I can't believe this is happening

article

mary kay, I'd like to talk to you today. In all honesty, I didn't read the whole article. After looking at your picture where I can see your roots, as well as your remarkable lack of actual skin. To give you credit i did skim the article, I now like you even less.

I quote,

"But there is a silent majority out there, a hallowed out middle that is looking for a voice”

I think you meant hollowed, but I’m not totally sure. Do you really think that there is a sanctified silent majority looking for a voice? Because I’m pretty sure that the heir of a self made Billionaire and his wife—who looks like she has had more work done on her than Frankenstein’s monster—are not the best faces for that majority.

I’m not even sure that you are the face of silent, nay, vocal minority. Fine, I’ll admit that maybe, somewhere, hiding in the corners of the WWW is a support gropu or discussion board dedicated to children who’ve inherited billions and subsequently spent it on research to keep their trophy wives in the same pristine condition as a marble sculpture.

Bwahahaha. I’m just kidding. I’m sure you’re a nice person. I’m sure that having your daughters open a twitter account or post videos on youtube is really going to bring your husband up to the contending position for president.

What makes this whole article absolutely priceless, and I do mean PRICELESS is the fact that there is an advertisement at the bottom for Mitt.

I guess, good Luck Jon? I’m not really sure what to say, especially since the ad space for your article was bought out by someone who is actually contending for the republican bid.

It probably would look super trashy of you now, but I would say that you should have your wife tone it down a bit. Look at the great women we’ve had living in the White House, Jackie Kennedy Onassis (I could also go, but I won’t because it’s Friday and I just need to go to bed, but I do totally have a thing for Lady Bird Johnson-no I’m just kidding. That is the sleep deprivation talking.)

OHHHHHH OHH, OMG, I’ve got it. Jon your wife is more the Marilyn-type. She had her attractive side, but she was just way too fake to be the first lady.

The Journey

This might be one of the most personal posts I've put up here. I decided though, that I was going to post about my experiences in Omaha. I feel it would be lying to myself and to my readers if I only published the funny things while omitting the more serious or personal observations.

So this video is from a song that I love. I heard it a little over two years ago, and since then it has been the song with which I end my jog, always sprinting to my final goal with the beat of the music. The video itself is a little terrifying--so Happy Halloween--but the message is really inspiring, reminding me that everyone falls, but it is the getting back up and giving it another go that is important. Trust me, this will tie in with the main subject of my post tonight.

I was reading come critical theory today and came to Russian Formalism. This is a broad theory, but the one author was talking about the similar streams found in all folktales; things such as the maiden in distress, the king, the hut, the old crone, and the quest.

The Quest is this trope where our hero goes off to accomplish something and then return (or in some instances not return) to be the triumphant Hero we now him (or her) as today.

On this quest, our protagonist needs to go through certain changes. Ulysses can't rescue his wife if he hasn't learned a few things first. Gawain leaves camelot a cocky little jerk, but comes back a wiser, humble knight.

I think this is such an appealing trope, not because it is cute, or convenient, or you-fill-in-the-blank, but because it is the most like real life. Everything we do is a journey or a quest after something. Think back at your life for a minute, at least I can clearly see it in mine.

When you go on vacation, what clothes do you pack? Or, what clothes do you buy on vacation?

When you go to a job interview, how do you dress?

When you go on a date, how do you act?

The answer to all of these questions is probably that you do things different from what you would have normally. On vacation we wear clothes that we normally wouldn't, we buy sandals or shorts that we won't wear again. At the job interview we comb our hair a certain way because it presents a certain image. On our date we do things we don't normally do because we want it to be a success.

All of this shows that we are on a journey. We buy these different clothes on vacation because we want to feel like we are someone else. We dress a certain way for the job interview because we want to present to the employer someone that we might not be regularly. On the date we might not always eat food so slowly, but we do it because we want to leave a good impression.

It isn't that we are lying, or trying to be deceitful, we are just trying to present something that we want to be when we hit the end of the story.

I'm thinking about all the different Journeys that I'm on, or that I've been on. Moving to Omaha was a Journey--IS a journey. The entire drive over I thought to myself, "well I'm going to change from the mistakes I've made before. I'm not going to mess up this time, like I did in the past. This is a chance for me to completely revolutionize myself." There have been plenty of things that I've regretted doing/not doing. I've had countless roommates, and even more acquaintances that I've ruined. I know that I've ruined them. I can be a real jerk to live with. you'll have a clean house, but you might not like me afterward because I'm so particular. This is just one aspect of this journey. Lets see, some of the others are:

I hated having a teacher tell me that I just wouldn't make a good teacher. I decided I was going to be a better student in order to prove her wrong.

