Park Violation City, UT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.