Priorities

Sometimes I have to wonder about our newspaper. This morning's front page had an article about Israel bombing Lebanon and killing hundreds of people--and above that was a town gathering together for a memorial of the town mascot... A CHICKEN! that had been killed by a pit bull at the beginning of the month. Actually, I guess it says more about Americans than about the newspaper that reports them.

Split seams

This morning I saw someone on the bus who had either gained a lot of weight since he bought his hat or else he REALLY liked a hat that was too small but was determined to make it work. The hat was fitted, so there wasn't any way to adjust it--other than ripping the seam out. I have to wonder if he cut it himself or if it was like ripping the crotch in you pants--one morning he went to put on his hat and heard a loud RIIIIP as he pulled it on.

Speaking of which, I remember one time my dad took my brother and me to some sporting event at an indoor arena. My brother put on a pair of bellbottom jeans that the outside seam was ripped all the way up to his knee. He didn't care, but my dad told him to go change his pants. Well, not to be bothered with having to take off those pants and finding another pair of pants that were clean, he did what anyone else would do in that situation... he "fixed" the pants by holding the seam together with toothpicks! This held up long enough to pass inspection by dad, and we all headed to the game. Well, when we were walking to our seats in the arena, we walked by an air conditioning vent and the force blew the toothpick-held seam wide open. He was like a little boy version of Marilyn Monroe, with flowing demin flapping in the wind. My dad just laughed and my brother could care less.

COOOOOOOOL!

How appropriate that Margaret was my 4,000th customer today at 3:49! That's how many hits Google gets in like 2 seconds!

Not the only Simpsons quoter

I'm constantly getting ribbed about making Simpsons quotes throughout every conversation I'm in (although I can't help it--they are so germane to modern American culture that their hijinks are relevant to any circumstance I could find myself in) Anyway, I was vindicated yesterday when I was reading the paper and in two different articles... in two different sections of the paper used Simpsons quotes in articles that weren't about the Simpsons. See, if the newspaper can legitimately use their quotes to further their story, then I certainly can.

Pioneer Day

July 24th is a state holiday in Utah, but it passed with nary a comment here in Oregon. The Twenty-fourth of July is Pioneer Day--the day that Brigham Young and his entourage (and by entourage I mean entourage and not a veiled euphemism for all his wives--they came later after the Conflict Resolution Center was completed) first entered the Salt Lake Valley back in 1847. The entire state holds celebrations, reenactments, parades, floor-length calico dress fashion shows, and non-alcoholic and non-caffeinated beverage swilling in remembrance of the event. I remember the very first 24th of July I spent in Utah. I was only 8 and we were visiting my great-grandparents in a tiny farming town in central Utah. The town had just gotten paved roads and they were anxious to show them off with a grand parade--a parade in which my brothers and I were especially eager to participate. The night before the parade, my great-grandfather helped us make a covered wagon with a little red wagon, willow branches, and a bed sheet. The sign printed on it read "Three Crows bound for Idaho." We were so proud of that wagon and couldn't wait for the big day to show off... not only the cool covered wagon but also our fancy new school clothes that we'd bought in Salt Lake on the way down to Emery. It was the 70's, so obviously we'd picked out ringer t-shirts and extreme bellbottomed jeans. And since I was on the "husky" side, my shirt and jeans looked like they were painted on they were so tight. (Can you believe that jeans manufacturers didn't make husky fancy pants?) We just knew we'd wow all those small-town hicks with our fancy clothes and big city ways--and by big city, I mean a large town in Wyoming.

After a night of fitful sleep, haunted by dreams of crossing the plains in a tie-died covered wagon and disco ball hanging over the campfire, we rose and scarfed down our breakfast and rushed out to get the wagon out of the barn. To our horror, we found the white bedsheet COVERED with brown specks--flies had landed on the clean fabric during the night and left little gifts to let us know they'd been there. We were pretty grossed out--not enough to not want to be in the parade, mind you--but still! We made our way to the staging area--about a block away (which is easy, since every point in the town was only "a block away" from every other point). We got in line and noticed that the kids in front of us were dressed up as Indians on rocking horses with wheels attached! That was in the days that my brother and I had long hair--so I'm sure it looked ridiculous that the blonde kids were dressed in buckskin on horseback and the brown kids with long hair were dressed in 70's disco wear pulling a covered wagon. My little brother was supposed to ride in the wagon while my other brother and I pulled it. Well this didn't sit well with him--he screamed the entire length of the parade and made our trip as miserable as our pioneer ancestors' trip across Nebraska. At the time, we thought he just wanted to pull the wagon with us, but now, years later and knowing about his OCD and germaphobia, he was probably having an anxiety attack being surrounded by all those fly droppings.