I've always hated not being in shape. Body image is something I get so stressed about, and even though I've always worked out I've never looked the way I wanted to, so I decided that I was going to change that.

I've hated that I've only kissed one girl, and that I got turned down for more dates then I can even count. So I decided that I was going to find me a nice girl, and have a relationship, and then maybe break up and have one or ten more.

I've hated that I somehow managed to ruin friendships with roommates because of petty issues, so I decided that I was going to try and serve.

Journeys aren't fun! They take a lot of work, and even more patience, and most of the time I don't have the patience to work till the end. I was telling B that I was frustrated that I felt like I was giving so much effort to working out, and I wasn't seeing results. I had a real pathetic moment in the gym where I almost dropped the weight on my head because it was just too heavy, but I was so fed up with not being as in-shape as the other guys, that I wanted to just keep going even if it meant dropping the weight through my skull. I hate feeling like I put hours and hours in for homework, and still it doesn't make any difference on my test scores.

I probably could go on and on, but i won't. The fact is this is a journey. I'm the protagonist, and I accepted a HUGE challenge. Although it is rough, and a lot of work, it isn't all bad. Gawain had small victories along the way. I've had small ones as well. I might not have done as well on my test as I feel I deserved, but my paper is polished to perfection, and I'm submitting it to a conference tomorrow. I'm back up to running a really long way, and I might not be at my target weight yet, but I'm still losing. . . slowly. I might not be the best roommate, but at least as far as I can tell I haven't made anyone want to move away, or have me move out of the house.

The Journey isn't over. It really is just still at the beginning. If I were Gawain I would still be able to see Camelot. If I were Ulysses I would still be standing on the beach of Troy.

I'd like to issue a challenge. I don't care if you even let me know, but what is your journey? Figure it out, and don't avoid it. face it head on and just go.

It must be morning...

Cartoons portray morning as this glorious time where "Call to the Crows" from Rossini's William Tell plays magestically while rays of light cast a warm porange (thats my word for pinkish-orange. copyright) glow over the world. Animals wake up, rub their eyes and everyone begins to have a jolly good time together. Cute. No, really its cute, but it is so far from reality.

I've been up for more then an hour, and I haven't seen a hint of porange anywhere. gray would be the prevalent color outside. Also, mornings aren't as tranquil as I think most people believe. Before the sun was up a strange character known as medicus studentius of the dentus genus was already moving about. For those of you who don't speak latin this term refers to the elusive creature known as the Creighton Dental student. They were moving about and getting ready long before the sun came up. most of them hop in their cars and drive to campus well before the sun comes up. it is oddly reminiscent of vampires fleeing to their coffins in the morning. Oh well.

I also haven't heard anything by Rossini. Ya know what, forget it. forget Rossini. I would be completely content with a little Enya, or even silence (although Rossini would be a welcome change to the general clamor of the morning). B is an early-morning kind of guy. I have no problem with that, in fact it sort of acts as a reminder that I'm going to have to wake up in a few hours (This puts his wake up time in the 6:30 range, while mine is often closer to 10 AM. I'm lazy, whatcha gonna do about it?). The alarm clock on his phone reminds me of a song that I've only been able to remember while dreaming. Once I'm awake and conscious I can't even think of what his alarm clock sounds like, but when I'm asleep I hear it, I recognize that I hear it, and that I'm asleep and dreaming, and suddenly my dream takes a frantic turn (ohhhh like inception) and I'm on a quest to figure out what the song is. This morning I got one step closer. I've figured that it is a contemporary piece. I'll keep you posted.

What other noises are there?

Well there is the dog that lives upstairs, whose rhythmic snoring once terrified me because it sounded like a portal to Hell that was waiting to swallow me, but now it is kind of tranquil and helps me fall asleep like waves lapping against the side of a boat. He stops snoring around 3 AM and begins what I believe can only be a demonic dramatization of the Indi 500 where he runs around the room--his little nails clawing at the wood floor--for the rest of the night. It's terrifying. Much in the same way that I think it was terrifying for Roderick Usher to hear his buried-alive sister in the basement.

speaking of pits of hell. From my bed I can clearly hear the central air kick on. when the heater starts it makes a "click-click-click" noise until the gas catches fire and then the fan kicks on. This little symphony sounds something like this... click-click-click-proush-BHAAAAHROOOOOOOOM. its kind of exciting.

