Dear Bronco - God does NOT care about your football team.

Apparently, according to this article in the Deseret News, Bronco says his stripling warriors job is to win football games and to "bring people to Christ".  Oh brother!  

If that is the case, they are absolutely failing miserably at it.  In every corner of the country, when people hear "BYU football" they are filled with angst and hatred for their incredible, shameless arrogance.  If anyone, besides a LDS BYU fan, feels as though they are closer to Christ because of BYU's football program, they are full of crap.

If were are not able to tell already, I love how my Blog O' Cheese allows me to vent about the brain dead, nonsense that comes out of Provo sometimes.  Memo to Bronco:  God does not care about BYU football or any football for that matter.  By stating that he does, you are making the non-BYU fans even angrier at you.  As an active LDS member, I am offended by your assertion.  Further, I hope you lose every game by 50 points - and if that makes me Satan's spawn, so be it.  Go Washington!  [Oh, and Go Utes too.]

Tales of the First Grade whispering whisperer. Shhhh!

Somewhere within my messload of overtalkative, overactive, overhyper (overhyper??) group of First Graders there is a whispering whisperer just begging for my attention.  He is very well behaved and such a sweet kid.   I think he believes that if he asks me questions in a normal voice he will get in trouble and bring shame upon his family.  He will often approach me to have a whispering conversation for a couple of seconds while the other kids are working.  We had such a conversation today.

Randy: [whispering] Mr. Yospe, do you want to come over to my house?

Me:  Thanks Randy.  That sounds really fun, but I can't.

Randy: [looking confused] We have a lot of fun things to do at my house.

Me:  That sounds great Randy, but I really need to stay and play with Lincoln at my house.

Randy:  You could bring Lincoln over to play at my house too. 

Me:  Yes, Randy, I suppose I could.  How about I just bring Lincoln one day to play with you here at school?

Randy: [whisper sighing] Can't you come to my house?

Me:  No, I am sorry Randy.

Randy: Oh, okay.  [Turns to return to his seat.]  He turns back and says, "Mr. Yospe?"

Me: Yes Randy?

Randy: You know my real name is Randall, right?

Me: Yes, I knew that.

Randy: Okay, just checking.

Me:  It's been nice whispering with you Randall.

Randy: [huge smile]  Yeah.

Now that I have run my marathon I need a new, challenging goal. Maybe becoming an underwater scuba clown?

After satisfying my soulful desire to complete a major goal by running myself silly until I bloodied my foot (Yes, I forgot to mention the top of one of my shoes completely bludgeoned my foot.), I am ready to take on a new challenge in life.  I hope to make a new, reachable goal that does not involve physical pain or embarrassing topless moments at the sniagrab sale.  After much deliberation, I have come up with the following four choices:

1.  Be on a reality TV show.  I'd be a perfect housemate on Big Brother or a great castaway on Survivor.  Other possibilities include becoming the first 32 year old married man on the Real World or hosting "SuperMANNY".  Moms would be begging me to come into their home, tell the kids to shut up and sprinkle glittery love nuggets around like they are bacon bits, and then cleaning up the nuggets with a high powered vacuum that they only give mannies because they are too powerful for the female nannies.

I think that becoming a reality show wannabe would be a realistic goal with a lot of upside.  

2.  Learn to play an instrument.  I took piano lessons as a youth.  I was a dismal failure.  I never learned how to read music and after two years I finally quit.  

I am thinking about taking up either the harp or one of those long horns that they play in Switzerland.  Of course, for convenience sake, I would purchase the travel size version of the horn.  Or maybe I would get one that would fold into itself, like a giant pirate telescope.  I wonder if they even make those.  I wonder where I could even take long horn lessons.  

I know if I learned the harp I would get tons of people asking me to play at their weddings.  That would be great, but they would have to accept the fact that I am going to sing while I play. Also that I won't be a conventional harpist in the traditional mold.  I might throw in a fast song or two, just to mix things up.  People that know me will understand, but those that don't might be a little put off. Of course, they shouldn't care that I might sit on a 3 foot, plastic lightening bolt, while I play.  Oh, and I might often play shirtless.  

3.  Learn magic tricks.  We're not talking David Blain here, or even those Vegas white tiger trash.  I would just like to learn 5 or 6 simple tricks that I could use in situations where magic would be useful.  You wouldn't believe the amount of times there has been a lull in a conversation I was having where I thought, "Gosh, I WISH I had a magic trick I could break out right now!"  Maybe just a few card tricks or bending silverware with my mind.  Nothing major.  If I do get good enough, I might add a tiger or two, but I would probably start with puppetry tigers.  I have learned that a good lesson in life is that if you are scared of trying something, it is always best to try it out with puppets first.  

