Bag Stranded

My Temple of Doom: Part One

2011-07-25T09:57:00.000-07:00

In my mind, I can imagine a day, far off into the future. With a warm fireplace flickering in the background, my children, my children’s children, and even the faint cries and coos of their children all sit around a table festooned with a holiday feast. The finest silverware clanks from forks and knives and the cheerful conversation and reminiscing of times shared together as a family fills the air. I sit at the head of the table, snug in my red knit sweater. I am not eating, but I’m taking in each sound and smell of the festive event and the warmth that spreads across the generations of my family—my heritage.

“…and then I found out he was standing right behind me! Can you believe it?” the unnamed spouse of an unnamed grandson laughs to the rest of the table. “So, what about you, Grandpa?” she says, looking at me though I am still rather uncomfortable with her referring to me by that name. “What’s your most embarrassing moment?”

“Oh, Dad doesn’t talk about that,” a son quickly retorts. “Believe me, we’ve tried to get it out of him for years. We should probably just change the subject. Could someone please pass me the green beans?”

“But, why won’t he talk about it? Everyone is sharing their own,” the spouse says.

“No, really, we shouldn’t keep bringing it up. Could you please just pass the…”

“The year was ’99, back in the old century,” I finally say, loud enough to silence the rest of the table. Everyone listens intently, even the youngest children. Sadness and nostalgia flicker across my eyes which stare straight forward as if looking directly into the memories I’ve tried so long to repress. Some would say they could see the faint reflection of a waving American flag in my eyes as I began my harrowing tale.

I made my way to my girlfriend’s house one summer morning. The sun had not yet come up and there was still a briskness in the air for July in Utah. I walked to her door, dressed in a shirt and tie and knocked gently so as to not wake up the other sleeping residents. It isn’t a usual occurrence to begin a date before 6:00 in the morning, but there was little that was usual about what was to come.

The plan for our date was to go to the temple to perform baptisms for the dead. That last sentence would either make perfect sense to someone who is LDS (you know, the Mormons) or would be horrifying to someone who is not. To summarize as much as possible for those who might be in the later categories, Mormons frequently make their way to temples to perform certain acts of worship. Much has been said about the “secretive” nature of temples, but what happens inside temples is not so much “secret” as it is “sacred”. That being said, the things that do happen are probably far less interesting than anything you are imagining at the moment. If Bill Paxton knows all about it, then it probably isn’t too much of a secret anymore. As I tell this story, I hope to keep that sacredness intact even while I use the most powerful tool of the devil—blogging. When it is all said and done, I am still a Mormon and I still believe that we have a Heavenly Father who loves us all as His children, but who might have a vendetta against me for some reason.

One thing that is done inside temples is baptisms for the dead. Rather than digging up the remains of infidels to dunk their skeletons in water, Mormons perform the baptism vicariously for that person—which is more efficient though much less CSI. This is something that youth 12 and older are invited to take part in and youth 16 and older are prone to exploit for a religious-themed dating experience. I know. We are weird.

World-renowned shooting guard, former second baseman, and all-around good guy Danny Ainge is a Mormon.

But it was for just such a purpose that I was waiting on the front porch of my girlfriend’s house at such an, interestingly enough, ungodly hour. After a few minutes and a few extra knocks, my girlfriend Tina (you remember “Tina,” don’t you?) came to the door, bleary eyed and pajama-clad. “I totally forgot that was this morning,” she claimed. She then also claimed that she could get dressed in just a couple of minutes. It took her closer to around 45 minutes all of which were spent with me sitting in the split-entry waiting for my chance to piously impress.

At long last we were off to the temple. Utah, being home to no fewer than one billion Mormons, has several temples. That morning, we decided to go to the Jordan River Temple which is near the south end of the Salt Lake Valley. Once we made our way there, a man with a suit coat and an earpiece met us at the front door as if we were to meet the President inside (which if you vote Republican this year might just be a possibility…our plan is near fruition!) and told us the temple was closed for cleaning. I was perfectly content with the idea that the Lord would recognize our effort and we could now go and enjoy a delicious Denny’s skillet breakfast. Tina, however, would not be dissuaded from her religious duties, so she suggested we go to another temple. So we went downtown, at the north end of the valley, and visited the Salt Lake Temple. If you are not LDS, you still would recognize the Salt Lake Temple. Its Camelot-esque architecture juts out from the otherwise conservative buildings of the Salt Lake City skyline. It is also used as the stock image for inspirational stories about the benevolent Mormon church and horrific cautionary tales about the occultist Mormon church.

At the entrance, rather than a sacred service agent, we were met by an aged, motherly matron, one of several volunteers, mostly retired, who spend their days in the temple dealing with people like me.

“Can I help you?” asked the elderly woman behind the counter, all in white from her hair to her clothes to her translucent skin.

“Yes, we are here to do baptisms for the dead,” I said, with a little too much pious pride.

“Oh dear,” the matron said as she looked at her white watch. “The last baptisms for the day take place at 10:00,” she said kindly. It was 9:56. Apparently, baptizing is a morning-only activity. They have to empty out the font before The Price is Right starts or something. “I’ll see if we can take you back there.”

She eventually came back to us and said that they would make a special exception for us and would take us back. If there was something we needed, it was to be made as a special exception. The matron led us quietly down a flight of marble stairs and through the labyrinthine hallways of the Salt Lake Temple. They were like a labyrinth because they were very maze-like, not because there is a Minotaur who might come out of a corner room and chase you through the hallways with a cleaver. I am not saying that there isn't one of those too, but I also can't say that there is one (wink). However, something akin to that horror was unknowingly waiting for me on the other side of the baptisimal font on that fateful day.

“Um, grandpa, can we take a break now and go get some popsicles or something for desert? I mean, your story is great and all...”

“Micah…you hush up now,” my daughter-in-law reprimands. “But if you are getting up, I’ll take a banana Creamie.”

Kids these days. They just can’t appreciate a good story.

To be continued…

Gladys Knight, of Pip fame. Yeah, we got her too. Seriously.

Absence Makes the Heart Something Something

2011-07-05T15:35:00.000-07:00

It has been over a year since I have written an article for this blog of mine. One year. We can call it a sabbatical, but I am still not entirely sure what that means. Let’s call it a sabbatical, though.

There are many reasons that I could offer you as to why I have not written in this blog for a year. For one, things have been pretty busy. My regular job has gone from one where I play the Wii and write sexual innuendo for the purpose of selling vitamin supplements to one where I respond to 2,500 emails a week and dream of the days I used to write sexual innuendo. I have also taken on a second job, much like a whore might work for two pimps to pay for all of those Star Wars toys that her bastard children so desperately need. With these and many other things going on, it has been hard to find time to write though it is what I love to do.

It isn’t like anything has happened during this 2010-2011 season anyway. I mean, I went deaf for about a week. I also split my jaw open with the business end of a crowbar. I had what was single-handedly the weirdest day of my life with a certain former star of a zip-code-based television show from the ‘90s. I went to Disneyland. Again. Like a sucker. I had dental surgeries performed under the guidance of Tactics of the Spanish Inquisition for Dummies book. I also was about as sick as I have ever been in my life over the joyous holiday season. Oh, and I also went deaf. Did I say that already?

You would think that all of the various and sundry miseries would be perfect fodder for some good blog articles. But, as the fates would have it, the miseries themselves were what would keep me from writing on the blog. Not that the whole year was completely miserable. There were some good things that happened to me. Something in October, I think. Yeah, there were definitely a few minutes in October that went alright.

But much like the peacock in the backyard that spurned me on to write, like, two other blog posts last spring after taking a comparatively short hiatus, I have also had several other events that have made me specifically think “this is something that would be perfect for Bag Stranded.” Yes, it is always nice to share my misfortunes with others so that you all can laugh and feel better about whatever inferior problems you happen to be going through. But I also like to share my opinion about certain matters, as I am planning on doing in the future. In my mind, there are few people whose opinions I genuinely value. My father, for one. A few wizened friends. My wife, because I have to. I really don’t put much stock in my own opinion. But that won’t stop me from sharing it.
Like Australian rules football. What is up with that? Am I right? I had a hard time sleeping one night so I tried to find something on television that would help me on my journey to a fitful night’s sleep on my microfiber couch. I found just such programming on the delightful ESPN2. They were covering an Australian rules football game with two teams that were the best of the 1,434 teams playing in the league. This rousing match was between the Staewell Swifts Baggies and the Mitiamo Superoos. I know—an incredible match, by crikey!

If you have never had the chance to see a game of Australian rules football, set your DVRs to stun. The game is an interesting mix of American football, rugby, soccer, foosball, jai alai, and Maximus Meridius reenacting the Battle of Carthage in the Roman Coliseum. As much as the Australian people might try to distance themselves from the idea that their country was formed as a penal colony for the worst brand of criminals, their national sport keeps bringing them back to the crazy.

This is an actual legal move in Australian rules football, known as "huck the wallaby".

I watched the match for a solid hour and came to the conclusion that there were absolutely no rules to the game whatsoever. It seemed like one team would try to get the ball to the other side of the absurdly long and oblong field. However, once they got to the other end, they would either kick the ball, throw the ball, touch the ball to the ground, bite the ball open with their teeth, place the ball gently in the awaiting pouch of the end zone kangaroo, or just turn around and start running like mad toward the other goal line. If the ball should make its way out of bounds (represented by one of the countless squiggly, indiscernible lines spread out across the field) the referee is the one to throw the ball back in. But, in the interest of fairness, the referee is forced to turn his back to the field of play and throw the ball behind him, like a bride with her bouquet if the bride was deranged and the bouquet had to be thrown in a 50-foot vertical arc to the bridesmaids, all sloshed from a few cans of Fosters, who would fight for it to the point of biting off earlobes just to get a completely arbitrary amount of points for dropkicking the bouquet at some hidden area of the wedding dance floor.

The facts that things like Australian rules football exist fill me with a boyish fascination for what else the world has to offer. Not only what it has to offer, but what I can experience, summarily fail at, and then make fun of. It has my hope that sharing those experiences, as well as the countless other embarrassing experiences from my past, will keep me continuing to write on this newfangled media known as a blog (or LAWG, I think the B might be silent). I would also like to publish all of these painfully plagiarizable articles into an actual bound book, even if it is spiral bound. That way you can take Bag Stranded with you wherever you go and the internet does not yet exist. Getting published would be a long shot, but sometimes you just have to throw everything up in the air, behind you, in a 50-foot arc, and hope someone grabs onto it.

And hopefully sharing these experiences will also keep you coming back, though you have been so disappointed in me before. So, as my way of thanking you for waiting for me this past year, I would like to share with you my most embarrassing moment. It is important that you understand how big of a deal this is for me, though. When I first started my current job, I took part in the tradition of sharing my most embarrassing moment in the weekly department meeting. As I had done in nearly every instance before or since, I shared some little trite affair that was perhaps only marginally embarrassing. Those embarrassing moments were not an affront to God and man as my actual most embarrassing moment actually is. This is the very definition of embarrassment and it will be my pleasure to share it with you.

In my next blog post. Which should be up on Friday. As long as I am not too busy. Maybe let's just plan for the end of the year. The year 2012, just to be safe.

If this is how the Australians teach their kids sport, what chance have we, America?

Welcome, Moz Faithful

2010-12-17T15:16:00.000-08:00

Hey there. If you came here from the recommendation of the brilliantly magnificent Janice Whaley and her Smiths Project blog, I welcome you. I was once a blogger here in a former, less busy life, but have taken the late summer, early and late fall, and early winter off. But, please follow me anyway and, once I come back (starting in January, fingers crossed), it will be with some truly lackluster vengeance.

And, just for you fans of Janice and of Morrissey, here is the article I wrote about Morrissey a while back for your reading pleasure in the meantime: There is a Light that Occasionally Goes Out.

Also, leaving a comment might just expedite my return.

Bag Stranded Reread: Summertime, and the Living is Not Easy

2010-06-25T15:08:00.000-07:00

Well, it is Friday, and unfortunately, I have had to deal with more than my fair share of crap today. So, I will not be able to finish my weekly post. But, never fear, a new post will be up on Monday and it will be disgustingly delicious. Trust me. In the meantime, to celebrate the return of ABC's Wipeout as well as the return of the hellish summer heat, here is a Bag Stranded Reread of a blog that I posted last summer. Hopefully it will hold you over through the weekend.

http://bagstranded.blogspot.com/2009/07/summertime-and-living-is-not-easy.html

Enjoy, and feel free to leave new fresh comments too! That means you, Mom.

My Father, the Snake Assassin

2010-06-18T15:14:00.000-07:00

I’ve been mowing the lawn at my parents' house as my father’s health has, for the moment, taken a turn for the worse. As he is the owner of the much famed and much accursed Smith work ethic, it has obviously been difficult for him to allow me to do the yard work in which he truly prides himself. Of course, it was never too difficult several years ago when I lived under his roof. At that time, yard work served as my daily meal ticket. Not only was I responsible for mowing the lawn once a week, but I also had to weed the garden, water the flowers, and tend to the no less than 80 rose bushes planted around the house. Forget my chores and I would receive the common lecture rating my existence as equal to those of the beloved flowers. “How would you like to sit in the sun without water for a week?” I often considered this as a viable option of getting out of my yard work chores, especially as I sat there, hose in hand, for hours in the blistering Utah summers, like a slightly more depressed Belgian statue.

But, far from being a taskmaster, my father was an instructor who taught me both the value of a well-kept yard and several important life lessons along the way. Landscaping lessons like how to fertilize rose bushes in the spring or the proper way to edge a lawn were combined with the valuable life skills of killing grasshoppers with fingernail polish remover and exploding tomato worms with a well-placed firecracker. There were also times that we threw around a football in the backyard or had batting practice with fallen apples. But the greatest sport, and one of the greatest lessons my father ever taught me, was the fine art of Olympic Snake Throwing.

Otherwise known as “OST”, “Slithery Shot-put”, or “The Beautiful Game”, Olympic Snake Throwing combined the thrill of competition with the thrill of cultish snake handling—something that many other sports would do well to incorporate. The game is played spontaneously upon finding a snake in the yard on any one of the many occasions when we were outside doing yard work. My parents lived behind a field that had a small irrigation canal running right next to their property line. This made for an ideal breeding ground for snakes and our backyard made for the proving ground for young snakes to do battle against the legendary human giants of my father and I.

The first rule of Olympic Snake Throwing is that you don’t talk about Olympic Snake Throwing. The second rule is that you always wear gloves. The object of the game is to hurl the found snakes from our backyard into the field behind our house. Points are awarded based on distance and bounce as well as style and overall technical composition of the program. The reason for the second rule is that the captured snake will take to urinating and defecating on its captor as a last line of defense, which interestingly enough is how I got kicked off of the junior high wrestling team.

In interest of full disclosure, I should point out that these were garter snakes, though I can see how this story would be much more interesting with rattlesnakes or pythons. There was no real danger of becoming a dead fellow with these snakes. Garter snakes are so named because in ancient times they were removed from a new bride’s upper thigh and cast into a crowd of drunken Neanderthals. But a snake is a snake, and snakes are pretty damn scary. Sure, we occasionally felt bad about our sport, especially when PETA drenched our family car in fake snake blood (it was actually just pig’s blood). But we felt that we were doing the world a favor by disposing of these menacing pests. We fancied ourselves the St. Patricks of Magna, Utah; only instead of drowning the snakes in an Irish sea, we hucked them into a rocky field for sport.

"You just pick 'em up and huck 'em." -The Beloved St. Patrick

I had many memorable moments playing Scottie Pippen to my father’s Michael Jordan. It always took me a great deal of courage to pick the snakes up myself, so I first learned how to do it by watching my father’s technique. On my first try, I ran toward the field, screaming like a girl as the snake writhed in my gloved hand, and threw the beast slightly less far than I needed to. It did not clear the chain link fence and was instead impaled on the top wires. After receiving the thumbs down from my frowning mother who peered through the kitchen window, my father took a shovel and flicked the pierced snake off of the fence and then, promptly, ended his misery. Yes, this was a blood sport, but that didn’t mean we were without mercy.

I also had one of my first lessons in sexual education when I threw what I thought to be an extra long garter snake into the field. The entire incident happened in slow motion and I swear that I heard a Verdi opera in the background. The two snakes flipped through the air, their entanglement in the throes of love being so rudely interrupted, until their unholy union was broken and each landed in separate spots of the craggy field. "Dad, what was that?" I inquired. "Ask your mother," came the loving response. The years went by and the snakes were hurled into the fields by the dozens. We knew that if any of them survived the catapult, they would think twice before entering Smith property again. That was, of course, until the snake uprising.

The year of the rebellion, the snakes began entering our house. We would find them in the pantry, under our couches, and hiding behind our toilets. We did not know how, but they came into our house through any hole they could find and they terrorized our family. This, of course, was unprecedented. We had never gone into the field hunting for them, yet they were brash enough to attack us where we lived. I burned through several pairs of gloves and my father blew out his rotator cuff in our efforts to push back the invaders. Wherever we turned, the snakes threw themselves under our lawn mower blades, wound themselves around the aptly named serpentine belts of our car, and conducted air raids by jumping out at us from the trees. Eventually, peace came to the land and we saw fewer snakes in the ensuing years. At first, their absence was welcome. But eventually, we would come to miss the gruesome sport and long for the days of the epic battle between snake and man, and prepubescent boy.

As I mowed my ailing father’s lawn I just happened to run into a very old friend. I nearly stepped on a medium-sized garter snake as it slithered onto the field of battle. Having my bloodlust atrophy somewhat with age, I was prone to let him go and continue to mow the lawn. That was until I turned the corner and saw the serpent eyeing me, daring me on to reignite past tradition. I turned off the engine and the snake took off, hiding in the long, untrimmed grass. I ran to the shed and rummaged through it without finding any gloves. I knew I would have to turn to what my father always called “Plan B”. I grabbed the shovel from the dusty spot it occupied on the side of the shed and bent down low, inspecting the grass blades for any sign of movement. After a few minutes, I tracked it to below the border of the pear tree. After kicking around, it made its way out and then promptly met its end after several blows of my shovel. After standing there like King Leonidas with Spartan sword in hand, I offered the deceased a respectful bow before burying his pieces in the fertile soil of the tree. “It is finished,” I said under my breath with adrenaline still coursing through the veins of my clenched fist. “The battle is mine.”

After finishing my mowing job, I hurried into the house to tell my father about the experience. Even while obviously suffering from his chronic and debilitating illness, and even with my mother berating me for once more killing another of God’s creatures, I could still see the feeling of pride well up in his eyes. Though I may have thought I was suffering under his tutelage when I was younger or dismissed his instruction as unnecessary, it is now clear that my father taught me more than I could have ever asked for. Aside from murdering reptiles, he taught me, by example, how to love and protect your family, how to know and push past your limits, how to give thanks and love to other, non-snake creatures, and how to be a good husband, father, and man. I can only hope to be able to teach my son half of what my wonderful father has taught me over the years, though my own son’s affinity towards snakes might prevent him from enjoying their execution when he is old enough. I will always be indebted to my dad. And even though advanced age and illness might prevent him from competing in future Olympic Snake Throwing competition, there will always be fireworks and tomato worms.

Try and tell me that you don't want to just blow this thing up.

Jar Jar Mitzvah

2010-06-11T07:15:00.000-07:00

Once a month, Miranda and I get together with two other similarly-aged couples for a rousing game night. For people our age who are burdened with the duties of parentage and struggling in middle/lower/perceived management, it is our last bastion of freedom. Our games range from the party variety (Loaded Questions) to the nerdy variety (Settlers of Catan) to the nerds of the party variety (Guitar Hero, Burt Bacharach Edition).

During these games we often find out rather privileged information about each other. Often this information comes unsolicited and is difficult to forget, no matter how hard we try. But one of the most shocking admissions came one night when I found out that one of these friends had never experienced what we, and most of the rest of humanity, consider a crucial action signifying entry into manhood, even though most of us had all basically done it as boys.

“I’ve never seen any of the Star Wars movies,” he said with a shame that was as thick as the morning fog on Endor.

With the exception of my dear wife, who thinks that she “saw that one Star Wars with the cute little teddy bear people,” we were all dumbfounded. This man’s wife, who had been told about this condition beforehand, shook her head in shame and embarrassment that it was now well-known that she had to take a serious step down when exchanging marriage vows.

We vowed at that moment that we would redeem his dignity and manhood by having a Star Wars marathon where he would be indoctrinated in the world and ways of Star Wars in one sitting. We were ready to suggest that he be strapped into a wicker-back chair with his eyelids taped open à la A Clockwork Orange, but he had never seen that movie either. But he was ready to embark on the venture under his own free will. So we set the date and anxiously awaited our voyage to a galaxy far, far away.

In telling other people about our plans, it was remarkable how similar the reactions were. First, nobody could believe that there was yet someone alive who had never seen any of the Star Wars movies before. Then, when people considered our planned marathon, it was as if every person we talked to had considered such a thing before. But like telling off your boss, biking across the state, or eating every item off of the Denny’s breakfast menu in one sitting, it was something that you only thought about but never actually set out to accomplish.

After the gasps subsided, the inevitable first question was, “So, what order are you going to watch them in.” It was a valid question, seeing as how George Lucas started the franchise with episode IV because the world was not ready for one Jar Jar Binks. Of course, we watched them in chronological order by release date, something that every inquirer seemed to agree with, having personally made that decision in their minds years ago. It was as if they asked what prayer we would utter on our pilgrimage to the Wailing Wall, knowing they would obviously choose the Prayer of Sorrow. “Next year in Naboo,” they said under their breath. “Next year in Naboo.”

Star Wars has always played an intricate part in my life. Of course I am far from the biggest Star Wars fanatic. I might not know the serial code on Boba Fett’s blaster, but I have also seriously considered purchasing a tauntaun sleeping bag. One of my earliest memories is of watching A New Hope on TV when I was about three years old. Just as C-3PO and R2-D2 traversed the unforgiving desert sands of Tatooine, the plastic tube I had in my ear to prevent infection worked its way out into my fingers, ensuring that I would have to go through another medical procedure to put one back in. Even at three years old, I envied the life of an android. A few years later, I was able to go to Disneyland for the inaugural year of Star Tours, back when Michael Jackson was involved for some reason. Even after that, I roughly played with Star Wars figures with no regard for their future value. All I knew is that my Banthas belonged in the mud pit in the backyard.

I thought they smelled bad on the outside.

I watched and rewatched all of the available episodes during my childhood and adolescence. The playground rumors that episodes I through III were going to be made in the near future were set aside along with the rumors that MC Hammer was a Mormon, Jose Canseco injected liquefied Smarties before every game, and a banking crisis would cripple the US economy in 20 years. Eventually though, the rumors were confirmed, to much weeping for joy that my generation would live to see the long-awaited prophesy fulfilled.

Of course, as a prelude to his prequels, George Lucas revolutionized the industry by re-releasing, for the fourth time, episodes IV, V, and VI in the theaters. Only this time they were über-digitally enhanced with ÜberHX Technology™. Each movie also had some wholly unnecessary and terribly fake-looking additions, like plastic surgery on a 55-year-old woman that had once been the beauty that brought thousands of young, nerdy boys into manhood. But, I still went to see these re-releases for the first show on opening day. One of the proudest moments of achievement in my scholastic career was walking out of a particularly boring pre-calculus class, with a parental letter granting me full indemnity, in order to go see The Empire Strikes Back. It is good to know that I had parents that knew the priorities of a worthwhile education in the force.

Eventually the prequels came out. When I saw Episode I in the theaters, the sheer excitement of the throngs of Star Wars faithful was infectious. The news broadcast stories of people dressed in full Wookie regalia who had been waiting in line at their local movie theater for weeks. Sitting in the theater on opening day, when the frightening Star Wars logo burst onto the screen to the sound of John Williams sneezing, the response of the audience, cheering and screaming, was orgasmic. By the time the outdated blue credits sputtered onto the screen, we were all filled with shame and regret and the desperate need to take a shower. As anticlimactic as the junior miss episodes of Star Wars were, true fans like me still accepted them as a necessary part of the franchise, if only for the intrinsic hotness of Natalie Portman.

My friends and I sat in front of a gigantic television set for the now-much-hyped marathon. We cozied up on our separate couches and let the Doritos and caffeinated beverages flow. In many ways, it was what I had always imagined the life of an adult to be when I was a child. And yet, I never felt so childish as I did sitting there on a Saturday morning and accomplishing none of the actual responsibilities that I had in my life. But by seeing all of the movies in succession, it was as if my experience was heightened. I felt the frozen snot of an upside-down Luke on Hoth. I shed a little tear at the quickening of Yoda. I gave a slight fist pump when boy Anakin won the pod race. I moaned “Nooooo!!!” along with Vader a few minutes before the end of our experiment. We watched roughly 14 hours of film when all was said and done. My friend walked away from it a man, albeit a now nerdier man than ever. And I walked away with a greater connection to one of the greatest stories ever told.

My son, who just turned four, has recently discovered Star Wars for himself and is now able to identify in the most obscure of characters. Though he was somewhat upset that he did not receive the Princess Leia figure for his birthday, the battle-ready Yoda and clone fighter were enough to appease him for the time being. I look forward now, after my recent re-education, to being able to raise him up in the ways of Star Wars. I sense that the force is strong with this one—the force to become unreasonably obsessed with a series of movies. I will take him as my young padawan and together we will take on the mission of the Jedi; to protect the universe from evil and tyranny. Or at least build forts with the couch cushions and use paper towel rolls as our light sabers over the weekend. There will always be responsibilities waiting, but sometimes, you just need to go down to Tosche station to pick up some power converters.

The valentine cards my son will be giving out his first year of school.

A Memorial Memorial Day: the not-so-triumphant return of Bag Stranded

2010-06-04T14:41:00.000-07:00

The morning of Memorial Day I woke up, as usual, with my youngest child just in time to catch the last re-airing of the previous night’s Sports Center, before anyone was willing to wake up and comment on sports all over again. I was exhausted from the preparations that I undertook with my oldest child having what we lovingly refer to as a puking spell the night previous. Luckily, the spew only flew twice before going to bed, though I had readied myself for an all-night hourly vomit session. So I had a hard time going to bed and I didn’t stay there for too long. To top things off, Miranda was feeling under the weather as well. I had been looking forward to a meaty BBQ and Miracle-Whip-based-pasta-salad fest with the extended family, but I was sadly coming to the realization that it might not happen.

The stress hormones that are released in my body when I have to play the caretaker to my ailing family is a great way to reevaluate all of the things that are going wrong in my life. 5:00 in the morning is a good time for that as well. And so I mulled over my plans for the future, and inevitably, my hopeless and lately lacking devotion to this blog was one of the first things that came to my mind.

So, the fact that I have not been “active” on this blog lately is something that has been weighing heavily on my mind. My lack of writing has not been from a lack of will, but rather a lack of time. Well, let’s call it a lack of will to spend time doing it when I could just as easily spend that time catching up on TV Land reruns of Barney Miller’s 7th season (or the “Golden Season” as it is known in some circles). I love Bag Stranded, even if you might not. I hate the idea of blogging, but I love the experience of writing and there is no better subject to write about than my less than worthwhile existence. Though it takes work, I actually like sharing information with you that you never really wanted to know in the first place, but which might be kind of amusing at some point.

I have never been very good at keeping the lofty goals I set for myself. For examples, please refer to January 2nd of every year of my entire life. But as I sat watching Hannah Storm and her misshapen body dictate something about how LeBron James’ love of gyros might mean a move to the Greek leagues next year, I realized that it might be time for me to change my ways. Along with drinking less carbonation, abstaining from compulsively eating processed cheese slices, and finally learning how to speak Arabic, I realized that I should devote more time to my little blog and its little, so very little, group of fans. Being the terrible goal-setter that I am, I prayed for a sign to know if making these resolutions was something that would be sustained by a higher power.

Then it appeared.

Opening the blinds and looking into my backyard, a peacock the size of a Dodge Stratus was preening itself beneath the Japanese elm. It was mind-numbingly glorious. How it appeared in my backyard was a mystery, but I was convinced that this giant peacock was sent to me as a cherubic sign that my goals were, in fact, approved by deity.

Later in the morning, while the wife and children watched fully-protected behind the sliding-glass door, I went out to feed the peacock bird seed, sliced carrots, and Frosted Cheerios. I cautiously approached it and it cautiously eyed me. It’s neck turned to try and see me at all angles and it’s crest dangled from the top of its head like some type of tassel from a Lebanese belly dancer. Meanwhile, my wife and children waited in anticipation for the bird to do something like put its tail feathers on full display or savagely eviscerate me with its beak. I whispered in a way so that my family could not see how crazy their husband and father had become. “Thanks for coming. I’ll try to do better with my life.” The peacock faced me directly, stared into my eyes, and opened its mouth to reveal its gravelly, purple pointed tongue. However, rather than a James Earl Jones-esque voice bestowing divine wisdom on my behalf, the peacock emitted a little gagging sound and dropped from its mouth a partially digested carrot slice.

It flew away, or pounced, or whatever peacocks do just a short time later. I don’t think that I have the ability to be an interpreter of signs, so I guess that the backyard peacock is as good of a sign as any. And, one of the easiest goals that I can set for myself and one of the most rewarding to keep (arguably ahead of moderating my cheese slice intake) would be to write a Bag Stranded article once a week. And that is exactly what I am going to do. So, to my loyal fans: thanks for sticking with me through this latest rough patch. For any new readers: sorry if I don’t live up to the hype that got you here. Please be sure to check back here into Bag Stranded every Friday where I will post a new article about some other embarrassing facet of my life. It can and it will be done, so sayeth the peacock.

The feathered oracle.

Belated Blog Swap

2010-04-26T06:54:00.000-07:00

As I have done before, it is time for a little blog swap, where I share my blog with another blogger to blog about whatever they would like to blog about on my blog instead of their blog. Blog.

So, here is Laurie Steiner of the appropriately named lauriesteiner.com. You can head over there to check out the orthographic vandalism I left on her site. Meanwhile, hear what she has to say below. Thanks!

About a month ago, I came across a post on 20 Something Bloggers about a “blog swap.” Blog swap? Hmm, this sounds interesting. You see, I’m pretty new to 20sb and joined this online blogger community in hopes of meeting and interacting with a bunch of interesting and insightful, funny and quirky, intriguing and intelligent bloggers. I wanted to expand my online network and take full advantage of this thing people call the blogosphere.

So I signed up for the blog swap.

And then, nothing.

I never heard back from 20sb. No e-mail. No 20sb wall post or message. Nada. No one told me who my blog swap partner was or outlined any instructions. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not ragging on 20sb by any means here—just stressing how truly teary-eyed I was when I was left stranded in the dark.

Then I came across this via Twitter. I scrolled down to find my name and came cross some random dude who I was pretty sure I hadn’t ever heard of. Which, sadly, means I hadn’t ever read his blog before either. After doing a little stalker action via 20sb, we messaged and voila—here we are, guest posting for each other. Two random strangers who find themselves funny, interesting and clever paired up to be blog buddies. Sounds really sweet, doesn’t it? Aww.

Well, here’s a little bit about me. I blog here. I’m a magazine editor and PR/social media freelancer from Texas who writes about anything communications-related and everything in between. I also tend to throw in stuff about my travels, doggie, hobbies and adventures in the kitchen. It’s my space—a safe haven where I can ramble about professional and personal life with some dashes of sarcasm, laughter, tears and sometimes utter ridiculousness too.

I hope you’ll stop by and check out my blog—and if you don’t have the time, interest or simply don’t care, then at least hang around Bag Stranded for a while because Cameron’s got something to say and there’s no doubt his blog will add a smile (and most likely some laughter) to your day.

- LBlog Swap: Adding touches of brightness to an otherwise bitterly depressing blog. Thanks Laurie.

Descent into Kanabness

2010-04-21T15:17:00.000-07:00

Here is a link to my slideshow of pictures from the infamous trip to Kanab, described in the previous article. The pictures are funny. The captions are serious.

******

And, as it turns out, Miranda doesn't feel comfortable with the public at large, that is to say you, looking at pictures of our children. Go figure. So, up until the point that I delete this blog post because it really has no need to exist, you can email me at cameronssmith@gmail.com if you would like to be privy to such classified information. Now get lost, sicko. Or stay and read on. That is ok with me.

Absolutely Kanabulous

2010-04-19T13:00:00.000-07:00

Kanab. Aside from being about the worst thing that you can call a woman in Klingon, Kanab is also a small town right at the southern border of central Utah. In anatomical terms, it is where Utah’s sphincter would be. It is known as “Utah’s Little Hollywood” because apparently Robert Mitchum shot a scene there once in 1958 just before urinating on a cottonwood tree and leaving for Big Hollywood. According to the most recent census, there are 2 African Americans and 1 Pacific Islander living within city limits. It is also the place that my immediate and my extended family chose to spend our first family vacation in 18 years.

