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Never trust bedding with a silent ‘t’ in its name

2012-01-23T17:51:00.000-07:00

Never trust bedding with a silent ‘t’ in its name
(Published in the Springville Independent News)

I grew up with comforters, blankets, sheets and quilts (notice the hard ‘t’ sounds). They were all soft, rectangular and reliable. Granted, I was never a heavy user of top sheets, but it was at least nice knowing they were there. By and large, my bedding situation has always been optimal, especially my SpongeBob SquarePants comforter (with matching pillow case).

Then I got a wife. And with that wife came this French nonsense called a duvet.

For those of you who are as uncultured as I blissfully once was, the duvet, pronounced ‘doo-vay,’ is basically a giant bag of feathers or down inside a removable cover — kind of like a bed-sized pillow and pillow case.

Our duvet is fastened shut along one side with giant buttons which, let me tell you, are a real treat to roll on top of when they inevitably rotate to my side of the bed during the night. It doesn’t matter if the buttons begin the night at our feet like they’re supposed to — they’re like homing missiles, bound to eventually find my rib cage before daylight.

Fun fact: did you also know the duvet’s shape is light-sensitive? In the daytime, it’s mostly rectangular, much like the blankets I’ve always known and trusted, but turn those lights off and say goodbye to that trusty polygon. Once it’s dark, sleeping under a duvet is like sleeping under a beanbag chair; forget about finding a nice, clean edge to tuck under your side. It’s just a blob, like an amoeba. You can try rotating it, but I guarantee all you’ll find are buttons, more buttons and seven or eight rounded corners you never knew existed.

And if it wasn’t enough that the exterior of the duvet has a mind of its own, the interior stuffing is even more free-wheeling. Unlike quilt stuffing, which minds its own business within its fair and equal partitions, duvet stuffing loves a good party, even when decent, hard-working folk are trying to sleep. This means that when my wife does her usual patented barrel-roll blanket grab in the night — which leaves me with about four square feet of blanket to work with — all I’ve got is the empty end of the duvet cover. All my feathers are off whooping it up with the rest of them, deep within Lauren’s coils, and I’m left shivering under basically a thick pillow case.

However, after one harrowing year, I’m happy to report that we’ve worked out a system: Every night Lauren and I give each other a kiss, then retreat to our sides of the bed — she to the duvet, and me to the SpongeBob blanket, which is enjoying a nice renaissance back on the bed. I can’t say it really does much for the pastel motif Lauren was going for, but then again, she kind of fouled up the nautical cartoon motif I had in mind, so fair is fair.

Can anybody hear me?

2012-01-16T17:48:00.000-07:00

Image via Willie Lunchmeat

Can anybody hear me?
(Published in the Springville Independent News)

I don’t know about you guys, but I can only hear so much about social media without wanting to move to the Australian Outback (the region, not the restaurant) to open my own kangaroo farm.

Look, I’m not some old rip who can’t hack new technology — most of it I love — but do you ever feel like there’s just too much noise out there? When car manufacturers start telling you to go to their YouTube channel to see how their dramatic commercial ends, or your auto insurance agent pesters you to follow him on Twitter to get great safety tips, doesn’t it kinda, sorta make you want to move to a remote island, where status updates are limited to smoke signals?

It’s amazing to me that even in the midst of this so-called communications golden age we are seeing a huge upswing in the number of teens twirling “Little Caesar’s Pizza” signs at busy intersections. They’ve got Twitter, Facebook, Groupon — a practically infinite number of free methods of mass communication with which to market themselves — and yet there’s that doofy teen doing the Dougie with a poster board on the sidewalk.

And why do they do this? Because everything else in this world is too darn loud, and I don’t mean just decibels. There is so much competing for our attention that the only way anybody can get a word in edgewise is by dancing in front of us where we can’t (easily) ignore them.

What’s next? Will the dry cleaners start throwing bricks through my window with coupons attached?

The worst part of all this is that I don’t have a clue how to fix any of this. I consume entirely way too much entertainment and information than is healthy. Rarely do I make it to the end of a newspaper article, much less a book. Instead, I dart around the web gobbling up news just sentences at a time, or paragraphs if I’m feel really patient. When there’s so much begging for my eyeballs, who has time to make it all the way to the end of that 3-minute video? Thirty seconds is enough to get the gist.

And even though I’m not handy or hardy in any sense, sometimes I get these odd aches to go build a bookshelf, or bust my butt as a logger in Alaska. Either of these would be disastrous, as anybody that’s watched me hang a picture frame could attest, but I think it’s just my inner human being longing to escape the exhausting electronic fuzz of this world, if only for a little while.

Like I said, I’m all complaints and no answers on this one. But if anybody has any connections with an Australian kangaroo rancher who’s looking for a pair of mildly sturdy hands (though they do get kind of dry and cracked in the winter), please put a good word in for yours truly.

Let bygones be bygones, youth of Springville 1st Ward

2012-01-09T17:43:00.000-07:00

Image via thebiglead

Let bygones be bygones, youth of Springville 1st Ward
(Published in the Springville Independent News)

I haven’t led a sainted life by any stretch, but I’m a generally honorable fellow. However, there is one skeleton in my closet — not an entire skeleton, really; more like a couple vertebrae and a pelvis — about which I ought to clear the air.

A year ago I was assigned to coach my church’s youth basketball team — a duty that anybody will tell you is fraught with peril, especially when you’ve got a roster of roughly 7,000 boys between the ages of 12 and 18, as does the Springville First Ward.

I didn’t really have a head for X’s and O’s, but that didn’t matter, seeing as how all my time and energy went into divvying up playing time fairly, which requires a master’s degree in organizational behavior and a stopwatch with nanosecond precision.

I was elated when I reached the end of the season having bluffed my way without incident. Well, it turns out, I hadn’t. It turns out it wasn’t zone defense, clock management or the pick and roll — but scheduling — that became my undoing as a coach. I forgot about our final game. None of the players showed up and we forfeited.

Now, I could make a case that the fault lies with the league organizers, who had distributed multiple versions of the schedule, and it was an outdated version on which I was relying in that fateful lapse. I could also argue that the ward’s hesitance to offer me a contract extension had become a distraction.

But I’m ready to own my blunder; I’m ready to move on: youth of the Springville First Ward, I am sorry. There, I said it.

Here is the response I recently received from Andrew Creer, 15:

“The day I was informed by the league official that we had missed our scheduled game, all time just seemed to stop. Was this man crazy? Why did we miss our game? Many questions needed to be asked, but all I needed to do at that moment was talk to Mr. Matthew Reichman. He came into church with a big, stupid grin on his face, not in the least expecting what was going to happen next. The moment he sat down the group erupted and let it all out; Matt had no answer for his mistake.

“I have often wondered, ‘What would happen if we had actually gone to our game?’ Yes, there is a possibility that we could have lost, but I had watched the team we were scheduled to play, and let’s just say they weren’t that big of a threat. If we won that game, we would have headed on to the church-ball tournament — a dream to many. I moved on to play for the Springville High Freshman team, but others had to wait until next season to finally get another chance to play basketball.

“Will I ever forgive him for his serious mistake? Yes, but in time. A good supply of Beto’s, gifts and money will always ease the pain. Whenever we talk about basketball, his forgetting our game will always pop up, and that will never change. Matt Reichman ruined a great season, but in time I know that he will be able to make up for it.”

At long last, Andrew, I’m at peace.

Occupy Bedford Falls

2012-01-01T17:40:00.000-07:00

Image via imdb.com

Occupy Bedford Falls
(Published in the Springville Independent News)

I’m not usually one for politics or social issues, but during my annual viewing of “It’s a Wonderful Life” this year, I couldn’t help but think about the Occupy Movement. Mind you, this was a subject about which I grew weary of hearing roughly five minutes after it began, and here it was occupying 130 of the most wonderful minutes of my year.