I think that is why Jim Henson was so successful in life.

4. Learn a foreign language.   The obvious one seems to be Spanish, but I want to learn one that will make my Portuguese/Italian speaking brothers jealous.  Maybe something from Africa where I have to click my tongue a lot.  I am thinking Kenyan.  Is that a language?  I want to learn it if it is, then go to Kenya and blow their minds!  Maybe I will go meet that kid I have been sending a dollar a day to for the past 5 years.  When I learn that he has died of malnutrition or malaria, they will ask ME to talk at his funeral.  After all, I know Kenyan and I gave all that money to him.  Who else are they going to get?  Just a thought.

5.  Build an orphanage for abandoned orphans that have been abandoned by other orphanages.  This might be my most ambitious idea, but definitely my most worthwhile.  Who steps up and takes in these orphans that our current orphanages don't want?  That's right, no one.  I could gather funds to build an orphanage for these kids, complete with a cruel, fat, sloppy lady to run it and girls with patchy dresses singing "It's a hard knock life."  The orphanage would also have sky lights for the kids to look out of longingly and very stretchy attics with a long row of beds.   Clearly, most of what I know about running orphanages I have seen from movies. But I will tell you this:  I am going to make being an orphan cool again!  Once she sees my orphanage, Punky Brewster is going to wish she never went to live with that old man! Webster will be wishing he could trade his George and Mam Popodopolus and his secret clock elevator for my killer orphanage.  

I always felt bad for Webster.  What would it be like to be an orphan AND a midget?  That is quite a double whammy to start your life.  I don't feel too bad though, he was adopted by a former NFL star and had a elevator in his grandfather clock!  I always thought that the moral of that show was that life isn't so bad as an African American, midget orphan IF you get adopted by a rich football player with a tiny elevator in his clock.  Plus, you get to call your mom "Mam".  

An excerpt from the diary of Mr. Karl Malone

I just so happened to be reading the Deseret News the other day when I came across this magnificent piece on Karl Malone.   It addresses what every Utahn with half a brain and an ounce of integrity wants an answer to:  Just what is Karl Malone doing with all his free time nowadays?  Actually, if it weren't for the statuesque statue standing outside the Delta... er... Energy Solutions Arena, I would have forgotten that Karl Malone had ever even existed.  Thank goodness they built that statue!  We would have forgotten.

My favorite quote in the article from Karl is, "I write.  I write in my journals things as I see them.  I not writing it to be published, but more for me and my family."  I am not sure if the author of this story meant this section to be humorous, but Karl's perfect grammar in the quote made me make an instant judgement that he would be a fine writer.  I was curious about what Karl might write in his daily journal and so I emailed his publicist.  Thinking I was actually a publisher, and admitting to lying about the "not writing it to be published" part of the story, he emailed me back a excerpt from Karl's journal.  Below is the passage that happened to drop into my lap...

March 8, 2008

Dear Diary,

Karl Malone again.  Karl Malone here.  Today Karl Malone help the Louisiana Tech basketball team lift weights.  It's something Karl Malone does to keep himself busy.  Karl Malone likes to give back to the community services.  It's Karl Malone way of saying thank you.

Karl Malone love to write in Karl Malone's diary.  Karl Malone thinks that it would be a big payday someday.  Karl Malone has unique understanding of the words of the England's language.   Since college, Karl Malone has done a complete 360 degrees in the working of words.  

Karl Malone's hand starts to hurt when Karl Malone writes.  Karl looks all through Louisiana for a computer to type words on, but Karl Malone can't find a computer in the entire state, not even the state of New Orleans!  

Karl still owns a car dealership in Utah.  Not sure how Karl Malone's Toyota cars stays in business this long?  It stayed open much longer than Karl Malone's LA Gear contract lasted.  

Karl Malone still not happy with Karl's current NBA contract.  If Karl Malone don't get deserveded money from ownership, Karl go to LA or maybe start a Karl Malone radio show.  That way Karl Malone can complain about all of the money Karl Malone could be getting from LA Lakers.  Karl Malone needs to contact a Karl Malone accountant to see what kind of retirement contract Karl Malone signed with Utah Jazz.  Karl Malone got to do what Karl Malone got to do.

Someday, Karl Malone give this gift of journaling to his daughters for them to read about all his hunting and fishin'.  This is the best gift Karl Malone could give to his family.  Kay Malone say Karl Malone owed it to his family.  