We went to Kanab because my wife found a rentable condo there at a reasonable price. There are also rentable condos for a reasonable price less than a six-hour drive away, but that is apparently beside the point. As the expedition loomed over our heads during the month of March, this was my constant argument. If you combine the long drive with my son’s projectile-vomiting carsickness and my other son’s proclivity for pooping at inopportune moments, you would seem to have whatever the opposite of the word “vacation” is. Even the thrilling Kanab Wikipedia page could not dissuade my wife, or my mother who quickly championed the cause of the trip and carried it as her own. And so, on April 1st, the day when millions of fun-loving pranksters pulled practical jokes on those they love, I embarked in my van, loaded up as if for the Joad family journey across the Oklahoma panhandle, and made my way towards Kanab.

In truth the ride down wasn’t too painful, thanks to some Benadryl (or Sleepy Juice, as we like to call it) and the constant drone of Yo Gabba Gabba in our van’s DVD player. I had loaded up some audio books on my iPod in the hope that at some point the children and their mother would choose the same time to all sleep, leaving me to my own literary benefit. However, my plans were foiled as the smooth narration of a Neil Gaiman novel was interrupted by intermittent cries from my drug-induced children and the mind-numbing catchiness of songs like “You Don’t Bite Your Friends” coming through the speakers. Add this to my wife’s constant stream of questions I couldn’t possibly answer, though answers were adamantly expected. “What do people out here do for work? Where do they go when they need to shop at a Target? Wouldn’t it be great if we could fly to Kanab but still be in a car to keep all of our stuff.” We arrived in Kanab, just before completely driving through it, and found our condo. I was pleasantly surprised, something that rarely happens in my life, with the cleanliness and size of the condo. We unpacked literally most of our belongings and, tired from the long drive across the state doing nothing but sitting, we all sat on the couch for the rest of the day.

The first few days of our sojourn in the South were fairly uneventful. We basically just watched the children play with the bevy of toys that their grandmother spoiled them with as we ate the bounty of food that our mother spoiled us with. There was an awe-inspiring mound of junk food on the kitchen counter that served as a kind of communal trough or a saltlick from whence to satisfy our appetite throughout the day. We played some games, got some rest, and dealt with the temper-tantrums of the child and adult varieties. The day before we were set to leave, I woke up from my bed on the couch which I am convinced was once used as a Turkish torture device and realized that we had really done nothing to merit the tumultous journey to this desert location. So I gathered up those who wanted to come with and set out on adventure. We drove out about 30 minutes out of town to the Coral Pink Sand Dunes—a breathtaking expanse of...well, pink sand dunes. At one point, we found a short trail and so we ventured with the children across the sand which at first was fun to walk across, but after 30 minutes forced us into deciding who we would eat first to survive. Eventually, we made our way back to the car with only sand in our teeth, looking like Lawrence of Arabia, if he happened to bring along his three toddlers into the desert and drove a minivan instead of a camel.

Luckily, I was dressed for the occasion.

We then decided to take a trip to some caves that we heard about while desperately searching Google for “Things to DO in Kanab”. A website warned that the caves were “technically” private property, but as long as you didn’t leave trash anywhere, one should be fine. Luckily, my wife stayed home with our youngest—a tribute to her wise premonition. We found the caves, just off of the main freeway, parked our cars on top of some brush, and headed down an ominous dirt path toward the caves, visible on the side of the mountain ahead of us. There was a rusty sign which featured small print in a font that hasn’t been used since 1964 underneath a large, all-caps “NO TRESPASSING!!!” I was convinced that we would be just fine, though I was still a little nervous as my primary source of conviction came from the internet. I also felt a little at odd exposing my son and his cousin, both 3 years old, to what had more than a passing resemblance to the beginning of a teen camping slasher film. We came to a fork in the road; one path led to the caves and was marked by another, rustier “No Trespassing” sign. Down the other road there stood a weather-worn cabin enshrouded by trees. We forged ahead, keeping a glance on the cabin for any disgruntled resident that might protest our passing. About 75 yards later my brother-in-law and his son stopped just ahead of us on the road. I followed his steady glance toward a tree where some bright white objects were strewn on the ground. We both walked over and found that what we both thought had to be fake was in fact quite real and quite disturbingly picked-clean skeletal remains.

An appearance of a gigantic femur with a little fur still attached above the hoof discounted the remains as human. On the other side of the road, the skull was found—it’s empty ocular cavities staring at the young family intruding upon its gruesome final resting place. We continued on, for whatever reason, towards an opening a little farther down the road where a fire had recently been extinguished. “I’m ok going back,” said my brother-in-law, with my other two sisters agreeing immediately in unison. But here we were, so close to what looked like truly impressive cave formations. I thought to myself that any one of the red cautionary flags that were raised would be easy to overlook, but the combination of all of them seemed to serve as a warning from above. We stood there in at the side of the ashes in silence as my family awaited my decision as the interim trip advisor. In the silence, I could swear that I heard a banjo playing softly in the background. I bent down and saw the pages of a book that had been burned in the fire, leaving only a few corners of text undestroyed. I told myself that the contents of this book would determine our course. I dusted off the black char and saw in my hands what was left of a detailed military weapons manual. From my crouched position, at the same height as my son and his cousin, I looked them both in the eyes and said in a trembling voice, “I’m going to need you boys to run for me, ok? Can you do that?” With lightness of foot, we made our way back to the now-shamefully-named Nissan Quest, luckily without the report of any firearms behind us. I still couldn’t shake the feeling though that those Kanab hills had eyes, and they were freaking the crap out of me.

We left for Salt Lake City and its relative civilization the next day. As is usually the case, the ride back home was more dramatic and traumatic. High winds blew grit in our eyes outside a rock shop in Orderville. A desperate stop was made in Nephi for my son to pee on the side of the road for the first of what I can only assume will be many times in his life. And diapers were soiled and changed in Santaquin and American Fork. We discovered that the city of Beaver only has one eating establishment which is approximately the size of a bathroom stall. Don’t ask about their bathroom stall. But, all in all, no spew was spewed, no one had a breakdown, and despite my persistence in the matter, the trip did not end up to be the death of me. It was wonderful to spend time with my immediate family as well as my parents and siblings and nephew. No sooner had we once again unloaded our belongs back into their original positions of disarray in our home than Miranda began talking about our future return trip to Kanab, as if it were part of our Passover ritual. “Next year in Kanab, we’ll have to make it up to those rock caves,” she said. All I could do was smile and wait until next year’s vacation where, if I do survive, I might have an even better story to tell. I’d like to meet that one Pacific Islander anyway.

The caves. If you look real close, you will see the face of death. And yes, those cave walls are actually bleeding.

H2 No

2010-03-09T12:28:00.000-08:00

As I sat in a dank and humid public recreation center, on a rickety bench 20 yards away from the pool, where my three year old son began drowning out of sight of the instructor approximately 30 seconds into his first swimming lesson, I knew that I was fully justified in my life-long hatred of swimming.

In my opinion, there is no reason for man to swim unless his only food source is on an island other than the one he is living on. There is a reason that evolution goes in the direction it does—out of the water and onto sweet, inviting, solid dry land. Or, for those of the creationist ilk, God created Adam and Eve, not Adam and Evelina—a scaley fish-human hybrid with massive gills. Yet, humans continue to defy the natural order of the universe by skirting across the destructive waves of oceans, diving haphazardly into lakes, and discretely urinating in chlorinated swimming pools.

Though I believe the logic stated in the previous paragraph is sufficient to prove my point, I also have a handful of personal experiences to further clarify my theory. The first came when I was around 6 or 7 years old. My aunt and uncle had planned for my cousin and I to have a fun outing at the local waterslide park; the aptly and horrifyingly named Raging Waters. I went with the excitement of a young, innocent boy whose familiarity with water never went deeper than the shallows of his own bathtub. After plastering my plaster-white skin with an SPF 7 sun-block (it was the 80s, after all), my cousin and I climbed to a medium-range slide for our first attempt. He went down, screaming with a mixture of joy and the fear of death, and into the arms of his mother below. I stared down the plastic tube, familiar with the playground variety of slides, but not one with thousands of gallons of water forcing you into vertigo just before slamming you into the depths of the abyss. The only thing I was more scared of than lunging myself down this slide was apologizing as I worked my way past the throngs of people in line behind me. So I entered the death canal and let the water take me to an unknown future.

Within seconds, I felt myself skirting along the open waters of the pool and then immediately sinking into its murky depths. My arms flailed and groped desperately for something, anything to save my young life. My fingers grasped at something, though when I pulled, it sunk down in the water with me. Just as I was ready to abandon myself to a watery grave, the arms of my aunt lifted my head above the water. No sooner had my lungs taken in the sweet breath of life than I was plunged below once more, though with my eyes opened I understood why. My aunt had to let go of me in order to pull up the top of her bathing suit, which I had used as a life-line of hope, over her exposed breasts. It is a wonder that she chose to rescue me again, after rescuing her modesty, in order to drag my cousin and I out of the pool and drive us home without a word being spoken.

Four years after this incident, my mother decided that it was time for me to take swimming lessons. I was dropped off at a high school pool where I changed my clothes and entered the pool area to meet my beginner class composed of children, none of whom had yet graduated from kindergarten. I stood in the shallow end of the pool, with the water scarcely rising to my knees, as the instructor taught us how to swim like a turtle, a dolphin, and a doggy. Though I cried secretly in my room before class, I went to each and every one. By the end of the course, I had learned to blow bubbles in the water and sit on the inflatable seahorse, while my kiddie compatriots were Mark Spitz-ing their way around the length of the pool. “Swimming isn’t for everyone,” my failed instructor told me. “Swimming isn’t for no one!” I sobbed back as I fled the pool, too embarrassed to manage proper grammar construction.

Danny, the 5-year-old class champion. He got his mustache and armpit hair early.

As puberty roared into my life shortly afterwards, with it came body issues that prevented me from seeking out the pool as a place of recreation. Though I wasn’t really that fat, I was too big to be comfortably shirtless among the increasingly attractive opposite sex. I briefly experimented with being the kid who swims with an oversized Ocean Pacific shirt on, but found that to be equally worthy of ridicule. I would go to the pool with friends occasionally, only after convincing myself that, if I kept my body underwater, I could blame my portly appearance on refraction. However, even this became unbearable as standing motionless in the shallow end of the pool is not conducive to fun nor to flirting. Also, the necessity of a pubescent boy changing his clothes in a locker room full of grown men, strutting pridefully and disgustingly naked, was something I felt I didn’t need in my life.

Today, even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t be able to swim. This is not only because of my failure to learn the skill, but it is because the body issues I had as a teenager have been multiplied a hundredfold. I am now much larger and, though the hair on my chest might resemble a whiter, chubbier version of Tom Selleck, that on my back might resemble a wild, ursine creature of Mexican folklore. And so I had to surrender the perceived fatherly duty of teaching my son to swim into the hands of a 16-year-old, inattentive, rec center swimming instructor.

As we walked into the building yesterday, the smell of chlorine triggered all of the horrible memories I had stored and filed in the “never again” folder of my psyche. I changed my excited son into his swimming trunks and sat him on the steps of the pool next to his cousin for their first swimming lessons. Four other children joined the group as my wife and I sat 20 feet away on a barricaded bench. The Michael Phelps wannabe entered the pool and poured a few beach toys into the water in front of the children. The other kids, who had all obviously been in a pool more than once in their lives, unlike my child, walked down the steps and bobbed their way to the toys. Zachary walked down as well to join in the fun. However, the fun ended soon after the slanting 3-foot-deep floor slanted slightly lower than my son’s unimpressive 3 foot 4 inch stature. With the instructor’s back turned to the children whose lives were entrusted in his pimply care, my son’s head went under water and his arms flailed in vain for some sense of security.

I stood up as my shout of “Hey!” echoed throughout the building, but did not phase the instructor who continued to dream of the pizza and Mountain Dew waiting for him back at home. I began to scale the barricade and a mother, passing by with her own child, dropped to her knees and readied herself to dive in after my drowning child. Just before I flung myself into the area, the teacher turned around and lifted Zach’s head above the water and led him over to the stairs where his gasping for air eventually turned into the heart-wrenching sobs of a tender three-year-old who has had his first brush death. The rest of the lesson was spent with Zach wading his feet in the pool from the steps and the other taller, braver and less drowned children bobbing unsupervised as the hapless instructor lazily led one child after another into the deeper waters.

An angry call is forthcoming and a return for a second lesson is doubtful, but along with sympathy for my child’s tragedy, I also feel some sense of guilt. If I had taken more initiative to learn to swim as a child, or if I had paid for a membership at a combo fitness/hair-removal center, I would have been able to help him learn a little about swimming before this point. But the truth is, despite my guilt, I am glad that we live in a landlocked state where the only large body of water has enough salt in it to completely prevent any drowning of swimmers that can get past the offensive, sulfuric odor. And there is a reason, several in fact, for my harboring animosity towards the deep blue. Hopefully you can all see that and now sympathize with me. Well, me and my aunt.

Here comes the show.

Better Living Through Nougat

2010-02-25T15:37:00.000-08:00

I can trace the moment that I gave up on life to a fall day of my senior year in high school. Well, maybe it wasn’t a complete abandonment of all hope, but it was the day that I realized I could put momentary pleasures over any concern for my general health and well-being. It is a moment everyone has during their entry into adulthood. This could range from excessive drinking to promiscuous sex to marathon sessions of World of Warcraft in a darkened basement. My vice, however, came in the form of a surprisingly heavy brown cardboard box with the word “Snickers” emblazoned on its packaging, resting at the bottom of my locker. The perforated edges at the top of the open case formed the teeth in its demonic mouth, which called to me in a sound muffled by the tin in the locker door. “Eat me. Eat all of me, Cameron.” I simply couldn’t resist.

During my senior year, I was part of the student body officers of the prestigious Cyprus High School of Magna Utah; home of scholars, champions, and some several hundred other kids who fit into neither of those categories. I held the office of second-vice-president, the responsibilities of which included changing the letters on the outdoor marquee, doing the morning announcements, and covering for the vice-president, should she be unable to fulfill her duties due to heavy menstruation. The benefits of holding office were innumerable. We had diplomatic immunity when it came to skipping out on class. The chemistry test takes a back seat to the urgent matter of counting the votes for the Homecoming queen (who, interestingly enough, also later “took a back seat”). We had an “SBO” room that was really just a repurposed janitor’s closet with a couch. The room was meant as a place for us to meet and discuss pressing matters involving the students we represented. It was also a great place to make out and/or sleep during school hours. Mostly sleep.

Another responsibility of the sacred office, as well as a benefit, was that we got to run the show for school assemblies. While most students used the assemblies to ogle the cheerleaders or complain about how stupid the assemblies were, it was our responsibility to rally up the pep in our oft pepless peers. After some theorizing, we realized that spectators at any sporting event become infinitely more excited when there is an infinitesimal chance that they will snag a free item launched their way during an intermission. The actual item doesn’t matter much as I once saw a man at a Utah Jazz game jab his elbow into the brittle ribs of a grandmother to maintain possession of a miniature plush basketball with a bank slogan on one side of it.

So, we decided that at a moment where the students’ interest in the assembly began to wane, we would run out in front of the bleachers and throw candy out to the masses. This elicited the response that we hoped for and got people to join in the frenzy. Being the logician that I am, I deduced that if an adequate response came from throwing out miniature taffies, then the larger the candy item, the greater the response. I put my postulation to the test the next assembly by throwing larger, chocolatey treats. The crowd went wild. Then, I discovered that the school administration had a secret cache of cases of full-size candy bars. I grabbed three of these cases and held them in my locker until the next assembly.

Between the Assistant Principal discussing the no-tolerance sexual harassment policy and the dance team performing to Divinyls classic “I Touch Myself”, we ran on the court and threw out the candy bars to the amazed students. The next opportunity arose after the football coach spewed murderous threats against the local rivals for the next big game. Right after we left our seats to throw out the candy bars, the students stood up and cheered in rapt anticipation, not believing that their mere attendance could warrant such a reward. The next time we threw out candy was when the school band began performing “My Sharona” from the stands, one of only two songs they knew. I got up, whipped a Snickers out of the case, wound up and wildly threw the sucker like a frisbee. The bar flew, end to end, into the stands and over the outstretched fingers that longed for its caramelly goodness and directly into the face of Gary Mortensen, the tuba player.

In fairness, Gary's face had it coming.

A painful, prolonged squeal emerged from Gary’s tuba as he collapsed onto the bleachers. Apparently, Snickers not only satisfies your hunger, but it also satisfies Newton’s equation of relative velocity. He got a black eye and our campaign of projectile pep came to an end. The only problem was that now I was in sole possession of three cases of Snickers candy bars. In high school I was filled with much less contempt, and so I saw problems as opportunities instead of as catastrophes, which I see them as now. I kept the cases at the bottom of the locker. Before my calculus class, I grabbed one to give me that extra push I needed. I also had one after lunch as a kind of dessert, despite the actual dessert that I had during lunch. Then I had another before English to help me not be so depressed while reading Thomas Hardy, and then one more for the walk home. This is not just what happened the first day with the Snickers. This is more of conservative estimate of my daily routine.

I spent several weeks of my senior year eating between 4 and 7 full-sized candy bars a day. Not the fun size (a misnomer if I have ever heard one). We are talking a 6-inch long, 2-inch tall hunk of peanuts covered in at least five types of sugar and at least three kinds of sadness. Though I didn’t step on a scale to know how much weight I gained, I do know that I experienced occasional temporary blindness. My metabolism went on strike, and then eventually left me completely for a better job with some skinny kid in Reno. Occasionally, I bartered the Snickers to other students for cash or favors, but their value in my mind was as inflated as my over-run gastro-intestinal system, so I kept most of them to myself. For those few weeks, I lived like a king, which is where that particular size of candy bar gets its name.

I have continued my torrid relationship outside of this high school experience. I haven’t relived the orgiastic indulgence of those weeks in high school, but I admit I’ve been tempted by them on the grocery store shelves, like one might be with a former lover who once fed them an endless supply of candy bars. When I worked early hours, they made for an excellent substitute of an actual breakfast. It also doesn’t help that candy bar technology has brought us the new greatest candy bar, the Fast Break. If you haven’t had one of these, they are made by combining a myriad of caloric marvels (caramel, nougat, nuts, Nacho Cheese Doritos, fatback, Crisco, a fried egg) and then covering all those in chocolate and marketing it as an “energy snack”.

For many of my friends of other religious persuasions, it is currently the period of Lent. During this time, the faithful voluntarily give up something for 40 days to commemorate when Jesus spent 40 days in the wilderness without Facebook. This seems like an excellent practice and a great opportunity for me to give up my chocolatey vice. Of course, my people (you know, the Mormons) invented the candy bar letter, putting chunks of candy bar in ice cream, and enshrouding our carrot slices with Jello. But I probably should take on the challenge and offer up this one sacrifice for even longer than the 40 requisite days. This means none of the succulent Cadbury Eggs, no stale Butterfingers at Halloween, no chocolate covered, marshmallow Santas and no deep-fried Snickers at the State Fair. Maybe this will renew my once positive and innocent outlook on life. Something has to. The time has come to say no to nougat.

Well, maybe after one last Fast Break. I haven’t had breakfast today after all.

And unless you find a "Milky Way" to pay me the "100 Grand" you owe, I will "Fast Break" your legs into "Reeses Pieces" and leave you for dead on "5th Avenue". Sincerely, "3 Musketeers".

Why I Love Nicole Kidman: Valentine's Day Special

2010-02-12T23:27:00.000-08:00

Hello everyone. As I am sure you are well aware, this weekend is Valentine's Day, or as I like to call it, February 14th. But, in my own little way, I wanted to spread around the love. So, I've gone and taken one of my favorite columns about love and remixed it for the special occasion. I recorded a reading of it in my audiolab/office/children's wasteland of toys. With some technological trickery, I am able to put it on here for you to enjoy.

This column was originally published in early 2009 as a two part article entitled "Why I Love Nicole Kidman." I combined them together here, so buckle in for a bumpy 17 minute ride. Just click on the music icon in the box.net widget below to play the recording.

Thanks for being a Bag Stranded supporter. I love you. No, seriously. Like love love.

Oh, and be sure to leave a comment and let me know if I have a future in radio.

TV is My Guide

2010-02-09T09:26:00.000-08:00

We have just emerged from one of the most coveted events of the year when it comes to football fans, chicken wing purveyors, and people in the business of all things television. The Super Bowl is not only the biggest event for actual television sales, but it is obviously the point where anti-abortion activism and web-hosting, car racing lesbianism alike spend the greater part of their advertising budgets for the year. More importantly, it is a time where fanatics sit down with people who think that Drew Brees is a new type of laundry detergent to bask in the glow of their television sets.

I was among these throngs of people last night, though I cared less about the outcome of the game then I did the outcome of the assorted fried vittles I had ingested. A lot of time was spent discussing with friends, not the play-by-play of the game or even the stream of rodent/groin hit/rodent getting hit in the groin-themed commercials, but about the quality of television. We shared dramatic stories about cable and satellite providers, the subtle differences in HD, and the comparative (and compensative) size of our television screens. This got me thinking about events, both recent and long-past, that have made my relationship with TV what it is today.

For some time as a child, my father worked a swing shift and my mother worked two jobs in order to afford to futilely put braces on my rotten teeth. This meant that often in the mornings and at night, my sisters and I were left to take care of ourselves. I often got dressed in the morning in front of the one television set that we owned. Instead of learning to read the clock, I instead taught myself that when Care Bears started its second segment, it was time to head off to school. I would hurry home from school to receive my true education in the tutelage of He-Man, Alf, and the Muppet Babies. At night, my sister micro-waved Banquet pot pies for us and we learned valuable life lessons while watching Family Ties, Designing Women, and, of course, Moonlighting. Oh, Maddie, will you ever learn?

I can link nearly every important event in my life to something I was watching on television. I remember suffering with Chicken Pox while watching Slim Goodbody, admiring his pox-free, cadaver-like costume. I tried to use a baseball bat to free Mr. Rogers from his glassy confines so that he could play with my train set. I lost a tube which was placed in my ear during Star Wars on the CBS Thursday Movie of the Week and my eardrum broke years later while watching Rambo on the Fox Saturday Movie of the Week. During a particular episode of Wings, I became so violently ill that I realized my own fragile mortality. Seinfeld was on when I went to my first date. I wrote my first major thesis paper (24 pages worth) on the language usage of different characters in The Simpsons. I watched Band of Brothers the day before I got married and I watched the 2006 World Cup when my first child was born. Television has been like a second mother. Actually, since it didn’t remind me of the difficulties it had rearing me or scold me for using bad language in a blog post, perhaps it would be more accurate to say it was like a helpful and wise conjoined twin.

Vomit inducing comedy.

I have written before about how television has also helped me in rearing my own children, or at least eased the difficulties slightly. When Zachary was young, we put him down in front of a myriad of Baby Einstein DVDs, convinced that we would make a nuclear physicist out of him by age 14. He was mesmerized by the DVDs and as soon as he could control his neck muscles, we put him in a saucer seat 6 feet from the TV and let the subliminal genius soak through his fontanelle. The discovery of the repeat play option, which loops the DVD, meant that the television became my full-time, unpaid nanny as I was free to do whatever adult activities I would like (playing Toki Toki Boom, usually). When recently Baby Einstein issued a voluntary recall on its DVDs, citing that research showed it didn’t implant genius into children, but a murderous bloodlust and an instinctual mistrust of Asians, I felt somewhat guilty for my lackluster style of parenting. However, the $15 check for the two duplicate DVDs that we owned and sent back adequately assuaged that guilt.

Our second child has never had the same type of fascination with an illuminated magic rectangle that broadcasts whatever you desire. But, like Zachary, Isaac has the same disregard for the medical benefits of proper sleep. This used to mean getting up at 2:30 in the morning and cursing his wide-awake giggling. I would usually take him downstairs and turn on the television while he tuckered himself out. It was at this point that I realized that the DVR was sanctioned by a loving God. Isaac has improved slightly, allowing me to sleep until 4:30 these days. In his 16 months of life, he has been exposed to several gritty cop dramas, questionable situation comedies, and re-runs of Band of Brothers. He enjoys a couple of shows, but only enough to dance (bobbing and turning like a 75 year-old man) through the title sequences. But, as he tends to busy himself while Daddy watches his “stories” in the morning, I usually control the remote. At least I didn’t put him in front of that mind-rotting Baby Einstein.

I love television dearly, and I am glad to know that my children do as well. However, on the morning of Super Bowl Sunday, Zachary was playing in the family room while I was picking up some things around the house. I stopped for a moment to listen to what he was saying. “But first, here’s a quiz...” he said, in the style of one of his favorite shows, Animal Atlas. “A- Sharks have lots of tooth. B-Flys have many tooth. C- Gwasshoppows have a long teeth. Or D- Tooth are important.” As an English major, this made me cringe slightly, but as a trivia lover, it was awesome that he was making up his own animal/dental trivia game. But after that he said “We’ll be right back with the FINAL answer on Channel 7, also available online and on-de-man. This is KUED.” Though I don’t think that overexposing children to television is generally a problem, when your child can identify a station’s call letters, it is time to re-evaluate as a parent.

I think that Miranda and I are actually good parents, in most scenarios. We have Zachary read at least three books a day, though I usually have to get him to read them by suggesting that they are like watching TV, but in your head. We reward Zach’s diligence in going to the potty with more time watching movies or television or playing games on said television. I firmly believe that Isaac will grow up to become a successful law-enforcement officer after watching Southland so many times. It’s hard to turn your back on a device that you have relied on for so much for so long. I should probably strive to be an even better father, though, by using less television and perhaps more actual interaction with my sons, like playing Chutes and Ladders, practicing our water-colors, or by tossing around a football. Just not when the Super Bowl is on. In that case, I will suggest that he either sit quietly or go upstairs and get Daddy more nacho cheese. Now, if only Isaac could learn to be like one of those stock-trading, talking babies, we could make so much money. And with it, we could, of course, buy a bigger TV.

Buy low. Sell high. Don't trust the Asians.

Author’s Note: Since I know it will come up, I just wanted to say that my mother did make a lot of sacrifices for our family, many of which included tirelessly being present while we grew up. As one of the tens of readers that I have on this blog, I wanted to let her know that she will always be my first mother, disapproval of my language choices and all.

Park Violation City, UT

2010-01-29T14:35:00.000-08:00

Or Things You Shouldn't Do With Clay

Here in Utah, the crossroads of the west, January signals a few special events that are very near and dear to our hearts. The “inversion”, or what happens when smog gets trapped in the whirling cesspool of the Salt Lake Valley, comes to infect the air that we breathe and turns the office into a symphony of hacking, mucousy coughing. It also signals the coming of one of the most revered film festivals in the world, the Sundance Film Festival. Because of these two things, January is also the month where local news stops to focus on either inversion or celebrity sightings. When Jessica Biel coming out of a Park City Starbucks tops the murderous rampage of a nun in an Ogden orphanage for handicapped children, you know it is January in Utah.

Robert Redford started the Sundance Film Festival in 1978 in order to bring independent pretentious filmmakers to his newfound home in Park City. It has since become a way to bring pretentious movie studios, production companies, and A-list actors to Park City. The festival has transformed this sleepy Wasatch Mountain town, which was founded on silver mining and legalized prostitution, into a town way too hip to actually be considered a part of the state of Utah. I have actually heard it in a news report referred to as being located in Colorado, as if its coolness required that it be airlifted 285 miles to the East where the alcohol content in beer was the same as the rest of the known world.

As a general rule, despite all of the things put in place to draw me there, I tend to stay away from the Park City on a Hill. It is for the same reason that I tended to stay away from the pretty, popular girls in high school. During the winter months, it is obviously a prime destination for those who enjoy skiing. It even inspired the pun that graced our state’s license plates for 15 years “The Greatest Snow On Earth”. You heard us. Screw you, Nepal. I have been a Utah resident the whole of the 29 years of my life and I have been skiing a total of zero times. I know that that is kind of like a resident of Hawaii never seeing the ocean or a resident of New Jersey never smelling Axe body spray. Something about the mixture of expensive equipment, expensive fares, and expensive reconstructive surgery discouraged me from it.

One thing that did get me to go to Park City when I was younger is the world-renowned Factory Outlet Stores. Before the days of Wal-mart, Kohls, and Kohl-mart, this sprawling conglomerate was the Mecca of back-to-school shopping moms. It is essentially an outdoor mall with mostly famous, brand name stores. Here’s the kicker: the stores feature products with factory defects. This meant buying form-fitting Hammer pants, belts with mis-weaved braids, and Reebok Pumps that filled your shoes with nitrous-oxide. All worthwhile sacrifices to put your children in fashionable clothing.

If it is good enough for Dominique Wilkins, it is good enough for me.

Even with all of the hoopla that descends on Park City during the Sundance Film Festival, I have rarely attended the much-publicized event, despite the fact that I love “film” almost as much as I love “movies”. Much like the skiing and outlet shopping, this too is due to my perpetual state of poverty. A ticket to a Sundance movie floats somewhere between the cost of a topless revue in Vegas and a pair of non-defective Reebok Pumps. But I have been to Sundance a couple of times, experienced the mayhem, and vowed to never return.

The first time I went was when I was around 14 years old. My sister, seeing the cinematic aspirations that I had in my future, invited me to the event and my parents scrounged up the money for the ticket. It was to see a movie called Colin Fitz. It was a great comedy about two security guards assigned to guard the grave of a rock star on the anniversary of his death. It won several film festival awards, but was never picked up by a movie studio. So, as is the fate with most festival movies, it remains in a celluloid warehouse somewhere in Des Moines. It was at this screening, though, that I had my first celebrity sighting outside of a stadium fireworks show. (I love you Andy Williams!) Of course, this pre-dated the huge thronging of celebrities at Sundance, so we kind of had to settle for what we could get. That settling rested squarely on the shoulders of one Tony Danza. You heard me right, Mr. Tony Danza, or Tony Micelli, as I still like to call him. Who’s the boss? You are, my Italian-American friend, you are.

My next and last experience at Sundance came the following year when I went again with my sister to see a series of animated shorts. We were pretty excited because of a Wallace and Gromit short that was going to be featured. This was, of course, before Wallace and Grommit were popular and cool, or before the Park City effect, as I like to call it. Because the short we wanted to see was only half an hour, there were about 5 other short animated films that were grouped with it. The Sundance Film Festival is known for its independent films with one-word titles that explore horrific sexual metaphors. This year, there was Tub (about a man who impregnates a bathroom fixture). Two years ago, there was Teeth (about a girl whose hoo-hah has dentition). Many years earlier, when I was in attendance, there was Achilles.

As the curtain opened up to begin the short animated film segments, the word “Achilles” came across the screen. We all know the story about the Grecian warrior. Mother dips his whole person into the magic river, with exception of his heel. He goes on to win many battles and fight in the Trojan War. All of that is pretty well depicted by the speechless clay animation figures on the screen in front of us. It took all of 2 minutes. And then began the horror. Apparently, what they don’t teach you in those Mythology 101 books is that Achilles not only enjoyed homosexual behavior in his later years, but he enjoyed it a lot. For the next 13 minutes, my 15 year-old eyes, along with those of the entire audience, were exposed to the most graphic homoerotic claymation pornography that has ever been put on film. Still with no words, and only haunting sounds, the plaster was twisted into all sorts of unholy positions that my hands were only somewhat successful at shielding. The credits rolled at one climactic point and the sound of constant gasping by the audience was replaced with ashamed and violated weeping. Wallace and Gromit would never be the same to me again.

I’ve been reluctant to make my way up to the Gomorrah of Utah ever since that day. I will occasionally go there with my wife for a one-week salary brunch on Main Street or to purchase defective Abercrombie and Fitch clothes for my children. But, in general, I don’t like to talk about my experience with Park City very much. I will say that writing about it here has lifted this burden I have been carrying for sometime. I still shy away from my kids playing with Play-Doh and the sight of Brad Pitt with a sword makes me curl into a fetal position. But I feel that I am on the road to recovery. That road is going back down Parley’s Canyon and into the Salt Lake Valley where I can breathe a little easier. Well, metaphorically speaking. With the inversion in the air, it is technically recommended that you not breathe while outdoors. That can do some real damage.

To Catch A Clay Animator - New on NBC Dateline

Love Snorey

2010-01-15T10:38:00.000-08:00

I slept on the couch last night. In fact, I’ve slept on the couch downstairs for the past few weeks. It is not that I have been relegated to the secondary sleeping station of many a husband because of some dispute with my spouse. Quite the opposite, I am sleeping down there because I love my spouse. When I sleep on the couch, she actually sleeps better, which means that she is happier, which means that my goal as a loving, caring husband is fulfilled. Also there is the fact that it is awesome.

You see, over the past few months, I have become something of a snorer. I never used to snore. I am not sure if it is because of my weight gain catching up with my diaphragm or if it is my general feeling of apathy towards life seeping into my sleep patterns. I would like to blame it on my nasty cold however, which has ruled my life for about a month now. Just before Christmas, I got some nasty sinus headaches and soon had my nasal passages blocked by animated mucus blobs wearing wife-beaters. According to Miranda and her blood-shot eyes, this caused my snoring to be raised on the decibel scale from somewhere between the squeal of a pig being slaughtered and a jet fighter upon take off. I think it may have been a bit closer to the pig.