Also I'm not sure how many people live above me, but they must be terribly sleep deprived. They are up super late, and then get up super early. They are also loud. Those of you that know me might be thinking "well, this is the pot calling the kettle black!" Yes I'm loud, but nothing like this. I've been privy to all of their conversations, and lets just say that I know of a marriage that is on the rocks because someone forgot to "microwave dinner" while someone was getting their nails done. I sort of want to go microwave something for them, and just put it on their doorstep, but I think that would freak them out more than help.

Anyway, its morning, and I'm now awake, so I figured I'd write a little something.

Great Expectations Or How I was Disappointed by Hollywood--the Halloween Edition

My usual morning routine consists of cereal (with a schmeck of granola) maybe a glass of a NAKED fruit drink, and a little catching up with HULU on what happened last night on television. This morning, as I was preparing my cereal, HUlU's scrolling menu informed me that "Bram Stoker's Dracula" was available. I love all thing Gothic! I've even started this movie several times, but I usually fall asleep about ten minutes in. The thought of Winona Ryder and Keanu Reeves playing british people actually terrifies me. I'm never one to turn away from a good scare so I decided to give it another go.

I often wonder if te people who made this movie have ever actually read Dracula. I highly doubt it.

Besides Winona's terrible acting my favorite part has to be the funny faces that Keanu makes while trying to speak with an accent. He actually contorts his face when he speaks--probably because he knows that everyone is waiting for him to mess up. Anyway, for those of you thinking to watch it, I would say proceed with caution. They take a lot of artistic liberty with the story. watch maybe ten minutes, turn it off, and then come and ask me how the movie should have gone from there.

TSA

So I don't fly a whole lot. I know that there are jobs that require individuals to fly on an almost weekly basis, and I know that there are people who enjoy taking trips often enough that they really don't spend money on anything else. I encountered someone at the airport who fit into this category. He was a few people in front of me in the line to go through the body-scan thing. I was a little surprised when I got through the scanner and he was still waiting for his luggage. As I was putting on my shoes I could hear the TSA agent ask whose bag had the razor blades in it.

After being interrogated by the TSA--for what I believe was the shortest slap on the wrist for packing razor blades onto a plane--he came and sat next to me. I then learned how inconvenient these TSA regulations are because he has to buy new hair gel every time he flies. Being the polite and well mannered individual that I'm known for, I just listened to him complain, knowing full well that I had a blog i could come and write on. SOOOO. to you mr. Frequent-Flier I say, REALLY? Really. you fly so regularly, and yet somehow, somehow you've managed to not learn a lesson. We have regulations so that every plane doesn't turn into a bullet filled with human shrapnel. Besides, I had a 3.25 ounce deodorant in my bag (the regulation is that liquids have to be under 3 ounces) and I didn't get pulled over into a full body scan. I think the real problem was that you had a PACK OF RAZORS IN YOUR BAG. I understand that it must be hard going on a business trip and needing to shave. I don't have this problem. If I challenged a class of 5th grade boys...no 4th grade boys to a beard growing contest, they would all be in the 6th grade before I could grow a beard...oh and they would also all have grown beards sometime during their 5th grade year. Obviously I don't have to shave a whole lot. I shaved once before I left on my trip, and had a little stubble 4 days later. However, I don't think that you, Mr. Frequent-Flier, are any different. my experience has been that, although I can't grow a beard faster than most 10 year olds, I do grow beards faster than my asian friends. I'm sure you'd be fine going several days without a razor, and I really don't think your little outburst is going make a whole lot of difference, so just keep it to yourself--or go get a blog.

i love planes

So this morning I got on a plane from Omaha to head back to UT. I love planes. There is something great about the feeling of going hundreds of miles an hour and flying over the world. it is awe-inspiring to have such an expansive view of the world, and yet it is completely intimate because you can still make out details and famous landmarks. As our plane flew over Provo Ut I could clearly see the buildings on campus where I spent most of my undergrad, and I could even see the remnants of the tabernacle where i used to sing.

However i'm getting ahead of myself. The real reasons I lov flying are all the little things, and I do mean little. What airline executive tested out the chairs and said, "well these are just too big, there is just an inordinate amount of room. we don't want them thinking they've become members of the leisure class. For heavens sake! see if we can't jam in 2 or 7 more rows on this aluminum contraption." And that my dear readers, was the day that claustrophobia came into being.

I actually do love the little drinks, it is just enough to quench your thirst, but not enough to make you need to pee--which is a total blessing because the last thing i want to do with 100+ people watching me is go to the bathroom.

