So I know the question that is on everyone's mind.

I know what you are all dying to know: How is the potty training going?

Uh...

Calder. He is one unique kid, that is for sure.

He will pee, if we make him go. If I ask him if he needs to go, he always says, "Not right now, later." If we let him do this too many times, he pees his pants. If we forget to make him go, he will not tell us he needs to go and he will pee his pants.

Today, he stood outside our sliding glass door smiling. I asked what he needed through the glass while I sat lazily on the couch. (Getting up would have involved moving.) He just stood and smiled. He then proceeded to pee his pants while I watched. He was still smiling.

Pooping has become an awful trial. Calder knows that he will get in trouble if he actually poops his pants. He therefore hold it in for days at a time. Once the bowels have backlogged and he can hold it in no longer, he lets loose like the horse in front of my horse the last time I went horseback riding. Cathi is never impressed. No... Cathi is usually the opposite of impressed.

One of my least favorite things in life is cleaning poop out of underwear. I mean, it may not be in my top 5 worst things in life, but it is up there.

There are some days that Calder actually does poop in the potty, which is a wonderful accomplishment for that day. Calder, knowing he has become the hit of the potty party then tells everyone, and I mean everyone, how many poops he pooped. "I pooped on the potty today...3!!"

So, you were wondering how the potty training is going?

Uh... yeah. Ask again in five years.

Song of the Day: Immaculate Machine - C'mon Sea Legs

For today's song of the day, I give you Immaculate Machine, a Canadian indie pop band. A pretty decent band that sound a tad like the New Pornographers. A solid tune that reminds me of all the times I have been overly nervous in my life. This video is from their SXSW performance.

Lavar Burton just shed a tear, but you don't have to take my word for it.

Reading Rainbow is dead to me. Actually, it is dead to everyone. Lavar Burton has packed up his earring and left the building. Canceled.

I remember when Reading Rainbow first went on the air. It was such a novel concept: You can read books... and do it while you watch TV. It was like combining something I loved with something I tolerated. In fact, it was a little bit like going to the football game, but having to do the wave.

Back in the day, Reading Rainbow was the Oprah's book club for kids. Each show highlighted three books that were recently published and after the show aired, the books immediately made the best seller list.

Undoubtedly, Reading Rainbow will be best remembered for the glowy, flowy theme song.

Butterfly in the sky. I can go twice as high.
Take a look. It's in a book. It's Reading Rainbow.

I CAN DO ANYTHING!... (etc, etc, etc)

After listening to that song every day for 180 days in 4th grade, I felt like I COULD do anything. And then, Lavar Burton would show up and read a book and "anything" became sitting at my desk and hoping the recess bell would ring.

So R.I.P. Reading Rainbow. Go - take your place on a throne in PBS heaven, which looks amazingly similar to 'Mr. Roger's Land of Make Believe'. While you are there, say hi to that weird show that my dad used to watch about the traveling vet in England. Perhaps you can swing by that bearded guy's pad that paints the happy little clouds?

And of course, a trip to PBS heaven would not be complete without visiting that wacky 80's aerobic show. You know the one - it came on before any Saturday morning cartoon and had three podiums, one for the three different skill levels. I always wanted to get to the high level, but I just couldn't kick my leg up that high. Even as a kid, I wasn't what you would call "bendy". I also had a bit of a crush on the girl on the medium platform with the long legs and the adorable leg warmers. She was something special... something real special.

If you go, just be sure to check your pulse after each workout.

**Update - Thanks to Lori, I now know that show was called "Hooked on Aerobics". I had totally forgotten about the mustached man on the low platform. While researching this further, I learned that the show was actually made and produced at BYU and soon became a worldwide phenomenon. Also, as it is a BYU production, this is how Max Hall and Bronco Mendenhall stay in shape during the off season.

Saturday Graph: Things we learned from the early 90's TV show 'Blossom'

How I spent the first day of first grade.

