on foot instantly wrapped me in gooseflesh.

That sensation was not about to subside anytime soon.

Under the dome light of the Jeep I could see that Big Ed looked pale. He really might have been crying.

We drove away in silence. We were probably halfway back up the switchbacks before Little Ed finally asked the question we’d all be thinking. Turning to Big Ed he asked, “What the hell happened?”

Big Ed seemed reluctant to speak. He spun in his seat to peer again out the back window, as if to verify that we were not being followed.

“There were two of them,” he said, shakily.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Just standing over me,” he said, his eyes to the floor. “I woke up because I could hear them like… chanting, or singing or something. I didn’t dare move. I opened my eyes just a tiny bit – just enough to see the two silhouettes. They were just standing next to me, looking down at me… chanting.”

“You’re shitting us,” Little Ed said in a voice completely void of humor.

“I wish,” Big Ed said with a shudder. “They were going to kill me. I was sure of it. All of us. I just pulled the blanket over my face and waited. Then when I heard Dan I decided to look again, thinking they’d gotten him first, and they were gone. I really didn’t think we’d make it out of there.”

He turned again to look out the back window.

We made it back into town and pulled into a church parking lot to spend the morning. We bathed in the sprinklers as best we could and the Moab trip was over.

About a month ago I was in Moab with my wife and daughters and we pulled up to the same campsite. 8 years later the sight of the sign still gave me the chills. Hell, even driving the switchbacks made my skin crawl. Had it been a dream? Was it simply the result of overactive imaginations run wild? I can’t really say. What I do know is that, for me personally, the memory of that trip will always carry with it an eerie aftertaste.

Hell's (Atheist's) Commandments

2009-04-22T13:54:00.000-07:00

So, I'm almost done with my second reading of "The God Delusion" by world-renowned Atheist, Richard Dawkins. I won't lie, it's become one of my favorite books. Regardless of your stance with religion, I highly recommend it. It's actually a very funny and educational read. Dawkins does not devote overwhelming focus to any one belief system or branch of Christianity. He doesn't pull any punches, either. If your faith and conviction in the Old Testament God, Intelligent Design, and literal truth of the bible can withstand this book, they can probably withstand anything.

During my initial struggles with Mormonism and organized religion as a whole, I felt as though my conviction in the existence of God was untouchable. That conviction hasn't necessarily dissolved but has fallen into more realistic perspective. I've described myself on several occasions as a "Hopeful Ignostic" and I'd like to clarify that here.

"Agnostic" is a term used by those who simply "don't know" whether or not God exists and don't feel that it's a question we can answer with the information presently available. I agree with this to an extent. Dawkins describes Atheism on degrees of Agnosticism, stating that Level 1 would constitute a firm conviction in the belief of God whereas a Level 7 would constitute the opposite: a firm conviction that God does NOT exist. Dawkins, quite possibly the "Poster Child" for Atheists across the globe only considers himself a Level 6. He considers the existence of God as unlikely as the existence of pink unicorns, but admits that he has no concrete proof.

"Ignostic" is a less common attribution but I claim it myself because I find it more ecumenical. In my book I've described the revelation that claiming certainty in my version of God would consequently demonstrate a certainty in the falsehood of the Deity of every "opposing" believer. Ignosticism simply states that before we can debate the existence of God we must first understand who/what "God" is--obviously a feat we are far from achieving as a species.

I add the adjective "Hopeful" because I would still very much like to believe that there is more to our existence than our 72 earthly years. I am still filled with a sense of peace when I read through my description of God in the letter I wrote to my family to break the news of our departure from Mormonism. Does this sense of personal peace add to the truthfulness of my description? Of course not. Does it make a difference for me in my life? Yes.

As the months have passed, however, I've realized that having a "conviction" in this personal version of God would not significantly improve my life. In fact, it could very well be detrimental to my progress. When we give God credit for everything in our lives don't we also eliminate our sense of personal responsibility? I want you to really think about this for a moment. I understand that right now it may feel good to tell yourself on a regular basis that God is behind everything that happens. He's listening to your prayers, spying on you in the bathroom, helping you find your keys, giving your fantasy football quarterback that final boost of speed to run in the game-winning touchdown... all while working in His "mysterious" ways to decide whether or not to make that tumor malignant or benign.

I don't use the above example to try to belittle anyone's individual relationship with their God. This is how some people feel and it could very well be true. Nevertheless, I was once one of those single-minded "Christians" who pitied Atheists for their "pointless" view of existence.

"How sad," I would mutter to myself, "that these lost and Godless souls should spend their lives thinking that all they get is a measly 70 years."

Lately I've looked at the question a little more closely. Adopting the majority's view of God, you will consider this earthly life relatively short and, aside from your duty to obey, inconsequential. The real fun begins after you die, right?

I've watched a few interviews with Dawkins and he seems to be consistently assaulted with the same indignant question, "What if you're wrong?!"

He always seems to chuckle before replying, "What if YOU'RE wrong?!"

In a South Park episode a "strict and devout Protestant" as well as a "practicing Jehovah's Witness" find themselves in hell and demand an explanation. The "Hell Director" states matter-of-factly, "I'm afraid it was the Mormons. Yes, the Mormons were the correct answer."

They actually played this scene for us at a missionary conference while I was on my mission. Everybody cheered. Sadly, it took me half a decade after applauding for that idea to realize how truly awful it is.

Do we really want to let our personal/regional/familial views of God drive a wedge of elitism between us and those who disagree? What if you're wrong? What if you're both wrong? What if we're all wrong?

Do we really want to tell ourselves that God will declare "winners" in the theological debate? Will God slap a certain congregation on the shoulder while pointing victoriously at the rest and jeer, "You've just been schooled, Suckers!!"

The Old Testament God, perhaps. The narcissistic, baby-killing God. Of all the options out there, though, that's not MY God.

If you want to post a list of commandments in front of a courthouse, why not take a look at these, written by a "Godless" Atheist? Even without the additional five I think you'll be surprised when you see what kind of room you can free up when you remove a petty, jealous God. Number 14 is my favorite:

1. Do not do to others what you would not want them to do to you.

2. In all things, strive to cause no harm.

3. Treat your fellow human beings, your fellow living things, and the world in general with love, honesty, faithfulness and respect.

4. Do not overlook evil or shrink from administering justice, but always be ready to forgive wrongdoing freely admitted and honestly regretted.

5. Live life with a sense of joy and wonder.

6. Always seek to be learning something new.

7. Test all things; always check your ideas against the facts, and be ready to discard even a cherished belief if it does not conform to them.

8. Never seek to censor or cut yourself off from dissent; always respect the right of others to disagree with you.

9. Form independent opinions on the basis of your own reason and experience; do not allow yourself to be led blindly by others.

10. Question everything.

11. Always devise your rules as if you didn’t know whether you were going be at the top or the bottom of the pecking order.

12. Enjoy your own sex life (so long as it damages nobody else) and leave others to enjoy theirs in private whatever their inclinations, which are none of your business.

13. Do not discriminate or oppress on the basis of sex, race or (as far as possible) species.

14. Do not indoctrinate your children. Teach them how to think for themselves, how to evaluate evidence, and how to disagree with you.

15. Value the future on a timescale longer than your own.

Soak It Up

2009-04-19T14:47:00.000-07:00

Let's start things off with a P.J. O'Rourke quote to make this picture even more applicable:

“It's easy to understand why the cat has eclipsed the dog as modern America's favorite pet. People like pets to possess the same qualities they do. Cats are irresponsible and recognize no authority, yet are completely dependent on others for their material needs. Cats cannot be made to do anything useful. Cats are mean for the fun of it.”

I'll try not make anyone uncomfortable by making an quasi-sexual references to the sun in this post. I don't have much new to say about it, I only mean to reiterate that it's crazy awesome. Seriously, go outside. Unless you're on your laptop basking in the sun at this very moment or stuck inside at work, get your ass outside and enjoy the warmth. That is all.

Pouting

2009-04-01T14:43:00.000-07:00

I woke up in a terrible mood this morning. By some sixth sense I knew that it was going to be gray, ugly and cold outside when I opened my eyes. This is not the time of year to be reluctant to meet the day. But, like an emerging spelunker, my awareness slowly ascended from slumber to slide open the hatch of my eyelids. He must've snuck a peek and realized that this April 1st was a dismal, pathetic representation of Spring. You've made a "fool" out of all of us. Give me your showers, April, but leave snow for your ugly stepsister months like January and February. Don't murder May's flowers with this bullshit below-40-degree weather. You're stealing the rejuvenating power of Spring from those of us who desperately need it. Cut it out.

Brace yourself Spring of aught 9… I've only just begun making you my b**ch!