After the parade, there was a town picnic and a greased pig contest--featuring a pig greased with MOTOR OIL!! My brother insisted on participating in that, and despite his flowing jeans, somehow caught the little piglet and wouldn't hear of leaving it with my great-grandparents. We ended up putting it in a crate and bringing it back with us to Wyoming in our van--a van that smelled like motor oil until the day we sold it. We ended up eating that pig when it was full-grown, and with all the motor oil it surely absorbed through its skin, the meat never did stick to any of our pans.

Hot springs revenge

Years ago--like in the 90's--I would make the sinful and debauched hike up to the hot springs south of Provo on a quite regular basis. Little did I know that those visits would result in me falling victim to a curse that would completely destroy my adolescent sense of invincibility as well as my career as a foot model. Ahh, those were the days--going to Taco Time classes during the week and flying to Maine for L.L. Bean photo shoots on the weekends. All that came to a crashing halt when I discovered that I'd contracted an STD! Yes, I was the victim of a Sulphur-scented water Transmitted Disease...a toenail fungus! Infected from the murky waters of the hot springs. At first I was in denial, but as the STD became more and more obvious, my modelling contracts dried up. Soon I was left with the prospect that I would have this curse--bestowed by a wrathful god angered at my frequenting such a sin filled and despicable place (there WAS nudity there, after all!!)--for the rest of my life. My life went downhill--I stopped wearing sandals; I swam with my socks on; I couldn't even go to church barefoot anymore. It was a living hell! Imagine, then, my interest when I started seeing commercials for nail fungus drugs--you know, the ones with the little monster that looks like a cross between E.T. and George from Seinfeld. The heavens opened up and I thought--here is my ticket to regaining my foot model career and chance to go to the city pool without moon boots on. The first chance I got, I asked my doctor about it and she said that since it was considered cosmetic, my plan didn't cover it so I'd have to pay out-of-pocket. This amounted to $700 to $800 per treatment and it could sometimes take 3 to 4 treatments! Despite the cost, I was still a little intrigued by the prospect of a cure--until the doctor went on to tell me that I'd also have to come in every other week to get my liver tested, as the drug has the potential to cause liver damage! The money was one thing (I could recoup that with a couple shoe photo shoots, right?), but risking the organ that filters all my Diet Pepsi was going too far. I decided against the drug and was about to turn to witchcraft when as a last resort, I turned instead to that source of all knowledge--both true and fictional...the Internets! Of course! If anything had the potential solution to overcoming this heavy burden it would be some quack's website. Sure enough, I found LOTS of cures: soaking in cornmeal mush; applying Vick's Vap-o-Rub, rubbing the affected nails with wild boar bacon, preferably a boar slaughtered on Midsummer Night's Eve by a virgin using a silver-plated bread knife. I decided to try one of the cures listed. The cornmeal thing sounded weird, and even though I had a wild boar handy, I had NO idea where to find a virgin, so I decided to try to Vap-O-Rub. I've been faithfully applying it for a month now--unfortunately since nails don't grow that fast, it will take about 6 to 9 months to see if it works or if I've been duped. If I meet success with this treatment, I'll post a picture from the Nike sandal photo shoot on St. Croix I'm hoping to get. If it doesn't work, I'll have to start hunting up a virgin that would be willing to kill a wild boar next summer.

Trapped

We're on day three of the heat wave that is ravaging out landscaping. Saturday's forecast was for 106, but compliments of some early morning clouds, we only got up to 95 degrees but unfortunately the clouds produced a humidity of 78 degrees! That's more like something that should be in the South or a Volkswagen van without air conditioning. We've essentially been trapped in our house for the past few days. We ventured out to see a movie and to go get some food--since there was no way we wanted to cook in the house. If this global warming thing pans out, I think we'll have to cave in and buy central air or move to Norway.

Speaking of Venus-like heat, I remember when Margaret and I returned to Lewiston, Idaho after our honeymoon to Glacier Park. We got married in August, but up in northern Montana--in the mountains, nonetheless--it was nice and cool. We had sweaters on the whole time and sat around the fireplace in the lodge at night to take the chill off. Well, at the conclusion of our trip, returning to Lewiston to 110 degree heat to a house that we'd rented but had never actually been in before, without any ventilation, that had been sitting closed up in 100+ heat for days, we were in for a rude awakening! The house was stone block construction, which absorbed heat throughout the day and radiated it all night. You know the principle of a brick oven? We were the pizzas slowly roasting in it. It probably wouldn't have been such a shock, but having come from the chilliness of Glacier Park it felt like we were moving on to the surface of the sun. I still remember going up to Wal-Mart to get a fan. The two of us just stood in front of all the fans in the aisle as the reality of our situation washed over us--this is REAL! WHAT have we DONE? While in Montana it was easy to imagine that we were just having a vacation and that our lives would go back to college-age irresponsibility at the conclusion. The heat was really a metaphor for such a huge life change and here we were looking for a solution--at WAL-MART!!! It was probably more traumatic for Margaret, who had never been to a Wal-Mart before--and here she was, making first real married purchase and her new husband brings her to WAL-MART. Fortunately it all worked out--and my parents took pity on us and bought us an air conditioner shortly thereafter. But we still have that trusty fan we bought on that fateful night--and just like the two of us, it's still going strong. I don't know if that's a statement on Wal-Mart merchandise or on the metaphor of our lives--maybe it's a little of both.