Remember when you were in elementary school and some mysterious woman would come pull the really smart kids out of your class for an hour a day? Remember watching their giddy faces as they rushed to the door; meanwhile you sat at your desk and completed some remedial task like a spelling test or a page 378 in your workbook? Remember when they would come back with huge smiles on their faces, like they had been watersliding while eating cotton candy for an hour? Remember how it felt to be an average kid - never getting to go to resource or the secret society of smart kids, reduced to a life of monotony and frivolous busy work? Well, the average kid is getting his revenge as he is now teaching the smart kids... all day long.

Ha ha ha (Imagine that laughter in my snide, evil tone, while I am tilting my head back and holding my belly)

My wife was in "ELP" (She just gave me the code name to her secret brainiac elementary school sect) and she has no sympathy for me. I'm too "average" to care.

I have to say that I was blown away on the first day of school today. It was an incredible day. An incredibly fun day.

I have 17 kids in my class. 17!!! If that is not miraculous enough, all of them read at least at a fourth (spelled correctly this time, Ms. Correct the Gifted Class Teacher) grade level. If that is not astonishingly astounding enough, they all - or almost all - behaved like little robots, programed to be genius and adorable. Honestly, it was like teaching a classroom full of Vikki the Robots, except none of them could dunk a basketball. (At least that I saw, but it is still early in the year) Lincoln would fit in very well with this group.

I began my instruction at the same level that I ended with my class from last year. It took me 2 minutes to determine that this level was entirely too low. We were reading as a whole class and the kids were all reading faster than I could point. I tried to do a bit of math. Most were clearly beyond even the second grade problems I was throwing at them.

- Sigh -

Challenging these kids is going to be a challenge. A challenge most teachers would die for. I shouldn't say that, there are some very old first grade teachers out there.

I've never been so excited as a teacher! I'm only starting to grasp where I can take these kids. I can teach things that would never be possible in a regular first grade. It's going to be a superb year.

If I could only figure out how to program these kids. I've seen every episode of "Small Wonder", but I am fairly certain none of them have control panels in their backs. Of course, I am just "average".

Is anyone out there good with a needle? (no thread)

"If you think temporary tattoos are okay, perhaps I can interest you in some temporary eternal damnation?" - Stephen Colbert

I have a secret, but please don't tell anyone. I've always wanted to get a tattoo. If you would like, I could come over and we can pull your jaw off the floor.

Nothing fancy like a butterfly or a rainbow, or a butterfly floating over a rainbow, or a butterfly shaped rainbow, or a rainbow shaped butterfly, or a butterfly spitting on a rainbow. (Although that last one sounds at least a little intriguing. If a butterfly spits on a rainbow and no one is there to hear it, is it still adorable?) Rather, I want something cutting edge, something that says, "I am so much cooler than my choirboy face and haircut make me out to be." Maybe a rooster with a mohawk or a picture of one of the American Gladiators; preferably, an American Gladiator with tons of tattoos. I would love to ask for a tattoo on my tattoo. Also, I prefer a male American Gladiator, but that is neither here or there as most of the time I can't tell the difference. (I think that is why they had Hulk Hogan host that show. He is the only celebrity that had taken enough steroids to tell the difference)

I've considered tattooing "Cathi" on my forearm, but I am afraid with all the arm hair, it would not be visible. Instead, I may weave "Cathi" into my arm hair.

I am not quite sure where I want to place my tattoo. I've considered the lower back, but that is so cliche. (I shouldn't say this, but the real reason is the hair thing again) Also, I'm not sure about this, but I think that sometime in the last ten years, getting a tattoo on your lower back has become primarily a female thing. How and why did this heteromorphic phenomenon take place? A man's lower back is the perfect palette for the tattoo artist to splurge and create. The perfect lower back tattoo would actually be a tattoo of a fanny pack.