2009-03-22T17:54:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting here after the first weekend of spring in pain; grinning widely, as it's a delectably thorough and satisfying pain.

My head throbs with the residual verberation of last night's unbelievably entertaining Red concert. The best live set of music I've ever heard also contributed my sleep-deprived and bloodshot eyes, the consistent mosquito-hum ringing in my ears, and my hoarse throat, raw from singing and cheering. My calves, quads and forearms ache from hours of being trounced on the tennis court by Todd. My receding hairline provided no obstacle to the hours spent reacquainting ourselves with the sun as our hemisphere gradually rolls to greet her. This annual reunion has left my forehead red and delightfully tender to the touch. I can already feel the rest of my scalp getting jealous. The remaining hair feels heavier than ever. Don't worry, clippers, as soon as Jenny isn't watching we'll have our chance.

Ahhhh, the first sunburn of the year, I friggin love it! As John Cougar Mellencamp stated so eloquently back in '82, "Hurts so good!"

I love the sun. Rest assured, Jenny, our nearest star is the closest thing to a mistress I'll ever have. While most cultures try to attribute male pronouns to the quintessential heat source of our existence, I disagree. I consider the chaotic and unpredictable (yet also life-giving) power of our solar matron to be very feminine. And as such, I also consider our complicated relationship to be a very sensual one.

Every unprotected rendezvous with her caress is addicting and intoxicating. In her embrace, minutes quickly become hours until, inevitably, the stinging on your shoulders reminds you how quickly this seemingly monogamous dance can become a threesome with melanoma. I hate you melanoma, you sticky, ghoulish little creep. Like an STD, you sulk in shadows, breathing heavily out of your mouth and eagerly awaiting your window.

Like the preventative measures of safe sex, SPF 45 becomes the condom of "Safe Sun." Sure, the feel may not be exactly the same, but with an experienced partner such as the sun, the pleasure can be nearly as enjoyable.

I suppose it's a note more self-directed than to anyone else. Between now and the time these new budding leaves begin to redden and fall, you may find yourself standing on the grass with your face pointed to the east. You may close your eyes, breathe deep, and listen as the birds sing their pre-dawn praises to the new day. And as the first rays of morning splash over the mountain peaks, you might even whisper, "Come on baby, make it hurt so good." Even when you feel invincible, like "Riding Bareback" as some might say, take the time to slip on some protection. For, as Icarus (a fellow sun-lover) said, "Tis better safe, than sorry."

Give yourself, your skin, another day to play.

Move over fear, acknowledgment needs that spot.

2009-03-02T22:25:00.000-08:00

The heart rate monitor to your left stutters its already syncopated beeps. The valleys between the peaks of the green electronic mountains stretch longer. You barely hear the "pfffst" sound of oxygen as periodic injections are made through the tubes in each nostril. The noise becomes less noticeable as the "lub-dub" thump in your chest echoes like the last few straggler fireworks during the Grand Finale of the 4th of July display. As your senses fade, the TV mounted to the wall on the far side of the room sneers and says, "Now, don't you wish you'd watched more of me?"

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The large mason jar in the crook of his left arm is brimming. He concerns himself not with the limited space. Those captured will soon die and loose their appeal. He is instead obsessed with the thrill of the chase--mesmerized by the "Swoop!" of his net as it slices through the air, capturing another beautiful specimen.

The veins in his eyes stand out red from the strain. Sweat drips into them. He wipes the beads away urgently, eager to examine the new prize. Like the others, the markings on the left wing resemble the letters "S" and "T" while the body has a distinctive "U" shape. The right wing features what can only be interpreted as a pair of "F" markings.

"Almost complete," he says with a tremble in his voice. But then another, more beautiful, rarer specimen flutters past before he can spend any more time admiring the latest catch. He quickly removes the lid, crushing past collections as he forces the recent one in. The lid is replaced by touch alone because his eyes still follow the bigger, better conquest. He does not notice the shadow as it falls over him.

"Swooosh!!"

The net still hangs at his side. The draft from this new, foreign motion chills the slick sweat on the back of his neck. The day that once felt so warm now feels uncomfortably cold. Dark fabric billows in the corner of his eye. He never has a chance to turn for further investigation of the figure.

"Swooosh!!"

The wound sickle comes back down. The mason jar shatters as it hits the ground. The collector becomes the collected.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She wakes. Her eyes scan the blackness of the room. The window is a deep shade of purple--a faint square, barely distinguishable from the rest of the room. Morning birds have already taken to singing their pre-dawn songs.

Did that wake her? No.

In the bathroom, a fat water droplet loses its hold of the faucet rim and crashes into the porcelain below with a "Pwwooup!"

Did that wake her? No.

Blocks away, trash clatters into the collection bin of a garbage truck. The engine revs as the hydraulic arms return the emptied can to the ground.

Did that wake her? No.

"hiisssssss"

The sound is hardly audible. Compared to this susurration, her breathing crashes through her head like a marching band. Barely a notch above silence, the noise still bears a relentless quality.

Did that wake her? Yes.

She sits up, isolating the whisper. She turns and stands on the bed. Suddenly, she's overcome with the need to locate the source. She presses an ear to the large piece of artwork hung above the headboard.

Here. It's coming from right here.

The glass shatters as the frame collides with the wall on the other side of the room. Only the floral pattern of the wallpaper hides behind the picture.

Hair falls into her face as she claws at the wall. Frenzied, she tears the paper away with all the energy of a young child on Christmas morning.

"hisssssssssssssss"

The plaster of the sheetrock packs into her fingernails. She rakes at the wall like a wild, caged animal. Blood runs, unnoticed, down the length of her arm and drips from her elbows onto her pillowcase. Unfazed, she continues to treat the tips of her fingers like the blades of small shovels.

"hisssssssssssssssssssssssssss"

The plaster begins to fall in chunks, spotted with blood, as she works an opening into the wall. She rips open the brittle wall board and yanks insulation from the hole.

And there it is.

"hiissssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss"

Falling sand crashes into fallen sand. The collision of each dropping grain multiplies in an orchestra of passing time. Hidden deep within the wall is an ancient hourglass. Etched in the glass at the top of the upper half is the number 40,867,092. The number is mysterious, yet significant. The remaining sand sits alarmingly lower than this mark.

Initially, she is mortified by the pile of sand at the bottom of the hourglass. She jerks it from the wall, spinning it 180 degrees as she does.

"hisssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss"

Disobedient. Unaffected. Unwavering. Unrelenting. The sand does not reverse direction as gravity dictates. It pours upwards at the same pace, not slowing the descent of a single grain.

She returns the hourglass to the wall, rotating it right-side-up again. She breathes deeply, no longer feeling threatened by the sound of passing time. The thin cascade of sand sings a song that, although it cannot be ignored, is still more of an incantation of beauty than menace.

The dawn breaks and light fills the room. She pulls her eyes from the mound of piled sand in the bottom of the glass and lifts them to the reservoir of sand at the top. Gratitude flushes out her angst. The pooled sand is ever-dwindling, ever-diminishing, ever-escaping, but still hers. She cannot cease the flow, but is astonished to discover that she no longer wants to. The finite amount remaining, the counted grains... they add value. They are hers.

Writing Bug... How Sweet Thy Greedy Nibble!!

2009-02-23T08:00:00.000-08:00

I got on here a few weeks ago whining about how I couldn't write. Apparently all you need to do is publicly gripe about writer's block for it to crumble. I was looking at the Workman Family (Jenny's) blog and realized that my last post was 4 weeks ago. Whether the break was considered a relief or a disappointment is up to you. Regardless, however, I'm back suckers!

Actually, I don't know how much I will be blogging in the near future. I have the few initial test copies of my first book floating around, waiting for the feedback and edits so I can make a final first edition. Since finally unshackling that emotional 50,000-word ball and chain, the fiction portion of my brain has taken the driver's seat and seems to be careening haphazardly--to my extreme delight, by the way!

I've written a few posts about the my second book, tentatively titled "The Why Society" but I'd hope I can come up with something better than that! Maybe not. The book takes place in my fictional version of an actual town: Why, Arizona. I grown to really enjoy the story and characters, even though the book was started as merely a distraction from the more taxing memoir.

I don't know if I've ever mentioned the third project, but it is my second work of fiction and, surprisingly, taking shape very well. I am certain of the title of this one, which is simply "Eidolon." It is much more... I'm not sure what the best word would be... adult? Don't get me wrong, it's not X-Rated or anything like that, but it would earn a solid R rating as opposed to The Why Society which would probably be considered a light PG-13.