(Note: if you haven’t seen “It’s a Wonderful Life,” go make a decent human being out of yourself by doing so immediately; this column can wait.)

The movie spans some hard times, including the Great Depression, for the fictional Bedford Falls citizenry. One Henry F. Potter, a grouchy old gazillionaire (adjusted for inflation), pretty much has a choke-hold on everything in town, squeezing every last penny out of his debtors.

Our protagonist, George Bailey, portrayed by the incomparable Jimmy Stewart, lays it all out thusly:

“Just remember this, Mr. Potter, that this rabble you're talking about — they do most of the working and paying and living and dying in this community. Well, is it too much to have them work and pay and live and die in a couple of decent rooms and a bath? Anyway, my father didn't think so. People were human beings to him. But to you, a warped, frustrated old man, they're cattle.”

Sound familiar? Sound like something that could be shouted through a megaphone at Zucotti Park, or scrawled on a posterboard (OK, a really big posterboard)?

But here’s where the movement and the movie differ greatly — George Bailey never camps out in Mr. Potter’s front yard. He and his “rabble” never stake down R.E.I. tents in front of the bank to show how upset they are with Potter’s greedy ways. They continue shaving, bathing and keeping their noses to that old grindstone, no matter how unfair life seems.
George spends his whole life sacrificing personal luxuries — a trip to Europe, a college education, his honeymoon, that lucrative equity in Sam Wainwright’s plastics company — so he can keep the lights on at the Bailey Savings & Loan, an institution he frankly never wanted a part of. But he knows the “99 percent” of Bedford Falls would be up a creek without it.

He builds a subdivision of “dozens of the prettiest little homes you ever saw” and sells them for half of what they’re worth so he can keep a few more people out of Mr. Potter’s slums, all while living in the decrepit old house whose windows he and his buddies used to throw rocks through as kids. And don’t even get him started on that ball post at the bottom of the stair railing...

I won’t spoil the rest, but suffice to say the fat cat Potter never breaks George Bailey and the working class of Bedford Falls. And maybe we never see our protagonist fulfil his bright-eyed dreams as a world-renowned architect, but is that really the ultimate metric of success?

Look, I can’t fault the occupiers for their passion, but how about channeling it into a little less Twitter and a little more elbow grease? If you’re unhappy with the economy Mr. Potter has created, make your own. Just remember — don’t entrust Uncle Billy with the cash deposit.

A well-boiled icicle

2011-12-25T17:58:00.000-07:00

Video (which contains a great spoonerism) via MyNapoleonDynamite

A well-boiled icicle
(Published in the Springville Independent News)

I’ll never understand how some people can hear a good spoonerism and not giggle uncontrollably. It’s almost like a biological reaction for me. It’s similar to the sneezing brought on by abrupt exposed to sunlight — another phenomenon to which certain people are simply immune.

If you're unfamiliar with the phrase, a spoonerism, comedy's highest form, is a verbal slipup (named after the tongue-tied but otherwise venerable Reverend William Archibald Spooner) wherein pieces of two words or sentences are accidentally interchanged.

"A well-boiled icicle," instead of "a well-oiled bicycle," is a famous example from Spooner's semi-apocryphal legacy; “a scoop of boy trouts,” instead of “a troop of boy scouts,” is another one. He also once inquired if it was “kisstomary to cuss the bride” and another time professed that “Our Lord is a shoving leopard.”

We call them Brentisms in my family, in honor of my tongue-tied but otherwise venerable brother Brent. He’s uttered such favorites as "I got covered in a poud of clowder!" and "Let's play Screed Spabble." (Cloud of powder, Speed Scrabble.) He recently informed my brother Josh that the “legs on his hair” were standing up.

Unable to commit to either "confused" or "clueless," Brent once apologized for being "confuless" to a Village Inn waitress. (She was flirting with him at the time, I might add. Was.) All too fittingly, he recently mentioned that his “spurch was already sleered enough as it is” after suffering a mild concussion.

Then there's our sister Amy, who once lamented during a card game, "All I have are jeans and quacks!" (Queens and jacks.) Then there’s my Sunday School teacher who advised us all to “let virnish gartue thy thoughts.” (Another church one: Brent once gave a lesson on the “dutings and blessies” of service.)

“Carving pumpkins” always comes out “parving cumpkins” or even “pumpking carvkins” for my friend Moham. And not too long ago I heard a local news anchor announce that a man was facing some “prettis chargedy serios.” (Pretty serious charges.)

My friend Chris still hears about the time he dramatically shouted, “Fine, son’t day bye to me!” as a girl with whom he was attempting to flirt drove away. I still take guff for exasperatedly yelling, “Who puts keeping these towels over here?” on a trip to the pool.

But my all-time favorite might be my friend Elliot, who, upon discovering a missing hotel pool key in his pocket, shouted, "Who put this pocket key in my pool pants?" instead of "Who put this pool key in my pants pocket?" It was like he put his sentence in a blender and poured it right back out. The confused, panicked look on his face as this unrecognizable jumble spilled out of his mouth was priceless.

And if you’re one of those types that reads this and thinks none of this is pity, I funny you. You probably don’t sun when you look at the sneeze, either.

27 going on 80

2011-12-18T17:38:00.000-07:00

Image via wheatstoneministries.com

27 going on 80
(Published in the Springville Independent News)

I’ve recently become enamored with the steam room at the gym. Consequently, I’ve been putting in a lot of quality time with elderly folk these days. Those oldsters do love to work up a good sweat, don’t they?

Steam room time is my “thinking time,” however (that makes me sound really mollycoddled, I know), so I generally avoid conversation with the other steam-bathers. But I do eavesdrop plenty, and have become my own Jane Goodall to a different sort of gorillas in the mist.

There’s a couple old codgers I see in there regularly — I like to imagine they’ve been pals since the third grade — that sit in the exact same spot every time. One day they come in to find a few young women already in their spot, so Statler and Waldorf (probably their names) reluctantly shuffle over to a place on the bench about two feet further down.

They don’t say anything, but I can tell from his glances that Statler doesn’t think much of the loud woman doing yoga poses. By the time the women finally leave 10 minutes later, Waldorf has Statler totally captivated by his story about saving $10 on a snow blower repair.

“Now hang on, Statler,” Waldorf abruptly announces. “Before I get too far along in my story, let’s you and me move to our regular spot now that those ladies are gone.” They scoot two feet over to their usual seat, which is not noticeably different from any other, and Waldorf resumes his story.

Sometimes the old-timers gossip about the dating scene among widows and widowers, and it always sounds like something you’d hear at a junior high lunch table until you hear a comment like, “He’s only 76, so why the hey shouldn’t he ask her for a date?”

But when they’re not gossiping or talking about snow blowers, they’re hearkening back to the good ol’ days. One day this red-faced, potato-shaped fellow mentions that after the war, he wound up on academic probation at school until he found a wife that could keep him in line.

“Off sowing those wild oats, huh?” asks another guy, eyebrows raised.

“You better believe it!” roars the storyteller. Here it comes, I think — we’re about to hear about some pretty serious shenanigans.

“You see, I had a friend that worked at the BYU Creamery that got free tubs of ice cream,” he says with a wink. “We used to get a handful of spoons and eat through a whole tub in one afternoon!”
His small audience loves this. He has them right where he wants them.

“And you know what else? The bowling alley used to give us free games for setting up pins, so sometimes we’d skip out on class and set pins for five or six hours. That’s a whole weekend’s worth of bowling right there!”

That does it — those old rascals bust right up, having never heard such a thing in all their years. A few more jokes, a few more belly laughs, and off they go to watch Wheel of Fortune with their sweet, frail, hunched-over spouses. Surely tomorrow the steam room gang will come armed with more devil-may-care tales and rumors.

