“Where’s your car dude?”

“Hey what happened to your car?” “Hey do you need ride anywhere?” “Whoa, must be something serious, huh?” I nod and wave on coworker after colleague as they come out of the office at the end of the day. I suppose calling AAA to come and tow my car might have been better suited for a time other than 4:30. Yep, right on schedule, the tow truck arrived at 5:00 and everyone leaves at around 5:01. I love my Jeep, but I hate my Jeep. Which I guess brings to mind how much I love my Jeep. Even as it leaks out transmission fluid on the pavement, like a tall bottle of Aunt Jemima’s pancake syrup over waffles in the morning.

“I've seen some crazy stuff in my time, but that... was... AWESOME. Oh, sorry about your car, man.”

Considered the founding fathers of the automotive world, Karl Benz (1844-1929) and Gottfried Daimler (1834-1900), both created the first gasoline-fueled motor vehicles, just within a short time of each other between 1885 and 1886. I imagine, though, that the history books failed to mention the events of 1887. Benz found that his battery was dead and had to call up Daimler only to find that Daimlers transmission was somehow mysteriously leaking. Because they hadn’t actually built the engines, they had to call up the guy who did, Nikolas Otto. And they didn’t exactly know what was wrong, so they were totally at Otto’s mercy, damned to pay whatever he deemed requisite. And while Otto worked on the Auto (snicker), oh he found out that Daimler's T-case needed both plugs replaced and the radiator is leaking too. And so not only did they father the automobile, but the automobile mechanic as well.

Which brings me to one of my frustrations. I don’t know cars. I know about as much about cars as my brother knows Chinese or my dad knows HTML. The way I see it, most teenager nerds go one of two ways. They either become a gearhead and know everything about cars and how they work and how to fix them or they become a computer nerd and know everything about computers and how to fix them. Somehow choosing cars then made you not a nerd, cause chicks dig cars. And the size of your RAM doesn't seem to matter. And thanks to Wolfenstein 3D, I went the computer route. “Wait you mean this game lets me pretend to shoot guns and kill Nazis? And I’ve been using my imagination all this time!” This knowledge and these skills have served me well, its not that I regret them, in fact many of my jobs I’ve gotten because of them. Its just that when something goes wrong with my car, I am helpless. I feel like my mom when the toolbar in Microsoft Word disappears or when the computer boots to a black screen with the simple statement “operating system not found.” The only things I am sure of are: it is going to cost me more than I have to get it fixed and I wasn’t planning on it happening.

“I asked for a car, I got a computer. How's that for being born under a bad sign?”

“Well, welcome to car ownership,” my dad says to console me. It’s like getting shot and being told “Welcome to the army.” Yeah, I guess I knew this was part of the deal, but it doesn’t mean I like it. Things have been running well, except for a bit of transmission problem a year ago, until this summer, when I got shot three times. First it was my front left brake locking closed "Dude, what's that smell?" (new front brakes), then it was a battery that could no longer hold a charge, needing a jump everytime I wanted to drive...everytime (new battery). Now it’s the transmission, again, leaking out fluid as fast as I can pour it in (4 bottles of fluid so far and I’m waiting to here back from the Transmission Specialists) and this all since the beginning of May. I just wish that cars didn’t break down and need maintenance. I wish my car was indestructible. Now that I think about it I wish my body wouldn’t fall apart and was indestructible too…and I could fly, shoot lazers from my eyes and move things by thinking about it. Yeah, that would be rad.

“Now we went through this yesterday. That "jeep" is actually an armored car of some kind. It was made to withstand bombs, I can't just rip it apart with a crowbar.”

It could be worse, I could have totaled my car and had it be my fault. Then I’d have to pay to have my car fixed AND feel the almost literal spike in my insurance premiums. A little coolant pipe breaking isn’t the end of the world. It could be worse. “Yeah, well it could be a lot better too...

...but worse is more likely.” -- Calvin

“Young fool... Only now, at the end, do you understand...”

I talked to Tom today. He was leaving in an hour for China. Leaving his life of teaching in Japan, ending one chapter and beginning another. It reminded me of when I left Hong Kong. And when I left the dorms after my freshman year, and when I graduated from high school and when…ok I guess it reminded me of a lot of things. It reminded me of all the times I had watched an era in my life come to a close.