The Why Society has made Jenny cry quite a few times... hell, it made ME cry while I was writing it! I'd have thought that the emotional impact of that book would appeal to her more than the slightly darker and more "real life" Eidolon. But, she shocked me by reading the first 10,000 words and telling me, "This is my kind of book!"

To give you an idea of where the Eidolon book is headed, I'll include you the tentative beginning below. I decided to use this book to try the first-person perspective, as opposed to The Why Society which is strictly third-person. Each character has developed such unique hurdles, I simply couldn't pick just one as the protagonist. The Why Society explores more of the emotional aspects of maturing relationships and personal growth through life lessons during your late teens... oh yeah, and fighting giant lizards.

Without further adieu, I give you the rough initial idea for Eidolon...

(I'll clean it up a little for anyone who might be offended by some of the language.)

My name is Damian Gray and I've died 412 times. Needless to say, my relationship with the “other” realm is... intimate. I have never been killed, but would hate to mar my “talent” by calling it something as dark as “suicide.” It's more like taking little coffee breaks from life. Additionally, the 19 minutes I get outside of my body each time affords me... well, let's just say, opportunities.

Dying temporarily is a numbers game. You get 19 minutes and can travel up to 1094 yards away from your body. I am not sure why the math works out this way, but I've practiced enough to know the numbers and obey the rules. Maybe later I will tell you a little more about some of the “lessons” I learned the hard way. But, for now, we'll just stick to the basics.

I've heard people talk about the “soul” weighing 21 grams. I think they even made a movie about it one time, but I never saw it. I stopped my heart in a veterinary office one time out of curiosity. Well, I actually had to stop it three or four times to keep my stupid body from falling all the way off the dog scale. According to the digital read-out, I weigh 28 grams as a “soul.” Maybe their scale was busted or I'm just a little bulky out-of-body. I don't really care, I wasn't there to weigh myself—I was there to burn the joint to the ground. We can talk more about that in a while.

I don't know, “soul” feels like the wrong term to me; too religious. I've never spent any of my 19 minutes in a church, I can tell you that much. “Spirit” is even worse. “Ghost” is wrong because it seems like a cheap Hollywood term. “Poltergeist” is right most of the time but not as a general term. I don't think that I'm an angry guy by nature. “Incubus” sounds cool and I absolutely love the band, but I'm not down with the whole 'rapist demon' bit. I'm not an evil apparition by any means, but I'm no FREAKING “Casper” either. I'm an otherworld identity crisis I suppose.

For the sake of putting a name to a face, (or lack of a face,) we can call my separate form “Eidolon.” One night I was perusing an antique bookstore and looked up “ghost” in an ancient Thesaurus. Eidolon was on the list and caught my eye so I wrote it on my hand. Plus I think it sounds bad-A.

Speaking of poltergeist, people have that all wrong. You don't have to be pissed to PG. I mean, it helps, and some of my most spectacular destructions have taken place during an all-out ape-POOP rage. Then again, I have also PG-ed completely on accident; like snorting while laughing.

I suppose I should probably tell you a little more about how I obtained this “talent” for stepping out of my body. You could probably do it too, but I wouldn't recommend trying unless you've developed complete control. I don't want to fancy it up by pretending it’s something it’s not; I guess that's all it really comes down to—control.

Spent

2009-01-19T11:33:00.000-08:00

It's done. I'm finished. It took me much longer than expected, but after one last sleepless night of editing, I'm calling it. I don't know how many of you will want to read it, but you can see a 10-page preview of the book here:

http://www.lulu.com/content/4970025

If you want an actual copy of it, let me know. I might order a few of them myself to try and save on the printing fee.

You wouldn't happen to have any brain laxative, would you?

2009-01-05T21:46:00.000-08:00

Converging ideas create traffic jams in my mind. Irate drivers exit their vehicles and brawl on the halted interstate. Emergency vehicles cannot reach the carnage to clear or even assess the problem.

How many brain cells can you kill in half a winter? Enough? Apparently.

My fingers once stumbled along behind my train of thought in a failing effort to keep up - like a team of 10 puny third graders trying to take their respective Great Danes for a walk behind a parade of racing rabbits.

Now they sit, bored and twirling their leashes.

Why in the hell can't I write?

Third graders and Great Danes? Really?

"Muse, can you step into the office?

….

Thanks.

Oh, why don't you go ahead and close the door. That's great. Thanks.

….?

Hmmm... where to begin...

Muse, you know we think you're great, right?

….

I realize that you fell into this job without a complete understanding of your duties. However, I - as well as the rest of the staff - feel as though you have been here long enough to familiarize yourself with your duties.

Should we discuss your excessive absences? Low quality of work? Lackluster attitude? Failure to be a team player?

….!

C'mon, Muse. You know as a friend I love you like a brother. I promised your mom I'd give you a chance around here, but if you don't get your act together, we're gonna have to let you go.

….!!!!

Hey, sit back down, let's figure this out.

..

I know demand was high during the fall. 12 - 16 hours a day would wear anybody out. But we can't go from that type of performance down to... well... this.

Why don't we get back into the swing of things with a 4-day-a-week schedule?

.

Two? Are you kidding me? I can get Chuck from accounting to cover that shift. Seriously. Work with me here.

…

We'll meet in the middle. How's three sound? Good?

…

Great!

It's good to have you back, Muse. Bright and early tomorrow? Oh, you've got a thing? Okay. We'll shoot for Wednesday.

…

Another dentist appointment? Really? Fine. Thursday. No later.

..

Yep. Take it easy.

(Door closes)

Janet, can you get me Chuck's number? Yeah, from accounting. We might need him to pick up a few extra shifts. I don't know for sure."

Tricky to navigate stairs through all the tears

2008-12-22T14:00:00.000-08:00

I don't have any qualms about using these blogs to make random references to TV favorites. However, I do try to avoid peddling any type of product or recommendation. Either way, I will take the time to tell anyone reading this to go see "Seven Pounds."

This is one of the best written movies I have ever seen. Character motivation, development and plot begin as a scrambled pile of puzzle pieces.

Based on what I have read, don't trust the reviews of this movie. People complain that the mystery is too thick, the segments too disjointed. I disagree entirely. I think Seven Pounds does what many movies fail to: respects the audience. You may find yourself predicting the end of this movie early on. Even if you do, it will not take away from the powerful climax or poignant last scene.

The Economy - It Tastes Like Burning!

2008-12-17T17:40:00.001-08:00

Analysts may have all of their fancy charts and doomsday predictions, but in the Workman house, the economy can be evaluated by the quantity of canned meats consumed. Times have apparently been grim since I first tasted Spam with Bacon!

Processed bricks of meat aren't all fun and games. Sure, it is exciting to slice it up after watching it slide out of the can. You don't know if the congealed bubble of saturated fat you're bound to discover will be the size of a dime or a golf ball. It's like a prize in a box of Cracker Jacks! That is, I suppose, if Cracker Jacks started giving away heart attacks.

Even the way the meat reveals itself is exciting. I did some extensive testing and realized that Spam drops from the can at the same speed as the New Year's countdown ball.

"Yay! Here I am!! You're poor!" says the Spam after sticking its landing on your plate.

You can try to jazz it up, but adding eggs and A1 won't make your Spam fancy. Pretend you're eating steak all you want; in your heart you know that "rib-eye" you're noisily masticating came from a blender.

My denial finally gave way to acceptance when I pushed away from the table while trying to roll Spam into seaweed and rice. I sobbed uncontrollably into my greasy palms. I had just dragged my beloved Sushi into an alley, beaten and raped it.

Sushi: I will spend the rest of my days (as long as I can chew solid food, at least) giving you the treatment you deserve. I will never take you for granted again.

Women who make poor choices with men must face the lonely walk of shame in the morning. Men who make poor choices with low-grade pseudo-meats must also deal with the consequences after the next dawn breaks. In the words of the brilliant Brian Regan, "It seems like everything on my insides wants to be on my outsides!"

Regretful and ashamed, you are forced to stand on the train platform early in the morning and ask yourself the tough questions:

"Its only 23 degrees. If I let this fart out, will it steam?"

Lunch consists of Saltines and Vienna Sausages. You bite into perhaps your 100th of the year and catch yourself thinking, "If Spam pooped, I bet it would look like this."

And now, 12 hours later, you ride the train home longing to get out to the platform. Cold or warm, the pressure valve must be purged. Your intestines seem as angry at Spam as you are at them.

Then, as the realization washes over you, a single tear escapes the clutches of your eyelid. You can't wait to get home. You're going straight to the stove to crank it to MED-HI. You're going to take out that fracking Spam pan, aren't you? You are! You can't wait to peel back that shiny gold lid! You're addicted, Buddy!