Stupid Isiah Thomas is so stuipd.  

More tomorrow Diary.

Karl

Post Marathonic Stress Disorder - WARNING! - Somewhat gross. (Especially the pictures.)

I believe that I have acquired a new and disturbing illness. The symptoms include aching muscles, pure exhaustion, sleepiness and an extreme case of the munchies.  

My legs are sore, particularly my thighs.

My buttock cheeks are screaming "ouch!" into the cool September sky.  

Most irksome and painful is my chafed upper thighs.  During the run, I was not bothered by them.  However, and just a warning - this is going to be disgusting, when I pulled off my shorts I noticed a small blood stain had soaked the crotch area.  Worried that I might have injured some of my most valuable assets, I glanced down to see a single drop of blood making it's way down my thigh.  I had chafed (Thank you Eric for helping me learn to spell that word correctly.) so badly that I had opened a pore or two and began to bleed on the insides of my upper thighs.   It was indeed the worst biproduct of my horrible disease.  Fortunately, my valuable assets were intact.  

Since the run I have had a constant urge to eat.  We celebrated yesterday by gorging on all the meat we could eat at the Rodizzio Grill.  I go there often to celebrate large accomplishments.  Nothing says, "I am awesome" like 3.7 ounces of red meat in my belly.  Unfortunately, eating this much meat two hours after running 26.3 miles is a little bit like feeding 5 pounds of jello to a cock fighting rooster ten minutes after a serious bout in which the rooster has been nearly torn to shreds.  The jello is just not going to sit well in that rooster's belly.  Furthermore, I believe that one of the dishes they offered us was in fact bacon wrapped rooster, which just made this entire analogy come full circle.  Sometimes I am amazed at my genius circular logic.  

While I am speaking about the meat palace that is the Rodizzio Grill, allow me to mention the time we went there to celebrate my birthday.  During this time, I had a blisteringly painful toothache that was in dire need of attention.  Unfortunately, my birthday was celebrated on a Saturday and believe it or not, dentists don't usually work on Saturdays.  With ever bite of Brazilian Beef or Prime Rib, I would cringe as a shocking pain would run through my molar and down my arm.  Despite my agony, I pressed on. I would not be denied of my meat! I had an entire bottle of OraGell, which I would apply every 3 minutes or so, or between every meat choice; whatever came first.  It would numb my gums sufficiently so I could gnaw the meat just enough to slide down my gullet.  It was a long and tedious meal, but I left that day with pig grease pouring from my skin and a breadbasket full of red animal flesh making a home for itself inside my intestines.  

Needless to say, I did some extra major damage to that tooth and we made an emergency call to our dentist.  He was kind enough to meet me at his office on a Sunday and drain the large amount of puss that had collected in my gum.  Ah, such fond memories - and I warned you in the title it would be gross!  

After my marathon meal as we traveled along 7th east my belly quivered and my eyelids drooped.  Exhaustion was setting in.  I slept for a couple hours, woke up and ate some more and then slept again.  I am not sure how my body is recovering from this trauma, but it is telling me that it needs food, and a lot of it.  I should have planned my Rodizzio trip for today.  

I am doing well enough now.  Just a little sore and tired, but I expected that would happen.  

The moral of this story?  It turns out there are several: Never visit an all you can eat, magical meat emporium 2 hour after completing a marathon or with a major toothache.  Oh yeah, and the word "chafing" is spelled with only one F.  The word "chaffing" is a word.  The A is apparently short.  Chaffing means to make fun of someone or something in a good natured way.  So, you may proceed in chaffing me for my chafing problem.   Finally, when running long distances in the rain, never wear a thin, white shirt.  You will see why below...

I leave you with pictures of my heroic return from marathoning, one of which I am doing 5 of my final miles on the treadmill.  (I definitely would have won any male wet t-shirt contest!)

Song of the Day: Besnard Lakes - For Agent 13

I love this song.  Of course, my songs of the day are all songs I like, so that should not come as a great surprise.  It's a little slow going, and the video is a tad depressing, but if you listen to it enough it really grows on you.  

Marathon? COMPLETE!

We watched this really strange movie called The Nines last night.  I wouldn't recommend it, but in the movie the number nine continues to pop up everywhere.  The main character begins to notice it more and more and pretty soon, the only number he can think of is nine.