Something about all this makes me think the best years of my life are still four decades away. It’s like watching little boys play Legos on the living room floor — not a knock on the intelligence or maturity of the AARP crowd, mind you, but an admiration for their total contentment with the cards life has dealt them. Getting older is scary, but it’s reassuring to see how darned happy those guys are yukking it up in the sauna.

They can keep their ear hair, though. I won't be growing any of that.

Humble pie with ego filling

2011-12-13T17:35:00.000-07:00

Image via newsbusters.org

Humble pie with ego filling
(Published in the Springville Independent News)

It’s always the same charade — the beloved musician or actress or Hall of Fame inductee marches up to the stage, reverently accepts the gold trophy from some grinning goober in a shiny tuxedo, then, with a hand on the trophy and another firmly bracing the podium, he or she addresses an adoring audience of millions:

“I am so humbled by this [insert award/achievement here].”

The camera cuts to a few superhero-chinned men and elegant, stuffy women who close their eyes, smile broadly and nod at the honoree, because how refreshing — not only is this kid talented, but gracious as a duchess, too!

Well I ain’t buyin’. On behalf of losers everywhere, I declare that affirmation of humility — and all those like it — to be pure baloney.

Know what’s humbling? Not winning the trophy; not being nominated for the trophy; not even being friends with somebody that was nominated for the trophy.

I’m not saying humble people never win awards, or that it’s impossible to maintain one’s humility after an award’s been won, but to claim that distinction and praise have somehow produced humility? It doesn’t even make sense! It’s like saying I learned molecular biology by eating a Fruit Roll-Up.

Every time I hear that phony line I want to hop onstage and ask how exactly this square-jawed meathead came to be humbled by acting in a movie that earned him seven bazilllion dollars, legions of hyperventilating groupies and a mansion with five swimming pools.

Overwhelming? Surprising? Sure, I’ll buy that. But what is it about getting hoisted upon teammates’ shoulders after sinking that championship-clinching buzzer-beater that diminishes one’s self-esteem? Who are you, Eeyore?

“Aw shucks... I’m just the lowly ole’ 7-foot freak athlete that single-handedly won the biggest game of the season, and now me and three cheerleaders are piling into my Lamborghini to head to a parade in my honor... thanks for noticin’.”

I remember sitting in a big meeting during my LDS mission when this one really smarmy guy was named the new assistant to the president (sort of a big deal in the mission organization). He got up front and blathered on about how humbled he was to be chosen for the position.

“Humbled, indeed,” I remember harrumphing — and rightly so, seeing as how when I became an assistant myself, it wasn’t all that humbling; I was pretty pleased with myself, truth be told. The humbling part came four days later when I backed the mission van into a light post in a parking lot, then wrecked the thing completely in a roundabout a month later. (I actually hit a bus, so I had about 80 passengers, 20 chickens and several burlap sacks of tomatoes all glaring down at me while I sorted things out with the driver.)

So enough with your humility, Mr. Grammy-winning olympic gold medalist that just won his fourth Nobel Prize. Just once I’d like to see somebody scramble up to the podium (excluding Kanye West) and say what we know he’s probably thinking:

“It feels great to look at the other high-caliber nominees and know I’m better than all of them. Neener neener, failures.”

The one-bedroom mansion

2011-12-04T17:32:00.000-07:00

Video via faircompanies.com

The one-bedroom mansion
(Published in the Springville Independent News)

On the subject of serendipity, the French scientist Louis Pasteur noted that “chance favors only the prepared mind.” (Pasteur, as we all know, had the accidental breakthrough we now refer to as pasteurization whilst researching the effects of Velcro on penicillin-laced sticky notes.)

With that in mind, I decided I’d better spend some time on Zillow.com browsing $3 million estates, because the more I know about sprawling villas and vineyards, the more likely I’ll have occasion to buy one, right?

My chief takeaway of this research was that New York City is an absurdly discouraging place to spend 3 million clams. So much buck for so little bang! I have to imagine buying a home in the Big Apple probably brings the same consumer satisfaction I get when paying for tires, or airline baggage fees.

Let’s compare a few listings:

In Austin, Texas, $3.25 million will get you a 10,306-square-foot mansion on an acre of land. From the description, it seems as though this house is the result of a worldwide scavenger hunt for the rarest of materials — imported marble counters, pure ivory garbage disposal, gryffin-feather curtains, that sort of thing. It’s got seven bedrooms, eight bathrooms, an English garden (for your favourite tomahtoes) a pool/spa and an 11-car garage with an attached one-bedroom apartment. Oh, and a 50-foot boat slip, obviously, because where else would you park the 50-foot boat?

On the other hand, in the Upper East Side of Manhattan that kind of scratch will get you 1,665 square feet of condo space with a “gracious layout.” But unless “gracious” is a real estate term for “magically feels 10 times bigger than it really is,” this pretty little pad doesn’t have much in the way of elbow room. As for the lot, it comes with 843 acres of open space, but you have to share it with 25 million strangers (Central Park). Also, you’re going to have to sell your 11 cars, 50-foot boat and most of your family members, but don’t worry — there’s a 24-hour doorman and a Bosch microwave. And lest you worry that you’re only getting 1/10 of the house that you’d get in Texas, the listing reassures us otherwise with adjectives like “generously-sized,” “abundant” and “expansive,” proving that square footage is not in fact a finite measurement but a matter of personal opinion.

Sure, there are other reasons to live or not live in New York or Texas, but I still can’t even comprehend how somebody could willingly accept so little house for so much money. You’re telling me these millionaires are working like dogs their whole lives so they can pay $3.25 mil to live in a crowded apartment complex instead of retiring to Whitefish, Montana, where the same investment is good for 10,000 square feet of domicile plopped on a 9.6-acre hilltop with a view of Glacier National Park (greenhouse, library and wine cellar included)?

Riches are wasted on the rich. I have a good mind to earn $3 million and build my own house just to prove my point. (There’s gotta be a climbing wall in the swimming pool, first of all ... )

Amish Enemy Bread

2011-11-29T17:27:00.000-07:00

Image via skiptomylou.org

Amish Enemy Bread
(Published in the Springville Independent News)

Not too long ago my wife and I received a bag of pale brown goop that supposedly yields its owners an endless supply of both sustenance and fellowship — a Ziploc cornucopia, as it were.

It was called Amish Friendship Bread, and we were told that our dough could multiply indefinitely and thus be divided, baked and shared without ever diminishing the original batch.

Its name certainly implied that the giver of this baggie intended to be our friend. How could anything nefarious come out of free bread and new friends? But that's the same kind of thinking that duped the unwitting Trojans when they saw the Greeks ambling up their driveway with that adorable giant rocking horse.

We were fortunate to not have any Greek soldiers leaping out of the dough to ravage our kitchen, but this so-called “gift” did most effectively lay siege to our free time. Just take a look at the instructions that came with it:

Amish Friendship Bread

The recipe for this starter dough is a secret known only to the Amish/half the Internet, so always keep at least one bag for yourself. Once word gets out that you possess this miracle dough, your friends will beat down your door for it and will absolutely never avoid you at church or pretend they’re not home when they see you coming.

Remember!
Do not use a metal spoon or bowl for mixing the dough
Do not refrigerate the dough
Do not argue or speak in harsh tones in front of the dough
Do not be seen with other breads or pastries in front of the dough

The Recipe
Day 1: Do nothing.
Day 2: Mash the bag.
Day 3: Massage the bag.
Day 4: Rub the bag. (If air and/or bubbles appear in the bag, open the top, squish the bag flat, and drive the dough to Aspen.)
Day 5: Indian rub the bag.
Day 6: Add 1 cup flour, sugar and milk to the bag; read aloud to your dough the Declaration of Independence, once in English and once in Finnish; punch the bag;
Day 7: Caress the bag;
Day 8: Tickle the bag; recite seven ghost stories to the bag, but do not, under any circumstances, engage the bag in a pillow fight.
Day 9: Scratch the bag near the top, and a little to the left … a little more to the left … now up a little … perfect, right there.
Day 10: Pour bag’s contents into the bleached shell of a Galapagos giant tortoise; add one and a half cups flour, sugar, milk and giraffe tears; measure out four cups of dough and divide equally among four Ziploc bags; keep one for yourself and deposit three in your trashcan because everybody you know already has Amish starter. Bake remaining dough.