Forget Big-Tobacco and Big-Oil! Let us raise our fists and revolt against the processed meat conglomerates! Damn you Hormel! Damn you and your delicious Spam!!

Home (The Dangerous Summer)

2008-12-09T10:23:00.000-08:00

TAGGED!! Well, not me personally... but a freind I know. You can imagine what it'd be like if I did! Huh? Huh?

Did you pick up the genius of the late and loved Chris Farley in Billy Madison? I hope so.

I saw this on Melissa's blog and thought it was pretty cool because it uses songs like "I Ching" Chinese fortune-telling coins. Okay... not really, but it is fun to search for meaning where none actually exists. Don't we do this all the time?

The rules: Go to the shuffle setting on your MP3 player. Answer each question with title of the next song that comes up. No skipping, even if it doesn't make sense!

WHAT WOULD BEST DESCRIBE YOUR PERSONALITY?

Mother Father (Dave Matthews Band)

WHAT DO YOU LIKE IN A GUY/GIRL?

Kotov Syndrome (Rise Against)

HOW DO YOU FEEL TODAY?

Thick As Thieves (Dashboard Confessional)

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE'S PURPOSE?

Broken Hearts and Concrete Floors (Dashboard Confessional)
*** Wow. Dark.***

WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO?

Back Breaker (Hit The Lights)

WHAT DO YOUR FRIENDS THINK OF YOU?

Who Is Aliandra (Park)

WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT VERY OFTEN?

What Would You Say (Dave Matthews Band)

WHAT IS 2+2?

I'm Real (The Starting Line)

***I would have said, "CHICKEN!!" for all you Brian Regan fans!***

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR BEST FRIEND?

Playing For Keeps (Matchbook Romance)

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE PERSON YOU LIKE?

Goin' Out West (Fight Club Soundtrack)

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE STORY?

Wasting Time (RED)
*** I really, REALLY wish that one didn't come up!***

WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP?

Whatever Tomorrow Brings (Incubus)
*** This is getting SPOOKY!***

IF SOMEONE SAYS "IS THIS OKAY" YOU SAY?

Save Us (Cartel)

WHAT DO YOU THINK WHEN YOU SEE THE PERSON YOU LIKE?

Black hole Sun (Copeland - Punk Goes 90's)

WHAT DO YOUR PARENTS THINK OF YOU?

The Trophy Wife (Park)

WHAT WILL YOU DANCE TO AT YOUR WEDDING?

The Grim Goodbye (The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus)

WHAT WILL THEY PLAY AT YOUR FUNERAL?

The Greatest Fall (Of All Time) *** Actual Title!*** (Matchbook Romance)

WHAT IS YOUR HOBBY/INTEREST?]

Papercut (Linkin Park)

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR FRIENDS?

Light in August - Chapter 9 (William Faulkner)

WHATS THE WORST THING THAT COULD HAPPEN?

On Writing - Disc 8 (Stephen King)

HOW WILL YOU DIE?

4AM Forever (Lostprophets)
*** Probably better for the last one...***

WHAT IS THE ONE THING YOU REGRET?

Eight of Nine (The Ataris)

WHAT MAKES YOU LAUGH?

Ocean And Atlantic (Mayday Parade)

WHAT MAKES YOU CRY?

What You Are (Dave Matthews Band)
*** Who knew I had so much DMB on this thing?!***

WILL YOU EVER GET MARRIED?

Matter of Time (Cartel)

WHAT SCARES YOU THE MOST?

The Ransom (Cartel)

DOES ANYONE LIKE YOU?

Love Seat (The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus)

IF YOU COULD GO BACK IN TIME, WHAT WOULD YOU CHANGE?

Memory (Sugarcult)

WHAT HURTS RIGHT NOW?

Broken Legs (Moneen)
***No Way!!***

WHAT WILL YOU POST THIS AS?

Home (The Dangerous Summer)

What I learned from this game: DMB is taking up WAY too much of my iPod space!

Note from Melissa:

"Be forwarned if you play: There is a slight urge to make these songs mean something. And when it doesn't make sense, you will be tempted to skip to the next song...There is a LOT of cleaning up I need to do. So much music to weed through and get rid of.
TAG, You're IT! (If you want)"

Who has two thumbs and hates Todd Packer? This guy.

2008-11-18T16:59:00.000-08:00

Doing a blog post from my iPod Touch seemed like a really good idea until I started typing (more like mashing!).

"I'm sorry, the fingers you've used to dial are too fat. To order a special dialing wand..."

Alright. Enough obscure TV references. But, ten points if you knew the first one was from The Office without the picture. And, let's see, a Gold Star sticker if you remembered the second one was from The Simpsons; you know, back when it was funny.

About the goatsucker book, I know I put on here that I would finish it by Christmas. I can only devote so many hours a day to writing and I made some great progress with it. Alas, my priorities have been changed for me.

Before I can put any more time into high school bullies or mythological mexican monsters, I need to get my first book into print. I mentioned it in my first or second post on this blog. Until a few weeks ago, I had decided not to publish it. I've had some amazing conversations since then which made me reconsider. A small handful of people have actually found the book helpful and started promoting it to their friends. So, I can either let my rough drafts keep getting passed around or do it right. It was a lot of work so the latter is really the only option.

I don't write this to encourage any of you to read my first book. I just wanted to let those of you who expressed interest in the fiction book know that it has been pushed back. Even though you completely forgot about it until now, humor me and act disappointed, okay?

Damn these sausage thumbs! Don't kid yourself, you can't blog from your iPod! Goatsucker book postponed, the first one will print. More news later.

2008-11-17T22:26:00.000-08:00

The Tiny Warrior

2008-11-05T17:03:00.000-08:00

Don't poke fun. The punches come fast and low. I know from experience. Johnny, sorry about the Willow picture. Please don't kick my ass... again.

As the rest of you may or may not know, Johnny "The Mechanic" Miller is a much better fighter than I am Journalist. A while back I was given a contract to write for the Close-Up portion of The Salt Lake Tribune, but couldn't imagine myself doing local reporting on the side. However, in one serendipitous swipe, Johnny and I each got a chance to shine.

After Becca was kind enough to tranq us, tag us, and drag us (unconscious and tongues lolling) back into their wonderful group of friends, we started catching up. (I joke in an effort to mask my nerdy giddiness at being invited to sit at the cool kid table!)

I realized that Johnny is even more serious about fighting than ever and thought - in the spirit of reacquaintance - to contact the editors of Close-Up and pitch a story about Utah's smallest cage fighter. They loved it.

I sent in the story today and they are running it. They didn't set an exact publication date, but when I know, you'll know. They even fueled my addiction for long-winded prose by accepting the piece 32 words too long.

Headline, photo and editing pending, here is a sneak-peak at the story...

Johnny "The Mechanic" Miller doesn't look like much of a fighter. If you ran into him at the park, you'd probably find the auto-shop manager pushing his daughter on the swings during a rare day off.

Barely tipping the scales at 135, Miller doesn't fit the stereotype of a cage fighter. Despite his vigorous training regiment and healthy appetite, Miller still falls shy of even the Featherweight class.

"Yeah, sometimes it makes it tough for my trainer to line up fights," Miller said. "I almost always end up fighting someone from a heavier class."

These menial details have not curbed Miller's passion for the ring. Trying to convince him that he lacks the build for the cage is like telling Rudy that he's too small to play football.

Does the issue of stature hinder Miller after the bell rings? Apparently not. If anything, his opponents run a greater risk by underestimating Miller and succumbing to overconfidence.

"Watching Johnny step into the cage is like seeing a Geo Metro pull up to the line," explained CJ Mansfield, close friend of the fighter. "You might be guilty of chuckling until the light turns green and you realize there's a v8 under the hood."

Miller's last fight - during Throwdown II at the Mackay Events Center - ended with a victory only four minutes into the first round.

Not all of Miller's fights have left him smiling. The most crushing defeat took place during his first exhibition fight. Strangely enough, the disappointment stemmed from a complete absence of blood on the mat. Miller never got to unleash his countless hours of training because the challenger failed a drug test and forfeited.

"He was devastated," said Becca Miller, Johnny's wife. "What a bummer that was. All that training, starving, and mental preparedness to go without fighting...lame."

“I would love to be the 135lb champ not only in Utah but on the bigger scale,” Miller said about his plans within Utah's Mixed Martial Arts scene.” I want to be the champ at the highest level of competition for my weight class - World Extreme Cage Fighting.”

When asked what compelled him to take up fighting, Miller said, “I grew up in Canada and have always had a passion for doing anything physical and competitive. I got married and settled down in Utah where I met some great friends who were getting into MMA training and invited me to join. After three years a lot of hours in the gym I started to wonder about my abilities. If I’m constantly training with guys much bigger and stronger than me then what kind of threat could someone my size really pose?”