I also love the little stewardess. That might sound insensitive, but it isn't. She was a cute older asian-american with big glasses and a scarf showing her awareness of breast cancer. There was something about her personality that I think was getting on some peoples nerves (I don't think I've ever seen so many eyes roll so far into the back of peoples heads before). She, however, did not bother me. We totally got along, and I completely understood why she was repeating herself, especially to "frequent fliers"--People don't listen. It doesn't matter how many times you've flown an airplane, there is no fine print that allows you to disregard the rules because you know better, there is also no excuse for you to assume that your small coffin you have in tow is anything close to carry-on size. If these people would just listen from the get go my cute Asian-American-breast-cancer-aware stewardess wouldn't need to keep repeating herself at the top of her lungs.

back to the chair situation. I was able to book the last seat with extended leg room. I was all set to enjoy my flight when a woman came and sat next to me. I'll just come right out and say it, she was morbidly obese, and with the seatbelt extended to its furthest possible limits it was an amazingly tight fit. if the air marshall had seen this take place i'm sure he would have done something.

Here is my deal. I honestly do have a problem with tight spaces, so flying isn't the best fit for me, however it only makes matters worse when someone's back and sides are flopping over into my space.

I don't fault her for being overweight. while I don't believe in the "its my genes" argument I'll admit that the food available to almost all of society is nutrient deficient. What I do fault her for is the ensuing conversation we had. (transcript to follow)

lady: I'm sorry do you have enough room?

me: Oh yes thank you! (glancing politely, acknowledging presence, but said with the subtle anxiety which often accompanies claustrophobic anxieties).

Lady: Oh good, cause on my last flight the skinny lady next to me kept hitting her elbow into my side, and I was like GOSH you've got plenty of room, I'm stuck here next to the window and the wall.

me: (said something, that probably came out as an awkward sympathy laugh, but it also could have sounded like I was swallowing live fish...i'm not really sure at this point because I started to notice a bad stench that was a culmination of body odor and the stinky baby behind me).

While I feel bad that this woman has such a hard time fitting into normal seats it is certainly not the fault of "the skinny lady" who paid handsomely for her three cubic feet of space. If you are going to spill over outside of your space then you should probably be paying for it as well.

Anyway, i hope you all have a great day. My siblings are all here, and I haven't seen them or their kids in way too long. I'll write soon

the gym

Don't you love when you are writing something, and suddenly everything you've worked so hard to come up with just feels incorrect? I do. it is always a funny experience to think that whatever you were writing was truly substantial. several sentences before i was finished, and ready to hit publish the though came to me, "really? really, this is what you're going to post? for the whole world to see? lets not be so juvenile, if people wanted to hear the mumblings of what obviously was written by an emotional teenager, then they would go find a coffee house within 5 miles of a high school and listen to poetry."

I realized that is very much NOT the effect I wish to have on my blog, although there will always be space for emotional reminiscences, if there are too many of them no one will want to read it. Life is too short to always be covering it with rain clouds (Did you know that word can be hyphenated? Rain-clouds. huh, who knew?).

After that little realization I decided to erase what I'm sure was several pages and start over, A N D here we go.

Recently I've been going to the gym and lifting weights with my roommate B. B, though probably half my size is ripped like a freakin' tank. With an ample dose of humility he encourages me to continue lifting, even though it is embarrassing to the Nth degree to have to remove all the weights he puts on the bar and just lift the bar itself. What I laugh at is gym culture. I'm sure that if i decided to get a PhD. in anthropology, or biology or something else, then I could make a great dissertation about the role of the Alpha Male.

For those of you not really familiar with this, there are certain herd of animals where it is mostly women with a dominant male. This male drives off all the baby males early on in order to prevent them from stealing his women. Eventually he will be overthrown and some new pup will step in and take over.

never in my life have I seen more people vying for the role of Alpha male then at the gym.

Just last night we were getting to the end of the workout. Now we try and mix things up, and provide a little bit of variety. B says this is to help the muscles (but he could tell me it is because there is a ghost in the room that will attack anyone who uses the same machine too often, and I would believe him. I'm pretty naive. the real reason is probably that he is stronger than I am, and is sick of being stuck at the same weight level I am). after 12 sets of Triceps and 11 of chest we were ready to finish our last bench press. We lowered the weight on the bar and just decided to do 50 reps. My arms were shot, and this seemed like an exceptionally high goal, so I took the bar (remember, you can't get any lower weight then a bar) and I struggled to get through with ten. I decided I would just keep going in sets of ten while B threw more weight on his bar and was working for 100.

On about rep 25 I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, that someone was standing off to the side watching me. My anxiety levels jumped through the roof. not only was I already feeling self conscious about ONLY lifting the bar, but now I had an audience. I decided to pay him no heed. Eventually I made it to rep 40, and he was still there starring. As I started my way to rep 45 I lost it. With a look akin to Norman Bates or some other fictional serial killer, I turned my face and starred directly at him, and making eye contact. I'm sure the 45 lbs bar, and the blood rushing to my face contributed, but I've never seen anyone get so flustered in my life. he quickly fumbled with a dumbbell and started his workout.