Baking Instructions
1. Preheat oven to 325 F
2. Add the following to your dough: 3 eggs, 1 cup oil, 1/2 teaspoon vanilla, 4 boxes baking soda, 1 can Rotel diced tomatoes, 2 tablespoons potting soil, 1 teaspoon A+D ointment, 3 lemon Jolly Ranchers and one heaping spoonful of Amish friendship. Do not add electricity or automobiles.
3. Pour dough into bread pan and bake for 30 seconds; once cooled, drizzle with Nesquik strawberry syrup and sprinkle with fresh dandruff.
4. Wrap loaf in decorative cheesecloth; visit the home of the acquaintance from whom you received starter dough; discreetly place loaf in washing machine. Enjoy.

Let us humbly give thanks for DenTek and Reynolds Wrap [11.29.11]

2011-11-29T08:13:00.001-07:00

Image via DenTek

Let us humbly give thanks for DenTek and Reynolds Wrap
(Published in the Springville Independent News)

In our age of instantaneous communication, it’s kind of weird to write a time-sensitive column for a weekly newspaper. Here I am, a full week away from Thanksgiving, but by the time you read this (you are going to read it, aren’t you?) the wishbone will be long since snapped.

So I’m kind of going out on a limb assuming the world will by and large be the same in seven days as it is now. But what if the Pikachu float goes rogue and knocks over seven buildings at the Macy’s parade? What kind of insensitive lout will I look like if I’ve written about how the parade is the ideal time to bond with loved ones?

But I digress — it’s time for an attitude of gratitude. I’d like to use this Thanksgiving column to recognize the ingenius advances in technology that have changed the world in my very lifetime.

The iPad, you suggest? Or the iPhone? iBeg to differ.

Sure, people point to these sexy, aluminum-bodied gizmos as paragons of progress, but I say let’s hear it for the unsung workhorses of innovation that have truly changed our civilization. Without further ado (not that I don’t love ado):

1st Place — DenTek disposable flossers: “You’ve really got to floss regularly,” my dental hygienist would scold. I’d nod and vow I would, but I knew it was a lie. We both knew it. Then these plastic throwaway floss picks came along and made an honest man out of me. Tell me — how many iPads have rescued you from the grips of gingivitis?

2nd Place — Double-ridged yogurt cups: I’m no packaging expert (apparently few people are, seeing as how blister packs are still around) but whoever came up with this Yoplait cup deserves a Nobel prize. You know how most yogurts spray out when you open them, no matter how gently you peel the foil corner? Well, try peeling one of these puppies. Your necktie will thank you. (Note: I don’t know that the double-ridged rim is the component responsible for this miracle. For all I know, Yoplait altered its formula so its yogurt wouldn’t be so lively. Either way, I’m grateful.)

3rd Place — Reynolds crockpot liners: She cooks. I wash the dishes. That’s the arrangement, which had always suited me perfectly — except for the crockpot meals. Sure, the eats are good, but who has the hours — nay, days! — it takes to remove the beef stew and potato barnacles that cement themselves to the crockpot’s interior? But this year we discovered Reynolds disposable liners, and now I don’t even know what to do with all the free time! Maybe I’ll learn Russian, or the violin...

Honorable Mention — Wish-Bone salad dressing spritzers: I enjoy this one vicariously, because for me eating a salad is nothing more than a chore, like folding socks. But my wife? It wouldn’t surprise me if she pinned leaves of particularly memorable salads in her scrapbook. The Wish-Bone spritzer does exactly what its name suggests (and one calorie per spritz!), and my wife is enamored with it. Enjoy this, Wish-Bone, because this is the first and last time I’ll ever commend the salad industry.

Gratuitous gratuity [11.15.11]

2011-11-15T14:33:00.000-07:00

Image via Tippingoz.wordpress.com

Gratuitous gratuity
(Published in the Springville Independent News)

There are two absurd practices in our society which I am guilty of perpetuating, but would gladly abandon, if not for the assured backlash.

The first is the modern wedding, which is currently designed to provide misery to 95 percent of its participants. Granted, I wasn’t willing to fall on my sword on this one during my own wedding (I’m not that stupid) — and I’m pretty sure if I ever have daughters they’ll get anything they want out of me — but if ever there’s a brave soul out there that dares to upend this apple cart, count on me for a few heave-ho’s.

However, the second practice is one I’m prepared to be a little more proactive about: tipping. Before you call me a cheapskate — which, yes, I am — let me state first of all that I always tip between 15 and 20 percent. But I’m not happy about it.

What is a tip, anyway, but a voluntary bonus for services rendered beyond expectations? Disregarding mandatory gratuity for large groups, banquets, etc., I don’t understand how you can argue for any other definition — if it’s not voluntary, nor above average, that’s called a bill, right?

But the tip has morphed into the second bill. Where will it stop? Someday the expected gratuity will approach 100 percent, and our children’s children’s children will ask, “Daddy, how come you pay for everything twice?”

So why do I tip? Well, like most folks, I don’t want to gyp the lanky teenager that cheerily refilled my Coke seventeen times in 30 minutes. That’s what people always say: “You’ve gotta tip, because these poor kids hardly earn anything in wages.”

But when did their wages become our problem?! Kudos to the brilliant restaurant industry for bamboozling us into picking up not only the tab but the payroll as well.

The jig would be up if we all just stopped tipping, because then kids would stop taking waitstaff jobs, and restaurant owners would be forced to, you know, compensate their employees. Then the owners would raise the price of the food, and leave us to decide whether our server earned a little something extra by hastily scribbling down our order wrong then leaving the country.

But us cheapskates will never achieve the critical mass for such an upheaval. If anything, society will just keep upping the ante.

It’s only a matter of time before more industries try to get in on this scam. I’m seeing more and more of these tips jars, always with the pathetic, handwritten appeal to my guilt-laden wallet, parked next to cash registers whose operators hardly demonstrate proof of life, much less a reason to leave them with extra money. What’s next? Tips for teachers? DMV clerks? Doctors?

“Ah, Mr. Howe, welcome back. Doctor Lloyd wanted me to tell you that he truly appreciated the $1.37 tip you left him after your last check-up, and he’s very much looking forward to performing your colonoscopy today. He’ll be with you in a moment.”

All the news that's fit to go over my head [11.6.11]

2011-11-06T14:30:00.000-07:00

Image via M@

All the news that's fit to go over my head
(Published in the Springville Independent News)

I like to think I stay abreast of current events as much as the next guy. When pressed for an explanation of, say Bernie Madoff’s Ponzi scheme, however, I realize I’ve pretty much only stayed abreast of cat videos and ESPN.com.

All other nation and world news items elude my comprehension just as quick as I can click that “Mark as read” button on my Google Reader. I would that I could click that button with an honest heart and an enriched mind, but alas, it’s a lie every time.

So let’s give ourselves a little test — pasted below are the top headlines from this morning’s New York Times home page, each accompanied by my own off-the-cuff, un-Wikipedia’d explanations.

Greek Leaders Reach Deal to Form New Government
Following the inflation of the gyro (a form of currency recently adopted in the multinational Gyrozone) Greek leaders were forced to cut costs by introducing Augusterity measures, which reduced the price of any regular foot-long sub sandwich to $5 (1.14 gyros) for the entire month of August. Heated talks continue regarding the promotion’s extension through January 2012.