“MMA has definitely increased my self control and my respect for other people,” Miller said about the mental aspect of fighting. “In our gym we pay respects [bow] every time we get on or off the mats, spar or train with each other and every time we enter the ring to fight. It shows that you respect the person and acknowledge that they are giving you their body, time, and energy so that you can learn. I’ve never been a violent person so I don't look for fights outside of the ring.”

“I train at Bernales Institute with Khru Will Bernales and with a lot of the other great instructors,” Miller said about his training process. “Chris Wells (wrestling/takedown) Mike Diaz (Jiu-Jitsu) and a whole lot more. I also train at Mushin self Defense with Khru Brian Yamasaki and Brandon Kiser. Even if I never fight again I will always train with them.”

Miller loves spending time with wife Becca and daughter Olivia. “I think family is the most important thing in life. I really am just a regular guy who happens to have a passion for fighting.”

*** Not yet part of the article, but I also asked Becca:

Becca, how do you cope with watching your husband and father of your daughter climb into the cage?

I think that I can speak for most of our close family and friends, as well as myself, when I say that it is a bit nerve-racking to watch Johnny fight. On the other hand it is a relief to know that everytime Johnny climbs into the cage he is completley prepared both mentally and physically for each fight . Johnny is a very calm and relaxed fighter watching him battle so calmly is very reasuring, I know that he is strong enough for anything!. Johnny is truely passionate about training and fighting, because it is something he loves I completley support him with all of his MMA goals!

----- Nov. 7 - Update ----

Just got off the phone with the editor running the story. They plan on running it November 14!

I wish I had more black friends to hug

2008-11-04T20:37:00.000-08:00

What a night. I have never before paid much attention to politics and usually watch the presidential nomination with the same mild interest as I might follow the PGA Tour. But tonight... tonight I was RIVETED! I have been watching CNN.com all day, working little. When the projection came in for President Obama came in, I regained my shaken hope for America and the democratic process.

I thought McCain's concession speech demonstrated great character and was only fouled by the seething response from his most faithful followers. In the past I may have been guilty of calling him a "creepy war-monger" but I gained a lot of respect for him for encouraging republicans to move forward and not tolerating the boos in response to Obama's name.

What happened to you, Halloween? You used to be cool.

2008-11-03T01:18:00.000-08:00

We miss you, late eighties. Apparently the introduction of the "Trunk or Treat" has teamed up with local news scare tactics to keep kids off the streets. This year, we marveled at the suburb vacancy while walking our girls from door to door. As parents, we reminisced about the hordes of costumed booger-eaters we'd grown used as kids.

It wasn't all bad; even though Halloween this year was missing the troves of trick-or-treaters us "old folks" had gotten used to, it did offer shorts weather. Thank you, global warming for making bug spray a larger concern this Halloween than winter coats.

Perhaps our era has passed. This new, even lazier text-messaging generation has been presented with a loophole that makes collecting free candy even easier. These days, it is no longer necessary to walk from house to house when you can walk from parking space to parking space.

Either way, we will stubbornly preserve our traditionalist attitude and hit the pavement each October 31st - whether we have to trudge through snow or clouds of mosquitoes.

Your Hard Working Tax Dollars

2008-10-31T12:38:00.000-07:00

Last night, on the way home from work, I pulled off the Bountiful exit and made it to Costco just minutes before closing. In my High Definition delirium, I loaded a 50" plasma TV onto the cart and wheeled it to the registers. We sold our 42" before moving to Wyoming (3 months ago) and they are finally paying us. Alas, my eyes were bigger than my wallet.

No matter, I approached the cashier with my Platinum card in hand and wrist poised for swiping.

"We only take American Express," she tells me.

I laugh, thinking she must be joking. After all, what modern-day corporation refuses Visa? She didn't laugh back.

Sheepishly, I extract my debit card and make the purchase - more money is on the way soon and I've beat transactions before.

So, this morning, I call the bank and tell them that it probably time for me to boost the line of credit on our debit card as a temporary solution. To my great astonishment, I discover that there is a new item on my credit report from The Utah District Court.

I think back, wondering if I have been arrested at some point without my knowledge. This random memory skimming leaves the net empty. "What now?" I ask them.

Four hours and seven phone numbers later, I am told that the item on my credit report is for a Daniel Lawrence Workman out of Ogden. Our Social Security Numbers are not even remotely similar. Our birthdays are off by 25 months. Our names are easily discernible.

"How exactly does the court decide to report something HE owes on MY credit?" I ask the woman on the phone at the court. I am working to conceal the intense disdain in my voice and failing miserably.

"I don't know!" she replies with a voice devoid of empathy or decency. "You can come pick up a copy of the papers and request a hearing if you have a problem with it."

Yes, disgruntled and under-qualified government employee, that is exactly what I am going to do. I cannot wait for the opportunity to trudge through your lines and deal with your equally sunny co-workers. It makes sense that it would be my responsibility to gather paperwork, schedule a hearing, make multiple trips to you so I can meet with a city judge and have him/her tell me how "unfortunate" the error was while directing the bailiff to send in the next case to dismiss.

So, I guess this is one of those instances where you might thank your parents for giving you a unique name. You never know when some genius is going to pull your information and think, "Well, that's close enough."

A Chapter For Those of You Bored Enough

2008-10-28T21:02:00.000-07:00

Why do I feel compelled to apologize for previous posts rather than just deleting them? I'm not really sure, but well, here I go again.

The last post was akin to the angry letters you're supposed to write and throw away. My apologies. I suppose I am still treating this blog as my quasi-private journal which should stop. I am always surprised to find little reminders that people actually read this dribble.

So to you, the reader I neglected, I am sorry. I don't mean to waste your time. I just always assumed that my stuff might be picked up by someone who has already worked their way through all noteworthy literature, finished reading the backs of all the cereal boxes in the pantry, and still had time leftover. That's my time to shine.

With that in mind, I thought I would include a chapter from the first draft of the book I've been working on. Some of you have expressed mild interest so hopefully this will be considered a gesture of gratitude.

The original idea was to start the book with a one or two page prologue to introduce the creature. Instead, it turned out to be a fine example of how your characters surprise you. I ended up giving Miguel much more time than I'd originally planned and started to really like him.

That said, feel free to read further if you have the time... and you've finished all your cereal boxes. Also, please don't forget that this is a first draft - riddled with adverbs and free-form writing. If you do happen to make your way through the whole thing, please leave a short comment with any (and I mean ANY) feedback you might have. Be honest, be brutal, tell me not to quit my day job - I like my criticism piping hot and sugar-free. --

Prologue

Miguel Guzman awoke abruptly to an angry buzzing sound. The right front bumper of his truck dipped off the interstate shoulder and kissed an agave cactus, splattering the windshield with pale, green goo.

"¡Ché Madre!" the note of panic in his voice more pronounced than he wanted to hear.

As he jerked the wheel to the left, his elbow collided with the driver-side window with almost enough force to shatter it.

"¡Ay CABRÓN!" Miguel cried out - a lightning bolt of pain branching through his arm in both directions. Dust and gravel erupted from the ground under the passenger side of the truck as Miguel continued to yank the wheels back toward the road. The truck shuddered and bucked as it failed to climb back up the steep shoulder.

The horn of a Volkswagen “Bug” bleated out a feeble warning as it blew past in the southbound lane. All sleep wrung from his eyes, Miguel strained against all six of the screaming tires. At last, the buzzing sound returned as Miguel coaxed the truck back over the rumble strip and onto the road. All ten of his big knuckles strained against his sun-baked skin. Miguel managed to let his foot off the gas, but could not loosen his painfully tight grasp on the steering wheel. Eventually, the speedometer needle began winding counter-clockwise. Even after the truck coasted to a stop, Miguel still sat rigid in seat. The RPM gauge in his heart's racing engine finally stopped its redlining acceleration and followed the example of the now-idling truck.

It seemed like hours before Miguel was able to relax the piano wire fibers of his shoulder and arm muscles. With great effort, he began willing his fingers to uncurl one at a time. For a brief moment, he worried he might have actually left grooves in the steering wheel. His hands in his lap, Miguel felt the adrenaline drain out of him like used bathwater. A flood of despair filled the void. Josefina, Carla, and pequeño Miguelito - he could’ve lost them all.

"¡Estupido!" he scolded himself. 15 hours of nonstop driving; no wonder he was dozing at the wheel.

"Gracias a la Virgin," he said, thankful to still be in one piece. Regaining his composure, he vowed to plan his trips better and never again push his limits (or luck) this far.