The coup-de-gracelessness, as it were, came on Christmas morning. After working until 12:30 at night filling-in for Santa’s elves, who long ago abandoned the hope of being able to provide our children with a sufficient number of toys, I was awoken by Miranda at 2:30 in the morning. “Honey, I’m sorry, but you keep snoring and I really need to get to sleep and I am so tired and...” I interrupted her by grabbing my saliva-soaked pillow and groggily exiting the bedroom whilst mumbling, “Well, Merry Christmas to you too.” I removed the back cushions on the couch, flopped down with my pillow and a thin throw blanket, and began anew a snoring session that tricked the neighborhood children into thinking they heard the prancing and heavy dragging of reindeer hooves on their roofs.

Since then, I have slept on the couch every night under the pretense of keeping my wife from my offensive snoring. In truth, I have never slept better. I have a few theories as to why this is. It could be the colder air in that portion of the house agrees better with my ample condition. It could be that I can snore or perform other nighttime expulsions entirely unencumbered by the restraints of a partner and ethical norms. It could also be the fact that, as small a surface area as the couch provides, it is still more room than the narrow ledge that my wife allows me on our appropriately named queen mattress.

I have never been a snuggler. It is nice to see people on television or in the movies who spoon up to their spouses and just cuddle all night long. In fact I watched that happen with envy in the movie Paranormal Activity. I really wanted to be able to have what that couple had, minus the cloven hoofed demon dragging my wife by her foot out of the room. I just have never been able to do that. When we were first married, it was a cute gesture; holding each other tightly as one of us gently fell asleep and breathed hot breath into the other one’s face until he was so uncomfortable that he had to use great skill to extract himself from the grasp and relieve the pain in his aching back. It was these newlywed attempts that quickly diminished the real estate holdings that I had on that mattress to the amount of space one would allow a sloth on a tree branch.

The resemblance is startling.

Last night, my wife and I spent the evening as a veritable picture of a seven-year couple with two children – watching DVRed American Idol and eating different kinds of junk food in opposite corners of the room.

“Coming up next on American Idol - can this young, now cancer-free, man from a meat packing plant in rural Arkansas impress the judges with his raw talent?”

“Yes!” Miranda exclaimed, with confident authority.

“Miranda, I think that it was more of a rhetorical question.”

“But I really think that he will.”

After the episode, I got my sheets and pillows from the closet and told Miranda to get off of my bed.

“Are you going to come upstairs and sleep with me tonight?” Over the years, I have come to distinguish this as purely a practical statement, void of any sexual implication whatsoever. My wife, for whatever reason, actually wanted me to lie down next to her, fall asleep, and then immediately awaken her with what sounds like a didgeridoo warning the neighboring village of an impending attack.

To me this was completely impractical. Though she wouldn’t admit it, I know that Miranda has been sleeping better with these new arrangements. She doesn’t have to hear me snore and she finally has full reign of the entire mattress, like Great Britain regaining control of the Falkland Islands. And I get to fall asleep watching episodes of Bear Grylls drinking fluid from a camel carcass. It is truly a win-win.

“After not even seven years, we are already turning into my parents.” Miranda was referencing the fact that her parents have a similar sleeping arrangement to our own. Her father sleeps in his own bedroom in the basement. This was borne out of the same grievance of snoring, but has turned into quite the luxury. My father-in-law has a complete surround sound system and a large, flat-screen television while my mother-in-law has more room for her collection of ceramic teddy bears from around the world. My own parents still sleep in the same bed, as long as my mother doesn’t fall asleep on the couch reading The Reading Lolita Potato Murder Club Society or my father doesn’t fall asleep downstairs watching Transformers 2. This could be because their combined cacophony of snoring sounds like something composed by Wagner. It is hauntingly beautiful.

To me, sleeping on the couch is a practical solution to a real problem. There is a reason that Lucy and Ricky are America’s best-loved television couple. Sure they may have constantly bickered and threatened physical violence and lied to each other and eventually divorced, but it seemed they were very happy with their network-mandated separate sleeping arrangements. Not like those scandalous swingers, the Bradys. But, when all is said and done, I guess that I can see Miranda’s need for the emotional attachment that comes with sleeping on the same story of the house as your loved one. Though we don’t cuddle up with each other very often, there is still some comfort in rolling over and feeling your spouse’s ice cold, unshaven leg brushing up against your own. I have made a lot of sacrifices in this marriage despite all practical logic (i.e. allowing the purchase of so many different plates that the only way to store them is by using them as wall decorations). I suppose that for the sake of our marriage, I can give up my makeshift bachelor pad of a couch and an amazing solid four hours of sleep before the children wake. What a true, loving, and lasting marriage really entails is looking into each other’s eyes and saying “I love you” before falling asleep together between exchanges of hot breath, cold feet, and rib-vibrating, rocket test-launch levels of auditory intrusion that in no way can be of a natural origin. Sleep tight.

She definitely has some 'splainin to do.

Little Bummer Boy

2009-12-24T10:53:00.001-08:00

It is the third week of December, and the ground is covered by dirty, trampled snow, the chorus of hacking, infectious coughs reverberates through the office, and new credit cards are opened and then used without care in hopes that St. Nicholas’ cash donations soon will be there. While most people busy themselves happily decorating the home with artificial fichus branches, singing Christmas standards by Dean Martin and Larry the Cable Guy, and purchasing hot sauce/cologne gift sets at The Walmart, I do those same exact things with an overarching sense of malaise.

“Why do you have to be such a scrooge?” my wife inquired of me after I opined about the real necessity of buying something for my 1-year-old to give to my 3-year-old and vice-versa. The real difference between me and Scrooge, however, is that Scrooge eventually reformed while my disillusionment with Christmas grows year after year. That and I do not yet have any employees that I can withhold a Christmas bonus from. Not yet. But, because I love my wife and want to make her happy, I go through the motions of turning our house into Santa’s crap factory every year.

One of my first tasks was to climb up on our roof before Thanksgiving to hang up our Christmas lights. The only time that I found to actually do this Everestian feat was after 6:00...at night...in the pitch black of night...in the cold chill of late November. I dragged a few strands of light with me on to the roof, along with a spotlight so that I could sort of see what I was getting myself into. I teetered on the edge of my roof, one rain-gutter fastener away from becoming a stain on my own front porch. I plugged in the first strand of lights to discover that the built-in mechanism to disable the light strand after one year of use was working quite well. Nothing lit up and I threw the strand into the dark and ever-swirling grass below. I then tried the second strand of lights which miraculously did light up just until the point where I finished clicking in the end of the strand. At that point, half of the lights extinguished themselves. After testing and attempting to replace several lightbulbs and fuses, work which should either be done with either the aide of a microscope or nanobot technology, I still was unable to get the strand to light up. I left it half-lit and went on to lighting another section of my roof only to achieve the same disheartening results. When the gimpy half of the strand went out, I lay my head on the shingles and muttered an unspeakable word to myself. Thanks to the acoustics of being high up on the roof, it was most likely not heard by only myself.

My second attempt to hang the lights came a week later when snow and ice had covered our house, making any attempt to mount the roof impossible. So, I had to use a rickety aluminium ladder. I always thought that I lived in a modestly sized house, but at 25 feet, swaying at the top of a frozen metal ladder whose feet are planted on shakingly frozen ground, it was as if I was mounting a bedazzle on top of a Tibetan obelisk. I could hear the siren call of death wanting to take me into its pepperminty sweet embrace. I had to consider what my priorities were- staying alive to love and support my young family, or playing chicken with death in order to make our home nominally more festive. Some slips, tumbles, electrocutions, prayers, and curses later, our house is now decorated and our electric bill is now exorbitant.

Next Year's Plan

Just last week, I prepared myself to join once again in a tradition that my wife and her family have. Every Christmas season, the family piles in a van and ventures out to see the lights that other, apparently more qualified men, men who do not fear death or the power company shutting them down, were able to display. In my mind, driving across the valley in treacherous winter conditions to get the same effect that we could all have if we sat staring at a single glowing light bulb in a dark room, seemed illogical. But, as is so often the case around Christmastime, Logic and Reason take a back seat to the impaired driving of Festive Pandemonium, so we went.

The traditional stops used to involve a string of about 6 or 7 houses. Some had animatronic Santas. Some relayed the Christmas story from yard to yard like the Stages of the Cross. Some had timed the lights on their house to flash to the beat of “Don’t Stop Believin’” This was of course when we could all fit into one van. Four grandchildren and several pounds later, we now squeeze ourselves into two separate vans for the excursion. It has now been reduced to one long trek to see the spectacle at a site about an hour away from our homes.

Thanksgiving Point, standing at the bridge between Utah County and Salt Lake County, was conceived and constructed about ten years ago with the sole purpose of stealing money from well-intentioned Mormon families. Its current scheme is a “drive-thru lite sho” where the light display involves literally an entire day’s worth of set-up from some day-laborers picked up down at the Home Depot. And yet, the minivans poured into this lighted shrine as if it were built by Kevin Costner. Once we finally got through and paid an unholy amount for the visit, bypassing the optional 3-D glasses (techincally, the lights are already in the third dimension, making this upsale ludicrous to say the least) our van crawled along the infrequently lit pathway. There were reindeers that flew across our car in three choppy stages. The eerie sound of children singing carols emanated from a cassette player somewhere in the distant field. And, after 20 minutes at what was technically a negative MPH, we thrust our car through the open and waiting lighted crotch of jolly old Saint Nick.

The ride home was made all the more pleasant by the screaming of both of my children who apparently had visions of sugarplums doing unspeakable acts dancing in their heads. We got home, enjoyed scones and cocoa, and then put the screaming children upstairs to nestle all snug, and still screaming, in their beds. As the throbbing in my head subsided along with the family in my home, I began to look forward in excitement to the beautiful day of December 26^th. “Why are you such a grinch?” my wife implored on her way to bed, changing up the fictional villain to keep me on my toes.

Sitting in the tanning-bed glow of the Christmas tree, I first remembered the scars, mostly emotional, that putting up the gigantic artificial tree caused and the shed needles from it that we find in the most peculiar of orifices. Then I remembered how much joy it brings to my family seeing that tree as they make their way downstairs every morning of the month. I began to calm down and remember just what Christmas means. Though this would make for a good baby Jesus metaphor, my thoughts weren’t quite about that. They were about my own toddler who had just recently calmed down to a mostly-asleep wimpering. He just got so excited about seeing Christmas lights and Santa’s reindeer and all of the miserable affair, that he really just couldn’t control his emotions anymore. I thought about my even smaller child who could only sense how something special was happening with the new decorations and activities without really knowing what was going to come next. For them, as it was once for me, Christmas is the best time of the year and worth all of the waiting and anticipation throughout the rest of the year. Because of that, I realized that it was really worth it to me to put up with the extra work and worry that the season provides. I love my children so much and Christmas, above all, is a time to celebrate the love that we give and the love we receive.

In the interest of full disclosure, I got that last phrase from a poster hanging from the ceiling at the Walmart, just above the Snuggies.

Three sizes too small is a serious medical condition.

Coming Back

2009-12-22T07:43:00.001-08:00

Alright, new blogs are finally in the works. I have decided to forego my college experiences for the time being, to be revisited at a later date when I run out of other things to talk about. So, even though it is a busy time, what with wrapping presents and drinking non-or-extra alcohol egg nog, please check back later today and often for some new articles. Bag Stranded wants to take this opportunity to thank its fans for their support and wish you all, even you, dude from Bangalore that stumbled here looking for nude Nicole Kidman movie stills, a very Merry Christmas, a Happy Hanukah, and any other holiday you may be celebrating, or a great day if you so choose to not celebrate any holiday. Boy, this appeasement stuff is more difficult than it looks.

Colledge: Part Two

2009-11-04T08:29:00.000-08:00

And now, the saga continues...

The College of Non-Liberal Arts

On our most recent Sunday trip to my parents’ house, my mother seized upon an opportunity to have a serious discussion with me about the things that I write on this blog. “Cameron, I don’t believe that the term ‘douchebag’ should ever be used in proper conversation.” Though I tried to explain that what I put on my blog was never meant to be either proper or conversation, her disgust at the perceived foul mouth that she raised and was alone responsible for came brooding to the surface. “What if your kids ever read your blog?” she questioned and then added the ultimate retort, “What if Jesus read your blog? And he is reading it!”

This line of questioning proves that Mormon mothers are just as capable of wielding guilt over the heads of their children as mothers of Jewish and Catholic persuasions. I would hope that anything that I write to fill up the vast void of the internet, otherwise full of rather puritan idealism, would not delve into blasphemy. I find that my selective choice of dirty and curse words, when compared with my malaise and disdain for most things around me, are a mark of my significant restraint. My mother’s comments, however, brought me back once again to the life I lived in a college that seemed to be run by a vast committee of Mormon mothers who accepted tuition checks as payment for administering guilt.

Brigham Young University is a private educational institution which means that they are perfectly able to enforce their dogma on anyone who enters their massive Provo compound. Its students are either of the Mormon faith or are non-Mormons who are capable of playing football. Now, lest ye think me overly critical, I will have you know that I was at this time, as I am today, a devout believer in my faith. But, one thing you must understand is that when several of these devout believers, let’s say 25,000 or so, gather together, spiritual reasoning gives way to the gospel of the masses. If these masses want to make Christina Aguilera a member of their faith, it shall be truth. If they want to make attendance at Monday night prayer meetings a saving ordinance, so let it be written. And more often than not, these masses would dictate and enforce the policies and procedures put in place by the university.

As a Freshman who had recently doled out the whole of his life savings for a semester’s tuition, room, and board, I had no other real option available to me other than going to the dorm cafeteria for my three squares, which often ended up being more parabolic in shape. One groggy-eyed Saturday morning when I made the rare decision to stay on campus instead of taking the long bus ride home for the weekend, I stumbled into the cafeteria with my dining card. The student-worker at the door, decked in her blue and white t-shirt and premature mom jeans, took my card and held it up so it was in the same line of sight as my face. She looked back and forth between the two and I half expected that I was being carded since they finally had given up and put beer in the soda fountains.

“Um, I’m going to have to ask you to go back up to your room and shave before you come down for breakfast, m-kay?” Though I am admittedly a hairy individual, Wolfman I am not. I had shaved the previous morning and was sporting something much less impressive than a 5 o’clock shadow. But, you see, Brigham Young University has a strict “clean-shave” policy despite the fact that its namesake had facial hair that could house small animals during the winter months. To have facial hair of any kind or for any reason requires you to carry a “beard” card which is given out after an interview performed by a specialized “beard committee". The card must be shown as proof of the legitimacy of your beard if a school officer or fellow student should question your loyalties. The card could also conveniently be worn in a white band around the left arm. I ended up going hungry out of defiance until I made it back to my parents’ house, blasphemously unshaven.

Currently suffering eternal damnation.

Though I value the education that I have received, both emotionally and somewhere around $40,000, I can’t help but think that it is a little bit skewed, like when one suspiciously looks at a diploma on a wall from the University of Success or Jindřichův Hradec Community College. Because the University was a religious institution, all of the curriculum needed to be drawn back to some part of the gospel. This wasn’t too difficult in some courses, like the required religion courses, or even some literature and history lessons. Far be it for me to discount the spiritual truths found in Beowulf or Candide or Louis Lamour. When it got slightly awkward was in classes like molecular biology, film studies, or bowling where teachers did their absolute best to keep their jobs which hinged on the development of their students’ testimonies of God. In my film class, the Professor showed us a clip from the movie Dead Man Walking. In the clip, Sean Penn’s character mumbles a lot of words, the only one of which was understood by the mass of students being a casual F-word. A collective gasp spread out over the audience, which caused the professor to stop the clip, apologize for missing the foul word when editing the clips, and plead with us to tell no one so that he could keep his job. I am not sure what happened for the rest of the semester, but the T.A. that taught the remainder of the class was pretty cute, but only showed us filmstrips about paying tithing.

Nowhere can the Orwellian magnitude of the institution’s grip on its students be better felt than in the infamous testing center. The building rested on the edge of campus and looked like where the Count of Monte Cristo spent time plotting his vengeance. You pick up your test and, after having your backpack searched for some type of contraband, you are corralled into a room the length of 8 desks and the width of 8,000. Along the walls of the massive room hung two alternating pictures of an equal intimidation factor. First was the standard picture of Jesus Christ that the Church uses, only with the pupils cut out to make way for rotating spy cameras. The second was a picture of the on-campus statue of Karl G. Maeser, one of the early founders of the University. Next to that regal statue is listed a bold quote that he is famous for issuing and which was requisite to have branded into our brains. To paraphrase, it said, “If you cheat, you will burn in hell next to rapists!” Along with seniors who got paid $4 an hour to pace the narrow aisles and scan your frantic efforts to finish the test in time, and the rumored snipers hidden in the crossbeams, the Honor Code was effectively enforced.

In retrospect, I am honestly grateful for many of the strict policies that were enforced by my chosen facility of higher education. If I had lived through many of the same experiences in a different college, there is no doubt in my mind that I would have been the guy at the bottom of the beer bong, upside-down sucking Pabst through a garden hose. Instead, I had a case of Dr. Pepper taken away from me by a dorm mother which lead me to recreationally use Excedrin tablets not exactly as indicated on the label. Now that restrictions to my mischievous deeds are dictated only by my own conscience, I occasionally let a word not befitting a BYU graduate slip from my lips or my typing fingers. Brigham Young himself was known for his sharp, and sometimes irreverent tongue. But, he also said “I take liberties in speaking which I do not allow when I commit my sentiments to writing.” So maybe I should take this lesson from a great spiritual leader and start to clean up my act. To Billy, as well as to the sea of thousands of other douchebags that I attended college with, I hope that you no longer are complete douches and have instead improved yourselves to simple dirtbags, motards, or fetchers.

So, Karl. G Maeser, that is quite a beard you are sporting there.

I know another "Karl M." who also had a distinguished beard.

Hmmm....

Colledge: Part One

2009-10-21T11:57:00.000-07:00

I drove up the steadily increasing incline of the freeway with the sound of “My Grandfather’s Clock” coming through my car speakers and teaching my children about the inevitability of mortality. My wife’s sleeping head slowly bounced off of the front of her neck while she enjoyed a much needed rest from the weekly perils of motherhood. I pulled up over the summit of the road as it wound around the corner of the Wasatch Mountains affectionately known as the “Point of the Mountain”. This geographic landmark serves to separate the suburban sprawl of the valley I was exiting and the eerie dystopia of the valley I was entering. A flood of memories lapped up onto the shores of my brain along with the sickening feeling in my gut whenever I looked out over this place they ironically call “Happy Valley.” So many horrible, horrible events took place in this land that I can’t help but let my emotions overcome me. Cue haunting drumbeat and slow-pan zoom of my aged, watery eyes.

Part One: Vegas Billy

I had previously crossed into that valley with my sparse earthly possessions in tow in my father’s truck as a much younger and exuberent teenager looking to make his way into the world. I was on my way to attend my freshman year at Brigham Young University, the jewel of Happy Valley, located in Provo, Utah. I had accepted the offer extended to me by the University for many reasons, not the least of which involved the sense of honor and tradition that I felt was due to my family who were all Cougar alumni. Far be it for me to be the black sheep of the family. It also helped that I would have required roughly 150 times more from my hourly wage as a grocery store dairy boy to afford a credit hour from NYU and the average on-campus temperature at Arizona State was in the upper 130s. So, I wrote an acceptance letter full of flowery prose to the good people at admissions who have large recycling receptacles next to their desks for letters like mine, and made my way to the dorms under the ominous shadow of the Y.

I arrived to my closet-sized dorm room only to find my assigned roommate eating shrimp ramen and listening to Usher at an exceptionally high volume. I had to have an assigned roommate because all of my friends had decided to go to other learning institutions, leaving me alone in this strange new world. I had to be assigned Billy because of some vendetta that fate has against me. Billy was a tall, tan, well-built, square-jawed douchebag from Las Vegas, Nevada. Luckily, I had been forewarned of his massive personality when he called me prior to our summer sojourn together.

He said that he got my number by “asking around” once he found my name on the orientation information that he was mailed. He then spoke to me over the phone about what his intentions were in coming to BYU. “I hear that the whole place is crawling with smokin’ hot chicks just waiting for a man to marry, you know what I’m saying bra?” He divulged to me that he was excited about the opportunity to meet new people since he had literally dated every single girl in Las Vegas. “Literally, dude. Seriously. Well, not like the old ones, but every Mormon chick and most other chicks in Vegas, I’ve dated ‘em. I need somethin’ new, you know. I’m so stoked.”

Seeing him with his hairy sandaled feet on my desk, empty save for his massive stereo speaker and previously downed Cup O’Noodles, made me anything but stoked. He came up to me as I stood in the doorway, hunched over with the burden of my scholastic needs, and gave me a bro hug that squished the side of my face between his pectorals and which ended after a couple of full-fist punches to my back similar to what an angry chiropractor might employ. The sight of my parents did not dissuade him from continuing to dance to the music as the ramen slid down his throat. “This is going to be awesome man! I already got us hooked up with dates tonight. Sweet, dude. Sweet.”

Food staple of the common North American Billy

We got my things set up in the room while Billy watched. When I asked him to turn down the music for a minute while I talked with my parents, he responded “No problem, bra. Imma just go take a quick shower.” My parents left me alone, so very alone, in the room while I waited for Billy, whom I discovered soon after had quite the proclivity for lounging around either fully or mostly nude. I asked him to please put on some underwear and immediately afterwards added the plea that the underwear not be of a mesh fabric. “What’s a-matter, you gay or something’?“ “Well…no…it’s just…“ “I’m just messing with you bra, yeah, I’ll go throw on my workout shorts.” I tried to explain to him that I had a girlfriend and so I could not attend the little soirée that he had planned for the both of us, but he acted as if I was speaking another language. “Is your girlfriend here?” “Well, no,” I responded. “Then dude, it’s party time!” he shouted as he slapped me with unnecessary force on the kneecap and, shoving a tootsie roll pop into his mouth, made his dancing exit out of the room.

It seemed to always be an uncomfortable party when Billy was around. I spent all hours not necessary for sleep huddled in the most remote section of the library. When I would come staggering home after long days of study, my room would be filled with either a bunch of dudes trying to figure out how to pull pranks on the floor below us or a hefty amount of guys and girls dancing to loud music like something out of a Lil’ Wayne music video. This was BYU, mind you. I will further expound on its conservative idealism later on, but this is the place where having a girl inside of your dorm room outside of the prescribed 15 minutes of “mingle” time a day is grounds for expulsion, excommunication, and (it is rumored) execution. Billy always seemed to pull it off though.

After all, he wasn’t really even a student at BYU. He was accepted in a special program that introduced graduating Mormon youth who were not able to get into the private, church-owned University a chance to get a taste of what it is like. I had no idea what the purpose was for this program other than to make those students, like myself, who were actually admitted to the University, develop an increased level of pomposity and an attitude of entitlement. A quick study of many BYU graduates should quickly prove these results.

Billy’s true character shone through one day when he used me to help him ditch a date that he had planned. The previous night, he flopped off of the ladder and onto his stilted bed as he told me that he met a girl at the Food Court. “She was pretty hot, well kind of hot, but guess what Cammie (my blood still curdles at the mere typing of that moniker) you’ll never believe it. She’s handicapped, like in a wheelchair, like crippled! So, I tried to act like it was all just totally cool, ya know. So I told her that we would spend the day together doing stuff, but I already am going to see a girl for lunch and a different one for dinner. So, man, I need you to do a solid for me and tell her I got sick or something or that I am at my Uncle’s house in Alpine. I know you got my back dude. G’night!”

I wasn’t able to speak a single word, mostly from the shock of it all. I went out running the next morning to think about just what exactly to do. When I got back to the apartment, Billy was already gone. Soon afterwards, our dorm phone rang and I went downstairs to face what felt like the plot of a bad Woody Allen movie. She was hot and, yes, she was in a wheelchair. I lied and told her that Billy had to go to his Uncle’s house. We sat down, well, I should say that I sat down as well, and we talked for a bit. I decided to spend whatever part of the day I could with her before I had to leave for work. We had lunch at the Cougareat, wandered our way through campus, and shared stories about how much we hated being at BYU. We played a little wheelchair basketball in the afternoon before affectionately parting ways. Though it was under the worst of circumstances and I actually had a girlfriend at the time, it was still an incredibly satisfying date and I couldn’t help but pity Billy for what he was truly missing out on.

After the summer semester ended, he would return to a community college in Las Vegas, one college credit richer for the experience. Though I can’t substantiate any of it, I heard some incredible rumors about his life after our term together. He went on an LDS mission where he was promptly expelled after being arrested for shoplifting. He was flown home, but quickly drove back to his mission area where he continued to pretend that he was a missionary. In this role, he happened to seduce a young woman (or “flirt to convert” as we called it) so that she was baptized and then confirmed with an unexpected pregnancy, both performed by Elder Billy. Today, he remains on the lam from the police and the townsfolk alike. Though I can’t confirm that any of this is true, it sounds about right.

If God ever, just for the sake of having a good story to tell, created two people of the same age who were exact opposites of each other, it would be me and Billy. He was good-looking, outgoing, conceited, and blissfully idiotic. He liked to talk about cars and chicks and he smelled like skinny jeans at Ambercrombie and Fitch. He craved social situations as much as I craved the need to be alone. However, I never met someone who so readily took me in and treated me like I was one of his dudes that he had always known. I was made his instant wingman, albeit a reluctant one. He never seemed to judge me despite the judgments I poured out on him. In truth, he taught me a lot of things about life and I guess I am kind of indebted to him.

Still, he was the douchiest of douchebags.

I found this picture of Billy from Las Vegas in my old school notes. He was always blinking in these candid photos.

Welcome to the New Bag Stranded

2009-10-14T14:06:00.000-07:00

Hi there. If you are a regular around these parts, you may have noticed a couple of changes to the ol'Bag Stranded.

First of all, because of the comments I received from several readers and their optometrists, you are now no longer going to be subjected to reading gray text on a black background. I, personally, was a fan of the occasional seizures that it induced, but I have to keep your best interests in mind.

You'll notice that the header is no longer the tired old picture of my dusty living room blinds. This, now, is the official Bag Stranded logo, and by official, I mean that I actually spent money on it. Hard earned money. And it ain't like this little blog thing is paying the mortgage. I just want to let you know the level of commitment that I have to embarrassing myself for your amusement.

This logo will be featured on some new products coming out soon including t-shirts, mugs, and stationary. Of course, I might need to sell a kidney to get those products available, but I'll see what I can do.

I will most likely still be tinkering around with the look of the website for a little bit, so bear with me. As far as new articles, those should be forthcoming too. Of course, you could always send me your own humorous tales at bagstranded@gmail.com. And again, if the recollections involve me in anyway, you get extra consideration. Even if I don't know you, perhaps you could write a recollection of what Bag Stranded has done to change your life. Or imagine meeting me in person and how much I would make you laugh. Perhaps a candlelit seafood dinner would be involved. Perhaps some slow-dancing to jazz standards. Whatever. Go for broke.

So thanks again for reading. Let me know what you think by either writing a comment down below or sending me an e-mail (via bagstranded@gmail.com). And remember, wherever you are in the world, Bag Stranded loves you. No matter what you've done.

A League of My Own

2009-10-01T15:49:00.000-07:00

At the end of last week, I found myself sitting at the computer, anxiously awaiting the outcome of certain events that will take place this week that are of the utmost importance to me. These events will either enshrine my name in the annals of history or it will doom my name to be laughed at, mocked, ridiculed, soiled, and violated behind a Denny’s. I take a deep breath and before I can exhale, Jon Lester of the Boston Red Sox has given up seven runs in two innings before being pegged in the kneecap by a ground ball.

I can not say the words that came to my lips at that time as my mother informed me that she is monitoring my level of cursing on this blog, but I will reveal that it had something to do with either animal waste material or copulation. Both, actually. The reason that I was so upset did not necessarily stem from the fact that I am an ardent Red Sox fan, which I am. It stemmed from the fact that Lester represented the flickering hope that I had left to move my fantasy baseball team, the Mantooth Saints, from a dismal third place to a respectable, modest second place. And there he was, writhing on the pitchers mound, not even caring what he was doing to me, his rightful owner.

For those of you who may be unfamiliar with the world of fantasy sports, I am equal parts disappointed and envious. If there are two things that men love more than anything in the universe, they would be their fantasies and their sports. Fantasy sports are a way to take the convoluted, illogical, debauched, and often illegal in several counties fantasies of men and channel them into a healthy computerized sports statistics forum. Managers in these leagues pick the players that they think will perform the best during the season and then earn points for the feats that these athletes perform. At the end of the season, those points could equate to a large sum of cash or a hastily made sculpture of prophylactics tied to a 5^th grade soccer “participation” trophy. The best part of fantasy sports is that they allow you to take part in the thrill of athletic competition without ever having to use a treadmill or restrain from hollowing out a Twinkie to use as a bun for your bratwurst.

At the beginning of the baseball season in April, I was asked to join a fantasy baseball league. I had never participated in anything like this before, but I thought that it could liven up my days at work and become a welcome change of pace to compulsively taking personality tests on Facebook. When I participated in the draft, I was slightly disappointed to not find my top picks of Jose Canseco and Bo Jackson anywhere on the list of available players. I quickly learned the ins and outs of the game and I now have a widget on my homepage that sends me real-time updates on the status of Chipper Jones’ ankle.

Current Status: mildly fractured

When I was younger, I participated in an entirely different kind of fantasy sport. You see, much like today, I didn’t have many friends. Because of my rampant antisocialism (and that has nothing to do with Health Care reform) I intentionally alienated myself from the friends that I did have. So, I was forced to entertain myself. Using nothing but a pad of a paper and a five dollar Nerf basketball hoop, I created an intricate league of basketball players, drafted from the full set of Topps basketball cards I had collected. I formed them into rosters and then had full seasons where they would play against each other. I would play the role of every single player in the league. I would pass the ball off of the walls of my bedroom, scoot my toe back from the 3-point line represented by my She-Ra figurine, perform a slow-motion slam dunk for the highlight reel, and play out an entire game. After each score, I pulled the pencil out from behind my ear and tabulated all of the statistical results of the previous play. I had mock interviews with sports broadcasters where I claimed that the other team was full of “real fighters” and praised the efforts of my fellow teammates Muggsy Bogues and Christian Laettner.

My parents were admissive of this activity, which at its most innocent involved a child exercising enthusiasm for sports and at its most damaging was a child with a severe obsessive compulsion crying out for help. I went through several Nerf hoops during a season and so I eventually just used some masking tape to show where the imaginary hoop would be. When the NFL season started, I created another fantasy league which proved even more difficult and involved even more copious notation. This meant that I loved it even more. Eventually puberty hit and I abandoned my imaginary pursuits in favor of the much more practical and realistic pursuits of playing Mist on the computer and writing poetry to girls who were stuck being my Biology lab partners. The archives of these imagined sporting events were recently exhumed from the closet of my old bedroom. As I rifled through the loose sheets with hundreds of hash marks, I was transplanted back to the glory days. Oh the 1991 Timberwolves, you will always be legend to me.

And today the fantasizing still continues, only in an arguably more adult setting. Now that the baseball season is days from completion and I am languishing in third place, my efforts have been refocused towards the new NFL season. On Monday night, I found myself simultaneously praying for the Cowboys offense to fail miserably and for the Cowboys defense to intercept every single pass. Usually, the only attention I pay to the Dallas franchise is how Jerry Jones maintains the waxy quality of his skin folds. I cheered at home, by myself (still, no friends and a wife who is very unsupportive of my fantasy pursuits) when the running back for the Cowboys tweaked his knee and left the game. This ensured the victory of my team, the Rich Mahoganies, over my opponent and slightly made up for the very similar injury dealt to a certain Red Sox player a few days previous.

Now I sit comfortably at the top of my football league’s standings, proud of the accomplishments that my team has made in the past few weeks. Actually, I am glad that I have accomplished anything in these past few weeks. I am reliving the days of my childhood where my only worries were imagining blocking a shot from myself in my old bedroom with the dents in the walls and the now creaky floorboards. This is my world of sports, and I am vicariously living out all of my dreams of becoming a multi-sport athlete through this data-compiling game on the internet. I rule. And just wait until week seven when I bring Bo Jackson into my line up.

Bo knows. And can sympathize.

Torrid Spelling

2009-09-24T12:37:00.000-07:00

I read an article on yesterday’s Yahoo! homepage that discussed the antics of Libyan leader Muammar al-Gaddafi. A good portion of that article, written by a snobbish intern for sure, focused on the amount of hits that the Colonel’s name had garnered from internet users. “Eight different spellings of al-Gaddafi’s name appeared in the top ten searches of the past three hours.” Apparently Al Kadafi owns a car dealership in Dayton and "Moo-maral Cut Taffy" is a new Ben and Jerry’s ice cream flavor in the works. Sounds delicious.

I found it interesting that the attention of the story was taken off the world leader’s hissy-fit, which made his comedic mentor Hugo Chavez blush with pride, and refocused on how most people in America can’t even spell an Arabic name, let alone find the country of Arabic on the map. This is because there are a few people out there in the world who consider themselves the official enforcers of the English language, sworn to protect its spelling integrity to their dying breaths. You may know them as spelling Nazis, which I feel is slightly inaccurate as there are no umlauts in any English words.