But, I am no longer considering the lower back. I have contemplated a finger on my leg, a leg on my finger, an elbow on my knee and a nose on my thigh. I like to confuse people that struggle recognizing body parts. I've pondered inking a five dollar bill on my buttocks. I'd love to make Abe Lincoln wink while I do my daily palates in my backyard.

Alas, it will never happen. My dream... well not dream really. My aspiration... no, not aspiration either. My slight inclination to explore the possibility of the art of tattooism will never, ever be fulfilled. There are two needling reasons for this:
1. My wife likes things natural and that includes her husband's hair, butt cheeks and especially skin. Defiling my skin would be like committing marital suicide. (My butt cheek implant idea was also nixed by me lovely lady, mostly because they seemed like a want and not a need for one living on a teacher's salary)
2. I am under the impression that God will not be pleased and I am not one to try and tick God off. He may send me to sacrifice my first born - or more likely - my brother Isaac. I will also end up having to change my name to Abraham and nobody wants that. No, I think I should leave God out of it.

A unicorn! That's it! A designer, graceful unicorn, squalling up the back of my lower leg. It's perfect for so many reasons: It's not at all corny or fancy. It pays tribute to my seven years as a Uintah Unicorn. It's mythical and could kick the crap out of a dragon, or Mayor McCheese, or Mayor McCheese riding a dragon, or Mayor McCheese riding a dragon under a rainbow.

Can they tattoo the color sparkles and glitter?

Song of the Day: YACHT - See A Penny Pick It Up

Alright, I must admit that today's song choice has actually warn on me a little bit. It's very catchy and upbeat, but it is one of those songs that will stay in your head and give you brain itch for weeks at a time.

The video is entertaining and proves that "less is more" can often mean in videos. YACHT is actually, Jona Bechtolt, an electronic musician from from Portland. Enjoy "See A Penny"

Why I teach First Grade.

D day. I guess I shouldn't refer to it like that - it infers that something disastrous is going to happen tomorrow, when in fact, I'm expecting (or hoping for) giant, first grade ultra-smiles. I'm often asked why I teach first grade; most people are flabbergasted that I subject myself to such torture. The truth is, my ideal grade to teach is actually second grade - "the golden grade". I'm getting a little closer this year as I will be teaching much of the second grade curriculum to first graders. So technically, it counts, but it really doesn't count.

The reason I teach first grade is actually very complex. But, here it is... in a nutshell:

Kindergartners - Slobber, snot, slobber, snot. "Can you tie my shoes?", slobber, slobber, snot.
Second Graders - "I'm getting baptized! Can you come?" (12 + times/year)
Third Graders - Scraggly, saber toothed mouths.
Fourth Graders - Girls get snootier, boys get angrier, teeth get bracier.
Fifth Grade - Puberty + new stench = awkward conversations with parents.
Sixth Graders - Puberty + maturation program + sixth-grade-boy sense of humor = no thanks.
Seventh Graders - Have you been in a Junior High lately? It smells like the bottom of my dirty laundry mixed with the Laser Tag bathroom.
Eighth Graders - See above (+ even more sweat and less showering)
Ninth Graders - Boy/girl crazy
Tenth Graders - I think I would only be qualified enough to teach Driver's Ed and I like to live.
Eleventh Graders - At this point, many of the students are likely much smarter than I.
Twelfth Graders - Now this is a grade I could actually teach, but not a single Utah High School offers a course in "Sitcoms from the 80's".

And that's why I teach first grade.

Someone called me "yellow" today and I wasn't even scared

It turns out I am yellow to the core. There is no doubt or surprise, I'm a yellow and the next color isn't even close.

I had no idea what this all meant until yesterday. My principal gave us all a personality test so he could learn more about us all. (Although I'm positive that being the only carryover from his last school, he wouldn't already have definitely pegged me as a yellow. That's right, you heard me right, "he wouldn't have definitely already"! It makes total sense to me.)