I just ran for 5 hours, 22 minutes and 14 seconds straight!  Well, the last 6 miles were a mix of run and walk and the last couple were pretty much just walk.  Yet, it is funny how a number can get stuck in your brain while you twist and turn it every direction.  Pretty soon, it is not even a number, but an actual object that you are reaching for.  I have become intimately familiar with the number 26.3 these last few hours.  In my mind, I have caressed it, loved it and held it up over my head like that monkey does in the Lion King.  26.3 and I are best friends.  We spit on our hands and then shook.  26.3 laid it's head on my lap while I ran my fingers through it's hair.  26.3 and I skipped rocks on the beach together.  I am really tired.

I began at 6:00 AM and much to my surprise it was perfect running weather; about 60 degrees and dry.  I packed 4 water bottles and 3 Gatoraides and an extra shirt.  I did however, forget to place the requisite band-aids over my nipples.  No worries, I have some very chiseled nipples. Thank goodness I received those iron nipple implants.  The doctor told me that it would be okay because I probably wouldn't milk anything again for the rest of my life.  I am so tired.

The first 3 loops were incredible!  I was making excellent time, even with my very much needed poo break at the local ward house.  With the perfect weather, I felt better than I ever had at mile 10.  This was going to be cake.

Three more loops and after 18 miles I felt like this goal was going to be accomplished.  It had been about 2 hours and 20 minutes and during my run I had seen all the local retail stores open (Including the infamous sniagrab, which is "bargains" spelled backward.), the yearly Murray kids bike race begin and end at the park, all the scout flags be put up and the same cop pass me by about 10 times.  I never knew there was so much going on at 7:00 in the morning in Murray.

The 7th loop is where things got very dicey.  I had just started and the worst possible weather began to pour down on my like tiny anti-marathon missiles.  What the hail was going on?  Did Mother Nature hate my guts?  HAIL!  LOTS OF IT!  AND WITH ONLY 8 MILES TO GO!  Fortunately, I guess, Cathi came looking for me because of the hail and because I told her I would probably be home about 10:00.  It was 10:15 and I still had 8 miles to go.  Oops, guess I miscalculated on that one.  (Actually, I calculated correctly, IF I had gone the same speed every loop.  I failed to consider that with every loop my pace was decreasing considerably.) 

I hopped in the car and we headed home.  8 miles left and I was not to be denied! 

I rushed downstairs and hit the treadmill.  I HATE the treadmill.  The treadmill hates me.  I was once running on the treadmill, increasing and decreasing the speed to my liking.  The rubber mat slipped and the treadmill spit me off into the wall.  I have been hesitant to run on it ever since.  In this case, I did not have an option.  I guess I could have ran around my front room 15,000 times, but that would have been hard to calculate milage on.

I went 5 miles on the treadmill and felt exhausted.  I always seem to tire more easily on a treadmill than on the road.  It could have been that I was nearing the dreaded 20 mile wall as well.  Either way, I began running two minutes and walking one.  I wanted to run the entire marathon, but I thought running 20 miles was pretty decent and at this point my body thought the same thing.  

With three miles remaining, I hopped off and went to check on the weather.  It was a steady rain, but I DEFINITELY did not want to finish this thing on the treadmill.  I hate that thing worse than my Junior High nemesis, Daniel.  

At this point, with three miles remaining, the back of my knees had become unbearably stiff.  I knew that it was going to be a long 3 mile loop, but I girded up my loins (as the Bible says) and girded up my socks too.  I braved the rain and began running down the block again.

I ran about 30 yards and then the back of my knees informed me that they would be stopping.  I told my knees that I understood and then we agreed that they would be walking 30 yards and then "running" (not really running anymore, more like a jogging hickup) 30 yards.  It was settled.  

About half way through the last loop, where the retail shops are located, I realized people were staring at me.  My white shirt was soaking wet and I looked like I had just been enimatized by a long fingernailed doctor.  I glanced down at my chest to see that you could see right through my white shirt and into my lead lined nipples.  They were looking at my nipples!  Those nipple lookers!  Doesn't anyone have any respect for a man on his last two miles of a marathon anymore?  I really could have cared less at this point though.  That number, 26.3 was winking at me, The Swedish bikini team could have been there, I could have been running pantless and at this point, I would not have given it a second thought.  Two more miles and I would be a marathoner.

I limped up the final hill, every muscle in my body begging me to stop.  The rain began to pour and I knew the end was near.  I ran the final .3 miles and into the waiting arms of... no one.  It was pouring and I was now an hour and a half past my scheduled arrival time.  But, I really could have cared less.  My mind and body were so fatigued, I really wasn't sure if I was actually home anyway.  Cathi and the boys did come out on the porch and cheer for me and that is really all I wanted.  