Listen Alpha Male! i understand that you've been at this whole, gym, thing for a very long time. I'm impressed that you can lift so much weight, but if you think starring at me is going to make your workout go any faster you're wrong. Also, I'm the king-do you hear me-the king of awkward (please note the blog post titled Ebony and Ivory).

Is this a common occurrence in gym culture, this-eyeing-people-up-and-down? Shouldn't they maybe be more encouraging like the trainers on the Biggest Loser? I don't see Jillian casting disparaging glances at those trying to get in shape. I do see fear, but that is a different story. Anyway Gym Monkey, unless you want me to go all-Norman-Bates on you, I suggest you get back to your own workout.

This took me way longer to write than I thought. Wish me luck as I finish my paper for school.

Because I can't watch this without crying

I love the city corespondent Stefon. There is something about the way he describes things that makes me feel like every club he suggests is actually a real place. enjoy

What I'm sure will be the end of me.

I like to think of myself as an outdoors kind of guy. I’ve always loved going camping, and hiking, horseback riding, and toilette papering (those are especially good times). I even prefer to go jogging outside. Running on a treadmill is so monotonous—except for that 1 minute when you hope off and walk somewhere and you feel like you’re going a million miles an hour. I decided this morning to go jogging early instead of waiting to do it in the evening and it was probably the worst decision I could have made, not because I was attacked, or I stepped in poop, simply because I was able to see all the wildlife around me (Wildlife is an overstatement. The zoo is completely obscured by trees). There were spiders everywhere. I think I’ve only seen a few minutes of the movie Arachnophobia, but it was enough to convince me that if I’m not careful in eradicating pests then they will multiply faster than a herd of bunnies and make it their soul purpose to hunt me down.

How are there so many spiders in Omaha, and more importantly, why are they so huge? If I wake up one morning and I’m dried out like a husk of corn, just know that I enjoyed my run but that the spiders followed me home and sucked me dry.

Ebony and Ivory

I should say that I actually just threw this together and haven't even proof-read it because I seriously need to do homework.

I really should be doing homework, but if I have to read another page of Sigmund Freud then I will probably hang myself, and this has nothing to do with some infantile urge to sleep with my mother—as he would argue—it really just has to do with the fact that I’m bored. I did get only little gem from him which I will carry with me the rest of my days, “I’m not afraid of you, I defy you, I have a penis.” I don’t really know when I’m going to be presented with an opportunity to incorporate that into conversation in polite company, but I guess that is what blogs are for.

I’m a very reserved person. I enjoy looking my best, reading a book, having political and spiritual discussions with those around me, and basically living the way I imagine gentlemen did in the 17^th and 18^th century. I might even go as far as to say that I want to be Dr. Frasier Crane. His vocabulary amazes and astounds me.

Very rarely do I find myself wanting to break out of my civilized mode, but I’ve developed a theory thanks to my friends C and S.

C and I are two pees in a pod, and went so far as to describe us as Ebony and Ivory. He being the pasty white and string-bean shape I’ve come to associate with animal tusks, while I’m the obviously more sultry, opulent and darker ebony. He took offense to this, and I’m not so sure if it was because someone realized that his general shape does remind one whitewashed bean stalks, or because he wanted to be ebony. After some quick thought I realized that he was in fact ebony—at least on occasion. C manages to keep his ebony locked in a cell somewhere inside of his soul. I imagine that it looks something like Diana Ross with big wild hair. Occasionally Mrs. Ross pull one over on the guards—probably through the use of promised goods such as clothing or pastries. As she clubs them over the head—with what I assume would be animal tusks because when you are that white on the outside I’m sure you’re just bursting with stores of ivory—I can see her making a break from the cell. As she sprints up stairs to get to the entrance she grows louder and louder until at last she explodes in a giant flamboyant mess screaming and singing and gyrating all over the place.

Never does this happen within the confines of C’s home or anywhere closer to privacy. This inevitably happens in someplace public where children are present. While it causes some trepidation among families they should probably be grateful that C’s inner mrs. Ross escaped when she did, because it allows that to sit down with their children and answer the question, “mommy what’s wrong with that guy?”

Disclaimer- C, I love you, you are hilarious. S. I’m so impressed with where you’re at in your life. The pics I saw of you while FB stalking where just amazing. You’ve really gone through an impressive transformation and I love you for that.

Mrs. Ross, please don’t sue me.