I still wasn't quite sure what this whole "yellow" thing meant for me, so I took a similar test online and this was the result:

Yellows (Motive: Fun)

Yellows are motivated by Fun. They are inviting and embrace life as a party that they're hosting. They love playful interaction and can be extremely sociable. They are highly persuasive and seek instant gratification. Yellows need to be adored and praised. While yellows are carefree, they are sensitive and highly alert to others' agendas to control them. Yellows typically carry within themselves the gift of a good heart.

Yep, I'm a yellow. The next closest color was blue and it wasn't even in the same hemisphere. The wacky thing is: I don't even like yellow. It's fairly ugly and generally abrasive. The only people that drive yellow cars are those that drive yellow Xterass and Hummers; I don't have to tell you what kind of people drive yellow Xteras and Hummers! (Hopefully people that don't read my blog) The only college team that I can think of with yellow as a school color is Wyoming - and their colors are yellow and poop brown. Going to a Wyoming football game is a little like watching a banana fall into the bottom of an outhouse. - Ugh -

Another oddity: I am a closet yellow. You see, I am in no way a natural blond. While participating in this activity, most of the teachers were fairly surprised that I was the highest yellow in the room; I had barely said a word so far. I guess they have no idea what's in store.

It takes me awhile to open up. Occasionally I can jump into a new situation and be entertaining, but I am usually withdrawn until I get a feel for people.

I am not sure if I should be proud to be a yellow. I guess that as a yellow, it is my duty to be proud of it. It reminds me a bit of when I was in Pennsylvania on the mission. Each week we would watch a kennel full of labs for a guy. One day, he received a new chocolate lab from a kennel that bred primarily Australian Sheep dogs. The new lab knew that he was a lab, but acted as if he were an Australian Sheep dog. Once he warmed up too the other labs, he came out of his shell and acted labishly lab. It was a beautiful thing.

Actually, I have no idea how the above story relates in any way, shape or form - except that the lab in the story was a yellow lab.

The Life and Times of the Cheeseboy Scouter. Chapter 2: A Scout is an Eagle (At least a good scout is)

I have not put "Eagle Scout" on my resume for ten plus years now. I figure, what's the point? For one: nobody cares (or should care) what I did in the summers when I was twelve and thirteen; that should have no influence on whether or not I can perform a job. For deuce: placing the title "Eagle Scout" on my resume would either backfire and reek of desperation - or - the potential employer will see me for what I truly am - a huge, scouty-scout nerdboy. I know if I were interviewing a jocular Joe and he put an emphasis on how he earned his Eagle Scout award twenty five years ago, I would simply dismiss him as a loser and a twerp.

Of course, while I was earning the hallowed Eagle, I was constantly reminded that there would be two advantages that would benefit me for a lifetime from the award: I would be able to put "Eagle Scout" on my resume and I would be able to get my driver's license.

Ah, the dreaded and famed "No driver's license until after your Court of Honor" parental threat. I firmly believe that this is only a Utah/Mormon tradition, but I am not sure how it ever started. Did Brigham Young tell his boys, "Lads, one must know the Scout Law and pin many pins on your mother(s) before you will be allowed to hitch up the buggy."?

I am positive that my parents were not the first ones to throw out such an idle threat. I had friends and relatives that were also operating under similar persuasions from their folks. Fortunately, I was able to earn my Eagle at age 13, and was spared the heartache and pressure of having to push through it at age 15. I do however, often wonder what life would be like if I had only managed to earn my Life Scout badge. It would present quite an interesting challenge as Cathi would have to drive me to work and pick me up. She would not be happy about this.

At the age of twelve, I was under the absurd impression that I would never touch a steering wheel or get a high paying job if I did not obtain the honored and cherished Eagle award. Such was my indoctrination; I am still surprised when I meet highly successful men that tell me that they had dropped out of scouts. I'm even more confounded when I see them drive away in their Cadillac convertible. They must have really permissive parents! They should totally be busted for D.U.I.O.N.E. (Driving Under Influence Of No Eagle)

I don't blame my parents for their Law of the Eagle parental rule. All three of my brothers also obtained their rank of Eagle (although I doubt that any of them were motivated by the threat of being undriver-licensed) and we may have all learned a thing or two in the process. Nevertheless, I doubt that I will enforce the same rule on my boys. Instead, I may withhold their Driver's License if they do anything wrong... ever.