On the Ropes with Herman Cain
Don’t be thrown by the “ropes” metaphor — Mr. Cain is not a boxer; he’s actually a spaceman who arrived to planet Earth via UFO in May of this year (this is why you’d never heard of him before then). He brings from his home planet a mysterious code sequence: 9-9-9, the secrets and powers of which he promises to reveal in return for monarchical control of the world in 2012.

Berlusconi Denies Resignation Reports
The Italian Minister of Magic, Arrivederci Berlusconi, is currently embroiled in a roiling embroglio at its boiling point, the particulars of which are unknown (to me), but the frequent use of words like “embroiled” to describe the situation indicate this story’s gotta be juicy, right? I’d go on, but I’m already blushing.

There now, I guess I knew more about current events than I thought, didn’t I? Maybe I just got lucky. All the same, I’d still like to be able to flesh out these narratives with a few more *air-quote* “facts” that snooty *air-quote* “informed” people seem to care so much about.

So I’m giving everybody homework — I’m speaking to you, every single world citizen with access to his or her parents’ recycle bin.

Every Monday morning you’re all in charge of bringing in a clipped news article and presenting a five-minute summary of its contents to the class/office/coffee shop/Gold’s Gym. Everybody will know if you get up to the front and haven’t really read your article, so maybe write some notes on an index card. And remember — articles including the words “Kardashian,” “Lohan” or “Fiduciary” will not be accepted.

Warning: Do not ready while hungry [10.30.11]

2011-10-30T14:26:00.000-06:00

Recently unearthed cartoon by M@. Only slightly related.

Warning: Do not read while hungry
(Published in the Springville Independent News)

I’ll bet if I ever had an opportunity to sample some of the old-timey foods found in classic literature, they wouldn’t be so appetizing.

But I’ve never actually eaten salt pork or corn pone, so nothing in the world makes me hungrier than reading about rugged protagonists tucking into such down-home, hearty vittles.

Even when the characters in the book complain about their rations — “Alas, we subsisted on nothing save a half-satchel of mouldy corn dodgers and spoilt corned beef!” — I secretly believe they would be delicious.

I don’t know what sorghum is, or even what it looks like, but my imagination tells me it’d go great on a buttery biscuit with a tall jug of country lemonade to wash it down.

My mouth waters as Huck Finn packs his rucksack with the most basic of provisions: a bottle of warm buttermilk, a side of bacon, sugar, coffee and a few fresh catfish.

Yet, I don’t generally care for seafood, don’t drink coffee and get grossed out whenever I see a dried milk flake fall off the cap and into my glass. Plus the idea of shoving raw bacon into my backpack and eating it a week later is so repulsive that I’m having a hard time finishing the bland oatmeal currently in front of me.

So it’s fair to say I haven’t the constitution for frontiersman fare, but I’m nonetheless enamored with the idea of it. Take this excerpt from the delightful book The Swiss Family Robinson, which basically reads like an extremely exotic menu:

"… apples, oranges, guavas, apples, and pears resting on cool green leaves, lay heaped in pyramids … a haunch of venison, cold fowl, ham, and tongue … surrounded by bowls of milk and great jugs of mead."

You just try to tell me you couldn’t go for a helping of venison and tongue right now, even though we both know these dishes, especially when prepared in the rudimentary Robinson kitchen, would probably have us gagging for hours. Same with their meal of wild penguin and cocoanut milk, but I’m licking my lips all the same.

Heck, my sister Katie admits she mainly reads old pioneer novels for the pages about food. Her favorite excerpt from Farmer Boy by Laura Ingalls Wilder:

“Ten pancakes cooked on the smoking griddle, and as fast as they were done Mother added another cake to each stack and buttered it lavishly and covered it with maple sugar. Butter and sugar melted together and soaked the fluffy pancakes and dripped all down their crisp edges.”

Editor’s note: We apologize for the missing conclusion in this column. The author was not able to finish due to a malfunctioning keyboard, which he swears is a software issue and has nothing to do with the maple syrup and powdered sugar scattered on his desk.

My Halloweenthology [10.24.11]

2011-10-24T14:13:00.000-06:00

Image via M@

My Halloweenthology
(Published in the Springville Independent News)

While scraping the bottom of the idea barrel for Halloween costumes, I've taken a jaunt down memory lane. Join me, won't you? (I've also been scraping the joke barrel for something about memory lane intersecting with Spook Alley; after 10 minutes, I’ve got nothing, so do your own.)

Age 5: The Tat
My memory of this one is hazy, but photographic evidence proves I'm an adorable black cat, especially when I say it "tat." I'm also a spiteful feline, as seen in home video of me mocking my brother Brent, the sobbing 3-year-old ghost. I was just getting into catty character.

6-8: The Ninja Turtle
Nobody worshipped the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles more than me. Nobody. My Turtle Power devotion included creating my own sais, nunchucks, sword and bo staff out of Construx, a marvelous building set that was sort of a hybrid between Erector Sets and Legos. With my green sweats and a poster-board shell that my mom made, I was ready to roam any sewer.

9: The Ninja
My saddest Halloween ever was when I was a ninja (the mature, all-natural, human type). My friend’s folks were driving us from house to house, and at every stop we raced each other to the doorbell. Greg, dressed as a clown, sprung prematurely from the car and somehow got his leg run over. In retrospect, and knowing that Greg didn’t suffer any serious injury, the whole ordeal is kind of funny, what with the sad clown bit and all, but at the time it was quite traumatic. I remember grimly shuffling along the curb afterward, trying to get back into the spirit of things. It was no use.

10: The Garbage Can
My mom could do anything with poster board. The trash can, with authentic pieces of trash glued to the top (nothing soggy or toxic), was the zenith of my Halloween career.

14: The Punk
I was never what you’d call an “edgy teen” (unless you’d call Arthur the Aardvark “edgy”). So when I went as a punk one year, it took some doing. I had to buy baggy jeans, a Mossimo hat and cheap metal rings to cut and bend into body piercings. Up until that night, I’d secretly coveted this rebellious alter-ego, but when all the adults turned their noses up at me and sniffed, “Too cool for a costume, mister?” I longed for my Ninja Turtle days. I’m just not cut out for rock and roll.

19: Jeff Rich
I wore my friend Jeff’s blue leather jacket and striped shirt. He wore my gray puffy coat and Harry Potter shirt. Get it?

21: SpongeBob SquarePants
Yellow foam eggcrate mattress + colored felt + knee-high socks + dress shoes = most popular costume of all time. That year my sister Katie also turned in her greatest get-up ever: a cardboard box painted like a wooden end-table, with an alarm clock and a lamp glued to the top. (One-night stand!)

22,23: Bob Wiley
If you’ve never seen “What About Bob?” I just don’t know what to do with you. This costume was born when my brother and I stumbled upon replica Bob Wiley T-shirts (the baby-blue one with the giant, yellow “DON’T HASSLE ME I’M LOCAL” across the front). I also found baby-blue socks to go with my dress shoes, and even bought a live goldfish, named him “Gill,” and kept him in a mason jar slung around my neck. One of my finest years. My second year as Bob (bad form, I should have known) I went to a party and bumped into an impostor Bob who couldn’t be bothered with any costumery beyond the T-shirt he probably just bought the day before. I still hate that guy.

26: ?
Any suggestions?

Social Eaters [10.22.11]

2011-10-22T14:21:00.000-06:00

Image via Cartoonstock.com

Social Eaters
(Published in the Springville Independent News)

Have you ever thought about how weirdly conjoined our social lives are to eating? I’m not complaining, because I love food — especially when it’s unhealthy/unnecessary — but when exactly did we all become incapable of socializing without the aid of sustenance?

The first dinner conversations were probably invented at cave potlucks eons ago. Nobody likes to sit around a woolly mammoth carcass in awkward silence, so people got chatty.