As a writer, (professionally, recreationally, and secretly) many people suspect that I have this overarching drive to punish people for their misspellings, especially if they misspell “especially” or “misspell”. However, I think that you would find me somewhat admissive of others. True, I do have three different dictionaries on my desk that I occasionally use for light beach reading. However, my own history with spelling and my shortcomings in that domain are well documented. Or, at least they are now.

In sixth grade, I was selected from my class to participate in the school-wide spelling bee. One student, selected from each classroom, would participate in a massive assembly of students, teachers, and parents to vie for the title and the possibility of being sent to the regional competition. At first, I had no interest in taking part in this, but the idiocy of my fellow sixth graders, who thought “truck” began with a “C-H” and “hanger” had the number five in it, boosted me into the competition. As I met my competitors, I quickly realized that, as there were no Indian or Chinese kids in the bunch, my chances were pretty good.

I began my training by poring over volumes of dictionaries, encyclopedias (Brittanica and otherwise), and my mother’s romance novels. I then had my parents and siblings grill me on the most archaic of words. “Obsequious,” they shouted as I did sit-ups in the living room. “Could you please use it in a sentence,” I muttered through quick breaths. “The multitude of sycophantic adherents were obsequious in their placation. Now spell the whole sentence! Go!”

What I hoped to become

After several grueling weeks of study, I sat on a cold hard chair in the school’s gymnasium, confident that I would bring my family fame and fortune through my career in spelling. My name was called, the first to compete. I walked up to the microphone and received my first-round word. “Poised. The first word is ‘Poised’,” said the kindly moderator who was nearing retirement. With all the hubris of a sixth-grade Icarus, under those weak red and blue gym spotlights that would soon be the bright, burning glow of camera flashes and television lighting, I spoke into the microphone. “Poised. P-O-S-E-D. Poised.” Then with a smirk, I headed back to my seat thinking that the gasp that echoed from the audience behind me was from their own intuition about my celebrity future. “No, I’m sorry. That is incorrect.” My beeline for my chair made a sharp right turn and I walked off of the stage and into the hall where my dreams would have enough room to come collapsing down on my head.

Thirteen years later, I found myself at a secluded desk in a tall, glass-windowed office building in downtown Salt Lake where I encountered another test of my spelling credentials. I was applying for a job as an editor for the LDS church’s publications department. In order to vet their potential editors, along with an ecclesiastical inquiry into all of your past transgressions, they also needed to make sure you could correctly spell words like smorgasbord and hootenanny. I took the test on two separate occasions (as the first hired employee for the position was found to have a past addiction to Mountain Dew) and both times I can only assume that I failed miserably. You have to wonder about a job like that where the word “shew” is still entirely acceptable.

Being frustrated with the lack of editing jobs, I partnered with my friend to form our own editing business. Our ingenious idea was to create an online editing forum where students would pay us their parents’ hard earned money for a job that the spellchecker on their computer was perfectly able to perform. As part of this operation, we gave potential employees who responded to our Craigslist ad a document to test their editing prowess. I took a monumental essay that I had written for a college course and added several mistakes and misspellings for the candidates to find and correct. As I reviewed the test results against a key of the original document that I wrote, I found myself humbled by the fact that, though I had only spliced in five mistakes in one paragraph, one interviewee happened to find 32. One filled the paper with red corrections and included a commentary paragraph at the end questioning the entire thesis and scope of the paper. Someone drew a frowny face. I soon realized that there were many people out there who were much more talented and capable of editing mistakes than I would ever be. There were also more people capable of being just plain mean about it.

Now, I write magazine articles and am shocked with the simple spelling mistakes that my editor finds in my work. I also write for this blog where I am sure you have found several mistakes as one rather fervent friend did in the last post. I would like to blame it on technology. Not only does spellchecker eliminate the need for me to crack the spine of one of my three dictionaries, but it also prevents me from reading any books by making Zoo Tycoon so damn addicting. In an age of e-mails and texting, our society has become increasingly admissive of spelling that suits practicality over traditional convention. If I can abbreviate the preamble to the Constitution to fit in my 140 character Twitter status update, who is to say that I am not the master of my language? And so, rather than being a spelling Nazi, I am something much softer. I’d say more like a spelling Gaddafi. Not really willing to kill millions for their perceived wrong-doing, but still capable of throwing a tantrum in front of an international crowd. But through all the typos and slip-ups and vulgarization in our language today, as a writer and editor, I just have to remember to always stayed posed and balanced with the world I live in.

Poise counts!

Of Mice and So-Called Men: Part Two

2009-09-21T07:42:00.000-07:00

In case the "Part Two" was not adequate warning, this is the second part to this story. Scroll on down and read the first part first if you haven't yet. While you are down there, say hi to the Bag Stranded banners on the sidebar that no one ever sees. I haven't fed them for a while.

The late days of spring and early summer in the year 2006 were difficult to say the least. We had to deal with the stress of moving into a new home, bringing a new baby into the world, keeping Miranda in this world after suffering some serious complications after giving birth, and paying for the car accident caused by me falling asleep at the wheel on my way to work at 1:00 in the morning. Simultaneous with all of these things, we had a mouse epidemic in our home that forced my wife to nurse our child in high perches and that turned me into something akin to the zombie hunters from 28 Days Later.

That loud “snap” we heard in the middle of the night was produced from one of several differently functioning traps that we used to combat the beasts. Like any good hunter, I became fanatically aware of the weapons that I used to stalk my prey and often hung them on racks to show to my houseguests. There was the baited snap trap, which proved very effective whether baited with cheese, peanut butter, or Snickers. There was the “Tomcat” brand snap traps which proved far too effective as, instead of cleaning up one limp mouse, I had to pick up the two pieces of said mouse, divided by the guillotine of mouse traps. There was the glue trap which we already were prejudiced against as they still allowed trapped mice the same mobility as a street beggar in India. For a humane alternative, there was the “No-see, no touch” traps where the mouse would crawl in to the contraption, but never crawl out, their presence indicated by a discreet dot on the outside of the trap. In retrospect, since it still killed the mouse, I suppose it was only humane for us. There were sonic emitters meant to drive the mice crazy. There were polarized crystals, used to speak to the mice in their own mousy language. We got pretty desperate by the end.

The dots and snaps became more and more present as the epidemic continued. Each day, at least three times a day, I would walk through my home armed with a flashlight, some rubber gloves, and a plastic bag checking each of the traps. This was quite a project as we had roughly forty traps set in the most elusive parts of our home. After the tenth mouse met his fate in our newly fortified homestead, we decided that we had better solve the root of the problem. We cleaned the house within an inch of its life, exposing stockpiles of dog kibble that the mice had apparently stolen from the previous owners’ canine companion. We set poison traps outside and scoured the outside of the home searching for an entry point. I sealed off every potential crevice and swore in my wrath that I would rid the home from these creatures. The problem was that I really did swear in my wrath, which Miranda did not appreciate in front of our young and impressionable newborn.

Cambo the Mouse Hunter (photo courtesy of vissago @ Flickr, not me)

After weeks of struggling with the pestilent enemy, the mice made their appearance into the gauntlet of death (formerly known as our home) less and less frequently. We went two weeks without catching any mice and eventually lowered the population of mouse traps around the floorboards. We celebrated our grueling battle as the victors and waved the flag bearing the outline of 36 mice, the total number that lost their lives at my hand. The mouse resistance had been eliminated and we were free to enjoy our home as rulers once more. However, in their wake, they left us with one last despicable act.

Coming home from work one day, I went into the basement to do some laundry when I noticed half-way down the stairs that there was a fly buzzing about my head. This was nothing too unusual, until I noticed that it flew back into the main room of the basement where it was greeted by a swarm of its winged compatriots. I saw this as some sort of divine sign and I wondered if I had neglected to let any Israelites go at some point. Eventually, the horror of what I had done donned on me. Since the basement laundry room proved to be fertile ground for trapping and killing mice, I had previously set several traps. One of those was placed on the top of the exposed framed wall to trap any mice who might be coming in through the laundry vent. Since it took a ladder to reach that specific point, it was the one trap out of the forty that I did not check thrice daily. In it, I could only imagine, lay the remains of a mouse that must have served as a warning to any other mice entering through the vent that, “Enter not, for here lie the mangled corpses of your fallen brethren.”

I fashioned a crude facemask out of several old t-shirts, triple-layered my rubber gloves, snapped on my safety goggles, grabbed a bucket and a ladder, and ventured into the laundry room. As I made my way up the ladder, my imagination drew up wild scenarios of what I would find on the top of that wall. Worse yet, because the ledge was so close to the ceiling, I wouldn’t even be able to look at the thing to know what I was grabbing. The flies encircling my ascending head provided the crescendo violin music as my heart beat faster and faster. After trying to summon the courage, I counted to three and then, with a deeply-voiced scream to conjure up my manliness, I thrust my hand onto the ledge until I felt something large and squishy attached to a wooden board. I grabbed what was left of the foul creature and flung him into the bucket on the other side of the ladder, my momentum nearly carrying me off with the decomposed rodent. And with that lumpy grayish mass that nearly doubled the size of the instrument that sealed its fate some three weeks prior, the ordeal was over.

Miranda and I like to think of ourselves as clean people, though an unexpected tour through our house might reveal dirty diapers in closet corners, Pop Tart wrappers buried between couch cushions, and scores of spiders left to die beneath overturned cups. We are happy to report to you all that the mouse problem is no longer a problem, they’re being successfully eradicated by my keen and previously unknown trapping abilities. Inside my soul brews an unhealthy contempt for mice, as evidenced by my previous experiences at Disneyland and Chuck E. Cheese’s. As terrible as those few weeks were, I reflect on them with a bit of longing. After all, hunting the mice did give me a challenge and kept me active. They allowed me to prove to my wife that I am able to protect her. Now, all I do is eat Pop Tarts on the couch and languish in my simmering bloodlust. Every so often, though, I think that I hear some scratching, ever so slightly, within the walls of our home. I grab my rubber gloves and flashlight and smile as I lean over to my polarized crystals where I whisper, “Game on Mickey. Game on.”

Sleep tight little one, for tomorrow you die.

Of Mice and So-Called Men: Part One

2009-09-18T15:44:00.000-07:00

If you are as faithful of a reader as I would hope that you are, you will already know that this column constitutes my 50th fully composed article that I have created here at Bag Stranded. Though it may seem arbitrary, it means a lot to me that so many of you have encouraged me to continue wasting my time and yours with this blog. In honor of that, I wanted to share one of my favorite, never-told-before stories with you. It is a two-parter, so just to let you know, there will be a cliffhanger. Thanks for sticking with me for the first 50. Here's to hoping I become authentically published and paid for my writing so I will never have to do 50 more!

Three and a half years ago, Miranda and I moved into our first home that we somehow managed a pre-economy-crash mortgage company to loan us the money for, though it was clear that we would have to live to be 400 before we could pay it off. We were euphoric about our home and thrilled to begin filling it with our frivolous crap. When we first got married, we lived for a few years in a small apartment that was at one point very nice and comfortable and eventually evolved into something out of a Spike Lee film. Despite my misgivings, we moved in with Miranda’s sister and her husband while we looked for a home and some semblance of dignity. After a few months, we moved in to our own house and enjoyed the wonderful, elated feeling that comes to the young homeowner.

After three weeks, my nine-month, bulgingly pregnant wife, stooped on the top of the kitchen counter in her stretched-out maternity nightgown, grabbed me by the collar of my shirt and, with fear and anger emanating from her eyeballs, brought me close to her face and shrilled out the words, “We are going to have to move!” How she managed to get on top of the counter when I had to physically push her out of bed just that morning was mystery to me. Only three things in this world would give Miranda the adrenaline to perform these Xena-like maneuvers: spiders, stray dogs, and mice. I was hoping that there was a stray dog in our bathroom.

We were the second family to live in our house on Wormwood Drive. Aside from being the name of a demon in a C.S. Lewis novel, “Wormwood” is also the name of the star that, according to the wackiest of books in the bible Revelation, will take part in plaguing the earth and its people before the Second Coming. Admittedly, we should have heeded the warning. But, we looked past the unfortunate street name and the lingering scent of brimstone that wafts through our neighborhood and signed the contract anyway. As is the case with many people, if you are not the original tenant of a certain residence, you end up inheriting some of the items that the previous tenants, intentionally or not, left behind. Well, along with a doormat and some cans of paint, we inherited something much more exciting: vermin.

It all began one evening as we came home from a night out at the movies, completely unaware that days away from the birth of our first child those excursions out of the house would become a distant memory. We were happy and proud that we had nearly everything completely unboxed and that the house was beginning to feel more like a home. We took our shoes off and began walking up the stairs to our kitchen area when Miranda saw a conspicuous black square on the middle of one of the steps. She casually asked me what it was and made her way closer to it in order to inspect it. She leaned in closer and just as she reached out her hand to pick up the object (cue crescendo violins) the square shimmied, ever so slightly.

As Miranda made her way screaming past the object and into the furthest corner of the house, cupping her hands over her mouth as her only defense, I took a closer look at the object. It had responded to my wife’s shrill screams with even greater movement and some shrills of its own. I flipped it over and discovered that it was a glue trap that had in its deathly grasp a small gray mouse and the lower two-thirds of its tiny anatomy. After disposing of it the garbage can, an unfitting end for such a brave little journey, we discovered that the trap came from underneath the stove. We had suspiciously noted the traps when moving in, but figured that they could only be a means of security in the event of a possible mouse, and not a temporary solution to a widespread problem. In our absence, this mouse had trapped himself underneath the stove and crawled across the tile and carpet with his two little feet, dragging his limp body behind him as if in a poorly-made teen mouse horror film, and toppled over the stairs, helplessly awaiting our return.

Had this tiny mouse been an isolated incident, we would have laughed it off as a sort of rite-of-passage for homeowners like us. However, after a quick late night trip to the local hardware store and a deafening “snap” heard later that night, we knew that this mouse was more than just a single event but a portent of the horror that was about to enter our lives.

"Portent means 'something that foreshadows a coming event', in case you were wondering. Now, can someone get me some damn cheese over here?"

Allergy Wiz

2009-09-12T06:57:00.000-07:00

A while back, I wrote an article here on Bag Stranded about just how much I despised a few aspects of summer. I received requests from a few readers to expound upon my list of pet peeves of the hellish season. In a way, I would like to do that now. One of the things that I really hate about Summer is it ending. Not that I wax nostalgic for feeling akin to a pot roast in my oven of a home. But like a bounced party guest who swipes as many hors d’oeuvres as possible and eats them in spite as he leaves the house, the summer always finds a way to get one last jab at me before it makes its exit. It does this by infecting me with the dreaded late-summer allergies.

For many of you, I am sure that the approach of fall calls to mind all of the beauty of nature that fills up your senses like some sort of John Denver séance. If you are anything like me, and I pray to whatever pagan god you worship that you are not, the onslaught of autumn fills up your senses in quite a different way. The pollen grates at my eyes like buckshot into Uma Thurman’s chest. My ears are dulled by the throbbing, distant feeling resonating through my skull. My nose attempts in vain to contain the floodwaters of copious amounts of mucus. Food loses its taste. I feel nothing but remorse.

I have had to deal with allergies for most of my life. As a young boy growing up over by the railroad tracks in Ragtown, Utah, I was quite different from what you know me as today. I maintained a general sense of well being and satisfaction with the world around me, for one. I also loved to play outside during the summertime with no regard for the many dangers that would threaten me then or later in life. I would come inside after hours of intensive work on the Slip n’Slide and within hours would contract giant pustulous blisters on my shoulders the size and texture of over-ripened cantaloupe. These things were able to maintain their own pulse. The application of aloe vera simply made them angrier and prone to pulsating more rapidly. At times, I would have to feed them crickets to keep them happy.

Along with the impending prognosis of skin cancer, mother nature also decided to punish me for the damage I had done to her through such acts as putting two praying mantises in a glass jar together and awaiting the cannibalistic finale. I was to live out my days (or at least the early-spring, late-summer days) in writhing agony as my sinuses battled the tiniest of seedlings. Far from being welcoming and spacious, the Great Outdoors became more like a great harbinger of doom for me. Now, there is nothing that is scarier to me than a sprouted dandelion just ready to spread its noxious seed into my nasal cavity. I fear these things so much primarily because of two anomalies, among many others, that my body claims.

Two praying mantises, one jar.

The first is that when I sneeze, I can not stop the biological process. After the first sneeze comes the second. Then the third. With no more than 10 seconds between them, I rattle the sneezes off like incantations. It may seem trite, but I remember several instances where I filled up the bathroom garbage can with blood-soaked Kleenexes and convinced myself that I was in fact emptying all the fluid from my brain and would soon die. The only thing that willed me back to life was my refusal to have “Sneezed to death at age 14” immortalize me in an obituary. I have developed many methods for calming these spastic expulsions. The only one that has really worked, and which I still use to this day, involves plugging my nose at the bridge with just a little less force than it would take to break the bone, laying down flat on the floor, and breathing calmly through my mouth. Needless to say, this makes for kind of an odd first impression on a date or a job interview or a bank robbery hostage crisis.

The second anomaly that I bear is that (for those of you who are squeamish, you may skip to the next paragraph) when I sneeze, I always produce ample material of the mucus variety. Most people are able to give off their little sneezes as if they are blowing out a single candle on a birthday muffin, and with a petite “excuse me” they are off to their normal business. For me, if I sense that a sneeze is coming on, I not only begin to prostrate myself on the floor to stop the onslaught of a repetitive nasal attack, but I also have to quickly find a tissue, a spare t-shirt, or a fire bucket and prepare for the weaponized payload that it will surely deliver. And because my sinuses are roughly the size of barn silos, there is always quite a bit of the stuff to deal with. However, since I do not want to be too graphic (and I have saved this material for a movie script I have written aimed at Disney tweens called “Shamus McLamus and the Snot Sneezers) it will suffice me to say this: I have lost weight by sneezing. True story.

My condition was not helped by the fact that, as it is currently, while growing up one of my primary household chores was mowing the lawn. I enjoy mowing lawns, but in the same way that the albino in The Da Vinci Code kind of enjoys lashing himself with a whip. When I was younger especially, I imagined myself hosting my own show that would air on PBS Saturday mornings where I would expound all the mysteries of the artistry of lawn care; “The Lawn and Short Of It with Uncle Cameron”. I could get about half-way through my parents yard when the fits would happen and I found myself wondering how we would fill this dead time on-air. When I was older, I was commissioned to mow my aging grandfather’s pristine lawn which covered the same square footage as some counties in Texas. He watched me like I was sowing his plantation, and in the several intermissions that I had to take to return my body to stasis, he would only complain that the grass under where I had so hastily left the lawnmower was not getting enough sunlight. I’ve tried mowing the lawn with a mask, like a hired Asian landscaper who was afraid of catching a virus, but found that breathing was not a sacrifice I was willing to make in order to avoid a sneezing fit. And so, I mow and I sneeze to this day.

As I write these words, I have a tissue lodged up my nose to prevent any drainage on the newly acquired sores on the outside of my nostrils. I am also nursing a steady cough, chapped lips, and I am collecting the pollen in my eyes to create my own rakeable zen garden. My children, who are often the benefactors of my massively flawed genes, are sniffling their way through September as well. But, my situation could always be worse. I could have allergies and be a complete idiot like the man suffering in this amazingly well written story I came across. Or I could be flippant with allergies like the kid in this video who treats what I consider a serious condition as a mere challenge. Or I could be doomed like my friend who suffers from allergies so severely that he has to go to the hospital to receive weekly injections of poison into his bloodstream to counteract his allergic reactions. Even better, he once passed out while driving home from the hospital and trying to inject himself with the antidote to an overdose of the medical dose of poison. He must have killed a lot of praying mantises when he was younger. I guess I should consider myself lucky that my affliction is only seasonal and I can reserve my contempt exclusively for summer. You know, for an intangible period of time lasting roughly 4 months out of the year, Summer is a real dick. Good riddance Summer. I’ll see you next year.

At once my dream and my nightmare.

Pants on Fire

2009-08-19T07:27:00.000-07:00

You as a Bag Stranded reader might have asked yourself at some point during your adventures here whether the things that I write about really have happened. It’s alright. You can admit your doubt. Several have done so to my face, not the least of whom is my mother who calls into question nearly every facet of my life that I include in my stories. Sometimes it is difficult for me to believe that she reared me for so many years without realizing the bizarre, embarrassing, or crushingly sad situations I endured which would later become comedy fodder for casual virtual acquaintances.

The short answer is that, yes, I have actually experienced all of the situations that I detail in my little recollections here. I did once wash my hand’s in the zoo urinal. I did once place religious reverence on the name of Nicole Kidman (pbuh). I did once receive a flirtatious glare at Chuck E. Cheese from a mother with dolphins tattooed on her breasts. In many occasions, I only wish that I had made this stuff up.

I am a man who is cursed with being relatively honest in everything he does. I am sure that some of it has to do with my Mormon upbringing, where the fires of hell were constantly lapping towards me with every embellishment I spoke. But, more than just that, I think that when you get down to the bottom of my soul, and work your way through the charcoally bits and the parts that look like something out of a bad Andy Warhol movie, you would see the one very dimly shining character trait of my being an habitually honest man. That is not to say that I have not lied before. I have several times and been caught in the act. It is most likely because of the subtle “tell” that I have every time that I lie - my face flushes with red, my eyes, water, I giggle uncontrollably, and typically admit under my breath that I am lying. Very subtle. I have, however, gotten away with a few lies in my time. Right now, I can only think of two of those times, probably because I have managed to trick myself into believing the others.

The first occurred at the tender age of six while I attended Lake Ridge Elementary School, home of the Fighting Cougars and 47 days since the last syringe was found in the playground. My class was undergoing training on how to take care of our oral hygiene. I am sure that you remember these from one of the several desperate attempts that our teachers would make during our academic careers to ensure that if the United States could not surpass Great Britain, the Philippines, or Myanmar in testing performance, we would at least be able to surpass them in tooth count. These presentations featured demonstrations on the correct direction to aim your bristles while brushing. Occasionally, there was an educational video where the Super-Hero “Fluoride Man” would beat up green, squiggly-drawn tooth decay monsters. All of this was really just a ruse which eventually led to what every kid knew was coming. Plaque candy.

The presenter gave out small swag bags with Crest advertisements plastered all over them. Down at the bottom of the sack, each child would find small pre-packaged pink pills. These were of course meant for the children to chew so that the pink dye would color their teeth until they properly brushed it away. For me, as well as several other kids, these things were like Kindergartner catnip. During recess, they were traded like currency. I was a recreational plaque candy user, not like others who were found by their parents after school, passed out behind the bushes, eyes rolled in the back of their heads, and teeth stained a permanent pinkish hue. “Plaque heads” we called them.

After one such presentation, we were issued a challenge by our teacher. Each student would take home a chart where, by placing a small sticker in a spot on the graph representing a month’s worth of mornings, afternoons, and nights, we could keep track of how often we brushed our teeth. As we were promised a prize at the end of the month for keeping up with our brushing, a prize which I could only hope was more plaque candy, I was determined to do it. However, after several days, the busy demands of the typical work-from-home kindergartener caught up to me and I stopped brushing regularly. The night before the challenge ended, I saw the empty graph hanging in my room and worried about what my teacher would think of me if I showed her my shameful progress. I took out the sticker sheet and systematically placed one sticker on all three spots each day. “For the greater good,” I told myself. “For the greater good.”

My teacher was very proud of my alleged wonderful oral hygiene. At the end of the school year, the parents were invited to an award ceremony where children were rewarded for the various crap that they had done throughout the year. Near the end of the ceremony, my name was called up as the premier example of tooth-brushing commitment. I received a certificate as my mother and father shared a surprised glance at each other. I accepted the award and, smiling my yellow-toothed smile, I looked down at the award I had just been given. It looked very official, almost diploma-esque, except for the playful sticker which had been placed in the top right corner. The starburst shape featured a bug-eyed, smiling animated tooth holding a toothbrush with its anatomically improbable arms and a banner of text on the border of the sticker that read, “For telling the TOOTH.” Never had a such a clever pun been such a curse to me so as to cut me to the very soul. Yet, I was determined not to admit my lie as I did not want to loose face, though I was quite alright with loosing several teeth of that face.

Total plaque head. Sad, really.

More than ten years later, I had another experience with a lie that has guilted me enough to offer up a confessional to the collared priest which is you, my reading audience. Interesting analogy I just used there as this next story deals with me lying repeatedly and uncontrollably to servants of God. I was 17 years old and full of the spunky mischief of the teenage years. Being a 17 year-old, I was able to go on what is commonly referred to as “splits” with the Mormon missionaries that were in my area. Splits consist of two regular church members each working with one missionary for an evening, with the intention of both increasing the capabilities of those missionaries and foreshadowing many of the horrific experiences I would endure upon serving my own mission a few years later.

I had planned an evening to go with the missionaries but I had forgotten that I had also planned a very important event with friends on the same evening, something that I did not realize until that very day. The event happened to be the premiere of a movie that I and a few friends had created with a VHS camera and amateurish sketch comedy. Needless to say, it was a very important event. I talked with my friends and said that I would be able to figure out a way to leave the missionary splits (which started at 6:00) and make it to the movie premiere (which started at 7:00). I sat in the basement apartment with the Elders as they planned out their activities for me and the other member. I informed them, with all the regret that my years at Juilliard had prepared me for, that I would not be able to make it through the entire evening. Though I was not particularly asked for a reason why, I offered up a made-up excuse that my brain had conceived of only moments before, “My best friend’s aunt passed away and I was going to drive him to the funeral.” In hindsight, feigning illness would have been the best option, but that little plastic bird pendulum that dips it’s beak into water that lives inside my head and fuels my creative thought gets me into situations like this occasionally.

After reflecting on the problem, one Elder came to the conclusion that we would go about the normal business that we had planned for the first hour and then he would just come with me and my friend to the funeral. We then left the apartment and the little bird pendulum in my head dipped and swung at warp speed as I desperately tried to devise a way to get myself out of the lie I had created. We knocked on doors and taught the gospel, all while in my head I offered vain prayers to God mixed with attempted vows with Satan to help me create an even more elaborate lie. 7:00 rolled around and I began the short drive to a friend’s house. I knew that this friend would not be home as he was awaiting my arrival at the movie premiere. Before I pulled into the driveway, I carefully used the automatic lock to make sure that the missionary would remain in the passenger seat. “I’ll just run up and get him,” I casually informed him. His mother answered the door and I had a conversation with her that did not at all match the expressions that I was emoting for the sake of the watching missionary. I got back in the car and wiped the sweat from my head. “I guess his uncle came and picked him up.” And then, realizing the potential problem with this, I quickly added, “His other uncle, not the one who…you know…is now…a widower.”

I arrived an hour and a half late to the movie premiere, which many people had left without any real promise of my arrival being seen. Those who did stay heartily laughed at the comedy shorts that we had created, all while I sat in a fetal position in a chair knowing that I had better get used to the warmth of fire and the smell of brimstone for the hell that God was sure to send me to after this whopper of a transgression.

Flash forward to present day - yesterday actually. My dear sweet wife had prepared a moral lesson to teach to our three-year-old child. The subject was honesty and it was taught by me reading off several examples of honest and dishonest behavior for my son to differentiate between. “When I say that I will brush my teeth before bed, but then I never do, I am being ______.” This, along with other high-concept, pointed questions were hilarious for my son who answered each by intentionally giving the wrong answer. This has, as of recent, become his favorite pastime, offering a statement that is entirely contradictory to anything that we tell him. Even when scientific evidence is presented to him (“You see, even though you told me several times ‘no’, you actually did go poo-poo in your Buzz Lightyear underwear. I have the poo right here as a matter of fact!”) he still refuses to acknowledge his dishonesty. With time and, hopefully by following the example of his father, he will be able to exercise honesty, which is, arguably, the best policy. Or, if he does tell a lie, perhaps he can make a confession to a handful of people on whatever matrix-like thing the internet becomes once he is a father of his own, pushing middle-age, and suffering from poor dental hygiene and an aching need for some plaque candy.

By the way, I never did go to Juilliard. Just want to keep the slate clean.

"I know you pooed on me, Zachary. Why must you lie?"

Lutropublicaphobia – The Fear of Public Restrooms

2009-08-11T12:05:00.000-07:00

It all started with the urinal at the zoo.

I remember my father leading me by the hand so he could unload the used-up portion of a 64 ounce mug of Dr. Pepper he had consumed in preparation for taking his three children to the zoo on a hot summer’s day. I dutifully went with him, though I realized that I did not really need to use the facilities, except to maybe wash my hands. I wasn’t obsessive about keeping my hands clean, but I was a very astute little boy who understood how bacteria was bred from animal poop and sickly children, both of which were prevalent at the zoo at any given time. So I felt the need to wash my hands while my father told me to stay put as he shut the door to the toilet. Looking around the restroom, I saw an unusual sink that was spread across the back wall with several faucets that let water cascade along the ivory interior and down into one of a few drain holes in the bottom basin. Though it did not seem quite practical, I was open-minded. After all, it was the 80s and who was I to judge this new wave of architectural interior design. I pulled the lever and began scrubbing my hands with a small pink wafer of soap and whatever water I could pool into my hands at the time. Two men stood at opposite ends of the long sink and stared at me as I performed my cleansing. Apparently, they were newcomers to this device as well. Just as I was set to splash some cooling water on my face to cool off from the warm summer air, my father grabbed me by the hand and carried me suspended in the air to the spider monkey cage before he finally bent down and informed me of my indiscreet folly. “Son, you were washing you hands in the urinal,” and, after receiving a blank, confused stare, “...the place where other people pee.”

Since that fateful day, I have developed a serious, but wholly understandable fear of public restrooms. I doubt that there is anybody out there who really enjoys the mysteriously sticky floors of the public restroom. Few people live for the opportunity to discuss the weather next to their office superior whilst having their genitals protruding from an otherwise normal ensemble. The underlying concept of a public restroom should be repulsive to most people, and yet it is a fact of life that we deal with on a daily basis. We scoff when we read about the ancient Turkish baths, where citizens bore their all to their neighbors for the sake of cleansing. All that I know is that when it comes to being in a steamy bathtub with the shortstop on my company’s softball team or sitting mere inches away from him as he loudly expels the remains of a digested breakfast burrito into the toilet next to mine, I think I would opt for nudity.

In elementary school, bathroom situations were disturbing to say the least. In kindergarten, there were those bathrooms built into the back of the classrooms with the half doors. In many ways, they were like the typical adult restroom stall, except for the fact that they were not in an enclosed bathroom, but shared the same air as an entire classroom full of children just learning in the worst possible way what their senses were. Graduating to the upper grades of elementary school, the miniature versions of the adult restrooms were all but non-functional, and not just for the revolving, damp, blue cloth paper towel that every sick little child was meant to wipe his grubby hands on for the whole of the school year. I cannot remember a time visiting these facilities when there was not a firm pile of excrement, fresh or otherwise, in the middle of the tiled floor, as if it were ready to offer me a hot towel and a mint in exchange for a nominal tip.

Junior high and high school introduced unspeakable and often illegal acts to the lavatory scene. Luckily, since my ill-fated experience at the zoo, I had spent years training my body and my bodily functions so that I could last an exorbitant period of time without visiting a public restroom. I could hold my pee for an entire day, if need be. I could lock my bowels for a period of three occasionally excruciating days. I liked to think of myself like a camel, the majestic creature of the Sahara, who can hold water in his hump for months. The only problem was that hump would never get a urinary tract infection or die from impacted fecal matter in its intestines. These were among the horror stories that my mother would tell me on my Gandhi-esque abstentions from the toilet. “John Wayne died because he had 40 lbs of crap in his stomach.” “Beethoven died because his bladder exploded from not going to the bathroom.” (Neither of which are true, but both of which are effectively frightening.) I was convinced that, with the proper training, I could avoid uncomfortable public restroom situations for the rest of my life.

Looks uncomfortable.

My travel to foreign countries has put this training to the test. Though I should remember them for their differing cuisines or historical monuments, I instead remember them for the experience I had with their style of public restrooms. Flying was never an option for relieving myself. Even though airplane lavatories are somewhat discreet, my phobia of public restrooms combined with my claustrophobia from being in a room the size of an amputee’s coffin made these strictly verboten. In Paris, they have public restrooms on the streets which function as space-age port-a-potties. For the cost of five francs, you could enter this plastic cubicle and go about your business. Upon your exit, the entire pod; walls floor, toilet, mini sink; is subjected to a rush of anti-bacterial water, meant to cleanse the “jean valjean” for the next attendant. As I had just experienced 10 hours of flight and a few hours of tourism without any kind of restroom break, it seemed like a great idea and a perfect way for me to get rid of the Wayne and Beethoven I had been storing for so long. But, as I closed the door and sat on the damp seat, I was overcome with a feeling that at any moment, the French toilet would sense that I was American and reverse the flushing process, forcing me to swim through the sewage to the top of the plastic structure as my only escape.