26.3 miles is no longer my friend.  We got to know each other and I decided that she is too ruthless and difficult to really get along with.  Plus, she wears overalls.  I can't stomach being friends with anyone who wears overalls.  I will stick with all the people who left comments of support for me.  You are my real friends.

One final note:  I would NOT use the Hillcrest Ward bathroom for the next three days or so if I were you.  Running a marathon makes evil things come out of your body.

Tomorrow morning I will run a marathon.

Tomorrow is the day.  I feel as prepared as I am going to be.  I have trained and I am probably in the best shape of my life.  

There will be no fanfare, no cheering celebrities, no dancing bears; just a man, his shoes and the road.  All that separates me from this milestone is 26.3 miles.  

I shall awake at 5:00 and will attempt to be done by 8:30 - 9:00.  My plan is to run the entire way, but we will see how my body holds up.  Weather also seems to becoming an issue, but I figure better rain than heat.  

I have measured my route carefully to ensure that I will in fact, run 26.3 miles.  I believe my measurements are spot on.

I will have the key to our ward building, which I will be running by every 3 miles in case I need to use the restroom.  On my final lap, I will call Cathi and let her know I will be home soon.  Apparently, a few neighbors are planning on coming out to welcome me home.  

If I have enough strength, I will blog about this journey tomorrow.  Wish me good luck!  No, no, pray for me!

Farewell~

Who am I sir? A Utah Man am I!

If you haven't learned to love to win ugly, you truly haven't loved Utah football.

Don't give me the fact that we stunk in the second half. 

Don't give me the fact that Brian Johnson needs to throw the ball away.

Don't give me the fact that they blew a huge lead.

Don't give me the fact that they had 16 penalties.

They will clean those things up and the schedule only gets easier.  Hey, and no one got injured.

Okay, give me those facts, but I don't care if you are Utah, Appalacian State, Ohio State or USC, a win in the big house is a win in the big house!!  This is the best defense the Utes will play all year, and the Utes pulled it out.

GO UTES!

PS - What was the deal with the announcers getting Sakoda's name right the whole time until the end and then calling him Sack-o-da?? 

The first two CD's I ever owned.

My brothers, who begged and pleaded with me to go with them, returned last night from the Boyz II Men concert. I felt bad, but a trip to Orem to see a band that I haven't listened to in years and I am a little embarrassed of actually liking did not sound too appealing.  Apparently, the Boyz are still alive and actually performing, barely.  Here is a great review of the concert by my brother Ike for those that may be interested.  I highly recommend this reading.

His review inspired me to write about my very first purchase of a compact disc.  I believe that it all began in December of 1993.  (It could have been 92 or 91, but I think that it was 93 because that is just what my heart tells me.)  I had just received an enormous stereo system for Christmas, complete with an audio tuner, turntable, tape player, CD player, amplifier and equalizer.  The entire thing took up about a forth of my room and it was my pride and joy. I cherished that system so. I carried pictures of it around in my wallet for heaven's sake!  I gave it baths on it's monthly birthday. 

The day after Christmas, I visited the local Blockbuster music store to select 2 CDs to start my collection.  I had plodded for months about my upcoming selections and I had already made them in my mind.  I left the store that day with a Boyz II Men CD and PM Dawn.  You see, I was 14 years old and I had not discovered what real music was yet.

I must have listened to Motownphilly over 2,000 times.  I would crank it up in my basement bedroom and think up new dance moves.   I had even created a pathetic fantasy in which the Boyz lose one of their members in a street shooting.  They ask me to become the first white Boyz II men member.  The remaining members tell me that it doesn't matter that I am 14, white or without any sexual appeal at all (made the last part up), it is the music that matters.  They just want to do what is best for the music and if that means hiring a pasty whiteboy, so be it.  I even got a souped up flat top with racing stripes to fit in.

I wish I could tell you that the above fantasy was just made up by me now to enhance the story.  As it turns out, this was a very authentic fantasy and every word of it is true.  I forgot to add that by becoming a member of Boyz II Men, I also became the nation's biggest teenage heartthrob, sending girls into utter and complete shock with the very sight of me. I am not sure why or how I remember this entire fantasy sequence.  I guess it was a very big part of my incredibly piteous 14 year old life at the time.  As long as I am putting it all out there, it was also during this time of my life that I would listen to "Casey Casem's weekly top 40" every Sunday afternoon after church.  I would write down every pop tune in order and then make my own "personal" top ten.  Using my tape deck on my new stereo, and after taping my favorite songs from Casey's top 40, I would make my own "Abe's top 40"  in which I would introduce my favorite songs of the week and count them down myself.  I was a stone cold, perfectly formed and mentally weak - dweeb.  