But at some point it evolved from “socializing while eating” to “eating in order to socialize.” Maybe it started when Uncle Bog and Aunt Urg dropped by the cave unannounced and there was no Wheel of Fortune to turn on for them (no wheel yet, remember?). At some point somebody thought, “You know, as long as I have to sit here and listen to that story about cousin Oof and the tar pits for the 50th time, I might as well have a barbecued brontosaurus leg to chew on.”

Just like that, a basic function of the human body became a social event. Imagine how differently that could have turned out. Or don’t. (“Hey, Thog is heading into the woods, and he’s got a magazine! Call the gang around!”)

But the problem is we’re only meant to consume so much food in a single day. How often have you found yourself inventing meals around 8:30 p.m. just to have something to do with friends and relatives? Thousands, maybe millions of needless desserts have occurred in this country just because the bowling alley was too crowded that night. You could fill the Indian Ocean to the brim with all the breath mints and tortilla chips that have been eaten at parties and dances because people didn’t know what to do with their hands.

Just imagine how thin we’d all be if eating was simply a mechanism for putting food in our stomachs when they got empty.

What’s worse, eating isn’t all that conducive to social grace, at least for most of us. Why should going on a date, for instance, have to include a meal? Who decided that the best way to make a strong first impression was to converse while chewing and swallowing food? “Hey, we’re really hitting it off, why don’t I try to eat a giant salad without looking like a giraffe?” (Sidenote: I’m pretty sure the waitstaff booby-traps salads when it’s obvious somebody is on a date. “Ooh, he’s dressed nice — let’s pile this thing with a lot of crumbly croutons at the very edge of the bowl, and make sure all the lettuce leaves are no less than nine inches in diameter.”)

Anyway, if anybody wants to discuss this point further, I’d welcome the chance. We’ll do lunch or something.

O Canada of the outdoor clothing manufacturer [10.19.11]

2011-10-19T08:32:00.001-06:00

Image via L.L.Bean

O Canada of the outdoor clothing manufacturer
(Published in the Springville Independent News)

When I worked at the BYU Laundry (a job that will be mentioned oft in my “Well, in my day...” stories when I’m an old crab-apple) I had a coworker that loved to tell me how great his life was going to be once he saved up enough money to move to Canada.

As I wadded mesh bags full of stinky rags into the elevator-sized steel washer drums, this coworker — we’ll call him “Roberto,” because that’s what his name actually was — would prop up an elbow on the edge of the washer and tell me all about the life of leisure that awaited him in the Great White North.

To hear Roberto tell it, the hard part was just getting to Canada, but once there, a man could pull on his warm, wool sweater and live out the rest of his days whittling on the front porch of his handsome log cabin. His only care in the world would be deciding whether to chop firewood now and build a birdhouse later, or the other way around.

Gainful employment was never mentioned in these tales. My theory is that Roberto at one time saw an L.L.Bean catalog and decided it was actually a brochure put out by the Calgary Chamber of Commerce. His mind filled with idyllic possibilities as he imagined putting down roots next to the family on page 17.

“Honey, the Parka family wants us to come stand by the pine trees with them at noon, but we’ll have to hustle over to the Waders in time to crouch on the riverbank at sunset.”
“Let’s get a move on, then. Have you seen my mittens?”
“The charcoal ones or the oatmeal ones?”
“Baked clay. It’s Autumn, silly.”

I’m not quite sure where Roberto was getting his information, especially regarding Canadian climate. I’ll never forget the betrayed look on his face when I told him many parts of Canada are quite cold and would probably warrant more than a flannel lamb’s wool scarf and windbreaker (Gore-Tex fabric and double-ripstop weave, notwithstanding).

“But it’s not all cold,” I said, backpedalling. It wasn’t my intention to dash his dreams — although being up to my elbows in tablecloths smeared with butter and soggy bread might have hindered my full escape to Roberto’s halcyon descriptions.

“No?” he said, his eyes resuming their blissful Canadian glaze. “Good, good.” And off he’d go again, dreaming up the 50-degree, partly cloudy meadow wherein he could sit on a felled tree and weave a Native American dream catcher for his children, who frolic in the fields nearby while Mrs. Roberto prepares her famous blackberry cobbler back home...

I sincerely hope Roberto found his Canada, wherever it may be.

Post-game analysis [10.2.11]

2011-10-02T13:59:00.000-06:00

Image via Cartoon-clipart.com

Post-game analysis
(Published in the Springville Independent News)

Ever miss the big game and feel totally lost at the water cooler on Monday morning? Here’s a handy template to navigate the chatter. Simply fill in the brackets with a few key names and follow the script. And remember — the loudest opinion is the rightest opinion, so speak up! (Note: Not compatible with pretend sports like NASCAR, World Series of Poker or soccer.)

Guy 1: You guys catch that [sporting event] last night?

Guy 2: Nah, I had to [uninteresting chore for wife and/or children]. That turned out to be [attempt to divert conversation]...

Guy 3: (steps in front of Guy 2) You bet I did! That [play/outcome] was [unique]!

Guy 1: Wasn’t it, though? [Player/coach] is something else. He’s a real [sociopath] with [homicide] in his veins.

Guy 3: Can’t argue with that. I may [despise][team/city], but even I’ve got to admit he’s a cold-blooded [pejorative term, used to express consistent athletic/strategic excellence].

Guy 2: So, what happened?

Guy 1: Oh, you really missed out. [Incomplete summary of sporting event]. Which reminds me — what kind of [officiating judgment] was that?

Guy 3: Don’t get me started! [Local radio personalities] were saying this morning that [irrelevant retired athlete] said that call was [displeasing]. You can say that again! [Coach’s name] nearly [impossible bodily reaction].

Guy 1: Well, wouldn’t you? With the [championship/playoff berth/pennant/wild card] on the line, I’d be [committing several felonious acts] right there on the [field/sideline].

Guy 4: Oh, the [sporting event]? Yeah, [obscure statistic read on ESPN.com minutes prior, but declared as though personally discovered].

Guys 1-3: [Expressions of poorly feigned astonishment].

Guy 5: (pokes head in) My [team nickname] did it again, didn’t they, boys?

Guy 1: Even a [colloquial expression for sheer coincidence] once in awhile! Just wait’ll my [team nickname] get through with them! They’ll be [metaphor for animalistic submission].

Guy 5: Your [team nickname]? They lost to [comically woebegone city], for crying out loud!

Guy 4: (nods)

Guy 2: (to Guy 3) So I hear [coworker] gave you the runaround again on those files.

Guy 3: Yeah, he... but the real question is, how do you like [team]’s chances in the postseason?

Guy 5: (still only poking head in) You kidding me? They’ll do like they always do: [subside] like a [fragile object]. As long as you’re counting on [player] to get you [scoring units], you’re going to be sitting at home in [month in which sport’s playoff system occurs].

Guys 1-4: (all nod)

Guy 5: Welp, back to the ol’ [reference to blue-collar occupation]. (slaps wall and exits breakroom)

Guy 2: (to Guy 3) What about the [team]?

Guy 3: I don’t really follow [sport]. So [coworker] still won’t get me those files...

Guys 1,4: [Groan][Lament about workload]. (both shuffle away)

Food for thought, or what I'm thinking about instead of BYU football [9.23.11]

2011-09-23T09:03:00.000-06:00

Image via my work bathroom

Food for thought, or what I'm thinking about instead of BYU football
(Published in the Springville Independent News)

I had a whole column about the BYU/Utah game worked out in my head, but now, just 36 hours removed from that farce, I’m sick of talking about it. By the time this paper hits the stands on Thursday, we’ll have moved on to more pressing issues, such as: “Will BYU continue to disguise its fumbles with actual plays, or just line up its center backward and snap the ball directly to Central Florida?”

So let’s chew on something else today.