The door opened with the shriek of rusty hinges. Miguel clicked on his hazard lights before jumping down to the blacktop. His legs tingled with the remnants of adrenaline and the resulting burst of endorphins. The cool desert air did him good. He walked toward the rear of the truck, extracting the smaller, second set of keys from his pocket. Unlocking the padlock, he whispered another prayer to Guadalupe that the shipment would not be ruined. Grunting, Miguel raised the rollup door - which also rebelled against his effort with rusted bearings. How many more trips would he be able to make before the truck finally refused another mile? Miguel tried not to think about it. The strong scent of mangoes washed over him. After so many negative thoughts, Miguel tried to focus on the fortunate state of his crates. All stood intact and in the stacks he had arduously erected. Only three or four of the oblong fruits had spilled from the top crates to the narrow aisle below.

Miguel reached in and scooped up the fallen mangoes. A little sugar would do him good. Before returning to the captain’s chair with his midnight snack, Miguel suddenly recognized the intense pressure in his lower abdomen. The 44 ounces of Pepsi he'd consumed a few hours earlier now pounded relentlessly on the inner walls of his bladder, longing to escape. Miguel walked gingerly into the desert, leaving the storage compartment of his truck open in an exaggerated yawn.

The sliver of moon provided no reflective light to the arid terrain. No matter, Miguel was over a hundred miles from any real city glow. The uninhibited endless sea of stars cast sufficient light for Miguel to navigate the sparse forest of prickly pear and barrel cacti.

With urgent fingers, Miguel fumbled his way out of the jeans and sighed at the relief of evacuation. The stream of rented soda seemed to make much more noise than usual when it hit the desert floor. Not more noise, Miguel realized, just the only noise.

Miguel was far enough away from the truck to not hear the grumbling engine. What most surprised him was the absence of wildlife sounds. The desert was filled with nocturnal creatures. To unforgiving heat of the day kept most of the animals burrowed into the shade. Once the scorching conditions bedded down with the setting sun, the desert community stretched its waking limbs and joined for breakfast by moonlight. Yet even when he strained his ears and concentrated, Miguel was only met with an unnerving stillness. No coyote howl; no chirping toads; no swooping, screeching bats; not even the cooing melodies of the rock owls. Miguel supposed that perhaps his presence had silenced all of the vertebrates in the vicinity, though it never had before. However, he could not ignore the absence of insect noises. He should have been surrounded by a chorus of cicadas and crickets. Nothing.

As a farmer, Miguel knew that unusual weather patterns could cause this type unusual stillness. He gazed upward, expecting to find looming thunderheads. The night sky was clear.

Like an unwelcome reply to a rhetorical question, a gurgling sound broke the silence behind him. Miguel almost soaked his shoes as he spun to investigate. Hurriedly, he reminded himself to finish the task at hand. Zipped up and satisfyingly drained, Miguel crept toward the bundle of mesquite he thought the sound had originated from.

Immediately to his right, the gurgling sound arose and faded as something ran past him. Miguel had never heard anything like it. Not a purring sound or even a growl - the noise more resembled boiling water. No, that still wasn't right. There was a vocal hum involved that made the sound much more threatening than mere boiling water. Spinning, scanning, Miguel continued to flip through the index cards of his memory, trying to place the sound.

Miguel pictured his wife Josefina getting ready for bed. Josefina had always loved to sing. She constantly sang to the children, to the chickens, even to the plants in their humble garden. Josefina sang so much that sometimes she would try to continue her tune even as she gargled mouthwash at the bathroom sink.

Lacking a better comparison, this was as close as he was going to get the alien susurration. The two sounds had similar qualities, but were also so very different. His love, Josefina, represented grace, goodness, hospitality and warmth in Miguel's life. He felt guilty for relating this malevolent sound to her adorable bedtime routine. This sound (he heard it again, scurrying into the brush to his left) was something cold, menacing, and evil.

Miguel was not a small man. Although he was shy of 6 feet tall, he was still built like a brick chimney. He had spent almost his entire life in desert just like this. His "Papa" had taught him as a boy how to travel across the cracked desert floor while avoiding scorpions and snakes. Throughout the following years, Miguel had taken his father's advice to heart. With a balance of confidence and respect, Miguel had never before felt endangered by his desert home. Well, almost never.

At twelve, Miguel had taken Avenamar (his little brother) camping. The two hermanos enjoyed their weekend exploring the washed out caverns of a rocky outcrop. They took breaks from the heat often, eating the maroon pears that decorated the many barrel cacti in the area. Miguel and Avenamar had long before invented a game for harvesting the pears. Each boy would select three cacti and three rocks.

Riding the line between strength and accuracy, each boy would get three attempts to strike the cactus directly below the pears. Whichever boy ended up with more pears won. They would then divvy the entire bounty equally and the loser would earn the delicate task of peeling the pears. Anybody could learn to enjoy cactus pears with practice, a steady hand, and a sharp knife. On the other hand, an amateur would end up with fingers, lips and a tongue filled with tiny, hair-like spikes. The condition was miserable for days. The slivers embedded easily and simply broke off in the skin when the victim tried to remove them. Too small to dig out, you simply had to wait for your body to push them out on its own. Needless to say, riding out the 72 hours or so felt much longer than it actually was.

On the third night, bored of the small sweet fruits, the brothers decided to try for a jackrabbit. With a shoelace and the pear peelings from lunch, the boys rigged up a snare in the sage about 600 yards from their camp. They followed their father's instructions well, because upon inspection shortly after dusk, they found a good-sized rabbit squirming against its noose. Miguel told Avenamar to turn around and clubbed their dinner over the head with merciful swiftness. Miguel always made sure the first blow counted, keeping the suffering to a minimum.

They returned to their camp and told ghost stories while they waited for the meat to roast on the makeshift mesquite spit. After dinner, bellies filled with the heavy protein of the dark meat, both brothers slept deeply. Miguel had not replenished the firewood before falling asleep. His father had taught him better.

Avenamar's piercing scream ripped Miguel out of his deep slumber the way a spear fisherman jerks flounders from the surf. At first, Miguel thought that he had simply gone too far with the ghost stories and given the poor kid a nightmare. When he tried to console his brother by wrapping him in the blanket, he found that he was sitting up - and shaking. Miguel propped himself up onto his elbow and pushed his back against the small rock ledge. His gazed followed Avenamar's extended trembling arm. At first, he wasn't sure what the kid was pointing at - and then he saw them.

Hunched, lanky, loping across his range of vision, were at least three dark forms. Taller than dogs, smaller than wolves - coyotes. For a moment, Miguel felt relieved. Coyotes were timid creatures by nature. During his solo ventures to this place, he had seen them on several occasions. They seemed pathetic. The moment they had been aware of his presence they had scuttled away in an absurd c-shaped posture; tucked tails racing their noses. Then again, these encounters had been with one coyote at a time, and during the day.

Miguel's relief fled, making way for the mudslide of fear. This trio of sinister shadows was closing in, each pass closer than the one before. Miguel clamped a hand over Avenamar's mouth, telling him not to make any loud noises or sudden movements that might excite the pack.

"Solamente quieren el conejo" he whispered, directing Avenamar's attention to the bones and scraps of leftover meat from their supper. Miguel cursed his carelessness, he should have buried those morsels, and far from camp.

Miguel placed a hand under each of his brother's arms. With as few words as possible, Miguel indicated that he wanted to stand slowly, and in unison. When Miguel began shifting his weight to pull his feet under him, a low snarling sound froze him in his tracks. Avenamar did not freeze. Instead, he looked up to confirm the source of the snarl. Disregarding his brother's instructions, Avenamar screamed again.

Miguel did not need to look up; he already knew what he would find. Miguel could easily picture this ledge of rock as he had seen it from a distance. The pack leader would be peering down at them, his front paws an insignificant 18 inches from their heads. The trio they had been watching was not posed for attack; it was a distraction. The three had done their jobs well.

Miguel cut off Avenamar's scream, snapping the boy to his feet by a fistful of his hoodie. Miguel pulled his brother toward the fire pit as he heard the pack leader chomping and snarling from the ledge. Arriving to the smoldering remnants of the campfire in a few steps, Miguel spun. With the same momentum, he pushed Avenamar behind him and swept his foot through the glowing embers. The pack leader leapt from the ledge, only to be met with a shower of sparks. Disoriented, the big coyote fell short his mark.