The peanut butter solution

This should come as no surprise, but this morning I had a chocolate chip bagel with peanut butter for breakfast (along with Diet Coke--and I'm proud to report FEWER than 100 ounces of it!) Anyway, sometimes the peanut butter melts from the toasted bagel and if the hole is too big, the peanut butter will drip out of it. Well, that happened this morning--unbeknownst to me. Margaret and I enjoyed our Noah's Bagels experience and we got up to leave. As soon as we go outside, Margaret looked down and noticed that I had a big gob of peaut butter on the fly of my pants. I was able to get it off, but for some reason Margaret wasn't impressed when I said that I could just tell people, "Well, you see, my wife really likes peanut butter..." Geesh!

Crazy bus riders

This morning's bus ride was interesting, as usual. There was one of those aging hippies who the 60's were REALLY good to on board. He was covered with tattoos and had that glazed look in his eyes that can only say one thing: half of my neurons are fried from marijuana and half of what's left is in a haze from that stuff I got from Moonshadow at Woodstock. Anyway, he was rambling to no one in particular the whole way downtown. One poor girl became the focus of his attention and he wouldn't stop talking to her--much to her horror and dismay. When he told her, "your face just lights up when you smile," Margaret and I had to hide behind our newspaper to keep from laughing (and to avoid eye contact--I didn't want to know what happens to my face when I smile--or even when I cringe.

That reminds me of a bus ride my roommate took to Salt Lake from Provo when I was in college. A mountain man-looking guy got on the bus in Provo. He looked like a cross between Grizzly Adams and the dusty drunk that was in every old Western--for the sake of the story, I'll call him Sophocles. Well, Sophocles sits down across from a good-looking college student and starts chatting her up. He keeps making comments and dropping hints and the girl is totally trapped there on the bus. Finally, some other guy tells Sophocles that she isn't interested. I'm sure the girl was terribly relieved that this knight in shining armor was coming to her rescue. Well, upon being rebuked, Sophocles stares down the other guy, pulls back his jacket, and reveals a 12" bowie knife! The guy takes one look at that and gets up and moves to the front of the bus leaving the poor girl to fend for herself! So it turns out her knight in shining armor turned out to be more of a weasel.

I don't know how the story ends--I imagine that the girl found out Sophocles was a polygamist prophet and hooks up with him, becoming wife 17 and today has 13 children, all trying to survive in their sod-roofed shack in a hardscrabble compound in the desert. So there--it DOES have a happy ending.

Surfing the heat wave

Checking the paper this morning, I glanced at the forecast and noticed, to my amazement, that Saturday's forecast is 106º!!! I've never seen a FORECAST that high--usually they're conservative in predicting daily highs. Hopefully they're just exaggerating and not being conservative with this. We only have air conditioning in one room of our house. (It's in the bedroom, but since it's a pretty high capacity air conditioner, if we leave it on all night, we often wake up FREEZING, only to step outside the bedroom and be roasted. Then, after breaking a sweat, go back into the walk-in cooler and get back under the quilt. It's crazy, but hey, it works for us.) Since we probably don't want to spend the weekend trapped in our bedroom with the air conditioner on full-blast, we'll have to think of other ways to cool off--like put our clothes in the freezer now in preparation or just go down to the river with no clothes.

Speaking of which, last year, Margaret and I were driving back to Portland along the Columbia River and there's a state park with a nude beach. Since we didn't have any swimsuits (we weren't planning on swimming when we left on the trip) we thought why not--we wouldn't see anyone we knew and it would give us a chance to cool off. We nervously pulled into the park and passed the clothed beach access and made our way to the other end of the park. The path that lead to the nude area had a large warning sign, cautioning the faint of heart that they might see naked people. Growing up innocent Mormons, we were pretty trepidacious about actually going through with it--public nudity ranking up there among mortal sins just under voting Democrat. We eventually goaded one another into it, despite our misgivings. We started down the beach path, wending our way through the willows. We walked and walked and WALKED, not sure when we'd get to the water. We finally made it to the river and, upon surveying the surroundings, noticed that there were only men around--we'd overshot the family area and stumbled onto the gay beach! Margaret said she didn't know about me, but that she was fine--none of the other beach-goers were giving her a second look. Despite her comfort with it, I proposed that we make our way back along the river to find the family area. In the end we didn't stay long--partly because it was so weird but more because there are parts of us that have NEVER seen sun and without sunblock we weren't willing to take any risks with sunburnt rear ends with a long drive still ahead of us.