- Why do we feel safer behind podiums when speaking in public? I recently saw a Sunday School teacher give a lesson almost entirely from behind a waist-high hymnal cart. The funny thing was the cart was nowhere near the center of the room; there was no podium or table, so he made this cart in the corner of the room his home base. Occasionally he forayed into the shelterless expanse up front, but he always made a quick retreat to the safety of his book cart, where he could confidently address his audience from their peripheral vision.

- The Spanish word for “pet” is “mascota,” which sure looks a lot like the English word “mascot.” So whenever I reach for the bottle of air freshener in our work bathroom — more often than I care to admit — it cracks me up to see the phrase “Keep out of reach of children and mascotas.” I like the idea of grouping Cosmo the Cougar and the Jazz Bear with little kids who can’t be trusted with aerosols.

- Why do malls have so few maps? If I owned a mall, well, I’d fill it with nothing but Sbarro pizzerias and Sharper Image stores, for starters, but I’d also see to it that easy navigation was a priority. I’m sure they (‘they’ being the sinister mall overlords) like nothing better than to keep me wandering aimlessly like a cash-wielding zombie, but doggone it, I might go there more often if I didn’t have to walk three miles between each map kiosk. (OK, that’s an exaggeration; I will never go to the mall more often.)

- Earlier this year Utah Valley University hosted a visit from former T.C. Williams High School football coach Herman Boone, who was portrayed by Denzel Washington in Disney’s “Remember the Titans.” He drew a decent crowd, but nothing compared to the piles of fans that would have showed up if Denzel himself came to town. “Oh, it’s the real Coach Boone? Not the guy that pretended to be him in front of a camera? Booooorrrring.” I’m not on a soapbox, by the way — I would totally pick Denzel over the genuine article, if I’m being honest — I’m just saying we live in a goofy world.

What, no ACME slingshot? [9.16.11]

2011-09-16T10:14:00.000-06:00

Image via FriendBurst. (It's surprisingly difficult to find an image like this. What in the world do you search for?)

What, no ACME slingshot?
(Published in the Springville Independent News)

For as often as cartoon characters fall through ceilings, it’s fairly uncommon in real life (same with bomb-swallowing and anvil-induced head trauma). You, however, are about to read the account of a survivor of such a fall.

Allow me to set the scene: *cleaning reading glasses* It was 1999, if memory serves, and I was hunting wabbits with my twusty rifuhw in a gween fowest glade...

No, that’s not right; it was Chris Henderson’s house, with some friends on a Saturday morning. We’d all drunk deep from that slumber party cocktail of sleep deprivation, boredom and mischief, and it was decided that the Henderson attic was owed some exploring (and why shouldn’t it?).

Guided by approximately 1.5 flashlights per three explorers, we rummaged through the Henderson’s disappointingly ordinary storage boxes. I’m not sure what we sought— doubloons, treasure maps, cadavers? — but whatever it was, it either didn’t exist, or it did, but we never pushed that one false brick that triggers the sliding wall that reveals its secret hiding place.

Defeated, we made our way to the attic entrance, a funny little half-door that led back into the Henderson’s walk-in closet — a mundane Narnia, if you will. At this point, I had a confident lay of the land, and recklessly hopped from joist to joist.

You can see where this is going.

Chris, who held my sole source of illumination, turned around to inspect one last box. But the door was just 10 feet away, so I forged ahead in darkness. Suddenly, a big patch of light appeared beneath my feet. Shortly thereafter, a stack of paint cans also appeared beneath my feet, the suddenness of which cannot be overstated.

It wasn’t until I looked upward, lying on the cold concrete amid bits of drywall and insulation, and saw the gaping black hole in the middle of the ceiling, that I realized the floor had not in fact been thrust upward to join me in the attic. The attic and garage were still in their respective locations, and it was I that had undergone the dramatic repositioning.

There wasn’t much pain, but there was plenty of panic, because my lungs didn’t seem to be functioning. After a breathless eternity in the garage, where I feared I would die alone, then get shelved next to the Halloween costumes, Chris burst through the door. As he assessed the situation, I wondered what became of the rest of the search party. Did they not care that one of their own had plunged to his death?

Chris answered my question when he disappeared back into the house; a few seconds later I heard his muffled shout: “He’s up here, you idiots!” It appears my comrades, having seen a few too many Looney Tunes, were searching for my remains in the house basement. They knew my descent had begun in the attic, but likely figured the spread-eagle, Matt-shaped hole continued downward through each successive floor down to the house foundation, upon which my teeth were probably now making xylophone sounds as they tinkled onto it from my mouth.

I made a full recovery (no broken bones, but I did get giant bruises on my triceps as they hit the rafters on the way down), but it pains me to say that my friends suffered some significant brain damage that day, and their intelligence still remains day-to-day.

I foresee a flashback for BYU vs. Utah [9.12.11]

2011-09-12T13:04:00.001-06:00

Image via Tom Smart, Deseret News

First of all, what would you call flashback via premonition, or reliving the horrors of a past event before the future triggering event has even occurred? Because I'm getting whiffs of it now with the BYU vs. Utah game looming. My freshman year, the 2003-04 season, I arrived at BYU just after what would end up being BYU's only win (Georgia Tech, 24-13) at LaVell Edwards Stadium that season. The season fittingly ended with the most boring game I've ever attended: Utah's 3-0 victory, sealed by a 41-yard field goal at the end of the first half. Also, it was snowing.

I'm expecting a similar outcome on Saturday. With BYU's offense looking almost completely sterile, Jordan Wynn still throwing pillows for Utah, and offensive lines that couldn't keep a tumbleweed in front of them (and that goes for both squads), we're in for a defensive struggle.

‘Tis but a scratch! [9.9.11]

2011-09-09T10:09:00.002-06:00

My ankle. All that fun purple stuff has now migrated down into my toes.

‘Tis but a scratch!
(Published in the Springville Independent News)

As a boy, I always admired my dad’s ability to sustain an injury without noticing it. When he would help me build my pinewood derby car, for instance, he’d always come up with a few scrapes on his knuckles. I was beyond impressed when he said things like, “Oh, that? Huh, I don’t know where I got that.”

“But it’s bleeding!” I thought. “How can you not know?!”

Now that I’m all grown up, I shrug off cuts and bruises in much the same way, but for me, the nonchalance doesn’t come easy. I have to work for it.

“Oh, this?” I say. “I’ve had worse.”

But beneath that millimeter-thin layer of machismo, I’m hurting. Not only that, I’m worrying about the worst-case medical scenario that has probably already taken an irreversible toll on my injury-ravaged body.

“He said it was just a jammed finger!” I imagine them wailing at my funeral. “Why did he have to be so brave?” (Who else scrolls past the logical diagnoses and heads straight to the extreme, ‘And in rare cases...’ maladies on WebMD.com? Come on, I know I’m not alone.)

The other difference between card-carrying members of the Tacoma Tough Club and faking Faberge eggs like myself is how much effort I put into prominently displaying my injuries. For example, I sprained my ankle while playing basketball the other day. This sucker hurt; I was justified in limping and wincing away from the court.

Where I wasn’t justified was in my consideration of neglecting the care of that ankle so that when people saw me hobbling around work the next day I’d have something grotesque to show them. After all, when showing off a bum ankle, “That’s not so bad,” is exactly what you don’t want to hear. “Get this man to a hospital!” is what you want to hear.

Take Advil, you say? But what makes you think I want the swelling to go down?

Fortunately for my health, I have a wife that’s adamant about R.I.C.E. treatment (Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation). Left to my own devices, I probably would have employed H.H.D.J. (Hot tub, Hiking, Dangling, Jumping jacks) to keep the swelling and discoloration at a maximum.