Fanning left and right, the sparks resembled water droplets when the pack leader shook them from his coat. Miguel took advantage of this extra second to pick up one of the large stones they had selected to contain the fire. He wasn’t sure if he actually heard the meat of his palm sizzle or if the sound was imagined. He didn't pause long enough to find out. Since he'd awaken, Miguel had not issued a sound louder than a whisper. With a shout of rage and pain he broke his streak of silence; hurling the broiling rock at the pack leader with every ounce of strength he possessed. The practice gained from collecting cactus pears paid off. The smoking stone flew true, thudding into the big coyote between its shoulders and haunches. The pack leader yelped, the heavy stone tipping it off balance like a carnival milk bottle. Avenamar joined Miguel with the primal scream, all fear in his voice replaced by anger. Miguel turned and found that the three hunting partners had been closing ground behind them. Avenamar flung a handful of gravel in their direction. They were more skittish after hearing the cry of pain knocked from their pack leader. Miguel searched the dark horizon frantically, finally located the nearby mesquite tree. Signaling to Avenamar, he shouted "Corre!"

The pack leader painfully got to its feet. The other three hunters watched the boys sprint toward the tree, not sure how to proceed. The pack leader snarled and took chase, the three smaller coyotes followed close behind it.

Miguel pushed Avenamar to run faster. He would only have two or three seconds to help his brother into the tree. Luckily, Avenamar spent a great deal of his time on the farm in the mango and pomegranate trees and was an excellent climber. Without slowing his pace, Avenamar jumped, grasping one of the lower hanging branches. Before his legs could lose their forward momentum and leave him dangling, Miguel shoved him hard, flipping him over the branch. With Avenamar out of reach of the coyotes, Miguel rounded the tree, putting it between him and the advancing pack. He jumped, trying to grasp a reachable branch, but forgot about his burned hand. The tender burnt flesh tore on the rough bark. Miguel cried out in pain, dropping back to the ground just as the pack reached the tree. Avenamar, safely out of reach, began shouting in an effort to draw the attention of the pack. The coyotes were not deterred.

Miguel jumped again, reaching with his left hand this time. His grasp on the branch was not strong, but he held himself above the ground. The coyotes snapped at his kicking legs without any of their previous hesitation. It almost seemed as if they enjoyed the concept of a dangling morsel. Miguel caught one of the smaller ones with a solid kick from his left foot. He planted his right foot on the tree for leverage and managed to hook his right elbow over the nearest branch. Miguel continued swinging his left foot, but failed to make contact a second time. As he brought it back for a third attempt, the pack leader latched onto it, sinking its teeth through the fabric of his sneaker and into his foot. Miguel screamed in pain, but managed to maintain his hold. The big coyote seemed as though he wanted to eat Miguel in the fashion of a python; whole, from one end to the other.

A long dead stick was thrust past Miguel, directly into the snout of the chomping pack leader. Miguel looked up through tear-filled eyes and saw his valiant little brother lying on the branch above him. Avenamar was stabbing with the dead stick he'd scavenged from the tree. His determined gaze reminded Miguel of the Robin Hood stories their "Papa" sometimes read to them. Avenamar's persistence triumphed. With its snout bloodied and one eye blinded, the pack leader loosened his hold. Miguel cried out again as the pack leader fell away with his shoe, grating his foot with its teeth.

As soon as Miguel was free, he pulled himself over the branch to his right. Avenamar pulled at his clothes, helping his big brother arrive at the same prone position. They both faced downward and watched the four angry jowls leap up toward them, clamp closed on the dry desert air, and fall away. The two brothers lay like that, crying softly until after dawn.

Eventually, their fruitless efforts slowed the coyotes' frenzied snapping. What followed was worse. The determined pack simply sat patiently, licking their lips and staring directly at the boys. Miguel and Avenamar tried yelling at the coyotes until their voices were hoarse. The pack didn't seem to care.

As the sun rose higher in the sky, the brothers climbed carefully into the higher branches. They lifted their shirts and grimaced at each other's scraped and bruised abdomens. Miguel noticed Avenamar's cracked lips and began worrying about dehydration. Before noon, Avenamar pointed out a dust devil toward the south. Unlike the normal dust devils, this one traveled in only one direction and did not seem to fade.

At once, both boys recognized the hum of their dad's Toyota pickup. Miguel nearly lost his footing in the tree as he stood to start shouting. With his left had held fast to a branch, he waived his swollen, blood-crusted right hand, drawing his dad's attention. The Toyota crested the hill in front of them and stopped. The door opened and Miguel thought he saw the flash of something long and metallic. He actually heard the smack of the bullet a split second before the actual gunshot. One of the smaller coyotes crumpled to the ground beneath them, dead. The other three scattered in every direction with that usual c-shaped retreat.

The pack leader did not make it far before a second gunshot tumbled it in mid-step. Their father got back into the pickup and drove down to the tree. Miguel did not remember much of the exchange that took place. He only remembers the reunion being filled with tears and hugs. He and Avenamar took turns on the ride home sipping from their dad's canteen and recounting the events of the night before. Miguel remembered being terrified that his dad would be disappointed in his carelessness with the fire and chicken bones. Instead, his dad appeared to be brimming with pride.

That was 22 years ago. Miguel's father's farm was over 300 miles to the south. He would not be arriving to Miguel's aid tonight with that antique 30-30 rifle. Avenamar lived in Guadalajara. He worked as a professor of history. He'd kept that dead stick at his side for weeks after their confrontation with the coyotes. Now that Miguel thought about it, Avenamar actually had that silly old dead stick hung in his study. Miguel had not paid any attention to it - had nearly forgotten about it - until now.

As he stood alone in the desert night trying to keep his wits about him, the memory of that night flooded over Miguel. The gurgling sound was coming from multiple points of origin now. Whatever unholy creature made that wretched sound; there were more than one of them. Behind him, Miguel heard a strange chirping sound. He took a deep breath and looked down at the smoothed, ridged scars that adorned his right palm. The foot-long centipede of fear stopped running laps up and down his spine.

About 15 feet in front of him, Miguel saw a small round shadow on the ground. He issued a small prayer that the shape would prove to be a stone rather than a sleeping chinchilla. Whatever it was, it would have to do. The gurgling sound closed in on either side of him, the chirping was still behind him, but the sound carried so strangely that Miguel could not discern the distance.

Miguel focused on the round object and skipped all intermediate gears; breaking into a sprint from a stand still. The gurgling sounds intensified and the chirps seemed to mutate into some type of reptilian barking sound.

Reaching down while doing his best to keep his speed, Miguel scooped up the object. Again, he thanked the Virgin. It was a stone, not a chinchilla. Sadly, Miguel realized that even if it had been a small nocturnal mammal, he would have still thrown it. Rotating, Miguel changed direction toward the road and hurled the rock toward the dark object that pursued him. A dull smack, like a baseball hitting a hard leather mitt, was followed by a faster, higher-pitched chirping sound. Miguel did not slow to examine his aim. The gurgling sounds seemed to fade as the road broke into view. Miguel took no chances and pushed his legs even harder.

He burst onto the desolate road, gasping for breath. His nerves were still firing on their own random sequences, but he saw no movement as he scanned the desert floor beyond the road. He wasted no time in returning to his truck. At a jog, he ran up the two steps at the rear door, grasped the strap at the bottom, and dropped to ground, letting his weight pull the rollup door shut.

As the door rolled to a close, Miguel thought he saw two shining points at the back of the row between the crates. He locked the padlock and returned to the driver's seat. As he turned off the emergency flashers and put the truck into gear, he thought about the reflective glint he’d imagined. Just the nerves.

He took a deep breath as he pulled back onto the road. He tried not to think about cat’s eyes in headlights, or those of coyotes in the moonlight. Again, he told himself it was just the nerves.

Rough Week (WARNING: Contains venting language)

2008-10-28T11:27:00.000-07:00

Did I mention before that we aren't moving again for at least two years? After last week, my conviction has been solidified. We felt so bad for making other people help haul our junk (especially Todd and Becky) that this time we really tried to do as much as possible by ourselves. You never really appreciate (or despise) how much crap you've collected over the years until you try to move it by yourself. Though, I am certain that Todd and Becky still ended up carrying much more than we would have hoped.

I included the picture above in hopes of mocking my own current misery. I have always been afflicted with cold sores. I got them as a kid; I had one during our wedding reception; it's just part of my life.

Normally, I get hit with one, chop off the top, soak it in alcohol, and wait for the wound to heal. I know that they can be induced by sickness and chapped lips, but in my case they are usually a stress indicator.

I have never gotten more than two cold sores at once, until now. I have also moved plenty of times without one of the nasty little bastards rearing its ugly face. But today as I write this, I have counted six. That staggering number includes the one that decided the "No Vacancy" sign was up on my lips and decided to camp out under a nostril - a new experience for me... and yes, as painful as it sounds.