I am not even sure I know where my Eagle Scout award is anymore. I do, however, know where my resume and Driver's License are and neither lists "Eagle Scout" on them anymore. That reminds me, the DMV (at least the Utah DMV) should implement a box on the Driver's License right under the "Donor" box entitled "Eagle Scout". That way, if you get pulled over for speeding, the cop will know you are a good person, and/or honest, and/or a complete dork, and/or did a lot of camping, knot tying and basket weaving in 7th and 8th grade. All of which will come in handy when attempting to get out of a ticket. Unless, of course, the cop only ever made it to a "Star" scout.

**Also, if you marked "Eagle Scout" but not the "Donor" box, the cop would clearly know you were lying. No way an Eagle award winner would ever NOT be a donor!

Saturday Graph: What TV Has Taught Lincoln So Far In His Life

I have many irrational fears, but only one involves getting beheaded.

I just finished reading What Are You Afraid Of?, a book about teenagers with strange and - what the author claimed as - "strange" phobias. The book was clearly written for teenagers and came off a bit too preachy and heavy handed for my taste. It was almost like the author(s) were saying, "Look at this wacko that is scared of getting fat. That could be YOU, young lady if you don't stop exercising so much!"

Anyhow, while reading this atrocity, I was reminded of all of my neurotic, perplexing phobias. I thought of many (including my hypochondriac insanity and my unnerving and prejudice fear of midgets), however, I have chosen to write about just one; the one that may actually kill me.

Above our bed there is a ceiling fan. We hate each other like Tom and Jerry, which is strange because I essentially gave birth to the wretched thing. I picked it out of a Walmart lineup like it was the cutest in a line of ugly orphans. I hired the guy to come hook it up. I personally watched the guy stand on my bed and screw it into the ceiling. The ceiling fan is alive because of me! And yet it hates me. Perhaps it has a ceiling fan Daddy complex?

It started with a jerk - more of a shake or a shimmy, but that $25 piece of crap started moving on me. It startled me the first time it happened. It wasn't much, but it scared me enough to give me nightmares that night.

In my dream, the light bulb of the ceiling fan becomes a sharp, jagged mouth. It began laughing at me, a demented precursor to what would happen next. The ceiling fan then began to shake loose, it's arms becoming short, stubby human arms. It finally freed itself, flung through the air and decapitated me with one slice. As my head fell to the floor, I could see my limp body lying above me while the ceiling fan continued to laugh and then look for my wife.

That was 2006. From that night on, I have been downright petrified of that slimy fan. Some nights I just lie on my back and curse at the thing. I know that it is just waiting to fall, terrorizing and humiliating me until I weep like a willow or some other crying topiary.

My fear is confounded by one truth: if that thing ever falls, it won't be on my head. I have done some measurements and it is much more likely to land in my lap, folding me over in excruciating pain and limiting my ability to reproduce forever. I have spent many wakeful nights, tossing and turning as the fan seems to get louder and louder, taunting me until finally I move to the couch.

I hate the blasted thing. The entire saga has given me one more life lesson: Always spend more than twenty five bucks on a ceiling fan.

I am getting SOOOO OLD! (But I still kick butt at football)

I would have been okay if we would have made teams based on length of hair, like someone had suggested. I would have simply pulled up my shirt, proudly displayed my 8 inch chest hair, proclaimed myself the winner and we would have been done with it. Buy NOOOO... someone had to go and say, "Everyone line up - oldest to youngest."

Besides being the oldest child in my family, I don't believe I have ever been the oldest at anything in my life. I suppose that once at the age of eleven, I was the oldest kid in my swim class - but that was only because it was the last class available and it also didn't hurt that the teacher was a seventeen year old goddess by the name of Sarah.