When I had exhausted myself by dancing endlessly to Motownphilly, I would lay in the middle of my room and just relax to PM Dawn's "Set Adrift On Memory Bliss".  I loved how I could skip to the next song so quickly and effortlessly.  I loved the look of the shiny CD as I took it from the case.  I loved everything about the disc experience.

Thankfully, I broke from the bonds of nerdness, grew into my own and created somewhat of a life for myself.  It's a good thing because had Cathi known about my lonely Boyz II Men dance-a-thons in my room, there's no way she would ever have anything to do with me.  Of course, there are some nerd tendencies I will never grow out of, nor do I want to.  

May I present to you, the two best music videos from my first CDs:

The hiring interview of Henry the Octopus by the Wiggle family.

Many of you may not know that The Wiggles began as an Australian pop band, The Cockroaches.  When it became obvious that the band was clearly not going to be successful, the members decided to go an entirely new direction.  I have often wondered how a group of college chums made the jump from wannabe rock stars to singing infantile, irksome chanties.

  At one point the Wiggles added a character named Henry the Octopus to their show.  The following is a script of their first interview with Henry:  (Greg was suspiciously missing from the interview process.  It is believed he excused himself due to the fact that he hates seafood.)

Anthony:  NEXT!

Henry:  Hello, I am Henry the Octopus.  

Jeff:  What is it exactly that you do, Henry?

Henry:  I twirl around and sing.  When I twirl around, my legs spin around me like a tornado.  It's like nothing you've ever seen.  It's like a guy in an octopus costume that spins.  You don't see that every day.

Murray:  Do you dance?

Henry:  Mainly, I just twirl.  Do you want to see me twirl?  My legs spin and...

Jeff:  Yes, we've established that you twirl.  But can you do anything else?  For instance, can you drive a gigantic red car that goes "cho-cho chuga chuga, cho-cho chuga chuga"?

Henry:  No, but when I twirl, my legs go like everywhere and I maintain a smile on my face the entire time.  

Murray:  I think you are a bit much Henry.  I mean our target audience is looking for realistic sea creatures.  I think they are going to get tired of your twirling. 

Henry:  Well, what about that purple dinosaur, Dorothy?  She doesn't do squat.

Jeff:  Hey, Dorothy was a friend of a friend.  I owed him a favor.  Plus, we don't pay her.  She might not even be a real dinosaur.  I think she might be Barney's retarded cousin or something. We're looking into it.

Murray:  Have you had any experience battling evil pirates that have feathers for swords? 

Henry:  You have a pirate with a feathersword on your show??  I am starting to get a little uncomfortable here.  I mean, I can handle myself, but I feel so badly for that dog.  Do you have any idea what it is like to get a beating with a feathersword?  It stings like heck fire!

Jeff:  How are your six shooter, finger wagging dance skills?

Henry:  Not bad, if I had fingers.  I can spin or twirl really well though.  I am allergic to fruit salad though.  I hope that is not a problem.  I make up for it with my spinning and twirling.

Jeff:  Not a problem.  What are your feelings about sharing the spotlight with an overgrown dog named Wags?

Henry:  I like Wags.  Wags and I have a good working relationship.  We don't talk offstage, but we get along great.  Due to my 8 legs, I'll need a bigger dressing room than Wags.  I need extra room to practice all that twirling.  Does Wags twirl?  No?  Good, then yes, I'll need thatbig  dressing room.  

Jeff: Do you like hot potatoes?

Henry:  I hate hot potatoes and cold bananas.  I mainly eat things from the sea, like sea creatures and things. I'm from the sea.  I live in the sea.  I mean, my home is under the sea.

Murray:  Why are you purple?

Henry:  [Looking at his leg] I'm purple?  What are you trying to say?  Is this a racial thing?

Anthony:  Do you have any music experience?

Henry:  I direct an underwater brass band.

Anthony:  You're hired!  

Will someone please check the hearing of our teenagers?

Do the Jonas Brothers count as real music?  What about Miley Cyrus?  In 20 years, what will be more embarrassing, admitting you listened to In-Sync or the Jonas Brothers?  Will Miley Cyrus be this generation's Tiffany?  Will she fall into the depths of obscurity only to be discovered 20 years later on an episode of "The Biggest Loser: Celebrity Edition"?  Or, perhaps in a few years we will find her with her own reality show on E!. - Miley Cyrus (colon) I Want To Be Famous Again, PLEASE MAKE ME FAMOUS AGAIN!!!.