I guess these are the lengths to which guys like me have to go to keep up appearances. Kind of like SpongeBob SquarePants, who, when his toughness was questioned, confidently replied: “I’ll have you know, I stubbed my toe last week while watering my spice garden, and I only cried for 20 minutes.”

Protagonists don’t have time for phone pleasantries [9.2.11]

2011-09-02T10:50:00.003-06:00

Image via StephenKui.com

Protagonists don’t have time for phone pleasantries
(Published in the Springville Independent News)

I replaced the heating element on our dryer this weekend. I think I’ll mount the old, rusty element on the wall as a testament to my first, and likely last, successful home repair.

This feat has nothing to do with this week’s column, but what’s the point of having a column if I don’t use it for shameless bragging every now and again?

So speaking of large appliances, you’ve got to admire how action movie heroes conserve their cell phone minutes. Let’s take a look at how a gruff-voiced ship captain takes a typical phone call:

Captain: “This is Jenkins.”
Frantic guy on the other line: “The transmodulator is jammed, and the glucofoils aren’t responding!”
Captain: “Give her all she’s got.”
Guy: “But sir—”
Commander: “That’s an order!”
The captain emphatically snaps phone shut, tosses it to random midshipman.

See what the Captain did there? The man clearly understands word economy.

And it’s not just actors in crisis scenes — film protagonists pretty generally seem to be excused from time-consuming phone etiquette, including empty salutations and overlong goodbyes (or goodbyes at all). Wouldn’t it be great if we could play by those rules? Take the rigmarole required to call a friend for lunch:

1. Say each other’s names, even though Caller ID has already established identities (15 seconds).
2. Ask one another how they’re doing (and respond summarily), even though neither person is seeking genuine answers (30 seconds).
3. Ask one another if they want to go get lunch, even though this was already agreed upon the day before (10 seconds).
4. Confirm details for time and place (35 seconds).
5. Bid farewell, preferably with a clever sign-off (30 seconds).

Only 35 seconds of that two-minute conversation were necessary. Now if Gina, the hot-shot public relations professional looking for love in all the wrong places, for instance, were to call up her sister for lunch, she’d get right to the point:

Gina: “Tina, we’ve gawtta tawk.”
Tina: “Meet me at Lucianni’s in five?”
*click*

Gina and Tina arranged their get-together in less than five seconds! Granted, in real life we’re constrained by a few necessary conversational cues, such as answering "yes," (whereas in film, hanging up the phone always signifies an answer in the affirmative) but there’s no reason we can’t trim at least 45 seconds of fat out of every phone call.

In conclusion,

*click*

The bare facts [8.26.11]

2011-08-26T10:16:00.003-06:00

Image via Mitologie

Bare facts
(Published in the Springville Independent News)

Let’s pretend I’m teaching the concept of modesty to, say, an Amazonian tribesman — we’ll call him Xanu — on his first visit to America.

"Depending on taste, you'll see some variation in coverage around these areas," — I point on my chalkboard diagram to the thighs, shoulders and neckline — “but by and large we keep the following areas wrapped with two, or even three, layers of clothing," I say, indicating the more delicate portions of the human anatomy.

"Any questions?"

My beloinclothed pupil shakes his head, then sort of squirms in his chair, as he's now very eager to dress into the khaki shorts and hawaiian shirt his host family has provided him.

The two of us then break for lunch at my favorite beach-side oyster bar, where one has an exquisite view of the shoreline from the back patio.

Suddenly, mid-oyster, Xanu’s eyes go as wide as cue balls; he points at a shapely woman wearing a bikini that reveals approximately 25 percent more skin than the average pair of underwear, not to mention 75 percent more than even the skimpiest cocktail dress we discussed in our modesty lesson. Such attire is clearly confusing to Xanu.

“She’s swimming,” I tell him. “Swimming is different.”

After lunch, I take Xanu to the local gym, where he dazzles onlookers on the rowing machine, but doesn’t quite know what to make of that StairMaster business.

“You’ll get the hang of it,” I later tell him in the locker room. Then, without warning, I whip off my gym shorts and head to the showers. Xanu is quite alarmed.

“Oh, don’t worry — we’re in a locker room; it’s OK.”

Xanu then follows me into the shower room, where, darn it all, I realize I’ve forgotten my towel. Xanu attempts to peel back the shower curtain to deliver it to me.

“No, no! Just hand it to me!” I shout, blindly reaching around the curtain.

On the way home from the gym we make a stop at the dry cleaner’s, where Xanu notes that I get a bit red-faced and flustered when the female attendant hands me my wife’s lacy nightgown.

Next, a quick stop at Mervyns, where Xanu, wishing to try on a new pair of slacks, removes his khaki shorts right there by the rack.

“Xanu!” I say, darting reassuring glances to the startled passersby. “Save it for the dressing room.”

We end our day with a trip to see the Orlando Magic play, where men in tank tops take orders from men in suits, who are standing by young women in short skirts and bikini tops, who are shouting to a group of shirtless men with letters painted on their chests.

That night, while I sleep, Xanu packs his small rucksack, changes back into his loincloth and slips out the back door. Potato, pot-ah-to, that he could abide; but modesty was something he feared he would never understand.

Not a morning person? Step into my lair. [8.18.11]

2011-08-18T00:00:00.004-06:00

Image via ThinkGeek

Not a morning person? Step into my lair.
(Published in the Springville Independent News)

I’m a night owl by nature, but I’ve always aspired to be a morning person. Not perky like a coffee bean, but moderately up-and-at-’em.

I’ve recently made more concerted efforts to convert to Morningism. This is because I realized that it’s not so much waking up early that I dislike as much as it is waking up in general.

For 26 years I’ve operated under the misguided assumption that, with the proper amount of sleep, I can awake like a Disney princess — breathe deeply, stretch my limbs and happily greet the woodland creatures crowded at the windowsill awaiting my good cheer.

This is not so. Whether 10 hours or 10 minutes precede my awakening, the difference in unpleasantness is only slight. So why not get it over with and get a jump on the day?

The difficulty is that applying this rational logic to my 6 a.m. zombie brain is like cautioning my dog about gingivitis.

I tried setting several alarms at once and placing them across the room, but no luck. Granted, it truly was fascinating to see how many alarms I could turn off without ever technically waking up, but my wife can only resist poisoning my lunch so long. I needed something like Mr. Bean’s alarm clock, which connects to a garden drip tube that sprays cold water on his bare feet.

Enter ThinkGeek.com, a purveyor of delightfully strange wares, including alarm clocks that were probably forged in fire by the Devil himself. There’s the Sonic Bomb Alarm Clock with Bed Shaker, or wheeled clocks that roll under your bed, or ones with wings that playfully elude your sleepy grasp as they hover around the room.

I opted for the Twist Equation alarm clock. This cylindrical device features (from left to right): a dial numbered 1 through 9, an LCD screen, another numbered dial, an “=” sign, then another screen. Normally, those screens display the hours and minutes, respectively, but when the alarm sounds, the first screen flashes either a “+” or a “-” sign, and the second flashes a sum.

To make the beeping stop, you have to twist the numbered dials to complete the equation. Calling “5+6=11” an “equation” might sound silly, but at 6 a.m. it might as well be quantum mechanics.

What’s more, the dials don’t light up, so when the alarm sounds, I can either A, ignore it, then get kicked in the kidney by my wife (can’t be ignored), or B, grab that thing and race it into the light of the bathroom to defuse it like a ticking time bomb.

Early trials are hopeful — 5/5 successful wake-up’s so far. And if this doesn’t take, ThinkGeek has an impressive offering of caffeine-laced soap, body wash and lip gloss. (Really.)

There's a typo in the... never mind, it works [8.16.11]

2011-08-16T14:33:00.004-06:00

Image via International Business Times (h/t @sausagegrinder)

I know I'm a Johnny-come-lately here, but I just found this while cleaning out my image folder. My bet is this guy's editor saw it but let it ride.