In China, the diet of fresh fish and steamed rice had me B.M.ing like a rockstar throughout my sojourn. Even though I had to deal with sloshing as we slowly made our way through the streets of Hong Kong, I never felt better. My wife, on the other hand, who’s bladder is roughly the size of a Triaminic cup, was often looking for a restroom in any public place we were traveled. In Tiananmen Square, Miranda found a restroom that was outside of the main entryway under the dominating glare of Chairman Mao. The line that formed eventually turned into a crowd and one angry shriveled Chinese woman after another began to violently scramble for an available position in the bathroom. By position, I mean a hole in the ground; A literal hole in the ground, with small wood slats that jutted out of the walls as the only means of privacy. The feisty half-Chinese American girl fought her way to a hole and squatted as hundreds of women anxiously watched her stream of urine, ready to throw her and her capitalist ideals out as soon as it had ended. This to me is the very hell that I am sure is reserved for murderers, rapists, and those who strike up a conversation about sports to those discreetly trying to pee in the urinal beside theirs.

As is the case with most things, the Netherlands really has got public restrooms figured out. They tolerate the use of marijuana, leaving their populace in a consistent state of mellow. They ride bikes everywhere which leaves their air clean and fresh and their bodies thin. And they have public restrooms which should qualify their designer as a saint in whatever church it is the Dutch frequent. The restrooms are actually rooms, with a door that closes the room off from sharing any air with the outside world. In the ceiling is a high-powered fan which not only cools the perspiration from my naturally nervous head, but actually sucks up all the stink that its patrons can produce. The room is carpeted and wallpapered as if by Vermeer himself. As I relieved myself in this utopian bathroom, I seriously considered how long it would take me to learn Dutch and eventually call Holland my home. I liked tulips and I could live in wooden shoes, and my deeply-rooted fear would eventually be excreted from me, or wiped clean if you will.

I never did move to the Netherlands, but have held on to that singular dream ever since. When I walk through my local IKEA and see the euro-chic design of the bathrooms, I long for the restroom experience I once enjoyed. This last week, as we made our entrance into the den of all things Swedish, I led my three-year-old son into one of the family restrooms. The spaciousness was incredible and they had thought of all of the conveniences from free diapers to an automatic hand dryer. We rolled the stroller and the rest of us into this room and encouraged my son to go pee-pee. He did so, to great adulation from his parents, and we then proceeded to flush the toilet which made the sound of a shuttle launch at Cape Canaveral. My son is easily frightened by many things, but this set him over the edge. Now he refuses to use the restroom in any public place that we attend, being convinced that the rush of water will suck him in and curse him to a subterranean life with the mole people. This includes a recent outburst at the local zoo which was only calmed with me kneeling down by him, right next to the spider monkey cage, and giving him a big fatherly hug. “I know Zach, I know,” I said, sympathetically consoling him. “One day you’ll learn to avoid public restrooms all together, and I will teach you how. You might want to start learning Dutch.”

There is a Light That Occasionally Goes Out

2009-08-05T14:10:00.000-07:00

My wife and I went to a movie this last weekend. Since that event has about the same frequency of a total lunar eclipse, you can understand why I was very excited about it. I announced it to my friends and co-workers with the same cavalier enthusiasm as if I had plans to summit Lhotse. The movie was (500) Days of Summer starring the kid from 3rd Rock from the Sun and the chick from Elf. I know their names, but you probably don’t.

It was a really good movie. I mean really good. My reason for going to see it though was only slightly based on the good reviews it had received. I read something a few issues back in my Entertainment Weekly: Bathroom Edition about how the group She & Him (composed of M. Ward and the sister of that chick from Bones) did a cover of a Smiths song for the soundtrack. This was enough to get me into a crowded theater on a Saturday night and squeal like a schoolgirl when the cover of Louder than Bombs was shown in the background in an opening scene.

I am a Smiths fan of the unhealthy variety. I freely admit that, which would be the first step in a recovery program if I wanted to be recovered from this affliction. The name of this very blog bears reference to a Morrissey song. I am fully aware that most of my readers will have a minimal understanding of who The Smiths are and I hope that through this link-laden article, you might gain an appreciation for the band that is undoubtedly the best to have ever existed in the history of man. I promise not to over-exaggerate anything.

First of all, let me give you a short musical history lesson. The Smiths were made up of the singularly named Morrissey on vocals and Johnny Marr on guitar and a few other blond-headed dudes. They broke onto the British pop music scene back when pop was indie, but before indie was alternative - unlike today where alternative is pop. If you think you have never heard a Smiths song, you have probably heard "How Soon is Now" from a few various soundtracks or VH1 specials. The Smiths broke up due to a fight between Morrissey and Marr over a cheese sandwich and Morrissey soon set out on a solo venture. He is still performing to this day and at the beginning of this year, released his most recent album, featuring the single "Something is Squeezing My Skull". For those of you who doubt his genius, I defy you to make legend out of the song titles "Girlfriend in a Coma", "Some Girls are Bigger than Others", "Hairdresser on Fire", or "Shoplifters of the World Unite".

My oldest sister had always been a trusted connoisseur of music, as evidenced by the Echo and the Bunnymen shirts she wore to school and the posters of Robert Smith in her room. When I entered junior high school, she could see my obvious need for her musical influences as I still listened to Disney Radio and the “oldies” station my father frequented. She made me a mixtape filled with a sampling of British melancholy and, for my birthday, purchased me a copy of the first album I would ever own, a cassette of The Smiths’ Hatful of Hollow. I listened to the tape so much that it became warped at one point near the end of one side and, by turn (thanks to the magic of audio tape) the beginning of the next. It set me on the musical pathway that in many ways would define who I am today.

Morrissey, the daisy-toting singer/songwriter, must have known the heart of a 12-year-old boy because his lyrics spoke directly to mine. I listened to one record after another of his group along with his solo performances. In my mind, I transformed from the nerdy kid who ate his sandwiches by the dumpster to the über-cool kid with his finger on the pulse of the college music scene. I was so über-cool in fact that no one else knew who the hell The Smiths were. I strutted through the hallways of school with my t-shirts featuring the cover of Strangeways, Here We Come or Beethoven Was Deaf and further incited the hatred of the school bullies against me.

"Is that a family reunion shirt?" Yeah, shut up.

However, even after a few stomach punches and mocking laughs from popular girls, I found refuge in the music I listened to when I came home. “So true, most people do keep their brains between their legs.” “Love is just a miserable lie.” “Yes, I also wear black on the outside because black is how I feel on the inside!” I wrote songs and had every intention to run on stage during one of his performances and hand deliver what was to be his next single. I found myself frantically hitting redial to attempt contact with the local radio stations and put in my request for a Smiths or Morrissey song. Of course, the requests were always ignored. At one point, I felt like hijacking a radio station and forcing them to only play songs from The Smiths, but someone had actually already done that. After listening to the album Meat is Murder, I had a brief stint with vegetarianism, until I realized my love of animal flesh was slightly stronger than that of Morrissey.

I went to a few Morrissey concerts, events that I speak of with reverence as if I had met the Pope. I once came accessorized along with the rest of the crowd who donned one of several Morrissey-championed paraphernalia: a fist full of gladiola, a mock hearing-aid, fake scars, a mesh shirt with band-aids placed over the nipples. I won’t tell you which one I wore, but I will say that after losing the courage to dive past security to hand deliver my self-penned ballad to Moz himself, I found it as I had to remove something from a very sensitive part of my body.

I am still a fan, will forever be a fan, of Morrissey and The Smiths. They have taught me that listening to music can be a highly emotional experience, even if that emotion happens to be depression. I love that, on the rare occasion that I meet a Smiths fan, or pay to see a movie with a reference to them, my faith in humanity is restored. Now-a-days, the kids have other outlets to go to for their emotional music, outlets which tend to involve gobs of eye makeup or bleeding skull masks. Morrissey just turned 50 and I will soon turn 29. We are old, and it may nearly be time to hang up our mesh shirts and straw hats and make way for other music groups with punctuation marks in their band names. However, for my part, I have just composed a lullaby iTunes playlist for my children of songs from The Smiths and Morrissey. I feel it is my duty as a fan to pass on the music that once made me feel awkwardly unaccepted and compose dark poetry in the solitary corners of my room. But for now, I am perfectly content to slip into my now grossly undersized Kill Uncle t-shirt and sing along with "Vicar in a Tutu" as my child slowly falls asleep, with visions of Morrissey dancing in his head.

Stuck on band-aids

Summertime, and the Living is Not Easy

2009-07-28T11:18:00.000-07:00

I recently read an article in my Entertainment Weekly, bathroom edition, written by former striper turned endearing screenwriter turned occasional columnist Diablo Cody that described in no uncertain terms why summer sucks. Though I have never spent much time straddling a shiny silver pole for sweaty, crumpled dollar bills, I felt like Diablo and I were kindred spirits. I also hated summer, but my reasoning ran much more superficial than any of the reasons that she proffered. Though I have enough reasons to fill up a mildly entertaining but poorly selling book from a little known publishing company, I will settle on two for our blogging purposes today: swamp coolers and television programming.

I feel that summer heat is God’s way of punishing us for our persistence in eating shellfish. Going outside in any weather above 85 degrees is intolerable for me. I currently live in a home with a swamp cooler, which means that staying inside during the summer is also frequently intolerable. For those of you who may be unfamiliar with the device known as a swamp cooler, it is a gigantic box that is placed on the roof of the homes of those who live in a dry climate. The science behind it comes from a 17th century device used for interrogating alleged witches. They soon found that the cycle of water managed to create a moderate damp breeze. And, with only 453 parts that were completely dependent on one other to operate, it would be a great solution for narrowly avoiding heat stroke in your place of residence.

My wife and I have debated installing a central air-conditioning unit for the past three years that we have owned a home. Miranda has a shockingly short-term memory, and so when the question arises anytime other than during the months of June, July, or August, it seems absurd. “I don’t think it was too bad last year,” she says. “The swamp cooler works just fine. Let’s use the money we would have spent to get a bevy of pirate toys for our children.” I manage to replace the new parts, rig up the devices somehow, and offer prayers laden with curse words that the thing will actually work.

A month past the solstice and my wife is lying nearly naked on the floor underneath the cooler praying for sweet relief. “We have to get central air, Cameron. It wasn’t this hot last year. I know it wasn’t.” When the turbine pulley (yes, that is the correct term, as established by the Salem council of 1689) fell off in the middle of the night, by the time we woke up, four large Italian men wrapped in only a towel were sitting in our kitchen area enjoying a good steam. I have burrowed my way into an attic that was warmed to roughly the heat of the sun to repair a broken pipe. I have shimmied onto the roof and knelt across shingles that felt like they were freshly pulled from the smelting fires to rig up some complex device. I have devoted blood, tears, and a few gallons of sweat to the cooler and in return, I have been given the same relief I could give myself by using my lower lip to blow my own breath onto my forehead.

Whatever I touch starts to melt in my clutch.

As our energy levels quickly diminish with the breath of hell enveloping our household, the only thing that we really have energy to do is maintain stasis in front of the television set and a myriad of differently-shaped fans. Unfortunately, this brings me to the second reason that summer really does suck. Television. Summer television is like watching a close-up video of your cousin giving birth; you would never volunteer to watch it under normal circumstances, but once it is on and there is so much excitement and screaming and crying, you just can’t look away.

Summer is a network television wasteland of T.S. Elliot proportions. Sure, there are reruns of your favorite shows like 30 Rock and Ghost Whisperer, but most of the airtime is filled with advertisements for the upcoming fall lineup of new shows with one-word titles and reality television that is becoming increasingly distant from actual reality.

One of my old standbys is a little show called Hell’s Kitchen. After a short hiatus, this show has come back to make the walls of my home resonate with the non-sensical bleeped language. Hell’s Kitchen is a guilty pleasure of mine as I enjoy fine cooking, competition, and intense berating with foul language. However, the show has become steadily worse over the seasons. Now, I am convinced that it is entirely scripted, what with contestants picking fights with Chef Ramsey and his wimpy Beligan maître d’ Jean-Phillipe. I also find the slew of line cooks that are rounded up for each new season increasingly difficult to look at. I enjoy my reality television covertly scripted and with beautiful people. If I wanted to see Whoopi Goldberg’s less attractive sister serving up risotto through a din of British insults, well, I would probably need to seek professional counseling.

Summer television programming is not a complete loss, however. There is one show that, despite all odds manages to get better and better and provide the entertainment I need as my pores rid my body of all perspiration. The show Wipeout is the most brilliant and exhilarating program currently airing on television. It has everything you might be looking for: copious violence, skimpily dressed, mud-soaked contestants, witty and insightful commentary, the thrill of victory, the agony of defeat, and more ball innuendo than you could ever need in a lifetime.

There are two features to the show that are really the true stars. Contestants on Wipeout must maneuver their way across a series of four inflated big red balls. This elicits commentary that is the dirtiest entendre you will ever hear during a family show. And, what’s more, the announcers manage to make comments that are original and hilarious each and every time. I rarely laugh out loud, but I guffaw every time the announcers discuss how the contestant got smacked around by the big balls while seeing said contestant’s limbs bend in unnatural directions.

The second star is co-host Jill Wagner’s exposed stomach. In the first season of Wipeout, it occasionally made a cameo appearance, like whenever Jimmy Smits would show up on Pee-wee's Playhouse to fix Conky. However, in the second season, Miss Wagner’s entire wardrobe has apparently been furnished by Baby Gap. As big of a fan as I am of the show, I am an even bigger fan of Jill Wagner’s exposed stomach. I am such a big fan that I have started my own Facebook group to network with other fans worldwide. I am sure that an Emmy is forthcoming.

If bouncing off of big balls and an uncredited bare tummy are the only thing worth watching on television for four months, then there has to be a problem. There must be other people like me whom the good people at Neilsen forgot. We are here, in our homes, without enough of a social life or will to move to get up to go outside and do something during prime-time. We are here, flipping between the Antiques Roadshow and episodes of Quantum Leap. Please give us something to watch. How about a reality show featuring a group of gorgeous men and women who race against each other to colonize Mars? What about a TLC program that follows a newlywed couple who are both afflicted by narcolepsy, where most of the show is them just sleeping on the ground? How about an actual scripted television show about the misadventures of a swamp cooler repairman? Until the cool fall breezes blow, please just spare me from a dating show featuring only plus size contestants. I don’t need more to love. I already have Jill Wagner’s belly, and that is enough to last me all summer long. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go replace the Confessional Gear and reinstall the Leaching Pype on my swamp cooler.

Must see T.V.

Blog Swap: Featuring Tabitha and Her Wedding Woes

2009-07-22T15:13:00.000-07:00

Hi there, Bag Stranded fans! My name is Tabitha, and I’m here visiting Cameron’s little corner of the blogosphere for the 20-Something Bloggers 5th Blog Swap event. If you’re really hankering to read something of Cameron’s, you can stop by my b log, where he’s writing today, or just skip right over this post and read his other stuff. (I’ll try not to take personal offense.)

Anyway, this is my first time “swapping blogs” with anyone, so I was kind of clueless as to what I should write. It probably doesn’t help that lately my brain has been filled with wedding planning logistics...yep, I’m getting married in two and a half weeks! So, as you can imagine, I’ve been a bit preoccupied the last few months (which is why you should check out some of my older/featured posts if the more recent stuff doesn’t quite thrill you).

But I digress. I signed up for this blog swap, and I want to stick to my commitment. Luckily (or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it), none of you have had the pleasure of hearing ANYTHING about my wedding yet, right? So I’d like to share with you a few things I’ve been mulling over as a soon-to-be wife.

Logistical Questions about Marriage:
• What comes first in the whole name-changing process? DMV? Social Security card? Bank accounts? It might take me awhile to “officially” become Mrs. Joseph C. In fact, if I wasn’t so ready to lose my current last name (only because it’s one that can easily be made fun of), I might have considered skipping the hassle and calling myself “liberated.”
• Because of our Christian/moral beliefs and backgrounds, Joe and I are not moving in together until we are married. But I’ve already begun moving some of my stuff to his place, like books and other things I don’t have an immediate need for. The question is, should I try to move everything to his place shortly BEFORE the wedding, so that we can return from our honeymoon and be all ready to settle in? (At this point, I’m pretty sure that won’t happen. And I’m pretty sure the first few months of our marriage are going to involve a LOT of organizing, rearranging, redecorating, and rethinking all of the organizing, rearranging and redecorating we just did to make it all work better.)

• How do wives who work full time jobs manage to put dinner on the table every night (without ordering it from Baja Fresh)? I don’t want to be a TV-dinner kind of “cook.” I want to experiment and perfect my own special dishes...but it may mean that we eat at roughly 9:00 every night.

Things about the Wedding:
• I’ve come to realize that, in spite of our best efforts to plan a “small” or “simple” wedding, it’s just not possible with the size of my family and the do-it-ourselves methods we’ve carried out. Yes, we’ve come in WAY under the average American wedding’s total budget. I mean WAY. And we’re super proud of ourselves for that. But having an affordable wedding meant doing pretty much everything ourselves, and/or milking our resources (i.e. talented/creative/specialized friends and family) for all they’re worth. Our cake? Baked by my good friend Kristen (and it will be SO much more delicious than any store-bought cake). Decorations? Designed/executed by my mother-in-law-to-be, which first required going to Michael’s to deplete them of every purple silk flower they possessed in about four different stores. Point is, DIY projects are a bigger undertaking than I ever realized, and when you combine about twenty of them over a span of a short (less than five-month) engagement, on top of us both working full time jobs, it can be a tad exhausting. So, while our budget has remained fairly small, this wedding will be anything but simple. (It will be amazing, is what it will be. Heh.)
• I’ve learned that I am definitely not called to be a wedding planner. Not that I ever considered it as a possible career move for myself, but this whole thing has confirmed it. It’s been a blast, but it has been the most draining, time-consuming, stressful thing I’ve ever done in my life. The only saving grace has been reminding myself WHY I’m doing it. That it’s not just about one day of dress-up and nonstop smiles and photographs. It’s about celebrating the life I’m starting with a wonderful man, and letting our loved ones witness the first moments of it. Of our LIFE together. Of course, since the “life together” part is ultimately what matters, I suppose you could argue that we may as well have invited a bunch of people over for a barbeque and a quick ceremony. But what girl doesn’t want to put on a white dress and just...glow for a day?
• Here’s the thing I’m dealing with this week: seating arrangements at the reception. Maybe we should’ve opted to let it be a big free-for-all, but surprisingly (as I’m not usually a big “organizer”) I really wanted to give it at least some structure. So the question is: do I group all of my family together as best as possible, as well as Joe’s family, and people from the same circles or geographical areas, or do I mix it up a little and put, say, four of my family members plus four non-family members at one table? I guess this event is sort of a substitute for a family reunion, and given that I have about 30 cousins just one ONE side of my family, it’s pretty hard to get people all together otherwise. So maybe I should keep them together to allow for catching-up. I dunno.

I could go on and on about the topic of my wedding, but I already said more than I had anticipated, and to a bunch of strangers this might not be the most interesting topic... So I’ll leave you all with a question I would really love your input on (serious, sarcastic or otherwise):

How long are the bride and groom expected to stay at their own reception before they can leave and get started on that little “deed” they’ve been waiting for-stinkin’-EVER to do? My vote is “long enough to eat cake, but before Uncle Hank* starts reminiscing about his hillbilly wedding in the ‘40s.” Would you say:

A. 2 hours
B. 3 hours
C. Until the last person leaves
D. Some other “appropriate” length of time

Thanks for letting me share your space today, Cameron! And thanks, readers, for humoring my one-track mind. If you happen to like my blog, I promise that after my honeymoon, the wedding-planning posts will end (and likely be replaced with a series called Cooking Fails...I’m just trying to be honest, here).

*Note: I do not have an Uncle Hank, nor any relative who has, to my knowledge, ever had a hillbilly wedding in the ‘40s. It was a hypothetical statement.

Not That There is Anything Wrong with That

2009-07-17T11:17:00.000-07:00

A disclaimer: I understand that some people might be offended by the material contained in the story below. These people might include my mother, my wife, my ecclesiastical leader, as well as a few more sensitive people. I would hope that this column would be read in the spirit of every other Bag Stranded column – as a meaningless piece of semi-humorous satire. I don’t truly feel that my son is what I claim to believe him to be. Incidents in this account are exaggerated for comedic effect. Please don’t light my lawn on fire.

A few days ago, I experienced an event that no parent ever wants to face. After having several sneaking suspicions, picking up on a few telltale signs, my worst fears about my son’s condition were fully realized. It happened when my son Zachary, who just turned three, went up to his room to change out of his pajamas and into something more suitable for the day's events which included some shopping and a trip to the aquarium. I began to make my way to the stairs when Zachary came out of his room, stood at the top of the flight of stairs, and confirmed what I really already knew.

“Daddy, I want to dress like a Spanish lady.”

With this brave and bold statement, I finally knew it was true. My son was gay.

As I said, there have been many instances in his history that have pointed to this lifestyle direction throughout his three years of flamboyant life. Around his first birthday, I noticed Zach playing in his playroom and lining up his toy cars in groups of colors that really complimented each other. By the time he turned two, he was quickly learning the lyrics for the Broadway show Rent. And now, at the tender age of three, not only was he requesting steamed asparagus and crème brûlée at dinner time he is now making known his desire to dress, or cross-dress, himself as a Spanish lady. I know one day I am going to walk into his room and find a poster of Lance Bass hanging up. I know it.

Sure, part of the stereotypical traits that he shares with many of the homosexual community might be a matter of happenstance. They might be related to his early onset OCD or his incredible ability to learn new things, especially when set to showtune music with a tap dancing chorus. Though I know that my wife is to blame, what with her penchant for dressing up our two boys in ribbons and curls while I am at work, I might also be partially to blame. For two years now, I have had Zach participate in a Fall Fashion Preview to model, in a series of carefully posed pictures, and show off some of the new clothes that he has for the Fall season. While modeling one snappy number, I told him to point at me while I took the picture, hoping for something like George Clooney from GQ. Instead, what Zach gave me was more like Adam Lambert in Out magazine. See the evidence below.

"Oh, stop it, you."

Zachary also has a cousin named Clarke. While Zachary might be a prodigy when it comes to learning historic landmarks and calculating algebraic formulas, Clarke is incredibly gifted at doing things that, well, most regular, straight-as-an-arrow boys do. Clarke can throw a football with a moderate arc to achieve a good distance, as opposed to letting a football fall out of his open palm while performing a pirouette. Clarke enjoys eating meat and potatoes instead of daintily pecking at cream-cheese and Ritz hors d’oeuvres. And Clarke doesn’t mind too much if he makes a mess while eating. He simply wipes off the excess onto his sleeve and continues about his business of running around the house terrorizing innocent things. Zachary, on the other hand, stares in horror at his fingers if even a slight bit of residue is left from his meal and will refuse to touch anything unless his hands are promptly washed with an anti-bacterial soap.

It is not as if Zachary does not enjoy sports. Though Clarke is a wiz at the Wii and loves everything from boxing to bowling, Zachary prefers the sport of figure skating. We own a game called Deca Sports and Zachary frequently requests that I play the figure skating event so that he, in his black mock turtleneck and stretchy pants, can perform a similar routine around our living room floor. Heaven help me once he discovers sequins.

It is easy to hear the voice of Zachary and be won over by his cute, well-enunciated charm. I, however, hear a very high-pitched man-child announcing that Feist is the Judy Garland for this generation. Occasionally, his mother and I try to help him discover his true self by asking him to say certain things in a much lower tone. “Zachary can you say ‘Mommy that blouse you are wearing looks absolutely fabulous,’ in a lower tone of voice, like this…” He tries it, summoning deep within his diaphragm what we refer to as his “real” voice though it sounds like a cross between Diane Ream and Telly Savalas. Inevitably though, he falls back into his higher octave, or what we refer to as his “gay” voice.

Now, I realize that it might be a little upsetting for some that I am labeling my own son as “gay” before he has even reached the age where he has properly learned how to use eating utensils. It may also be disconcerting for some as gayness seems to be a rather hot button issue right now (the Hot Button, by the way, is an excellent club downtown which you should really check out sometime, DUDES ONLY!) Recently, the church that my son and I adhere to has been the center of controversy amongst communities of like-minded, that is to say gay-minded, individuals. It seems like one celebrity after another is bravely shooting a cover shot for US Weekly, announcing what everyone really already knew. Brüno, a new documentary featuring a startlingly accurate account of a modern-day homosexual male, is the hottest movie in the country right now. So even though gay seems to be the new black, I am not jumping on the bandwagon here. It is just as disturbing to me as it may be to some of you.

As I am sure any dad would be, I am upset at learning about my son unknowingly coming out soon after he came out of his mother three years ago. I would love it if one day he could throw a baseball without including it in a dance number. I would love it if he watched Spike TV with me instead of LoGo or that totally flaming Diego show. But, I mostly don’t want him to get beaten up at school, called horribly offensive names, unfairly judged at a single glance, or denied the privilege to do what makes him happy.

I love my son more than I ever thought I could love anything in this world and he is a beautiful, brilliant, and, overall, a sweet and good little boy. I guess I could give him some time to discover the manliness of his personality as he is still pretty young for any kind of lifestyle outside of playing with stuffed animals and reading Dr, Seuss. But, whatever decisions he makes in his life, I will always love my little buddy. I just won’t let him listen to Andrew Lloyd Webber or read Oscar Wilde to him before bedtime anymore. Have to draw the line somewhere.

My Life in Ju Ju Fruits

2009-07-09T10:31:00.000-07:00

On a lazy Sunday evening, after a long, relatively relaxing 4th of July weekend, my wife and I sat back and watched one of the most underrated films of all time. It is a retrospective drama about a man, who works at a rectal thermometer factory, that is diagnosed with a rare but terminal disease and is given only six months to live. He then decides to make the most out of life by buying fancy clothes, eating at the best restaurants, and looking for love. He comes to embark on the adventure of a lifetime where he re-discovers himself after being shipwrecked with the woman of his dreams. He then is compelled to offer himself as a sacrifice to a volcano revered by an indigenous group of Jewish islanders. Yes, Joe Versus the Volcano, you had me at rectal thermometer.

I had to convince my wife to watch it with me as she did that thing where she curls up her nose in cute disgust at my suggesting that she see it. I explained what it was about and her scrunched nose turned into an accepting “Oh! I thought it was a movie about some guy who has to go and, like, actually fight a volcano monster or something.” Though that would also make an awesome movie, that was not this movie.

Joe Versus the Volcano is a brilliant movie because it manages to be endearing despite its ridiculously simple storyline, gaping holes in the plot, and pre-Oscar caliber over-actors Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan. For whatever reason, it is my happy movie. Every time I watch it, I feel the odd sensation of happiness that I am really not used to. It might be because of Meg Ryan inexplicably playing three characters, all of comparable cuteness. Who knows.

There are other movies which I look to as representative of some aspect of my being or mile markers on my journey through life. I used to be a rather well-versed movie aficionado until marriage, children, and a career became slightly higher priorities. Where I used to see the newest gripping drama from the Czech Republic on opening day, now I am lucky if I see one horribly written superhero sequel a year. But I am sure that my memories are imbedded in celluloid somewhere, and I would like to share some of those with you.

The First Movie I Remember Seeing: Star Wars. When I was maybe four years old, I can remember my family huddling around our massive 12” Technicolor television set and watching the original Star Wars on the CBS Movie of the week, before they were produced by Hallmark. I can still remember C-3PO and R2-D2 journeying through the desert of Tatooine as the tubes that had been placed in my ear to prevent infection fell out onto the shag carpet next to me. I was a sick, nerdy kid right from the start.
The Four Movies That Have Made Me Cry: My Girl (the bees). Far and Away (ascending spirit brought back by an “I love you. I’ve always loved you.”) Bowling for Columbine (something about grenades in a lunchroom). The Happening (seriously? the wind? but, that doesn’t make any sense whatsoever. it… it’s still too hard to talk about.)

The First Rated-R Movie: Past Midnight. Starring the late Natasha Richardson and the soon to be late Rutger Hauer, this movie made it’s way into my home via a promotional video copy that my father got from work. It was my first exposure to the “f” word as well as on-screen nudity, both of which I thought were illegal to have in a movie. This movie really opened my eyes to the potential of cinema.

The First Movie That Led Me to Hold Hands With a Girl: The Twilight Zone: The Movie. Sometime between “Do you want to see something really scary” and the gremlin punching holes in the airplane wings, my hand grazed hers. We then clasped tightly. Then she put her spare hand on top of our union. Utterly confused, but figuring that it was the natural progression of things, I put my hand on top of her other hand, as if we were trying to decide who would bat first.

The First Movie Where I Made Out With a Girl: Wings of Desire, the original German film from which the much lesser City of Angels is based (one Meg Ryan is canceled out by one Nic Cage, bringing us to a grand total of 0). It is German and the screenplay is written in trochaic pentameter. Something about the poetic German, spoken by forlorn angels just did it for us, I guess. I look at this milestone as one of my greatest achievements and coolest things about me. I used to make out to foreign films. I am awesome.

Make out material

The Lowest Moment in My Theater Going Experience: The Real Cancun. Soon after I arrived in college sans friends of any kind, I realized the joy of going to the movies by myself. What I once thought was a shameful practice, carried out only by men who were comfortable leaving the house in sweatpants and scooping a bucket of popcorn into their gullet, I came to realize that I could see any movie I wanted without considering what my date or companion would want to see or be subjected to the obligatory discussion afterwards. I enjoyed several movies a week, all at the price of only one admission. I realized the pitiful state of my sorry self when I bought a ticket to The Real Cancun (the first “reality” movie) and a giant bucket of popcorn. I felt so… dirty, especially after wiping the extra butter flavoring off of my fingertips and onto my sweatpants.

First Movie I Fell Asleep to in the Theater: Matrix Reloaded. In my defense, I was working the graveyard shift and going to school full time. And, in my defense, the movie sucked. I fell asleep to a sunglasses sporting Keanu Reeves punching someone in slow-motion and woke up to a sunglasses sporting Keanu Reeves punching someone in slow-motion. At least he didn’t have to try and act.

The First Movie Miranda and I Saw as a Couple: Minority Report. Because nothing is better for a budding romance than Tom Cruise receiving a back-alley eye transplant. She hated it. I kind of liked it. Thus began the Siskel and Ebert relationship of our opposing views.

The First Movie I Took My Son to See: Bolt. Total time elapsed: -12 minutes. Yes, that is a negative twelve minutes. We had to leave the theater in a hail of screaming and crying during the preview for Monsters vs. Aliens. I guess he will never be a film connoisseur like his pops. Maybe I should be grateful for that.

And so, though I now only go to the theater when I can sneak out of work early and not tell my wife that I went, and the only movies I watch at home are Redbox rentals that I watch on a personal DVD player with headphones at 11:00 on a Friday night after the wife and kids are asleep, I still have that intimate relationship with cinema. Re-reading that run-on sentence, it does sound a little like I am having an illicit affair of some kind. But, as happy as my experiences in the movies have made me, my wife always manages to make me happier, even if she refuses to watch Kill Bill and I refuse to watch P.S. I Love You. When they make a movie about us someday, I’ll stand in line to go see it, even if I have to go by myself. With Meg Ryan playing the part of Miranda, I know it will make me happy.

The Movie of My Life: Bag Stranded – The Movie. Starring Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan and introducing Denzel Whitaker as the young Cameron Smith.

Of Styx and Stitches

2009-07-01T09:43:00.000-07:00

I heard something on the radio yesterday that simultaneously made me want to cry and beat somebody to a bloody pulp. It’s not the most unusual of conflicting emotions, and it wasn’t really unexpected, but it happened, and it was real.

I was driving to the doctor’s office so they could attempt to hedge a potential malpractice lawsuit. By now, you should know the story. I joined a work league indoor soccer team and quickly became the head coach and spiritual motivator of the team. When I played, I took on the mentality of a rabid dog that also happens to be in heat. In this heightened state of emotion, I managed to break my index finger while scoring a sweet goal and just before being ejected from the game for a harsh challenge. I was mostly upset because I do a lot of things with that finger.

I went to see a doctor. I went to see another doctor. I went in to have surgery to correct my finger. I am currently visiting a physical therapist who enjoys watching the sweat bead up on my forehead as she bends my still swollen and uncooperative finger into positions a normal finger should not be put in.

I had to cancel one physical therapy appointment so that I could take care of my stitches at the doctor’s office. You see, I went in to have my stitches removed a week and a half earlier, and the sweet blond medical assistant, the kind that makes you wonder just what criteria it takes to get a job like this and if any level of schooling beyond 6th grade is requisite, snipped one ghastly knot that jutted from my flesh and announced she was done. I told her that I was pretty sure the doctor enunciated an “s” as in the plural form of “stitches” when he told me to come take my “stitchesssss” out. “No, you see, most plastic surgeons can sew up a wound like this with only one stitch, threaded all the way through.” As disturbing as it was for her to speak of my flesh as it were a piece of denim, the analogy further confused me. “Yeah, but when you make stitches, even with one string, you have to make loops in and out, right. See, isn’t this a stitch?” “No, it looks like a part of your scab. You should be ok. Thanks for coming in!”