What is truly scary is that when you are old, you tend to listen to the music you listened to as a teenager.  In fact, there is a great stand up bit by Nick Swardson, that predicts that as 80 year olds, my generation will be wondering around in our underwear, looking for our Dr. Dre CD's.  (Warning: Clip has some language issues, most of which are beeped out effectively by Comedy Central.)  

The strange thing is that it is not just preteens that are falling into the premade plastic, made for TV movie music trap.  I hear a lot of 15-17 year old girls professing their love for this crap.  If the Jonas Brothers count as a bonafide boy band, then I am also counting The Wiggles too.  When I ask a teenage girl what kind of music she listens to, and she says The Jonas Brothers, I always ask her if she is a Wiggles fan too.  After all, both shows are on The Disney Channel and both make wonderful tunes for the youth of our world.  Both spend an extraordinary time perfecting their craft and music.  Both make annoyingly catchy music.  They are really one in the same.

 

What happened to kids with real taste?  When I was a kid, I loved tangible music with real emotion:  Alice in Chains, Nirvana, Weezer and Rage Against the Machine.  Those bands have stood the test of time and have proven themselves great for any era.  Are today's youth really going to feel the same way about Hannah Montana or Aaron Carter?  And who is force feeding this crap to our youth?  It's all an embarrassment.  My rant has ended.  

The real reason why I hate BYU, a memoir of my nemesis and his favorite team. (Not really football related.)

When I was 13 years old, I was not much to behold.  I was skinny as a rail, had an acne clad face and as awkward as a drunken, baby giraffe. As a result, I had a very difficult time making any sort of lasting friendships during Junior High.  In fact, I remember spending a lot of time as a library aide, talking to a Chinese foreign exchange student.  

Nevertheless, I did have one good friend that I could cling to in rough times.  He took pity on me and would wait for me to eat lunch.  However, he had another close friend who was extremely cruel and took every opportunity to make fun of my clearly vulnerable awkwardness.  He was of course, a huge BYU fan.  He would take every opportunity to pledge his loyalties to that dreadful place.  Knowing that I was a blossoming U fan, he would never miss a chance to poke fun of my horrendous team.  It had been nearly 20 years since the Utes had beaten BYU and it did not seem likely to change in 1988.

Each and every day, this nemesis would poke fun at my nerdiness or tease me about my ever growing pimple problem.  I was beginning to consider simply eating alone during lunch, or even finding my Chinese friend that spoke very little English.  Either quickly became a better option than taking a constant pounding from the nemesis.  The others at the table had picked up on my vulnerability and had often joined in the harassment.  The entire time my so called "friend" sat silently while I was humiliated.  Junior High was the worst time of my life.

November 22, 1988 was one of the best days of my life.  As I watched the game unfold and the Utes cruise to the first victory, I could just feel Daniel's (That was his name, that evil, sinister boy.) shame and embarrassment melt into my body.  I could feel him eat every last word about my beloved Utes.  I sat at that game, in sheer disbelief that God could turn the tide in my favor, at least for one day.  In my 12 year old eyes, God DID care about football and he was not a Y fan.  The impossible had been done, a miracle had occurred that day and my social life was bound to improve.  Utah 57, BYU 28.  Surely the folks at the table would remember his guarantee and arrogance.  If they didn't, I was going to make sure they did.

I spent the following Sunday clipping article after article about the Ute's thrashing of BYU out of the newspaper.  I clipped and pasted them all onto a 3 foot poster, which I was going to present to Daniel during the lunchtime rush the next day.  My plan was to get everyone's attention, unravel the ode to domination and hand it to him in triumph.  The prepubescent males would whoop and laugh, hopefully directly in his face.  My plan failed.

I was unable to garner much attention of anyone.  I was not even a rung on the Junior High social totem pole. I was below the rungs.  I was the dirt below the rungs.  I was rung dirt.  Rung dirt with bad acne to be precise.  Wait, totem poles don't have rungs, ladders have rungs.  I am totally mixing my cliche metaphors.  What do totem poles have?  Heads?  Animals?  Maybe some totem poles have rungs?  That would be a really boring totem pole, just rungs of a ladder.  It would make it extra easy for indians to climb though.  I wonder if that is how that indians invented ladders?  Interesting thought, me.