Other factors (okay, very BIG factors) can be held responsible for the lower-face agony. Why don't we just say that recent drama within immediate family circles has peaked stress levels to previously unexplored altitudes. It is difficult to be told by a very close family member that you are "a pathetic excuse for a human being." Especially difficult when you didn't know that particular family member was even mad at you.

Oh well, what can we do right? Sometimes we are the last ones to learn that the verdict is in and no further testimonies will be admissible. Those situations can come with an extra helping of "WTF!" when you are blindsided with the news that you were the one on trial.

Bright side? Maybe. Prescription strength stress like this appears to be more effective than gym time. I stepped on the scale this morning and found that I weigh 20 pounds less than I did this time last week. I suppose food is less appealing when your mouth feels like somebody beat the hell out of it with an infected baseball bat.

As the dust settles, I am once again flooded with gratitude for my own family unit. My beautiful, happy, healthy and drama-free girls make home a haven. Jenny, Emma and Abbi are a portable "Safe Zone" where I can always run while crying, "Time Out!! No Touchies!!"

I don't know, it almost makes me grateful for the times when the rest of life seems to be crumbling around you and the world outside your door seems knee-deep in shit. Nothing else is quite as effective in reminding you how much there is to be thankful for within your own walls.

You made your wife cry, you big jerk!

2008-10-22T19:45:00.000-07:00

The post below was one of those I didn't plan on publishing. I know, I know, with all the crap I post it's difficult to believe I pull the reins back on any of 'em.

I decided to post it because it touched on the new book project and I wanted to make my goal public. I guess that way I will be more inclined to follow-through.

It didn't take long for me to realize that fiction writing is a completely different ballgame. I had never tried it before because I thought my written stories would be comparable to the weak-plotted bedtime stories I tell the girls. They seem to always involve two princesses having picnics with animals - that's all I got.

To my surprise and delight, I found that fiction writing isn't telling a story as much as hearing a story for a first time. You pick a setting, get a rough idea for a character, ready your pen and "watch" what they do.

I always thought you needed the outline of a plot in your head to tell one. I would have never guessed that, as the writer, you could be caught off guard by the direction of your story.

The relationship with your characters is also a unique experience. You are creating them out of thin air and yet they begin to mean something to you on a personal level. Before you know it, they start acting things out on their own. It sounds schizophrenic, I know. But it's true.

As usual, Jenny is the helpless guinea pig in my writing lab. Day by day I bombard her with chapters and watch her reaction. Will her response be a positive one or will she break out in a nasty rash? I don't know.

Well, yesterday I injected her with a couple of chapters detailing a decisive turn for a key player in the story. Zeke is a supporting character that I've grown to like much more than my "main" character. This kid was supposed to come home after a fight and be shocked to learn that he wasn't in trouble. Instead, he came home to discover a "party" in honor of his fight - or what his fight represented.

I got an email back from her a while later that read:

Wow babe. You made me cry!! It was really good and since I feel like I know Zeke I'm kind of a baby I guess. GOOD JOB!!!!

Ah, how she boosts my meager ego.

I wrote her back assuring her that I normally hate it when she cries, but this time... this time I kinda liked it. A non-existant individual, a figment of my imagination had felt real enough to her at that moment to generate real emotion.

I hadn't realized before that this should be the goal of any fiction writer. This is why we read. We want to be sucked into the story.

So, today I get to brag. Not only did I get somebody to cry by reading my story; I got somebody to cry by reading my story about a GOATSUCKER.

Put a leash on that writing bug

2008-10-20T16:04:00.000-07:00

On my 26th birthday, I sat in my kitchen with Emma on my lap and shared a heaping bowl of Play Doh ice cream. I freakin' love that stuff. Emma took turns with the spoon, giving me bites more often than she took her own, the sweetheart. I was staring at a blank page and momentarily burnt out with the heavy burden of writing about real life.

Earlier that week, I had been walking the Lazy River at Cherry Hill with my little sister Boston. We were talking about school and boys and I said, without thinking, "It sure is a shame they tore down the old Davis High." I wasn't sure why I said that at first. High School wasn't a bad era but wasn't golden either. I didn't keep in touch with many of the people I'd met during that portion of life or have any desire to attend their reunions.

But physically, the school... yes, the school was a magical place. The orginal Davis High was built in 1914. For those of us not concerned with honors classes or citizenship grades, it was a playground. I spent the majority of my senior year exploring hidden catacombs under the school, climbing in between the old and new walls, finding abandoned rooms and getting my school clothes much dirtier than normal students.

Honestly, the school was a death trap. During my three years, two of the three fires had been started by faulty wiring in the fire alarms.

Reminiscing with Boston, I suddenly realized that I had just given myself the perfect setting for my first novel. I wanted a side project I could work on when plowing through the memoir-induced mental build-up.

With my two-year-old in charge of ice cream duty, Iplunged into the world of fiction. After our third bowl, I had hand-written the conclusion of a book I hadn't started. Later that day, I wrote the intro chapter. I have since taken qualities of friends and acquaintances and blended them into a handful of characters.

Lately, I have allowed myself to get distracted by the pure freedom of blogging. I am sure I will continue to help my self to dollops of blog guacamole to add flavor to the meatier project. However, I wrote this today more for myself than for anyone else. I just read the 14,000 words I'd written to provide the rough frame of a bridge. The supports are in place but construction is behind schedule. It is time to get back to work and start laying down the planks. I will finish this book by Christmas.

Cannibalistic Fruit

2008-10-20T13:47:00.000-07:00

This whole "get fit" trend is excruciating. As soon as you start trying to eat healthy, you realize what a loosing battle it really is. I never noticed before how much of what we eat is processed garbage. I am far from reaching the point of an organic pansy; and if I ever become a vegetarian, may the animals I would have eaten trample me dead.

But it does get a little creepy to start paying attention to the laundry list of chemicals we ingest on a daily basis. The most difficult part of this new approach is the water. I have been tugging at a gallon jug of water everyday and even manage to finish it sometimes. Have you ever made a point of drinking a gallon of water every day? Draining that trough has me peeing like a puppy on an IV.

So, another 12 minutes have passed and it's time for me to slosh and waddle my way back to the little boy's room. It is becoming an all-too-often walk of shame. I never had this problem when I was living off of 32 ounce energy drinks and Egg McMuffins.

(By the way, I picked this picture because I thought it looked deliciously 80's. Take a closer look, is that a giant slice of pizza smack-dab in the center of the healthy feast?!)

GNC Now Peddling Crack!

2008-10-20T09:24:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, I vowed to stop posting on the family blog and start writing here. Since then, I have demonstrated my commitment by posting about 6 times on the family blog. The two posts I chose to claim for myself are as long as they are surly. My bad on that one.

I don't know if it is cooling weather or reintroduction to routine, but I have been in a fierce writing mood lately.

Usually, our two girls keep us pinned pretty close to home. Fortunately, the daycare at Gold's Gym has flipped that switch. Because we have to make appointments for the kids, we can't skip our workout or even show up late.

This year has been one of determination. I weigh more now than I ever have in my life. Fueled with a pricey Gold's keychain and disgust with my gut, I have been working pretty hard.

The other day, I decided to jog through the Gateway from my office to GNC. As expected, I found a few cans of premixed protein drinks. When I walked in, the woman behind the counter was pacing violently behind the register. She smiled, exposing too many teeth for comfort. I wandered through the store and said "Hi" back to her the first three times she said it but not the following six.

For the sake of GNC employees, I will admit that my tutelage in Utah has been a sheltered one. I have never spent time with someone I knew had just snorted cocaine, but if the movies have taught me well, this chick was about a gram away from a cerebral snow drift.

The entire time I had been in the store, waist-high displays had separated us. When I held up a can of chocolate protein shake, she actually shrieked and jumped back. I just stood there, wondering if I should drop the can and bolt from the store. Immediately she covered her face and began giggling wildly.

"Hands!! Look at your hands!!!" she indicated, still covering her mouth with hers.

I did as instructed, half expecting to find them covered in boils, blood or demonic chipmunks. To me, they looked normal.

Her arms fell to her side and she gawked at me like an Oklahoman who has just found a dead rhinoceros on their back-country road.

"Your hands are EEEE-NORM-OUS!!!"

I felt like a sideshow attraction - like someone had surgically attached giant foam fingers to my wrists and failed to inform me or gather a consent form.

She watched me, slack-jawed and speechless while I paid for the drink and fled the store. Have you ever tried to take out your wallet and pay for something while hiding your hands? You can't do it!

I got over it after calling Jenny, flustered and asking her, "Do I have freakishly huge hands?" She assured me that I did not. I still walked all the way back to the office with the monstrosities stuffed into my pockets.