Because I avoid confrontation everywhere else besides the soccer field, I conceded that she must know more than I do about such things. Fast-forward to yesterday when my pulsating, puss-filled pinkish wound became a painful reminder that, once again, I am always right. I vainly tried to grab the steering wheel with my rigor-mortisized finger as I drove towards the office so that someone, hopefully with a mastery of textile production if not medical practices, could help extract the stitches my finger was rejecting as if it had eaten some bad shellfish.

It was at this point that I heard an advertisement on the radio for a hospital. There were so many things horribly, horribly wrong with the advertisement that I nearly pulled over to the side of the road to weep for the future. It featured a royalty-dodging altered version of the Styx song “Mr. Roboto” where the lyrics rang out “Domo arigato, super roboto.” The announcer came on and informed the listeners that a super, high-tech surgical instrument is being offered for the first time north of the Salt Lake Valley; a robotic surgical arm that is used to make precision incisions and operations better than any human being. “Come on down and experience the future of medical treatment. You’ll be saying ‘Domo arigato, Ogden Regional Medical Centers!’” Repeat chorus.

Advertising for hospitals and for surgical treatments is like urinating on our already beaten and bruised hobo of a health care system. Ad campaigns frequently raise ethical questions whose answers are usually “just shut up and buy our product already." There is the unambiguous sexuality of masticating a burger at either Carl’s Junior or, recently, Burger King. There is the jerk new Chester Cheetah, who I was so wrought with anger over that I punched him in the face during a guest blog recently. There is the compulsory pig who serves as an advertisement for every BBQ joint by serving up a heaping plate of his own sizzling flesh, looking as though he can not wait to dive in to the succulent goodness of it. And though an ad for a surgical procedure is not quite like an ad for food, it still pretends to give us the menu option of how we want to manage our health.

Instead of going to the Wolfgang Puck surgical center, I went to the Taco Bell clinic. I didn’t really make the decision as to where to go, but my decision would not have been made because of a lack of money or the money my insurance would surely not pay. It mostly stems from the fact that I am scared to death of robots. I can’t imagine voluntarily submitting yourself to be operated on by their potentially ill-programmed metallic hand. I am convinced that as more and more people become enticed by the revamped Styx song, they will eventually lose their mistrust of Japanese robotics. Over time, the whole of the population, north of the Salt Lake Valley, will be operated on by these machines. The uprising will begin with John Connor nowhere in sight.

The nurse at the doctor’s office offered no apology and instead pulled the single, three-inch stitch from my finger like a shoelace from a shoe that happened to be made of flesh, blood, and several sensitive nerve endings. Driving back to work, I wondered if I could ever overcome my fear of robots and sign myself up for a newfangled surgery. The automaton may not have left my hand as crippled as it currently is. He would not leave the stitches in as he would not use stitches but would instead focus his laser eyes to cauterize the wound. Maybe I could even get something like Luke Skywalker’s surgically repaired hand. There could be some benefits to submitting to the new robotic race. Of course, I would have to learn Japanese. Domo arigato indeed.

This would be an example of an "Easter Egg". Click on the picture and you can see a fun little video. Of course, this one is a little more difficult as it probably involves some downloading. But it is worth it. Check it out.

A Fairly Dumb Companion from Lake Wanttobegone

2009-06-25T12:38:00.001-07:00

Last night my wife and I were able to take part in the Mormon version of paying our indulgences by having the missionaries over for dinner. This usually translates to an awkward little hour where plate upon heaping plate of food is ingested and we are left with a commitment to convert our neighbors by the end of the week. I stared at these two young men, who had been paired together only a few days earlier, and wondered just when the older of them would snap and try to suffocate his companion with a pillow during the night, or when the younger one would grow so disillusioned by his companion’s relaxed personality that he would head out on his own to preach, door to door, the divinity of Chuck Norris. One or the other was bound to happen.

LDS missionaries are sent out to all corners of the world in “companionships” of two. This is in conjunction with an early revelation that made it clear that a 19-year-old can not be trusted by himself, and so must be paired up with an equally immature 19-year-old in order that both parties will act as a check and balance to each other’s insanity, and all shall rejoice. A missionary companionship is the most interesting dynamic of any relationship you could imagine. A therapist might deal with a long-term couple, a struggling marriage, a mother and daughter, a man and his pet ferret, a gun shop owner and his basement dungeon gimp, and none of these would compare in the complexities and difficulties brought on by the missionary companionship.

I experienced this wonderment first hand as I served my mission nearly ten years ago. During my time in a foreign country, speaking a strange, guttural language, subjected to vicious dogs, well-armed anti-solicitation advocates, brutal forces of nature, various people possessed by spirits that would give Linda Blair a run for her money, my biggest challenge was dealing with my companions. I feel that throughout my two-year tenure, I was actually very lucky when compared with others, but that did not mean that it was not a challenge. It simply meant that I did not sustain or have to administer any lasting physical injuries.

I had twelve companions in all, just like someone else we all know. Jesus. Or, Elder Jésus from Guadalarja, that is. These twelve companions really ran the gamut of the human genome. One companion refused to learn a word of French, explaining that it was my job to speak to people and his job to look good in case there were any young females involved. One thought he was black even though he was the epitome of white. One had an unnatural fixation with his Rubik’s Cube. One had palms that sweat so badly while teaching other people that he left wet hand prints on their furniture. One was German. But through all of this, there was one who raised the bar on the definition of annoying and was the supreme example of the limits of patience that a human being is capable of. This companion was, fittingly, the last that I had before ending my missionary service. This companion was named… Elder Boring.
I have no need to hide his identity as I have no idea where in the world he is at this point. I was hoping a safe, padded institution somewhere, but not long ago I received an invitation to his wedding where the bottoms of his dirty, sandy feet were the main focal point of the picture. I felt deeply rooted pity for his wife, knowing that the marriage could not last any longer than the six weeks I had endured by his side. It had to be a scientific fact. And I only occasionally saw him naked.

I met Elder Boring at the train station in Montreal as I said goodbye to my previous companion, one of my favorites, and hello to this strange little smile and stringy hair that was parted just above his left ear. Though he was odd-looking and said a few odd things, I did not fully grasp the experience I was ready to undergo. I believe the first sign came as we attended a dinner appointment with a few of the church members in our area. I heartily ate the spaghetti and meatballs and tried to commit them to convert their neighbors. Some things never change. When I had my plate cleared, I quickly realized that Elder Boring had not touched his meal at all. Our lovely host looked at his plate in equal surprise and asked, “I’m sorry, Elder, did it not taste very good?” “Not really, but I don’t eat spaghetti,” came the shocking response. Yes, the staple food of the LDS missionary was apparently inedible to one Mr. Elder Boring.

It wasn’t just spaghetti however. The next dinner appointment, when a casserole was served to us, Elder Boring pushed the food away again. After a stern “companionship inventory” (a system set up to civilly tell your companion how much you dearly, deeply hate him) I asked what his problem was. He then informed me that he only ate hamburgers and ham sandwiches. That was it. That was all. In complete awe, I told him that was not an option and that he had better buck up and eat every damn (well, darn) plate of food that was put in front of him. “No, I won’t. You can’t make me. You aren’t my dad,” he explained to me. I couldn't help but wonder who his dad was and what harsh chemical fumes he exposed Baby Elder Boring to. And so, I called all the church members in our area one morning when Elder Boring took one of his long showers (*sound of me clearing my throat*) and asked them to not invite us over for dinner while Elder Boring remained.

I later found out through some investigation that he believed that hamburgers and ham sandwiches were made from the same meat. I had to draw out for him through the use of a flipchart, a slide presentation, and a flannel board, how the pig and the cow were actually different animals. Because I found the humor in crashing his pre-conceived, firmly held since kindergarten, notions of food, he stopped talking to me. I let this go on for five days, enjoying the solitude that allowed me to reflect on the girls that I would date when I arrived home in a few weeks. However, I knew it could not go on and so we had another companionship inventory. I apologized profusely until he uttered his first words to me in days; “I hate you.” In a way, it was good to know the feeling was mutually reciprocated.

In the weeks that followed, I would find him reading female interest magazines instead of studying our training materials. He had a way with words that managed to offend Muslims, Jews, and Christians alike. He made it a habit to fall asleep on the bus rides between appointments, rarely waking up before he was at a bus stop a few miles away from the one I had gotten off at. Luckily, he could find the humor in certain situations, like when he passed gas while teaching a lesson about the restoration of the gospel or meeting a woman in a full burqa, assuming it was a Halloween costume.

Throughout all of this and more (believe me, much more) the only thing that kept me rooting around for that last shred of patience, which I had stored inside for just such an occasion, was the fact that I would soon be relieved of my duties. And I was. I would soon be home with my loving parents who would shower me with Mountain Dew and R-rated movies upon my arrival. My last day came and, as I stood at the train station where we had met an eternity of six weeks ago, and stared into the eyes of what at this point I was convinced was more demon than man, I offered a sincere prayer in my heart to God, pleading that I would never again be subjected to such trials. I had been taught from an early age that God would never give us trials that we could not bear and that they would end up being for our benefit if we endured. And I found comfort in the fact that one person had gone through much worse than I could imagine and understood the pain I went through. That person was Elder Jésus. He had some pretty rough companions.

Party at Freud's House

2009-06-23T15:16:00.001-07:00

I don’t know if it was the half bag of string black licorice that I ate before retiring to bed, but I had some pretty messed up dreams last night. I mean, the kind of dreams that are so weird that you want to tell your wife about them in the morning, but when you begin to flesh out the details with words, you sound like a schizophrenic person who just had a double shot of LSD. I mean, the kind of dreams that seem like a live-in version of a Hieronymus Bosch triptych. Weird stuff.

Filtering out the information that bears no relevance to the central theme of the dream, I am working on interpreting what exactly my subconscious was trying to tell me. Maybe those of you readers who are well versed in psychoanalysis can let me know what corollary there is between the horrors of my dreams and the horrors of my experience.

It began with me being lost and desperately trying to find a class in high school. This is something that I believe is a universal nightmare. Every hallway leads to another option of corridors that each take you further and further away from the calculus test that will doom you for life if you do not take it. The lockers change shape and colors and the lighting is increasingly dimmed. From under the doors of some rooms billows thick smoke which gathers around your ankles and then up and… ah yes… now you have no clothes on. At this realization, the class bell rings and everyone comes out of their misty classrooms. You try and play it off, as if it isn’t that big of a deal that you are naked in a public education facility. It doesn’t work and you still can’t find your calculus class. It doesn’t matter, your calculator was in your back pocket anyway.

10 years after graduating from high school, this is still my recurring nightmare. When I was in college, the location occasionally was upgraded to that of a higher education, but with the same result of being lost, confused, and deprived of clothing. But usually, it was something about high school that has and will continue to haunt my sleep. Something else about high school was frightening to me and that played a part in the initial part of my dream, at least the initial part that I will reveal to you. In my dream, I was frantically looking for the location of a party that it was imperative that I attend. All of my friends, the ones from high school no less, were there and waiting for me to arrive. My trip there included a taxi drive from an Albanian man who drove me past certain features in the city like the holographic dinosaur exhibit and the gigantic statue honoring Robert Smith of the Cure who ironically had found the cure for cancer. I got to the party and realized, along with the fact that I was naked, that I had left my two children on the corner of the street in the rain. Sometimes, you just can’t win.

The dream got me thinking about some of the parties that I attended while I was in high school. It was more a means of prognosis than it was reminiscing. My first and most shocking exposure to parties came when I was actually in 9th grade. It is at this time, scientifically speaking, that the hormones of the pubescent American boy go from the dormant and lackadaisical zombies in Dawn of the Dead (1978) to the sprite, light-footed, and ravenous zombies in Dawn of the Dead (2004). Parties in ninth grade all happened at Retford’s house, he being the only Catholic kid in our circle of friends and, as such, residing in a home with much looser party standards. Though I still didn’t get into anything too crazy, I believe that at one party, kids snorted Smarties off of a hand-held mirror and at another a goat was ritualistically sacrificed. Ah, 9th grade.The parties in 9th grade were, however, my exposure to the wonders of non-discriminatory kissing games. As my hormones were usually the pumped-up, injected Manny Ramirez to the junior little-leaguer of my friends’, I would initiate these games. They ranged from the classic (Spin the Bottle) to the adventurous (7 Minutes in Heaven) to the more-innocent-than-the-name-claims set (Suck and Blow). I was also the one who upped the ante on most of these games. When other boys would meet the girls the bottle pointed to with a chivalrous kiss on the hand, I brought it up to the lips. When the lips became tiresome, I moved to the nape of the neck. I would be only a few spins away from sucking the Kool-Aid Retford’s mom made for us out of a girl’s belly button when I changed the game around entirely. That usually involved the same game played outdoors on a trampoline with the sprinklers running. Today, all of this is, mercifully, kind of a blur. This is the exact reason why my sons will wear a locator device and perhaps a shock collar from the ages of 14 until at least one year into their marriages at 32. This is also why I have willed my chromosomes into only creating baby boys and never, no never, what will grow up to be a teenage girl.

As a Mormon kid, and a somewhat obedient one, it was actually difficult to get into too much mischief at parties. Throughout high school, we went to a few parties that usually petered out to be not much more than playing a wrestling game on the Playstation. Instead of alcohol, we got sauced on Mountain Dew and went on Hot Dog runs to the local 7-11. We watched movies that were supposed to be scary but were no match for our nervous tension at just how close we were to touching this girl’s hand or just how far past her knee we could touch in a playful fashion before we were slapped in the face and had to have a joint interview with our bishop.

In my senior year of high school, parties actually became tamer as I had built up an immunity to the doses of sexual tension I experienced. Plus, I had a girlfriend throughout the year. Longtime readers will know about at least part of my relationship with Tina. Because of what I have written about her, she no longer reads my blog, so I don’t think I have to worry too much about offending her now. Tina was always fun-loving and looking for parties to go to. She was always surprised when we would arrive at a friend’s party and there was no dancing or even music playing, except for the hokey tune coming out of the Super Mario Bros. game. She was the type of girl who always opted for the mosh pit when I was too old for them by the time I was 17.

It turns out that the most important party of my life was one that I did not attend. The millennium fast approached and with it, the lure of several crazy celebrations which were sure to give Tina the party fix she was in need of. We were planning on going downtown where the outdoor festivities were going to be monumental. In the morning of the last day of the millennium, the unpredictable Utah weather was foreboding to say the least. There was a thick fog, not unlike what would fill classroom hallways in my dreams. Though I do not tout my own spiritual acuity, I had a very strong impression that I should not make the drive downtown that night. I struggled with the idea, knowing the importance of this to Tina, but in the end, made the decision that I would not go. Tina was upset, declared she was going by herself, tried to barter with me to go, and then finally resigned to stay home with me. I set out to plan the most romantic evening possible. My parents promised to vacate the basement that I had set up with a small dining set, candles and roses. I prepared a delicious meal did everything that I could to make the night perfect. Nothing I could do, however, could quell the resentment from my girlfriend. I had taken away from her what would have been the greatest party in her life and replaced it with an overdone piece of chicken in a dank basement with a loser boyfriend. We passed the last moments of the last thousand years and the first of the next thousand together in silence. She then said goodnight to me and went to bed in my guest bedroom at approximately 12:01.

It was essentially the end of our relationship and the end of my teenage partying once and for all. It was the death of something that is both exciting to retell and horrifying to relive. Parties now consist of a rousing game of Canasta and carrots dipped in ranch dressing. And this only if the kids happen to be sleeping. But I am a different person and I love these quote-unquote parties. I like to rock that party. Maybe my dreams are reminding me about the terror and trauma that I experienced in my younger years so that I can be more grateful for what I have now. In that case, I am extremely grateful for my loving, if occasionally boring, wife, my priority being placed on my children instead of my style of kissing, and that the pure dread that fills my socially awkward body at every given moment now occurs only in my dreams—my dinosaur laden, graphically nude, Netherlandish dreams.

The Birthday After Tomorrow

2009-06-19T08:20:00.000-07:00

It is hard to imagine that it has been three years since my beautiful baby boy was fiercely ripped from the splayed belly of my anesthetized wife. Exercising his first act of defiance, he managed to work his head into the birthing canal, and then got distracted by the funny moaning sounds coming from outside the womb. So he stayed and entertained himself by fiddling with his umbilical cord and kicking his mother’s innards around. So, a cesarean was scheduled and the doctor pulled the unsuspecting child from his safely nestled position. Realizing that he had been removed from his comfort zone and was now in a world full of adults and responsibility, he exercised his second act of defiance by urinating on the nurse that brought him into this world.

Over 1000 days of stubbornness and pee later, that boy’s parents found themselves planning a third birthday party. This was the third opportunity that my wife, Miranda, had to abandon all sane and rational thinking and decorate the entire house with a themed assortment of crate paper streamers, posters, balloons, and individualized accoutrements for each invited guest.

In Zachary’s first year, the theme revolved around the early child development DVD series “Baby Einstein”. For those of you who might not be familiar, this series showcases a colorful spectrum of toys and an equally colorful spectrum of children all set to music played exclusively on a xylophone. Occasionally, a sock puppet made to look like a capuchin on Zoloft appears to laugh at a word that comes up on the screen. For celebrating my son’s first year of life, the cartoon creatures who all claimed to be smarter than me, filled the halls of our home and wished my son, who had by this point been partially raised by the developmental series, a happy birthday.
For the second birthday, Zachary was old enough to decide, through a series of grunts and shrill cries, what kind of decorations he wanted. This also involved us giving him two options and showing an obvious bias towards the decorations that Miranda had already bought a few days after his first birthday party. So, the decision was made that Charlie and Lola would be the second leitmotif. Turning up the notch on birthday themes that are unfamiliar and unsettling, Charlie and Lola are a British cartoon brother and sister who have indoctrinated my son so that he now speaks of crumpets at dinner, trolleys at the grocery store, and bangers in what I can only hope is an acceptable situation since I am still unsure of the meaning.

So, then came year number three. After everything from the invitations to the cake had to be meet the ante of previous years, we pushed Zachary towards choosing, now with much more impressive verbalization, the theme of pirates. I have commented on Zachary’s disturbing fascination with pirates and pirate culture before (which you can read about here; I love how I cross reference myself). We thought we would celebrate that fixation with a party that was sure to provide him with several pirate themed gifts, apparel, and weaponry.

It was sometime between hanging up the jolly roger flags around the house and meticulously decorating cupcakes in the shape of pirate faces (so, around 1:30 the morning before the big day) that I repeated the same complaint that my wife had been hearing from me for the past few years.

“You know, I never had a birthday party.”

My wife never buys my solicitations for pity very easily. “Of course you had a birthday party,” she said. “Everyone has a birthday party growing up.” But, I hadn’t. In my home, the special nature of birthday’s came from being able to open up a present before school, which was usually clothes to wear to school that day, getting a fiver in the mail from Grandma, and then choosing what meal to eat that night. Though, it may seem sad to someone like my wife who had a progressively larger animal to ride each year with her gigantic pool of friends, I really didn’t mind. I had been raised with a protective anti-social personality so that birthdays were to be spent with family and hopefully reading a book with big vocabulary words; not with friends causing a ruckus and playing violent donkey pinning rituals. I actually genuinely enjoyed just picking out the meal that I wanted for my birthday dinner, especially when I could pick something considered torturous to my older sisters’ appetites.

My wife still didn’t believe me, and so she told me she would ask my mother. A few days later, my mother, ashamedly, confirmed to her the sad truth. I never did have a birthday party. But, it really isn’t that sad. I feel that I turned out ok, even with my social ineptitude and haunting recurrent nightmares of unspeakable things. But who am I to deny that my child be treated like a King for one day out of the year, as opposed to the other 364 where he is treated as a mere heir to the kingdom.

And so, we decorated every inch of the house, prepared a wide array of foods for our guests, and purchased everything that Target had to offer with a pirate on it, including a grueling non-fiction book that discussed the intricacies of Somali piracy in the Gulf of Aden. And, in a way, I can experience vicariously the joys of a child’s birthday party by seeing my child’s face as he makes his way through the gauntlet of balloons and streamers to see the smiling faces of friends and family offering him mounds and mounds of toys, cake, candy, and adulation. At this rate of ever increasing expectations, the theme of next year’s fourth soirée will be Alexander the Great’s conquest of Asia Minor. At least there will be an elephant ride.

Blog About Blogging: The Fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse

2009-06-12T09:29:00.000-07:00

I like my blog. I came up with the idea of starting a blog in the fall of last year. I loved to write and had a lot of ideas for what to write about. What could be better than hosting my banal opinions and mildly disturbing personal recollections on the internet to give people a break from all of the stock trading and cat picture captioning that was going on? And so, I chose a blog name (that made little sense), picked a color scheme (which has been known to induce mild to severe nausea), and had at it. We are now nearing nine months into this little blogging project which has come to be known as Bag Stranded. The incubus is nearly ready to make its way out of the safety of the womb and through the birthing canal. But, just as a newborn calf finds it difficult to stand on its shaky legs, still slick from amniotic fluid, so my blog still is sure to struggle. It will probably also end up in a cage with its legs shackled to make some nice, tender veal.

After all, I am part of the literary and illiterate amalgamation known as “the blogsphere.” If you are looking for a definition of what blogosphere means, it really depends on the context. When muttered through the jowly rasp of political pundits, it is the aura of negativity which pervades the internet and its highfalutin opinion-istas™. If you listen to the ads that pop up when you search for pictures of Brittney Spears tactfully exiting a limousine, the blogosphere is a fantastic way to tap into the virtual money just floating around the web. It might also be a thin layer covering the earth just above the stratosphere. It’s made up of 5% methane and 95% mediocrity.

Most of the people that I know have a blog, which means that they take part in this worldwide frenzy of over-sharing information. Most of these blogs involve an arrangement of family pictures, descriptions of the cutest thing a certain child did ever, and graphic pictures of a post-op bunion removal. I have my own one of these blogs. I keep it private at the behest of my wife who insists that some internet fiend will use pictures of our children towards some evil end. I could write a book, or at least a blog, about my wife’s assorted paranoia. This one, however, has recently been proven fairly founded.

I recently read an article about a St. Louis family that happened to have their family’s Christmas card photo show up in the storefront window of a department store in Prague. Apparently, it is a mystery as to how it ended up there, but the mom posted her pictures on her blog and apparently, they were lifted, blown up, and used to sell button-up denim jackets. Now personally, I think that it would be pretty boss to have my family act as an unbeknownst sponsor for the Yugo. After all, the Smith family (the Missouri ones, not mine) had since received 180,000 hits to their blog since this cross-country discovery. That is pushing some traffic.At the rate that I am going, Bag Stranded will reach 180,000 hits sometime in early July of the year 2049 (This is true, by the way. You can see my work here.) To me that is very depressing. When I first began to have reservations about the amount of traffic on my blog, my wife asked me what my purpose was in doing the blog. Before I could respond to her, she responded for me by telling me that I should just be doing it for myself, as if writing was comparable to sitting down for a session with Dr. Phil. For me, writing has been and always will be an outlet that I use to seek personal gain, notoriety, and attention from others. Nothing more.

I started writing when I was in 7th grade after I wrote a scathing and humorous review of my life in 6th grade. I cleverly titled it “Sixth Grade” and its two-page length has been the standard by which I write these columns today. It received rave reviews, which means that both my mother and my 7th grade English teacher loved it. That teacher read it in front of the class as an example of superior writing ability. I have spent the ensuing second half of my life trying to sustain and maintain that feeling of being revered for some talent other than being able to eat things other people wouldn’t.

And so, fast forward to the present, and I find myself pursuing the same futility. Last Saturday night, I spent a few hours searching the web for different ways to boost the traffic on my blog. I joined a few different websites where bloggers met and apparently networked together to show their wares. The promise of thousands of people flocking to my corner of the internet was real and I could feel it. I could sense the admiration of thousands waiting to leave a congratulatory comment below my column about how hot dogs have influenced my life.

I realized the next morning the harsh cruelty that goes along with online networking. My blog received no new hits. I did however receive a message from someone saying that they really liked my blog and that I should check theirs out. On clicking their profile, I discovered that they had sent the same message to roughly 75 other new users within a four-minute period. Each of these 75 users wrote back to thank the greeter for his kind, copied and pasted words. And his blog sucked.

There are thousands of bloggers that use the site that I joined. There are millions of bloggers with tens of millions of blogs all around the world. Most of these blogs revolve around teaching other people to blog and make money off of blogging. It is a self-propagating entity and it frightens me more than a redheaded ventriloquist dummy with a meat cleaver. The originality and presence that I struggled for is a hopeless cause. With so many people and so much blogging, a little guy like me, just trying to be funny, gets seriously lost floating around in the blogosphere. There isn’t much oxygen up here, by the way.

I am not the only one who has experienced, as of late, the doubt that comes from pouring your heart and soul into an unfeeling machine for the scrutiny of the handful of people that stumble across it. Several friends have felt the same disparagement. Blog regret: it is an epidemic. And so, I am not sure what to do at this point. Should I keep writing, using it as a form of therapy, and wait for the year 2049, or the Rapture (whichever comes first), for Bag Stranded to make it to the level of slightly Slovakian looking families and their blogs? Or should I bag Bag Stranded and save myself from the inevitability of whoring myself out to the internet public just for my next hit of recognition? All this questioning and self-doubt has made me a bit hungry. I could go for some nice, tender veal. Perhaps sandwiched between two chocolate chip cookies. No one else would ever eat that.
Post Script: This column is not a call for a flood of commentary to give your support to me to not quit my blog. I have tried asking for that before with little success. Feel free to comment, of course, but don’t feel impelled. If I were a reader of Bag Stranded, I would probably be tired of me already and would not respond to my vague threats of quitting. I might even encourage me to quit. Good thing I don’t read Bag Stranded.

Debate and Switch

2009-06-05T08:26:00.000-07:00

I recently received a letter in the mail from a good friend of mine named Chase Carey. Chase also happens to be the President and CEO of DIRECTV, but first and foremost, he is my friend. As a friend, he has recently unlocked the magic box in my DVR at home that makes it possible for me to view Showtime free for three months. This gift was given to me for being such a loyal friend over the past three years, as well as, perhaps, the fact that I did not call him out directly when a weather disturbance made me miss the episode of Survivor where, according to the commercials, the survivors just pulled the clothes off of each other in a mud puddle to get immunity. Thanks Chase.

It is amazing what premium cable can do to your TV watching mentality. Should I really be watching the History Channel’s glorified slideshow of the Chinese Opium trade when I could be watching Weeds? Do I need to be somewhat enthralled by an unsolved murder on Cold Case Files when I can witness the murder itself on Dexter? Why would I succumb to watching AMC’s commercial laden and edited Judge Dread when I can get the R-rated version over on channel 539?

And, oh yes, Showtime is no longer just one simple channel. As with other premium cable networks, it has become a conglomerate of no less than 12 channels. Showtime. Showtime 2. Showtime Gay and Lesbian. Chowtime Food. Showtime Dry. Shitmeow - The Anagram Channel. All of this variety is there to offer me a premium selection of ten movies, most from 1998, which rotate and play at different times on each of the stations over the next three months. But it still beats A&E.

And so I selected five of the movies which I figured either I could watch as long as my wife and/or child/children weren't in the room with me and one that I could enjoy in the company of my wife while our kids slept/screamed uncontrollably in their beds. That one movie was the unfortunately titled Denzel Washington film “The Great Debaters”. Though, the film’s subjects were “masters” in their field, I am grateful for the toned down adjective of “Great” chosen by Denzel. The film portrays a group of afro-centric debaters who follow their dreams all the way to the national debate championship, or something. I think I fell asleep about halfway through. But in that sleep, I was able to summon up the memory of my own illustrious career as a debater. The year was 1992. Cue the wavy screen transition and appropriate period music, perhaps "Baby Got Back".
I was in 5th grade at the time and I was selected to act as alternate to my little GT class’ (That’s “Gifted and Talented” for you lay people out there) debate team. As alternate, I slept through practice and prayed for someone to vomit during competition so that I could rise to stardom in their place. Unfortunately, I was the alternate on a team of very intelligent and very healthy 5th graders.

After practicing for several weeks, we went to the annual elementary debate meet at Skyline High School. The topic to be debated by every team was whether or not the United States should pursue alternate sources of energy. My team was arguing the negative, which meant our fates were sealed well before our nerdy pre-pubescence even graced the hallways of the high school. It is surprisingly difficult to debate against something that you and nearly everyone on the planet would have to agree with. Our only hope was that the judges happened to be on the Board of Directors for a heartless coal or oil company and that they hadn’t yet heard of the newly born hole in the ozone.

We took a break between debates after my partner got all riled up over the 5th grade girl’s resolution to have hydrogen-run cars that would only produce water as a waste product. He slammed her ridiculously conceived idea of a scientifically impossible magic car that, if it did exist, would flood the streets with water so that our sewer systems would back up and we would be living in our own filth and amongst deadly crocodiles. If only our team had Wikipedia back then. During this break my partner and I decided that we would relieve some tension in usual 5th grade fashion, by engaging each other in a Mercy fight. Again, assuming there are lay people amongst my readers, Mercy is a game where the two competitors interlock fingers and squeeze, twist, and gyrate each other until the pain becomes intolerable for one party, at which point they yell the plea “Mercy”. I prided myself on being a particularly skilled Mercy player. As my partner and I battled, I moved my arms up and down, adjusting the positioning of my body as we grappled in the hallway. I was just about to put him in a classic “Half-Dougie” when I, rather ungracefully, moved my forehead straight into the handle of a locker.

The blood flowed freely through the thin brown paper towels in the bathroom and into the sink. My veins sent blood out of my forehead like water out of a punctured garden hose. By the time my partner joined me to see the damage he had done, the bathroom looked like something imagined by Wes Craven. “Mercy,” I conceded.

Our debate coach was contacted and she decided to call my parents. My parents however, had assumed that I was at the elementary school down the street practicing for my debate meet. When they were informed that I was on the other side of the valley at a high school with a profusely bleeding head wound, they were understandably upset/fuming with rage. They drove me to the hospital, scolding me all the way. I sat waiting in the emergency room triage as I heard sirens blaring toward the entrance. Several paramedics rushed a stretcher carrying what I can only assume was a man though he looked more like a six foot piece of chicken that was left on the barbeque overnight. They rushed his screaming charred body to the room next to mine, which meant that a thin blue curtain separated our differently attained injuries. His was a house fire. Mine was a 5th grade debate-related injury.

I went home a changed man with two stitches now holding the skin above and below my eyebrow from surely spilling out the contents of my skull. I received a grounding for not telling my parents of my secret debate meet. The affirmative teams overwhelmingly won the debate and thus influenced the US government to cease using fossil fuels forever. And I had developed a taste for debate, along with a slight lingering taste of blood in my mouth. I was the captain of my 6th grade team and would argue in the affirmative that puppies were in fact cute. We won.

I did not continue my debate pursuits as I entered 7th grade as I, with puberty, realized the triviality of nearly everything in life that didn’t either bring me closer to the opposite sex or conceal my horrific acne. However, at heart I am still a debater. A master one at that. I am still that chubby little kid from the Negro college who elicits a standing ovation at every remark. “I say to you, if puppies were cute yesterday and are cute today, may they ever be so!” Thank you, Denzel. Thank you.

Me in 5th grade

Redbook - The Other Good Book

2009-05-29T12:43:00.000-07:00

I sat in the doctor’s office waiting to see the man who I was sure would tell me that my broken finger needed to be removed from my body. He would hand me a damp washcloth to bite down on and bring out the hacksaw which sat right next to the tongue depressors and cotton balls in one of the mystery drawers he had in his office. I had to dream up scenarios like this as there was surprisingly very little to occupy my mind during the eternity of waiting. On the wall opposite where I was standing hung a truly inspirational poster of a baseball player sliding into second base. “RISKS: While others wait for chances, winners take them.” I found it odd that it was exactly because of a risk that I took that I was making a rare visit to the doctor’s office, awaiting amputation.

With nothing else to do, I glanced toward the sterilized counter where I saw a copy of Redbook magazine. It goes without me saying that doctor’s offices are notorious for outdated magazines. The crinkled pages, which have long since been separated from their perfume samples and any semblance of relevance, are there for your only amusement in what is often a very unamusing situation. Want to know the most exciting prospects for the upcoming football season, even though next week is the Super Bowl? Try this slightly damp Sports Illustrated. They are usually the only escape from staring at the horrific, pastel-infused, nautically-themed artwork created by some coke-addled struggling artist in the 1980s and reprinted by the thousands exclusively for waiting rooms. That or staring at bitterly ironic motivational posters.

The Redbook that happened to be in my exam room was dated July 2001. On its cover, it featured a smiling Janet Jackson. Among the article teasers on the cover (10 things your man really wants in bed, 71 ways to eat slim this summer, 430 ways to use that little black dress as a weapon against a potential rapist) was information about what I would find in the Janet Jackson article. She would apparently dish on the strains of her second (secret) marriage as well as an eating disorder, or something.

This is the actual cover of the magazine. I do tell the truth, occasionally.