(Actually, I do not remember what her actual name was, only that she looked like a young Jennifer Connelly. Her name may actually have been Sarah though. I was really into listening to Starship alone in my room at the time - and there were definitely storms operating in this girl's eyes.)

So, there I was, standing in left field, involved in a pickup game of football between men and youth - apparently the oldest man on the planet. I looked around. "I'm 33", I thought. Certainly, with all these guys here with clearly shorter chest hair, there must be SOMEONE older than 33.

And then it dawned on me: I was perhaps the only person out there that had even heard the "Sarah" song. Further, I was probably the only chum on the playing surface that had even considered building a city on rock and roll. Seriously, had any of these freckle-faced innocents even thought about getting out of my dreams and into my car? (Okay, I am not sure that reference even makes sense because: 1. I am not sure that is even a Starship song - and - 2. Their not in my dreams and why would I want any of them in my car? I drive a Hyundai Elantra... A Hyundai Elantra! I wouldn't want to get it all sweaty.)

I'm still trying to get over the shock of being "the oldest". Sure, I have begun to notice signs of my immanent aging (death). For example, every time I step on a toy, my first instinct is to light it on fire and throw it across the room while screaming obscenities at it. Lately, I have also been catching myself saying things like "young man". "Young man, will you please bring me my seltzer to settle my stomach?" Happens all the time. Finally, I got up to go to the bathroom three times last night! It was weird because the only thing I had to drink was all that seltzer that nice young man had brought me.

I saw the other day that Brendan Frasier had just turned 41. Keanu Reeves is almost 46. Yes, they are awful actors, but they are also older than me and I find the fact that they are both older and awful oddly comforting. Tiger Woods is two months older than me and whenever he calls, he asks that I don't peak before he does.

I guess I can only expect more and more of being the elderly man on duty. In my years I have gained wisdom - double the wisdom than most wise people half my age. Thus, I have four times the amount of wisdom as a wise person that is seventeen. I have ten times the wisdom of a stupid seventeen year old. (I just did the math).

Nothings gonna stop me now

Therefore, I am old, wise and still play football like a pro. In fact, here is some footage of our game the other day. (I am the handsome guy. For some reason, some camera guys from Wrangler showed up to watch me play)

No you may not Calder!

We were driving home from St. George today when, out of nowhere, we had the following conversation with our three-year-old, Calder. (FYI - We normally never have these types of conversations... ever!)

Calder: Mom... can we cut off my penis today?

Me: OW! Calder, that would hurt so bad!

Calder: No, it wouldn't!

Me: YES, IT WOULD!

Calder: NO IT WOULDN'T!

Lincoln: Yeah Calder, that would really hurt!

[About 20 seconds pass. The only sound is Lincoln giggling uncontrollably and Cathi and I holding it in. Finally, Calder breaks the silence]

Calder: So, can we do it today then mom?

Cathi: NO!

Calder: Why mom?

Cathi: How would you go pee pee Calder?

Calder: Magic.

He is so weird.

I swear, that is exactly how the conversation went. Neither Cathi or I am too concerned. Calder is about as boy as it gets - he loves fighting and getting dirty and motorcycles and sports. Plus,. if you know Calder, you know he says stuff just to get attention or to be funny. Apparently it worked because Lincoln could not stop laughing for the next 20 minutes.

The Life and Times of the Cheeseboy Scouter. Chapter 1: A Scout is... a Dork (generally speaking)

This is the first in a series on scouting thoughts and memories. Unless of course, this post reeks to high heaven – in which case, I promise to make this a singular post and allow those in high heaven enjoy the rancid odor.