After trying unsuccessfully to catch the attention of anyone but my silent friend, I simply handed Daniel the home made poster and laughed at him.  He sat, unflinching and in silence while he held the cardboard facial in his hands.  He began to chuckle.  I was a bit disturbed.  He then stood up and in front of the group and while holding my hard work over his head, he shouted, "Oh my goodness, look what Abe did!  Look how much time he spent on this crap!  What a loser!"  

The words stung, but not as much as the laughter.  Daniel then ripped up my poster and threw it in the trash.  It was like a sick scene from a painful high school movie.  I sat down and buried my face in the table.  I will say it again, Junior High sucks.

Every time the Utes beat BYU, I cherish the event with extra tenacity.  With every victory over their rivals, it is as if I am renewed.  I imagine Daniel, sitting in his parents basement where he probably lives, clutching the edge of his couch and yelling at the television.  How could his cougars let him down?  How could they lose to their lesser and evil rival again?  Every time Utah beats BYU, I think, "My tithing dollars might go to the Y, but that doesn't mean that God is a Y fan."  And then I think, "I hope Daniel is watching every minute of this."

A few days later I broke both my legs and was out of school for a year.  (Of course, BYU beat Utah 71-32 the following year.)  When I returned, it was nearly time for High School and I thought my issues with Daniel had come to an end.

As luck would have it, in High School I was the last to be cut from the basketball team.  Daniel, on the other hand, was the last person to make the team.  Also, the first time I asked a girl out to a dance, she rejected me.  Of course, Daniel had already asked her.  I spent the night alone.

In conclusion - GO UTES!

Song of the Day: Editors - All Sparks

My friend Jess pointed me in this band's direction.  Often referred to as "geek rock", their stuff is amazing.  It's not just for geeks like myself.  Here is a live show I found of one of their best songs:

Watching a morning waltz by a teenager and a dying bird.

I must say that it was a very idiosyncratic, very surreal day in the life of Cheeseboy today.  I woke up eager to get the school year started right, but was stopped short 20 feet out of my driveway.

There is a 13 year old, moppy haired, dopey kid that lives up the street from us.  However, he really is a nice kid and I even tutored him for a bit while he was in 6th grade.  As I am driving down the street, he flags me down.  "ABE, ABE!  STOP!"  Worried for his well being, I pull over in a lurch.  "Nick, what is it?  What's the matter?"  He says, "There is a bird in the middle of the road and it won't move!  I am afraid that the magpies will get it."

Now I am not sure of magpie rituals or habits but the magpies were clearly swirling overhead.  I am also not sure if magpies will eat other birds or if they were just tormenting it, but Nick was overly concerned for it's safety.  Clearly, I need to update my knowledge of what magpies actually do.  What is their purpose?  Are they simply bird bullies?  I inform Nick that I don't have time for this.  "Nick, this is the first day of school.  I really need to get going." But the look of dread on Nick's face was too much.

Flustered, I quickly get out of the vehicle.  I am now on a rescue mission to save a perishing, marooned sky rat.  "I am not sure what you want me to do Nick?  I am NOT TOUCHING THAT THING!", I say as I stand, semi-hunched over the bird while Nick circles it.  The boy, clearly unafraid of catching the bird flu informs me that he has an idea.

The dance begins with the 13 year old squirt placing his foot out in front of the bird, introducing it as a sort of a size 10 Nike perch for the fledging sky creature.  "What is it that you plan to do Nick?" I ask.  "You'll see", he replies, while he steadies his other foot.  He then uses his second foot as a sort of scooting system, gently shoving the bird onto the shoelaced perch.  Once the injured bird is comfortably on his shoe, he slides gracefully through the street like an injured pedestrian that just so happens to have a large fowl on the tip of his shoe.

The dance finally ends as he reaches the grassy parking strip and dumps the bird in a heap.  The bird falls, gathers itself and then immediately flies into the nearest tree.  We look at each other, stunned.  Why didn't the bird just fly into the tree into the first place?  Why go through this entire Junior High charade?  The best I can figure is that it was a bird with a sinister sense of humor.  He was probably up in that tree, laughing his tail feathers off at us.  He probably even had his bird buddies take pictures of the whole polka and place them on his bird blog, The Blog O' Bird.  

The event came to a close as I said, "Gotta go Nick.  See you later."  Nick however, still had his eyes in the trees.  He was watching the magpies circle the nearby house.  Instead of saying goodbye as I drove off, he simply said, "Geez, I hope those magpies leave that bird alone!"  He was still standing there, eyes on the skies when I reached the corner.  I am sure he was late for Junior High.  

I need to start taking a camera wherever I go.