July 2001 was, of course, before Janet Jackson’s right nipple would find its way onto America’s television sets—and into our hearts. It was truly a more innocent time where we actually cared about the things that were written in Redbook magazine. From such a far off date, we never could have imagined that we would have been in the current economic catastrophe that we are in. We wouldn’t have known that America would be involved in two ugly wars which would cost hundreds of thousands of lives. We wouldn’t believe that the little red-headed girl from The Parent Trap would become a recovering addict and a horrifically untalented actress who was difficult, at times, to even look at. Hayley Mills, where did you go wrong?

We also could have never imagined that only two months later, four hijacked planes would not only destroy lives and landmarks, but would come to change just about every part of society. I was about 3/4th of the way through my two-year tenure as a missionary for the LDS church on the morning of September 11th, 2001. The day started in typical fashion; indoctrinating ourselves and planning our proselytizing activities for the day. My companion and I rode a few stations away on the Montreal metro to get to our appointment at 10:00 in the morning. We were meeting with a Chinese woman that we had contacted a few days earlier and who had expressed some interest in learning more about the church. We sat down at her kitchen table and began to offload the religious paraphernalia from our backpacks as she went to answer a phone call.

She started talking in Mandarin, and, soon, the intonation in her voice made her sound like an Alvin and the Chipmunks Christmas record playing backwards at a high RPM. She got off the phone and ran over to us at the table. She tried to explain something to us, only her English, in this moment of panic, failed her miserably. “Planes fall down! Into New York! Five-angle building! Big rush, Times Square!” She went to turn on the T.V. and we were confronted with the image of smoke billowing from the World Trade Center.

We would spend the next hour or so glued to the television set, a device that we had grown unaccustomed to in our temporary life of technological abstinence. We would watch in real time as both of the towers collapsed. We didn’t say much, the three of us, as we viewed the tragedy with unbelieving eyes. We packed up our things and left our contact on the couch with teary eyes, hers and ours. We rode the metro home where the usual crowd of loud-mouthed dredges of French-Canadian society were silent.

Our apartment, situated in the middle of the area of Little Lebanon (sandwiched between Little Iran and Little Azerbaijan) was equally silent. The next few days would be interesting indeed. We were not allowed to proselytize or carry our trademark backpacks around town. My companion’s neo-conservative views came out of the woodworks in several angry tirades, just like so many other middle-of-the-road Americans. Once our missionary efforts began again, we were bombarded with the question, “How would God allow such suffering?” Though my companion and other missionaries had some set answers they used for just such questions, if given the chance, I would typically respond with, “I don’t know.”

It wasn’t that I questioned my faith or any of my beliefs. I just didn’t know why this happened. Nearly eight years later, that suffering has been magnified across borders and into the homes of nearly everyone on the planet, in one way or another. Now, Redbook teases about articles like “47 secrets to living off of .47 cents a day” and “121 ways to report to authorities that your neighbor is a terrorist without later receiving an envelope full of anthrax from the Islamic extremist camp in Pakistan that you are pretty sure your neighbor was training at in the summer, even though he said he was going to Branson.” So many problems that I don’t know why we are suffering from and July 2001 Janet Jackson is completely oblivious to.

I wish I knew how to make the world a better place. We may be heading that way, slowly but surely. Maybe all that we need are some motivational posters to get us moving there quicker. Realizing the innocence of the past, I nurse my broken finger, a trifle of a thing compared with other tragedies, and flip through the innocent pages of Redbook to find out just what exactly guys like me really wanted in bed.

Indiana Jones and the Temple of Overpriced Theater Food

2009-05-27T12:52:00.000-07:00

I now offer to you a new guest entry here at Bag Stranded. This one comes highly recommended. It is well worth your time to read it and laugh at it. It is written by Doug Giddings, a co-worker and kindred spirit of mine. We both bleed Red Sox red. We both have screaming children in tow. And, as you will soon read, we both love, or at least loved, going to the movies. Leaving a comment will make Doug feel special as well. We should make him feel special.

Indiana Jones and the Temple of Overpriced Theater Food
By Doug Giddings

America’s great pastime is dead. I’m not talking about baseball, which is still the best thing ever invented—I refer to the cinematic experience of being swept away to different times, better places, and inconceivable adventures. What grandma still calls “the movie house.”

The explanation behind this slow, cancerous death that has afflicted what was once an almost obsessive part of my life has been debated for decades. For many, the exorbitant ticket prices have been enough to discourage people from going to the theater to see their favorite films. Others argue that it is the development of state-of-the-art electronics now available on the consumer level, allowing people to experience better sound and crisper picture from the darkness of their own homes. But I think it’s more than that—if prices and accessibility were the only thing keeping people in on Friday nights, Disney On Ice would have stopped coming to town by now.

For me, the last straw came a few years ago. My wife and I met another couple on opening day of Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Script, and we were running late. By the time we got to the theater, the only two seats still available were the ones my friend had saved for us. The moment I sat down I realized my chair was wet. Great.

But that’s just the half of it. Ever notice how bad something smells when it’s covered with dirty upholstery and something really sugary—say, root beer—is spilled on it? It reeks. So I plugged my nose, put my wife’s jacket on the chair, and sat down.

Thirty minutes into the movie, the jacket reached its absorption threshold. I was uncomfortable, my butt was soaked, and every time I fidgeted my friend would hiss.

“Stop moving, it stinks!”

An eternity later, the movie ended and the lights came on. I stood and stretched, glancing casually down at the wretched seat. That’s when I realized—the chair wasn’t covered in root beer after all—someone had actually thrown up on it. Yes, I had sat for three hours in someone else’s puke.

I’ve rarely been back to the movies since. And never without checking my seat first. But of course, that’s not the real reason for my estrangement with what had once been the love of my life. If one bad experience were all it took to discourage me from going to movies, then I would have given up my other passions long ago. I’m sure I would have stopped playing baseball after my first broken finger, and I think I would have quit frequenting restaurants with the ever-alluring “All You Can Eat” sign after the time I got sick and yakked roughly 10 pounds of partially digested hash browns all over myself. Yes, most of my stories seem to involve vomit in one form or another. Sorry.

Looking back, my first awkward moment at the movies came during Titanic, and it had nothing to do with Kate Winslet’ nipples. The movie was playing at the one-screen theater in the small town where I grew up, and nearly caused mass-suicides among the young girls of our school when Leonardo DiCaprio died at the end. I hadn’t gone with a girl, nor was I stalking women I’d hoped to lure into my arms in a moment of emotional distress. Instead, I sat next to The Hoe—a burly man-friend who weighed 12 pounds at birth and was shaving by the time he was seven. He had talked me into attending the movie in hopes of trolling for women; instead, he squirmed for almost three hours, clearly uncomfortable at the lack of a buffer seat between us. We went home emotionally confused and without so much as a phone number between us.

Despite any previous awkwardness, the magic of going to the movies re-entered my life when I was 14 and my dad sent me in from the parking lot to purchase tickets for a rated-R movie we wanted to see. It wasn’t my first movie with an R-rating, but it was the first time I had purchased the tickets myself. I shuffled slowly to the counter, like Oliver Twist preparing to ask for more food. I knew what was going to happen—I’d ask for the tickets, unable to keep my voice from cracking with every other word, and storm troopers would burst into the lobby from hidden doorways and drag me to an interrogation room where Clint Eastwood would tickle my chin with the barrel of his .44 caliber handgun. Instead, the pimply and uninterested cashier handed me the tickets and I skipped out to my waiting father like a convict newly released on parole.

While the movie itself had been awesome, my real appreciation had nothing to do with watching Arnold throw terrorists out of airplanes. I had done something wrong, and I liked it. For me, going to the movies had taken on a new sense of excitement.

As I got older and started driving, my friends and I went to movies all the time. And if we weren’t going to R-rated movies just for the sake of sneaking into them, we would hide in the bathroom or behind dark corners, and slip from theater to theater when the members of the Cinema Gestapo weren’t looking. We moved like ninjas, silently crushing stray pieces of popcorn into the seizure-inducing carpet with the speed of mythical creatures, only to emerge several days later with blurry eyes and movie hangovers.

Of course, such movie marathons presented us with an even greater challenge—man cannot live on Dots alone. My meager manual labor salary wasn’t sufficient enough for me to dine on theater food. I might as well have ordered a steak at a fancy restaurant as have afforded five-dollar hotdogs on a regular basis. I briefly considered eating what I found on the floor between the rows of padded chairs, but that was pretty low, even for me.

I was debating the nutritional value of urinal cakes with my friends when our answer came in the form of a flashing neon sign. A discount grocery store opened right next to the theater, complete with dim lighting and questionable produce. But they had candy—rows and rows of candy, available at a fraction of the Cinemark price. I paid for my treats and stuffed my pockets, along with my partners-in-crime, Jack and Pete, and we headed back to the theater, daring them to catch us in the act of smuggling food. Words cannot express the rush I felt as I successfully walked past the bored ticket-taker who didn’t utter so much as a single word at my bulging pants; I felt like Steve McQueen in The Great Escape, smuggling tools past the Nazi guards for a chance at uninhibited freedom.

As the weeks progressed, so did my cravings. I was tired of Milk Duds and Shock Tarts, and would have killed for a cool, refreshing beverage. Our food purchases became more exotic, and every day posed a challenge to see what we could get away with. We started wearing knee-length tube socks to conceal the packages of Twizzlers hidden snugly against our calves, and the two-liter bottles of Dr. Pepper sloshed from their hiding place behind my belt. I’d occasionally carry in super-sized value meals from McDonald’s, and once I successfully managed to smuggle in a large pizza, which left grease stains on my back from where it had been hidden under my shirt.

Of course, such reverse-thievery wasn’t easy. As our treats grew more elaborate, we required more clothing to conceal them. For Jack and Pete this posed a problem, as they were both a little on the heavy side of the scale, and didn’t have a lot of hiding places left for an entire coconut cream pie. This left things up to me—the “Skinny Bitch” of our trio—and my friends quickly became the Short Round and Willie Scott to my Temple of Doom.

I began stocking an entire winter wardrobe in the trunk of my car, never knowing what smuggling needs I would have from one evening to the next. On a random day in July I’d waddle into the theater wearing long jeans and a full winter coat, looking like Kirstie Alley after swallowing both Oprah and Ricki Lake in one gulp. Theater employees began looking at me a little more closely, awkward as I seemed, but their glances were always of pity or disgust at the fat man with a skinny face—never suspicion.

In fact, we were never caught. And we never came close to eating all the food we had brought in with us. But it was never really about the food anyway; while the Milk Duds and oatmeal pies helped sustain us from one movie to the next, it was really more about the movie experience itself. It was my own random form of participation that made the movies better—there was something indescribable about sneaking into a theater by climbing through the rafters and then free-rappelling into a seat reserved for someone else, or smuggling in enough food to feed a third world country, that helped erase some of my own inadequacies. I knew that I would never be able to scale the walls like Spiderman. I’d never fight like Jackie Chan, and Natalie Portman would never be waiting for me out in the parking lot. Nevertheless, my own little triumphs somehow dulled the pain of being average and ordinary.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve stopped sneaking into movies. I’m not sure when it happened—somewhere between the dates with women who were unimpressed by the number of two-liter bottles I could fit down my pants, and the need to empty the clothes from my trunk to make room for strollers. Either way, it happened slowly, like the unraveling plot in an M. Night Shyamalan film.

The weekend movie marathons have ended. If my wife wants a drink, I pay for it at the concessions counter rather than strapping one to my leg like a catheter bag in the parking lot. And while I’ve seen some decent films in the past few years, the magic of the theater seems to have gone.

A few months ago my younger brother and I went to a movie. Unfortunately, the film we wanted to see was sold-out, and a Quasimodo-like man stood outside the theater doors double-checking tickets.

“Dude,” my brother said, “let’s sneak in.”

The dying embers in my heart were suddenly roused to life—a challenge. But the torch had been passed years before, and instead I went to another movie—one I paid for—and left my determined brother to fend for himself.

Half an hour later, I received a text from my brother that he had gotten inside and secured us seats in the sold-out theater. I took a deep breath and prepared to dust off my ninja skills. Within minutes I found myself in the crowded room and joined my brother on the second row, where seeing the screen would require craning my head at an angle that would leave my neck numb for weeks.

“Dude, what took you so long?”

For a kid with a mohawk and enough tattoos to get himself into The Guinness Book of World Records, he’s awfully intolerant.

There I was—I had sneaked into a movie for the first time in years, and it was no small feat. But the joy was no longer there; instead, I watched with remiss as my brother beamed smugly from his chair and pulled a bag of Twizzlers from his sock. I declined his outstretched offering and turned my attention back to the screen, where I waited impatiently for the movie to end.

Grumpy Goes On Vacation II

2009-05-22T13:28:00.000-07:00

Part Two, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Teacups

As mid-day naptime came, I snuggled into my hotel pull-out couch which doubled as a medieval torture device and indulged myself, as I am wont to do, in self-pity. My mind wandered back to my recent and sad history of vacations. As I started my current job, I left behind two weeks of well-earned vacation as a laundry monkey. When I began my employment as a laundry monkey, I did so on what would have been my anniversary of two years as the little elf who puts the bread on the grocery store shelves before you wake up.

The last vacation I took, in fact, was soon after my first son, Zachary, was born. My wife’s maternity leave was up, and so I took a week off to stay with the baby and help ease his transition into being watched by grandparents. That easing involved me testing the bounds of the human sentiment of patience as for hours on end, a constant din of colicky screams emanated from his little body. Though I loved being there for my little boy, I was never happier to leave my “vacation” and get back to work at 1 in the morning with my pornography and illicit drug aficionados of co-workers.

I woke my son up from his slumber so that we could at least try to squeeze off three hours in the park for the day. I love it when my son takes his rare naps, but if I am paying the equivalent of $100 an hour for an experience, it better either be a fully-catered ride on a zeppelin, playing catch with the reanimated corpse of Johnny Unitas, or torturing my own personal European hostel resident in a secluded country club. I will not spend it to stand in line at “It’s A Small World” with a hysteric child.

We ventured back into the theme park in the late afternoon. We managed to avoid initial incident with Zachary by telling him we were going to “Tomorrowland” instead of “Disneyland”. The jig was up shortly after he saw the floral display of the ever-present mouse inside the front gates. Though he protested, we managed to take him over to the House of the Future: the single largest and stupidest “ride” in the entire park.

Whenever anyone tries to form some type of attraction focused around the wonders of the future, you know there will eventually be a problem. Especially if that attraction is a multi-million dollar theater which once foretold of computers that fit in the comfort of your entire basement and can calculate numbers up to 7 digits, an interconnected highway system that will allow you to travel cross-county in your horseless carriage, and a toaster that will personalize your toast by burning your name into it. Though they have tried to update the house, it still featured electronic innovations such as a karaoke machine and Guitar Hero II. I know, not even Guitar Hero III. Lame.

After eating the “Pizza of the Future”, featuring cheese that ages backwards like Benjamin Button, we were off to the submarine ride. Here, I had to confront one of my biggest paranoia. Yes, I am extremely claustrophobic and hyperventilate in enclosed, inescapable spaces but my real fear is being confined in those same enclosed spaces along with a bevy of overstimulated, fart-filled children. Luckily, Zachary rather enjoyed the ride. This surprised me as it was full of the usual Disney shock value including man-eating moray eels and lightning and thunder. Yes, lightning and thunder in a submarine allegedly 20,000 leagues under the sea. We concluded the evening by visiting Buzz Lightyear’s Astro Blasters where Zachary fired a laser gun at evildoers and the deafening shrill of thousands of blaster rounds being popped off at blindingly neon flashing aliens was just the trick to lull our consistently contradictive infant to sleep.

We went on a quick jaunt, otherwise known as a night’s sleep, back to the hotel and then, in the morning, made our way back to the park again. This time, we had to park in the Timon parking lot—the parking structures being named after characters who increase in level of obscurity along with the distance that they are from the park itself. At least we weren’t in the “Professor Quigley from The Computer Wore Tennis Shoes” parking lot. It seemed Zachary started enjoying his experience more and more as he become acclimated to the insanity of the park. He enjoyed his ride on the Jungle Cruise and his time in the pirate store with Mommy while my sister and I rode Pirates of the Caribbean. Though Zach loves pirates in general, the level of debauchery that is exhibited on the ride might have challenged his innocence even more than Pinocchio.He was even holding up well after our naptime roundtrip to the hotel. We tried making it to a few more rides, but it being the Friday night after graduation, the park was rapidly filling up with scantily clad teens and cotton-candy clad children. While we waited for the Pixar parade to come through, I walked a few feet off from our family’s position and discovered, albeit much too late in the vacation, the beauty of the single rider line. The line for the MaliBoomer (a ride with the elegantly simple pretext of shooting you a thousand feet in the air) was wrapping around the rest of the park, but as a single rider, I walked past them all and straight to the front of the line. All I had to do was swallow any pride I had (which is like one of those thousand spiders that you swallow without ever knowing it) and sit next to three frantically screaming, Jonas Brothers-loving, hormonal teenage girls. They strapped me in and, as expected, shot me into the air.

Just before I reached the summit, drowning out the ever-increasing decibels next to me, I felt an overwhelming sense of peace. I could see most of the state of California from my position and my body released its tension. We floated at the top with our limbs flailing to reach some type of equilibrium and my mind quickly reflected back to my family somewhere down below me where gravitational pull was at normal levels. I had perhaps been grumpy during this trip, and I had maybe even taken some of the wind out of the optimistic sails of my wife. I loved being able to take this seldom opportunity for an actual vacation with them, even with the midnight wakings, the hysterics over animatronics, and the occasional accusatory glares. I loved my family deeply and was suddenly very aware of that fact and very anxious to be close to them.

Luckily, the ride re-entered the atmosphere shortly afterwards and I sat next to my family while the likes of Lightning McQueen, Woody, and brightly-colored, ever-smiling dancers paraded past our prime position. The night ended with more crying as Toon Town seemed to be a veritable hall or horrors to Zachary. We weaved our way through the throngs of people and eventually made it home very late that night. Though I managed to break my already broken finger several times on the trip, as we lugged our luggage home, I considered it a success that we all survived.

In the few days that have followed since our trip, I have noticed something amazing that has happened with Zachary. First of all, he talks about Disneyland constantly. “My favorite ride was Toon Rabbit’s Spin,” he claims, though his mother and I know full well that he screamed as if we wanted to throw him into a meat grinder when we suggested going on it. Not only that, but he has become so imaginative. He creates zoos and aquariums with his animal toys and asks us to buy tickets to see them. He pretends that he is a racecar or a pirate and develops intricate backgrounds for his characters. It seems as though his exposure to the Magic Kingdom has magically awoken his little toddler imagination. When I see that, all the grumpiness that I had stored up, all the bad experiences we may have had—it all goes away and I feel a little less like Grumpy and a little more like Happy.

As far as a return trip, however, the next time I see Mickey had better be in Hell as he, Walt, and I hold hands and walk together into the inferno. Now that sounds like a vacation.

Grumpy Goes On Vacation

2009-05-19T21:50:00.000-07:00

Part One, or "M-I-C-K-E-why...why...why..."

“Why do you have to be so Grumpy?” These words issued from my wife’s mouth in one moment of my temporarily not being ecstatic about the vacation we were planning. That vacation involved the compulsory family Hajj to the Magic Kingdom, otherwise known as Disneyland. The only real magic involved is how they manage to convince you to give them $300 for an experience that is comparable to what the federal authorities used to try to get David Koresh out of his Waco compound.

You, the reader, may agree with my wife that my inherent pessimism is uncalled for. After all, it is the happiest place on earth. How could I be so unhappy? I plan on spending the next few blog posts convincing you that Mickey and his motley friends are bent on corrupting your children and infusing the world not with happiness but with misery, wailing, and gnashing of teeth. Exhibit A: the turkey drumstick frequently gnawed on between Toon Town and Fantasyland.

I have only visited Disneyland one other time in my life. I was eight years old and so I mercifully don’t remember much of the experience. It was a more innocent time where traveling across Southern Utah and Nevada through the heat of August in a small Civic sans a/c was considered standard practice; where the rides at Disneyland still mirrored the classic yet boring live-action films of the 60s and 70s; where Michael Jackson as Captain EO, with his phallus of a sidekick in Fuzzball, was worth standing in line for.

And so, we can say that my expectations for the voyage were not too high. With the recently sustained broken finger, I knew that the difficulty of juggling my own children and their luggage would prove to be interesting. We wrestled with the issue of doping our sons with Benadryl before the flight so as to not expose the well-paying airline customers to the frequent, high-pitch shrill of our children’s cries we have grown so accustomed to. That, along with every other “good” idea I had prior to and during this trip, was nixed by our family’s Board of Directors which includes my wife and only my wife. We boarded the plane and I could feel the stress-tension sweat welling up in my armpit. Fortunately, we made it through the airport, onto the plane, and into another state without incident. Though I hovered over Zach’s window seat with an open sick bag waiting for the sure-to-come projectile, my fears were, at least temporarily, allayed. Miranda then gave me the smirk that clearly said, “See, Mr. Grumpy, things are going just swimmingly.”

Of course, soon after the successful landing, we went through the relatively unsuccessful transaction of shuttling two children, three overstuffed suitcases, several handbags and two car seats through a crowded rental car bus, along a crowded line of renters, over a crowded parking lot of rentables, and into the crowded city of L.A.

And so it begins.

After visiting the beach and seeing all kinds of humanity in far less clothing than they should have been sporting (including a dude that felt it necessary to avoid a tan line on his butt crack, seriously. Seriously?) we went into our hotel room for a much needed night’s sleep. We had invited my dear sweet sister to come with us as we knew our only hope of survival on the trip would be if the adults could outnumber the children. In the only equation that really made sense in awkward family algebra, she slept on the bed with Zachary while Miranda and I fit ourselves on the couch’s pull-out like misshapen pieces in a Tetris puzzle. The only thing that relieved the stress of a sharpened protruding spring slowly inserting itself between my 3rd and 4th vertebrae was when Isaac, in his usual 1:00 a.m. call for a nightcap, joined us in the steely excuse for a bed. My back was relieved because there was just enough room for about 10 square inches of my body to be on the bed at one time. Occasionally, it was the top of my forehead, but I eventually found it simpler to let my ankle get the marginal comfort while the rest of me sprawled out on the floor like a murder victim.

We “woke up” in the morning about as refreshed as a blanket you find in your dead grandmother’s attic. Turns out that the slumberers who spent the night on the actual bed did not sleep too well either. Zachary chose to sprawl out horizontally across the bed and, on several intermittent occasions, grope my sister’s face like a blind man trying to assess his company. We managed to drag ourselves to the lobby for a continental breakfast and then off to the place where all the freaking magic happens. We arrived in the park and made the trek from the car (which I believe was in a parking lot somewhere in Fresno, California) to the theme park.

Approximately an hour later we were making our way back to the hotel. You see, I had my sneaking suspicions that with Zachary’s tender disposition, which made him cry while witnessing a game of Duck Hunt on the Wii, might come into play when exposed to the far scarier subject matter of Disneyland. Our second ride after the carousel happened to be the ill-chosen Pinocchio's Daring Adventure. Maybe you don’t remember it as a kid, but Pinocchio, I am convinced, was penned by the devil himself. And the ride tends to focus on the high points of the movie, such as Pinocchio’s separation from his surrogate father, being eaten alive by a whale, and having your physical features mutate after being exposed to a drunken gambling horde of ne’er-do-wells. Top it off with an eerie darkness and a bearded character laughing deeply and maniacally in the background, and my little son is now emotionally scarred for life. It took a total of five seconds on the ride for the hysterics to begin and several hours for them to wane. We left the park with Zachary muttering through his sobs “Disneyland is bad! We won’t ride a bunch of rides! You won’t leave me!”

As we ventured back to the hotel for naps and hopefully a clearing of the emotional slate for Zachary, into the rear-view mirror Miranda gave me an entirely different glare. It reminded me a bit of the scary ghostly image that is summoned into a mirror in the first full-length animated horror movie, Snow White. I wish the glare was one that said something like “You were right all along. I really should listen to you and respect your opinion more often.” However, it was not. It read something more along the lines of “You did this - you and your grumpy pessimism. I don’t know how, but you willed this bad karma on us and as soon as we have a great and happy time on this vacation, which we damn well better have, I am going to get you back.” I focused on the road home, my broken splinted finger pointing the way to drive, and whistled while I worked on my family vacation.

Way Beyond Thunderdome

2009-05-09T21:09:00.001-07:00

My heart was pounding, priming my body for the action it was about to encounter. The straggling defender from our team made his way to the sidelines where I burst onto the court like a precariously aimed bottle rocket to substitute in for him. Five minutes had gone by in the second half and my team trailed 4 to 0. This was not an unusual scene by any means, but it was so strange to not have played for the entire game up to this point. I was planning on playing goalie for the second half, but the first half goalie was determined not to relinquish his position, and so I subbed in at defense. It took about 15 seconds, but I managed to chase the ball down to the opposite end of the court to the far right of goal. With a move that I learned from Cristiano Ronaldo, or at least from his digital representation on the Xbox, I swiped the ball with my counter foot, in step, and bent it just over the goalie’s arm and into the area cordoned off by blue painter’s tape known as the goal. I held my hands out to stop my full-speed motion sprint into the wall, heard the whistle blow signifying a goal, and trotted back rather non-chalantly to my defensive position with the roar of applause and accolades ringing in my ear.

15 seconds later, I heard the ref’s whistle blow again, only this time it followed a much different move that I learned from Zinedine Zidane which involved an opponent sprawled out on the ground in front of me and my offering a hand in a feigning attempt at good-sportsmanship. It wasn’t the first time I had resorted to violence in the heat of the game. I once threw a shoulder into a dude charging into my goalie box and once, as a striker, my elevating knee happened to meet the opposing goalie’s descending face in a collision that left him claiming to see stars and me with a bit of tooth imbedded above my kneecap. But, as the referee could apparently see the fury stewing in my eyes, he felt that after this collision, it would be best to give me a card and have me sit out for two minutes. I marched off the court after what I considered a pretty badass 30 seconds of playing time and was greeted by the frightened stares and hesitantly extended hands of my teammates.

This was the indoor soccer league where my work pitted department against department in a multi-sport year-round competition. The prize: one week’s worth of casual dress and the honor of reigning supreme over IT nerds and Executives alike. It was on like Azerbaijan.

After my thirty seconds of rabid-badger-like ferocity on the court, I sat on the sidelines and yelled orders at my team. After clapping exuberantly as the Senior Writer blocked an attempt at goal by allowing the ball to smack her directly, and I can only imagine painfully, in her breasts, I began to notice some pressure from my left index finger. I started to massage my knuckle assuming that I jammed my finger either in my screaming full-on sprint into the wall, or my screaming collision with a higher-pitched screaming opponent. By game’s end (4-7 loss, 1-8 on the season) My finger had swelled up to the size of a Jimmy Dean sausage-flavored product. I put some ice on it and laughed it off along with others in my department. As I went towards my car, still donning my full soccer gear, the finger was completely immobilized. Before I went to bed, my finger started to look like an androgynous bluish-green Dr. Seuss character. I resolved to call the doctor in the morning.

I knew I was in trouble when everyone at the doctor’s office who caught sight of the ever-plumping digit let go an audible gasp. The family doctor entered into the room and with the smile that he sported at all times, whether dealing with goiters or gonorrhea, immediately sent me back to the X-ray room. The X-ray technician, who loved her job about as much as a kid searching for diamonds in a mud pit in Sierra Leone, manipulated my fingers across a sheet of black film. She developed the X-rays and with an accusatory, motherly glance, asked me just what I had done to myself. She waited for the doctor to come into the room and tell me, still with the smile on his face, that I had broken my finger.

The concept of this was more disturbing to me than any present physical pain. I had only broken one bone in my life prior to this. I was two years old and fell down a stair and landed wrongly on my arm. I cried for a minute, but then went on with my regular daily duties of meticulously lining up my Hot Wheels by color, model, and transmission type and remembering that my poo had to go in my training potty. It wasn’t until a few days, yes, a few days later that my parents happened to notice me running around in the back yard one evening. I climbed the ladder to the top of the slide on my playground, only I managed to use only my left arm. I positioned myself at the top of the slide and went down to the bottom with my right arm flapping in the breeze behind me like a fleshy windsock. My very perceptive parents took me to the doctor who pronounced, I am sure with a smile on his face, that I had broken my arm.

I spent the next two months using the cast on my arm as a bludgeoning weapon against my two sisters. Something told me, as the doctor wrapped an ace bandage from my mid-forearm to four inches in front of the tip of my now imperfect index finger, that this time around would not be quite as fun. I sit in front of a computer at work and type all day. Now I have to learn to type with only one hand. This blog entry alone has taken me thirteen hours to compose. I can not plant all of the late-spring flowers or mow the lawn or change a diaper, for that matter. I have to pick up my kids like they are an object in some Scottish Highland athletic event I am participating in. I am traveling to Disneyland next week and will have to cling on to the teacups with my teeth as my one good arm will be aiming my vomiting son’s mouth outside of the revolving flatware.

And, perhaps most tragic, I will have to resign my position as the emotional leader of the Creative Cremators indoor soccer team. Yeah we only have two games left and it would take someone like Cristiano Ronaldo to take my place in order for us to make it to the playoffs, but I still feel a sadness that I will be leaving my fellow copy writers and graphic designers to fend for themselves against the dreaded IT department. We had so much potential, but the mad fury of competition, drowning out any other concerns like fatigue, pain, or social normality, was just lacking in our team. Oh well. At least I’ll be there on the sideline extending one giant, ace-bandaged-wrapped, swollen finger at our opponents.

Kit was the Coolest

2009-05-04T13:34:00.000-07:00

It is time for another guest entry here at Bag Stranded. This one is brought to you by Dave Baker. When he is not spending his time reading and re-reading my blog, he tends to dabble in his own blogging. If you don't mind slightly more vulgar fare, check him out at The Man Diary or his political punditry at Bakery Fresh Politics. Remember, I always love guest submissions as they allow me the much needed time to reorganize my fantasy baseball team.

The one where Dave gets jealous of Mr. Hasselhoff and his fancy talking car
by Dave Baker

My friends really need to stop buying trendy cars. I’m giving too many innocent people the finger.

I flipped an elderly woman off the other day. But to be fair, she was driving that silver Toyota Tacoma like a speed-addled 15-year-old. Still, it’s not something I’m incredibly proud of. I didn’t go home and beam while I wrote about it in my diary before I went to bed. That sort of thing just happens.

Before, when my friends were too poor to afford a newer car, I could be about 99 percent sure the person driving toward me in the ’83 Subaru Brat — the one with the primer-gray-and-matte-black-spray-paint exterior, stolen fast food banner flapping out the window and smoke billowing out of the chunk of metal that once could have been called the engine — was actually one of my friends. No one else would dare drive with .38 Special stickers covering much the passenger’s side of the windshield.

Now, those distinctive automotive stylings have turned into a slick black ant marching lockstep with the other slick black ants. “But mine has 15 chrome screws on the hood scoop, when most others have 13.” I can’t ascertain that information at 45 miles per hour, while texting and digging for the Spin Doctors CD that just fell between the seats. I have to make a split-second decision whether to make some type of high-speed, obscene gesture, or let them escape unscathed. And that’s almost unthinkable. I hate missing an opportunity to physically express the utter hate and discontent I have for the people I call friends. If I could insult them in a more thorough manner as they drove by, I would do it. Yo Momma jokes just aren’t as effective in a drive-by scenario.

But I’m no better than they are. In my search for a reliable car with low miles and an appetite for gas like the Olsen Twins’ appetites for … well … anything edible, I purchased one of the most popular cars on the road. Who would have thought so many people were also looking for a reliable car that gets good gas mileage? Weird.

The truth is, I can’t spit without hitting the windshield of a white, 2005 Nissan Sentra. I bought the Starbucks of the automobile world. If you’ll allow, I’d like to adapt (read: butcher) a Lewis Black joke to fit my current vehicular situation: “I got out of my white, 2005 Nissan Sentra and said, ‘If I turn around, I couldn’t possibly see the same, white, 2005 Nissan Sentra. It’s not possible. The world would fold in on itself if I turned around and saw another white, 2005 Nissan Sentra.’ But there it is.”

Popularity aside, the car’s OK. It runs. It’s fairly inconspicuous. The stereo works. It doesn’t smell like Rush Limbaugh’s soul.

But it has a spoiler.

And the spoiler is doing its job: spoiling the car for me, as well as any chance I had to pick up girls simply on the strength of my automobile — actually, that last part may have a lot to do with the fact that the car is a white, 2005 Nissan Sentra, and not so much to do with the spoiler.

I’ve always hated spoilers, though. They scream, “I’m a tool. Hey, look at me. I’m a tool.” The height of the spoiler is directly proportional to how big of a douche the car’s owner is. It’s the popped collar of car culture. I once saw a hatchback with a spoiler, and it looked like what I imagine the Hunchback of Notre Dame would look like if he were wearing a pink Abercrombie polo with the collar popped.

You’re probably wondering why I even bought the car in the first place?

I was sick of car shopping — plain and simple. And if you’ve ever bought a car, you know what I’m talking about. Car shopping isn’t like regular shopping — it’s a lot more like hunting than shopping, really. Usually if I’m going shopping, I enter the store, find what I need, pay for it and leave. Oh, if car shopping was only that simple.