I became an Eagle Scout at age 14 or 13, but I can’t say that I am particularly proud of this fact. Sure, I’ll admit I loved the fringe aspects of scouting; the goofing around with my pals, the late night Capture the Flag tournaments, the trips to Lake Powell - but mostly I liked the goofing around with my pals. But I sincerely do not believe that the actual scouting: the bird watching, the basket weaving and the boondoggle, were anything more than hoops I had to jump through to hang out with my friends. (As a matter of fact, there may have been a “hoop jumping” merit badge, but I undoubtedly went for the easier option: loop skipping)

It may seem as though I have a love/hate relationship with scouting – which is entirely true. I love everything about it; except for the fact that it is dorky. It may be the dorkiest thing on the face of the planet.

Undoubtedly, there are many men out there that are unabashedly offended at my assertion that scouting is dorky. To you men I say: pull the handkerchief from over your eyes! (The handkerchief with the pristine scout symbol on it that you keep securely folded away on the top shelf of your closet when it is not over your eyes) Look, scouting is luxuriously dorky, it’s movingly dorky, it’s over the top, colossal dorky. Don’t believe me? I have proof! Allow me to run down a few facts:

Scouts are required to wear a uniform that includes knee high socks, a slide belt, a goofy hat and of course the geek robes of all geek robes: the neckerchief (with accompanying hand painted slide… 75 cents at the trading post). All of the clothing is green.

Scouts do campfire cheers that would make Screetch squirm on his log benches they put around campfires.

A true scout’s favorite pastime is holding a stick on the fire and watching it burn until he swings it in the air and his leader yells at him. He then puts a new stick in the fire and the entire charade begins again.

Scouts spend an inordinate amount of time learning to tie knots for no good reason at all. I am often asked by the teenaged students I tutor at Sylvan, “When in real life am I ever going to use this?” Clearly, there is no good answer to this type of slimy, teenaged weaseling to get out of work. However, this past week I replied, “Oh yeah, well when I was 14, I had to learn how to do a Fisherman’s Hanging Noose Slip thread and do you think have ever used that stupid knot once since! Well, you’re right – no I haven’t; but I learned it just the same! And I liked it!”

One of my life mottos is: Sometimes the best way to answer an unintelligent question is with an even more unintelligent answer.

ANYWAY, if this was not proof enough that scouting is a dorky venture, let us look at the way they are portrayed in the popular media.

Television has never been kind to scouts. From Adam Sandler’s Canteen Boy to…well Adam Sandler’s Canteen Boy, we scouts have never been placed in a positive light. They are shown as fruity, loopy and a little backward. Assuredly, somebody smooth and sexy like David Hasselhoff or Maury Povich would never be caught dead wearing a sashed uniform on TV.

And let us not (or knot) forget the goofiest portrayal of all of a scouter: the kid on “Up”. Chubby, awkward and sloppy, of course the best and only thing that this kid had going for him is his undying love for his troop. He has all the uncanny, dorky scout characteristics: He is helpful, friendly, obedient, thrifty, hungry, borderline idiotic etc. Clearly, when it comes to popular media, the scouting image has a long way to go. (A step above “slobbering imbecile” would a step in the right direction.)

I know exactly what most of you are thinking: Well… Abe, since when are you above being dorky? You are the king of dorky! To which I would reply: Yes, I know – and I thank you for seeing the true dorkiness that resides inside of me. However, the dorkiness that encompasses scouting is a different kind of dorky, - a special kind of dorky. A dorky that blinds the 45-year-old overweight woman into wearing the way too tight green pants… again. A dorky that makes grown adults gather once a month at church buildings to discuss things like fire starting and pottery.

That being said, I will readily admit (but am not exactly proud) that I am a scouter through and through. I still have the sash, I will still sit in an “Eagle’s Nest” and I was even a Scoutmaster for five years. I will get to that later.

I would love to start my own, rival-scouting program. I’d call it something like “The Lost Boys” or “Goonies” or “The Wild Bunch”. No dorky aspects of scouting would be allowed, just a bunch of fellows causing mischief and telling stupid jokes. As for uniforms – I don’t care what you wear, as long as it does not involve a neckerchief. Of course, holding sticks in the fire is still highly encouraged.