To car shop, you first have to scout your prey. Drive by several dealerships. Check out the Web sites. Comb the classifieds. Then you pick your dealership, arm yourself with some knowledge from Consumer Reports about what you can expect to pay, and you enter the hunting ground.

After you’re on the lot, you see the car you want, and you think, “Hey, we could be out of here before lunch.” That would be true if you didn’t have to deal with the car salesman. He’s the main obstacle between you and your prey. That mountain you have to climb in order to sneak up and shoot the unsuspecting car in the head, so you can mount it on your wall — you have to show it off to your friends somehow, and what better way than on a piece wood with red felt trim?

By the time you finish test driving and listening to the salesman’s weak attempts at building report with you — “I see you’re missing a couple of your fingers. I know how it feels. I can pull my thumb off. Wanna see?” — it’s mid-afternoon, and you’re so sick of hearing about air bags and trunk space that you’re ready to ride a Razor Scooter to work every day. Then, you finally get your shot to buy the car. Maybe it was the stagnant pond water they handed you when you returned to the dealership, or the resulting dysentery, but you’re going to take the shot — you’re going to take whatever offer they make you.

At that point, you should be finished. Not when you’re car shopping. The dealer still has to gut your financial history, use undercoating and extended warranties to bleed you completely dry, and skin you with the scalpels of tax, title and registration. Finally, you sign the papers and get to take your new car home.

And it’s not until after looking out the rearview mirror at your spoiler — causing you to almost lose control of the car — and after you’ve gotten the finger from every sixth car that drove by, that you realize you’ve made a huge mistake.

Sunday, Boring Sunday

2009-04-27T16:07:00.000-07:00

On the seventh day, God rested from his labors. That one day, where God kicked off His sandals, settled into His Heavenly Boy recliner and drifted off for a nap, has become, after several disputations and alterations, Sunday. Sunday is also known as the Sabbath Day, but not like the boring old traditionalists’ Saturday Shabbat or the Muslim’s Jum`ah which they do on Friday just to be different. The typical Christian Sunday has come to be a day where we rest from the cares and labors of the world and slowly let our minds and bodies atrophy into a state of nothingness.

Growing up an impressionable Mormon youth, Sunday was always a special day. So was Saturday as, after all, it is the day we get ready for Sunday. Sunday meant that I had to wear a shirt whose collar always fit just loose enough to avoid complete asphyxiation and I had to figure out how to control my hyperactive self for three hours of reverent time. As my parents refused to join the masses in bringing the requisite Cheerios snacks, drawing pad, or electronic baseball games to church, I found ways to entertain myself.

Usually, this involved me dreaming of essentially the same scenario over and over again. A man storms into the chapel during one of the talks and wields a machine gun in the air. Everyone cowers under their pews and he makes his way to the pulpit where he asks “If anyone here believes in God, stand up now.” No one does, no one except a small primary boy whose convictions trump his will to survive. Occasionally I make my way to the assailant with his bullets finding my spiritually shielded body impenetrable. Sometimes, there were ninja kicks. Other times, he was so moved by the response that he would drop his gun and ask where the baptismal font was. In every case, I was heralded as the boy hero who inspired everyone around him and who was allowed to go without a necktie to church or stay home if channel 13 had a really good movie on.Through my years of aging and day-dreaming in church, I have come to somewhat enjoy parts of the experience. This stems more from the entertainment of a non-professional religious system where any crazy can bear testimony when they feel like it, not necessarily my spiritual magnitude. However, now with two small children, the Sabbath and the preparation required for it have gone from the seventh day to the seventh circle of Dante’s Inferno. We have church at 9:00. If either Miranda or I have a meeting in the morning, we have church at 7:00. This interferes with at least one of our children’s waking time, napping time, feeding time, or pooping time. If we somehow manage to throw clothes on our children to make them look a little less like they live in a shelter, then we have to worry about bringing bags for them. These bags contain the items I dreamed of having as a child which our children are not only allowed to bring but must have in order to keep them quiet for the duration. This may involve one or more devices that may not be operated on a plane during take off.

Luckily, we are devoted Saints and are willing to spend the first part of our Sunday hogtieing and wrestling greased and squealing children in order to attend church and to our duties in said church. When we finally make it home, following any post-church meetings or duties, we are ready to eat the countertops out of starvation. After gorging ourselves on whatever we can find to put into our mouths within seconds of our arrival, we, hopefully drift off into a deep “day-of-rest” sleep, provided one of the children doesn’t decide he is ready to convert to Judaism. When the dust settles, Sunday afternoon encroaches and we are confronted with the option of how to spend the rest of the daylight.

Throughout the workweek, there is rarely any time between when I get home from work and the children go to bed. That time is usually filled with dinner, superfluous church activities, and the occasional tickle sessions. Saturday is for finishing up any chores that I may have or video games that I need to beat. Here we have a whole afternoon, bound by our inability to perform any task that might be considered “work”, and we stare at each other completely bored out of our minds. We could visit the grandparents. The welcome trip out of the house and the free meal are a tough trade-off for the increase of rambunctiousness when our children are set loose in a new environment that makes the trek far from relaxing. We could go on a walk, but that might involve changing out of our pajamas and into something slightly respectable.

And so, for yesterday’s Sabbath, we broke out the activity that epitomizes boredom on every level—the jigsaw puzzle. Of course, for me, the jigsaw puzzle coincides perfectly with my obsessive compulsiveness. It is a tedious task with little reward which sounds exactly like most of what I do in my life, only a puzzle has pretty pictures. And so we put the kids at work destroying the playroom while their mother and I set out reconstructing a puzzle of the Sahara Desert. My children went to bed (something that has become a relative term as of late) and were soon followed by my wife. I, on the other hand, started playing my iTunes with some Andrew Bird and went to town.

Piece-by-indistinguishable-piece I reunited the cardboard coagulations. Before I knew it, I was all the way to the Postal Service on iTunes and nearly to the half-way point of the puzzle. My little brain continued to spin, finding the perfect unison of each of the pieces even after I found my way to bed around one in the morning. I woke up this morning with a crying child who I immediately placed in a bouncing chair while I continued my labors from the previous day. He was very confused, but tried to direct me to which piece I should choose next by crying if it was the wrong one. Needless to say, little got done.

I plan on returning home tonight and, after quickly consuming a meal, descending to my cave to finish my oeuvre. I, after all, was the creator and organizer of this masterpiece. You can blame it on my competitive nature or my OCD or any number of my negative personality traits, but when it comes to jigsaw puzzles, I find myself enraptured, captivated, and entirely devoted to its completion. Maybe it is because, unlike with other aspects of life, the problem of the jigsaw puzzle can be worked out to a positive result by simply devoting a little time and effort. Unfortunately, my devotion is often attached to other things as well. It is Monday night, the Mormon Jum`ah. Unless I can convince the rest of the family to help finish the puzzle, it looks like I’ll be teaching a Family Home Evening lesson tonight. The topic is probably going to be on the Sabbath Day. That or devotion to a cause, no matter how hopeless it may be.

Eat. Pray. Sob Uncontrollably.

2009-04-21T12:33:00.000-07:00

I have an interesting relationship with food of the fast variety. For those of you wondering how it is possible to have a “relationship” with food I refer you to Julia Child’s manly hands submissively kneading a lump of dough, and Mickey Rourke using Kim Basinger’s bare stomach like a grill at the Benni Hana’s. Though my relationship might not quite go to that extent, there is some type of emotional connection that I have with fast food. It is not necessarily my love for it, as more often than not I hate it as much as I hate myself for eating it.

The reason why I eat fast food is simply a matter of its inescapable similarity to my personality. I love fine dining and the taste of something with shaved truffles that took an hour to cook and two hours to wait for after ordering. However, when my mind is confronted by two options, the trump card lies in how much time and work will be spent on either choice. This was evidenced as I found myself in the downtown area the other day and was excited for the opportunity to experience some of the gastronomic bounty that could be found there. I drove from street to street, weighing out the options of different restaurants with which to indulge. 15 minutes later, I found myself shoving the last bite of a mayonnaise-greased chicken sandwich from Wendy’s into my mouth whilst driving the last few miles to my home.

My inherent laziness usually influences my dining choices. Even on the rare occasion where my wife and I can enjoy a meal at a restaurant, I shy away from the salad bar because it involves getting up out of my plastic-padded booth. I love the taste of crab, but I refuse to expend so much effort extracting it from its natural packaging. It also works with the things I prepare for myself at home. I will eat a package of saltines for dinner before I put something in the microwave that will take five minutes to cook. Why waste five minutes when saltines are ready right now? I don’t even bother heating up leftover dishes meant to be served warm. I have trained my stomach and intestines to process the shells of sunflower seeds so that I won’t have to try and spit them out. It takes work to be this lazy.

Though it is an overused tool for the typical blogger, I would like to proffer a top-ten list of reasons why I am allowing fast food to ruin my life. By so doing, I hope to gain your sympathy and understanding when it comes to my downward spiral into weight gain, slowly-clogging arteries, and champion caloric intake. Also, perhaps this might be used to explain to the good people at Visa why my debits are frequently made to Carl Bell Jr. and Wendy McDonald.

THE DOLLAR MENU

1- The Dollar Menu. I have to include this one as the title for this subcategory as well as a part of the subcategory. Sometime in the late nineties, something called the dollar menu was invented. This novel idea came just after menu prices and fast food restaurants soared to the point where 99 cents for roughly 20 french fries seemed like a bargain. And so, these places created a dollar menu in order to entice poor people, like me, who also happen to be fat, like me, into a more effective way at getting the empty calories we desperately needed. And, since it is only a buck, you can gorge yourself on, like, 7 items before you reach the price of a typical “sucker” combo meal. Have you heard that commercial where the guy dreams about ordering everything off of the dollar menu. I have lived that dream, baby. I have lived it.

2- Wendy’s Junior Bacon Cheeseburger. Usually, I shy away from something that has Junior in its title, implying much like a “diet” soda that something loveable from the original version is missing. However, the proceeding “Bacon”, “Cheese”, and “Burger” are enough to sway me. This .99 cent nugget of joy has become so popular that it has eliminated the need for the regular Bacon Cheeseburger. Also, it can be assembled in .7 seconds, which breaks the burger barrier.

3- The Spicy McChicken Sandwich. I once had an argument with the guy speaking to me through the golden arches of the drive-thru because I refused to order it under its Scottish moniker.
“No, I mean the Spicy Chicken Sandwich, please.”
“Ummm, we don’t have that sir. We have the McGrill chicken and we have the Spicy McChicken. Or, perhaps you mean the McFish McFillet. It has chicken too, I think.”
“Just give me the damn spicy one.”
“Alright, seven Spicy McChickens, that will be $7.67 at the first person standing outside your car with money in a fanny pack. Thank you.”
And, without fail, the sandwich results in a Spicy McColon.

THE GAS STATION

4- Slurpees. Since my spartan adventure into making my life healthier by giving up carbonation, I have recently found a brilliant surrogate in the slushy goodness of a Slurpee. They mercifully come in both Coke and Mountain Dew flavors. They effectively provide the appropriate amounts of sugar and caffeine that I need. Further proof of this came as Miranda let our two-year-old child nurse about half of the Mountain Dew Slurpee. An hour later, he was watching Charlie and Lola while alternating between manic laughter and hopping on the couch to uncontrollable weeping and pounding fists into the carpet. Nothing makes bedtime more fun than a caffeine-riddled toddler.

5- Taquitos. What once was a quaint Mexican dish has now been bastardized into something rolling along greased metal turbines and heated under a 120 watt lightbulb. It is filled with any number of ingredients, the central of which being pure Crisco. At 2 for 2 dollars, I defy you to not eat four of them. They have a wonderful taste that will leave you wanting to run south of the border, if by “south of the border” you mean some type of euphemism for either a toilet or a bodily function. You choose.

6- Miscellaneous Fare. Remember when gas stations served hot dogs and occasionally nachos as their only prepared-on-site food? I do. Now, if you step into a Maverick, you are assaulted by a variety of menu options. There are countless burritos, though as it does require at least two minutes of microwaving I generally avoid them. There are slices of pizza with various and sundry meats. There are hot dogs that are four feet long, covered in chili, and then wrapped in a greased tortilla. I have never felt so violated after eating something. It is definitely adventure’s first stop, followed by several stops at easily accessible restrooms and one stop by the side of the road in an area of brush.

FOREIGN DELIGHTS

7-    The McKroket. When I visited the Netherlands, I fell in love with the culture, the people, but mostly their unique fast food offering. Step into Ronald’s house and you will find a sandwich containing a creamy blend of, according to the Dutch themselves, “offal and butchering waste”. But it is breaded and deep-fried. It tastes like sin itself, but I dream every night of selling one of my organs on the black market so as to be able to afford the plane ticket to Amsterdam to indulge in its goodness under the basking glow of flashing red lights. I should probably sell my kidney as it will be defunct in a few years anyway.

8- Poutine. On my two-year religious junket to Eastern Canada, I discovered a dish that it is simultaneously repulsive and addictive. It is the carcinogenic cigarette of fast food, and not just because it contains carcinogens and possibly cigarettes. Poutine consists of a heaping plate of french fries with a mound of cheese curds on top, all smothered with a unique gravy. The gravy has the consistency and taste of motor oil and the amount of calories typically deemed unhealthy to use as jet fuel. One taste, and you’ll know how the Quebecois have survived for so many years. Or, actually, you might question it.

9- Chicken Testicles. In China, fast food comes mostly in the form of intricate restaurants with unusual fare. While there, I participated in what is known as a “hot pot”. Diners are seated at a table with a cauldron of boiling water and one of heated oil. A conveyer belt brings plate after plate of mystery meat to your table so you can poke it with a fork and stick it in the pot. What animal is it from? Where on/in the animal was this meat originally? How long should I leave this in to avoid catching any food-borne illness? None of these questions can be correctly translated, and so it is really anyone’s guess. I was however, able to understand one factoid from the aged, smiling distant relation sitting across the table from me. As I plopped the meat into my mouth and jawed its chewy goodness, intertwined with occasional spurts of fluid, I was informed that I was eating chicken testicles. As I swallowed them in one big gulp, I voiced a phrase that was at once a question and a statement of disbelief; “Balls.”

I apologize that I could only make it to nine there. I just had to go throw up a little. As revolting as this selection of vittles might be, you must know that I love them all almost as much as I hate them. They have fed me in a hurry, allowing me more time to watch X-Files re-runs. They have taught me new skills, such as eating around the wrapper and still staying in your appropriate driving lane. They have exposed me to the world of goodness that processed food can provide. However, they have made me fat, lazy, and nearly legally blind. Perhaps it is time for fast food to join the ranks of carbonation, candy bars, and high stakes gambling on Taiwanese horse races as things that I give up for the betterment of my health. Perhaps, going back to my original metaphor of my relationship with food, it is time to break up. I am going to have to leave the chubby, needy fat chick who binges on Ben and Jerry’s to cope with stress and start dating the fit and toned lady in the sports bra who eats organic tofu bites and teaches Pilates on the weekends. She looks a little like Kim Basinger. And, my wife, of course.

Migraine, Your Graine, Our Graine

2009-04-15T15:13:00.000-07:00

Last night I was called upstairs by the raspy voice of my somnambulant wife echoing over the Linda Blair worthy cries of my child over the baby monitor. I was deeply committed to David Ortiz driving in an RBI in my childish Wii baseball game I have recently become addicted to, which is why my wife had to beckon me from my downstairs shelter as opposed to my usual slumbering at the edge of the bed at 12:30 at night. I vigilantly completed the trip around the bases and paused the game to attend to my fatherly duties of apologizing to my wife and desperately trying to keep my child from crying.

Little man Isaac had contracted a mild fever as a result of his immunization shots at the doctor’s office earlier that day. “Looks like the Jehovah’s Witnesses were right,” I told my wife to no real response at my witty and timely remark. My wife was herself suffering from a recurring health problem that had started rearing its ugly head around the same time that Isaac’s stegosaurusian thighs were pierced by a profusely apologizing nurse. I continued to reassure my wife that the fever was normal while I flinchingly inserted the thermometer into the tiny hole that has brought about so much destruction in the past. As a result of what I can only imagine was the sensation of a cold thermometer in the rectum, little Isaac’s little Isaac let loose all over Miranda’s semi-dreaming head as she mumbled comforting words to him. She looked up at me with the pee dripping down her hair and muttered the four words that I have heard more than perhaps any other phrase throughout our marriage: “I don’t feel good.”

It wasn’t long after Miranda and I were wed that I had my first exposure to this phrase. Miranda had been prone to the crippling condition of migraines ever since she was a teenager. No amount of medicine, physical therapy, or Haitian Vodou magic could cure her of this. I knew about this condition when Miranda and I were dating and after we were engaged. I experienced what it does to my wife around two weeks into our marriage. My sweet new bride would turn into a drooling, groaning she-beast before my very eyes. As the muscles in her neck knotted up, apparently trying several times unsuccessfully for the Pioneering merit badge, her face became skewed and altered and her once sweet and chipper voice morphed into an emphysematic Bea Arthur declaring the painfully obvious “I don’t feel good.”

As a newlywed man, I felt somewhat like a car owner whose beautiful, recently purchased automobile lost its acceleration and made a horrific growling sound only a few miles into driving it. The car also would be completely upset and disgusted that I would ever refer to it as a “car” or compare it to a “thing to be owned” and would forbid me from ever putting something like that on my blog. Of course, I learned to be sympathetic, though migraines along with the pains of menstruation and child bearing were part of the things that I could never truly understand. I tried to rub her neck, run a warm bath, even buy her Sharper Image shiatsu massagers but the only relief that they brought was in providing me with several opportunities to say “shiatsu” throughout the day.

The only thing worse than a mind-numbing, crippling migraine headache is one that is coupled with projectile vomit. More often then not, these two are paired together. They might be considered for common law status in some states. I remember my wife stumbling dizzyingly towards the bathroom and not making it a foot past the duvet before the issuance soiled our carpet. I remember cleaning up regurgitated chunks of the German Chocolate cake my wife splattered on the bathroom walls of my in-laws like a crime scene at a bakery. I remember nearly leveling a mile-marker frantically searching for some item in the glove box with a volume capacity capable of containing the oncoming spew. I have since learned from previous mistakes. At the first mention of the mantra “I don’t feel good”, I get the old towels out from the closet and create an awards show runway from the bed to the toilet to at least protect the carpet from the initial spillage. We always carry the “family size” barf bags along with us on car trips during migraine season. German Chocolate cake is officially outlawed in our home or elsewhere.

We have continued to look for solutions to the migraine problems that plague Miranda. Several months ago, we were about ready to undergo extensive tests that involved brain scans and sleep analysis, something that invigorates me with curiosity and fills my paranoid wife with dread. Just before we were scheduled to undergo the first round of prodding, my wife left for me a test of her own on the bathroom counter to discover, after a hard day picking up filthy coveralls from men with names like Guido, that we were going to have our second child. "Holy shiatsu," I called out from the bathroom. After a few weeks, we dealt with the morning sickness, which was significantly more controllable than the water willy of vomit that comes with the migraines. The headaches slowed to a halt just as the pains of hosting a human embryo began. In fact, the same symptoms had occurred with the birth of our first child.

I soon realized that through our simple act of responsible family planning we had discovered the long-sought-after cure for Miranda’s migraines. All of these years of pain and suffering and all that we had to do was keep Miranda in a constant state of pregnancy. It was just that simple. The positive effects usually lasted through the nursing stages, with only minor flare-ups here and there. I am not sure exactly what kind of diagnosis any “doctor” of “medicine” would prescribe to this, but I am sure that I am right in assuming that my wife secretes some hormone once she assumes her motherly duties which, if properly extracted, can cure the inconvenient migraines of millions of people.

I think about just how to extract this hormone as I finish putting on my feverish child’s diaper and usher my wife into bed before toweling off her soiled hair. I kissed her still mumbling lips as I tucked her in and heard her call my name, squint her eyes, and inform me “I don’t feel good.” I love my wife more than anything and I truly wish I could find the antidote flowing somewhere just below her skin if only to save her from moments like this in the future. I lay down next to her and whispered the only other repetitive phrase that might give “I don’t feel good” a run for its money—“I love you.” And then, ever so quietly, “I will find a way to extract your magic migraine juices.”

Pointers from Pelé

2009-04-14T06:59:00.000-07:00

As a companion piece to yesterday's blog entry, I would like to clue you in on a list of e-mails sent from my computer prior to the 2-4 loss that our soccer team experienced on Thursday last week. I offer this to you lest there be any question as to my loyalty and determination to lead this team, The Creative Cremators, to victory.

Sup Cremators. I was thinking that we all try this again and go for a preparatory lunch together today. I was thinking IHOP since we can load up on the carbs and the breakfast meats. Anyone has any better ideas, I am open to ideas, but only momentarily. We have to get the fire back in our belly, and I can think of nothing better to do that then a crèpe stuffed with whipped cream and some sausage on the side.

I was thinking around 11:30-11:45. Let me know if you are in. First ones to respond get to start today.
-Cameron
___________________________

So, Dave and Doug and I have created our own separate Soccer music playlists for your enjoyment. The idea is that you can listen to one or all of these playlists for the rest of the day to adequately prepare yourselves for the revenge we will exact on our unlucky opponents today. They can be found in my dropbox in the folder entitled “Soccer Music”. If you are wondering which to listen to, Dave’s is metal-ish, mine is hip-hopish, Doug’s is world-infusionish. Just listen to the one that best suits your pumping-up needs. And, if you need a CD instead, I would be happy to burn one for you. Just let me know.

And Jason and Dave will start as forwards today. The rest of you can grab the bench. Anyone else up for lunch today to go over strategy? Fazolli’s was tossed out there as an option. Let me know if you are in for that too.

Go Cremators!
-Cameron
Default Soccer Head Coach for Some Reason

______________________________

Two hours left until game time. If you are playing, start listening to some pump-up music now!

Be to the game, ready to go, by 3:15. We have to discuss strategy before the opening whistle.

-Coach

_____________________________

Ok, you have 30 minutes till game time. Time to take your performance enhancing drugs people.

By performance enhancing drugs, I mean Procosa.

By Procosa, I mean steroids.

GOAAALLLLL!

_________________________________

Do you guys want me to set up a practice tomorrow or would Monday work better. Democracy will have the final say.

Good job today everyone. We did a LOT better. If we all went to lunch together and you all took your ‘roids, we would have won, but, hey, what can you do.

And sorry if I yelled at you on the court today. I was trying to be a more vocal goalie. You probably deserved it though.
___________________________________

2:00 PM - 3:00 PM April 10, 2009
Location: A Vietcong Treehouse Prison

Soccer Practice. We will run some drills and scrimmage. Be there.

Which Brazilian Footballer Are You?

2009-04-13T12:47:00.000-07:00

You have, no doubt, recently been inundated with several requests on your social networking site of choice to take a test to determine how your personality traits reflect what you might be in an alternate universe. Because of these, I have recently discovered that my real eye color should be green, I most resemble Edward Cullen over other teenage vampires, and Ted Bundy is the serial killer I most align my philosophies with. I know, I know. I could have sworn I was a Berkowitz, but these things are “amazing accurate” as they claim to be. These quizzes are all the rage amongst people who are desperately seeking something to define their personality and are not willing to let that something be confined by the rules of individualism, grammar, or social normality.

This trend reminds me of one that existed several years ago before the net was the internet and we were still frightened of its potential. Though it may be hard to believe, the trend originated from a book that instructed people to take a test to determine what color their personality was. The test was fairly simple. What made up the bulk of this best-seller was the detailed descriptions about each and every color. Reds like to party late into the night. Greens eat the heel on a loaf of bread every time. Whites enjoy shopping at Amercrombie and Fitch. That one was a personality/race twofer. My mother gave this test to me as part of her Dr. Spock-infused parenting strategy, but as I was only around 10 years old, I feel that the personality die may have been prematurely cast. If memory serves, the results showed that I was nearly equal parts of every color mentioned. I was a human crystal spectrum.

The reason for this is, well, I am not sure that I could tell you. I am a walking contradiction in many fields, and my personality is no exception. I am fairly sure that if I were to pay a psychiatrist to analyze my personality, his beard would explode. I am occasionally active and occasionally dormant. I have to have my living and working spaces immaculately clean, but more often then not they are hopelessly disorganized. I am intensely reclusive at times and compulsively social at others. You might even say that I have multiple personalities. Not like Viki on One Life to Live might have, though I do occasionally take on the air of a countess in hiding. I just have several different personalities that may emerge at any given moment. I can sense that you are still freaked out. Let me expound.In high school, I was really just your average geeky student who sat in the second to back row of the classroom and preferred reading Sylvia Plath over going on dates. At the end of my junior year, however, I managed to win the amazingly heated popularity contest of running for school office and became my school’s Vice-President. This involved making announcements every morning, emceeing assemblies in front of the entire school and occasionally community, and socializing with every kid I met. Far from being uncomfortable with this situation, I thrived in it and I loved it. But, I had not changed my personality at all. Even as I danced to Janet Jackson amongst the scantily dressed cheerleaders in front of a thousand kids and teachers, I still had the deeply hidden J.D. Salinger somewhere inside of me, yearning for that solitary cabin in Montana.

I graduated from high school and went on to college where I believe that I was possibly the first person to earn their degree without speaking a single word to any other teacher or student. I had no friends in college and I made no effort whatsoever to change that situation. I got married while in college which relieved me from the burden that I had of not flirting with the women around me who were in flirt overdrive. In marriage, though, I was thrust into the situation of having to make friends with neighbors. I would be perfectly content living next to someone for 45 years without knowing their name until I saw it next to their picture in an obituary. Luckily, Miranda is social to the point where she makes cookies in the shape of trees for our neighbors on Arbor Day.

When I started my new job back in September, I situated myself in my cubicle and began getting used to working well with others. After a few weeks, though, I realized that I could spend several days staring at my computer screen with limited human interaction. It was wonderful. My boss remarked, in a worrying tone, that I was very quiet and shy. Obviously lacking many social skills, I had no idea how to remedy this situation before I was fired and sent back to work picking up soiled (and I do mean soiled, not just with soil, if you know what I mean) uniforms.

Luckily, I didn’t have to do much. The situation presented itself to me, allowing my dominant, charismatic, and personable side to come out like Bruce Banner’s decidedly green-personality alter ego. Our in-house fitness center was encouraging different departments throughout the company to form their indoor soccer teams for competition starting the next week. Seeing this and having a mild interest in soccer stemming from my ownership of a single FIFA Xbox game, I decided to start forming a team. Through a frenzy of group e-mails, I was able to recruit seventeen people in our department to my team, which I aptly dubbed the Creative Cremators. I organized pre-game practices and took the helm as goalie. I brought a whiteboard to practices and games where I outlined several strategic game plans. I organized my players into positions and yelled out direction to them from the goalie box and the sidelines. I stopped doing what I should be doing at work in order to fulfill the needs of my team as game time approached.

In the most recent game, I happened to throw my body around on the hardwood floor to prevent a goal from being scored. In recovering to my feet, I realized that I had left a significant portion of skin, originally attached to my knee, on the gym floor. I subbed out for three minutes while I doctored my wound, professional boxer-style with q-tips and alcohol, and tried to hide the blood from the referee. I entered back into the game and continued to yell for my defenders to defend and my strikers to attack. When the blood dripped from my sock onto the court, I rubbed it in with the sole of my shoe and continued on to our inevitable loss. Even in defeat, my commitment to the team could not be questioned as I smeared my spilt blood on each opponent’s hand that I shook in the post-game compulsory congratulations.

For some reason, I was again shedding the quiet poetic kid personality and was becoming the vice-president of my high school. Everyone knew me, finally, and listened to the myriad of things that I had to say. Though I knew little more about soccer than the fact that you can’t pick up the ball with your hands, people accepted my counsel and I became their default leader and coach. After soccer is over, I will most likely slip back into the comforting reclusion of my messy cubicle where I can be dormant and sedentary once again.

In many ways, I guess that the test my mother imposed upon me when I was but a child did go on to prove what I would become; a multi-colored personality with conflicting characteristics. If I learned anything from dying Easter eggs this weekend, it is that when you blend all colors together, you get a deep, lovely, brown. That is me. That is just my personality, or my personalities, and they are inescapable.

And I am totally a Pelé.

The Year of the Bra

2009-04-07T07:54:00.000-07:00

I recently put out a call, via the Bag Stranded Facebook group, for guest author submissions. The reason behind this is that occasionally I have more to do with my week than to figure out how I can twice or thrice embarrass and ridicule myself for your entertainment. Not often, but occasionally. And so, a good friend of mine, Marintha Halladay, answered the call and submitted this wonderful story in which you are about to embark. If you are reading this, feel free to e-mail me your own story for consideration. The one rule is, if it is about me, you will receive preferential treatment.
Note: This story has nothing to do with me. I am not the assailant mentioned. The lawsuit is pending.

The Year of the Bra

by Marintha Halladay

I often title my years by events or memories that define them to me. Some are self-explanatory, some may require a brief explanation, but all represent some memory that has not been able to escape my thoughts! There was the Year of Monopoly, the Year of the Yard, The Year of Obligation Vacation, and of course there was, the Year of the Bra.

It was back in the days of Elementary school. I was of a young prepubescent age. Hormones were just beginning to pour through the minds and bodies of my young classmates and myself. I was young enough, that I had not yet come of the age where I was taken to the special informational program called the Maturation Program- a seminar where someone explains to you what will happen to your body as it matures in the next few years; a program so embarrassing and uncomfortable, your mother had to trick you into going with the promise of ice cream at programs end.

Being of such a young age, and not yet blossoming into womanhood, I had little knowledge, if any, about what would soon happen to my stringy childish body. At this time in my life, I had no need for the so called “over the shoulder boulder holder”. I hadn't given any thought to this simple supportive device. I had never contemplated owning one, nor had I dreamed of the age when I would finally need one. The time would soon come for me to purchase this symbol of the presence of female hormones in my body, but unfortunately, it would not be decided by me, nor would it be decided by dear old Mother Nature.

It was the first week of school. What grade is not important to the story, and even if it was, I am not telling. We all know enough to know the school year had just begun. We were still getting used to a new teacher. We were busy making new friends, and making ourselves familiar with a new classroom. On this, the unfortunate and unforgettable day of my tale, we had just gathered in a line at the classroom door as instructed by our teacher. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the order of the line. I suppose it was a first come-first serve kind of a deal as I was placed somewhere in the middle. I know this, because my last name always placed me near the back of the alphabetical order, and today there were an unusual amount of students behind me. The boy directly behind me would normally be close to the front of the line. However, today fate had brought us together!

We were getting ready to go to lunch. Some of my classmates were goofing off around me, but I was standing quietly, keeping my arms to myself as we had so often been instructed to do. I was obediently and patiently minding my own business, and waiting for our time to go. Suddenly from behind, a hormone filled male hand ran up my back, like a shark darting in for the kill. The hand attacked with the same speed and force of a Great White when charging his prey! The target had been spotted and great haste was needed to obtain his goal. It was sudden enough to first cause me to stupor, but then as my wits returned to me, I spun to confront my attacker. It happened so quickly then. I was turning around, curiosity filling my somewhat insecure childish self at who would do this to me... and why. Then came the ultimate betrayal! In that horrible instant forever burned into my memory, he shouted out for the entire class to hear, “Ewww! She's not wearing a bra!” Everyone turned. All eyes were now fixed on me. My attacker continued to further humiliate me. “I was going to flip her bra, but she's not wearing one!”

The “ewww” was said in pure disgust, just as the old peasant woman in Buttercup's dream. “The Queen of Slime! The Queen of Filth! The Queen of Puuu-tresc-ence! Boo! Boo!” The disgust in her face mirrored exactly that of the boy who had just discovered I was not wearing a bra. I am sure the confused and abashed expression I now wore, was equivalent to that of the hurt Princess Bride when she too was called out by her unintentional cause for disdain.

My ears and neck were burning! My face felt flushed. Tears were welling up, but being forced to stay. I was shocked, and wished more than anything I could have super human powers that would allow me to either turn invisible, or have lightning fast speed to escape this humiliating situation! I felt like a Queen of Filth and Rubbish!

Those awful words will forever be pressed into my memory! “Ewww! She's not wearing a bra!” Not a physical wound to warp my body, but a mental wound that is still there, mangling my scarred self-image. My mom took me shopping that very night. The next day I came to school wearing a brand new white and completely unnecessary bra. I would not be caught in that horribly embarrassing situation ever again! Need it or not, the next time a curious hormone filled pest of a boy tried to flip my brassiere, there would indeed be something there to flip.
I would eventually overcome my disgrace. I would again be able to face my attacker, which was good because he would continue to share my classes until we would graduate from high school. I also later learned that I was not alone; most of the other girls in my class did not yet own a bra.

So ended the Year of the Bra. Everyday since, I have faithfully worn that sometimes white, somewhat necessary, and often inconvenient, simple supportive device. I have need for it now (though debatable), but in the back of my mind, I still find comfort in the fact that it will be there if needed for other reasons.