I still remember the last night I spent in our house in California. It was the August before I started 5th grade. Colin and I slept in bunk beds in the first room on the left at the end of the hall way opposite the top of the stairs. I remember laying there and thinking. This is the last time I will be sleeping here in MY bed. I had spent the last 5 years in the same room. From Kindergarten until that moment, nearly half my life, this had been my room, my sanctuary. And in a week, it would be someone else’s. I was sad and scared about going to a new school, making new friends, and living in a new house. And yet these things also intrigued me.

This same scenario would be played out again and again in my life. I felt similar “sadness” to watch all of my freshman buddies go our separate ways, making promises to keep in touch and eventual rendezvouses, but knowing the “good times” were now gone. Looking out the window of the airplane over Hong Kong, giving mental waves and head nods to the skyline, locales, and people below. Waving to him as he walks through the doors of the MTC and onto Kentucky; hugging him one last time before Brazil; putting my arm around his shoulders the last time he will be shorter than me. Sitting on the front steps of Plymouth 1, just talking. Thinking, “This was a great chapter, this was a great era.”

“All right, let's see..."It was the best of times, it was the BLURST of times?" You stupid monkey.”

I have so many chapters in the story of my life, and so many yet to come. But that never seems to make it any less difficult to finish the last line and turn the page. Sure great things lay in wait on the pages that follow. But the potential of the future is sure hard pressed to trump the joys of the past and present. The past is certain and finite; the future is not. And perhaps that’s the only time we really notice, when things are good. When things are bad, the transition is seamless and with a sigh of relief. “Anything is better than this.” But I find myself with many more good chapters than bad. And I don’t think it’s bad to mourn the passing, it’s how we cope, its how we adapt.

“Yeah but it's easier for plants. I mean they have no memory. They just move on to whatever's next. With a person though, adapting’s almost shameful. It's like running away.”

I suppose that life is not so compartmentalized after all. Like any good book, the chapters build on themselves and through the course of the work you watch the characters grow and develop. Without the division of chapters, there is no structure, no framework. And with out chapters in life, you don’t grow or progress. You languish and stagnate, you plateau. I suppose it’s just a bit difficult to step out of the comforting warmth of the present to the cold chill of the future. Like getting out of my bed and putting on my cold jeans on a winter morning in Utah. I dread it, but I acclimate and before long I forget about the warmth of my bed. I may even try to go back to it after class or come back from work. But it’s not the same, when its time to move on, you must move on. And you can never come back. And in the words of Metallica, it’s “sad but true.” You can never go home again. I mean…I mean you can go home, physically, like to visit for thanksgiving and for family reunions, unless its just to expensive. I guess the meaning of it is more metaphorical, as in you can not go back in time and relive the events and adventures of your youth because once you grow up and leave your home, then…oh never mind.

And so ends another era of my life, the close of another chapter. I found out that I have a roommate moving in. Actually, two. They came by and are moving in this weekend. I don’t think I like them. Or maybe I just don’t want to change.

I guess I never do

“You guys are brothers?”

I don’t like blackberries. I never have. Unfortunately, behind our house in Medford, lining the cow pastures, were mounds of wild blackberry bushes. This is unfortunate, because my mom loves blackberries. And with five children out of school for the summer, with nothing better to do than play Sega Genesis and swim in the pool, you have a fine blackberry picking crew. As a child, the bane of my summer existence was job lists. Everyday, or what seemed to be everyday, my mom had a list of jobs that needed to be done before we could play with our friends. And inevitably, 3-4 days of the week while the blackberries were in season, we were sent into the cow pasture with bowls and buckets. I’m sure we made a multitude of references to slaves in the cotton fields and jews in death camps, all ignorant and far-fetched comparisons, but highly logical and descriptive from the views of eight and ten year-olds. But we would head out, my three brothers and I, out to turn a half hour task into 2-3 hour project; getting distracted by “wildlife”, fighting, and just joking around. Eventually our bowls would be “mostly” full and we would decide to come back, hoping that we had enough to fill our worker’s quota. It would be a little after noon or so and we would walk or ride our bikes to Roxy Ann Market, and by tootsie rolls or sugar daddies for dimes and quarters and even get soda pop in bottles. We’d go swimming and play video games some more, exhaust ourselves with the activities of summer. Then get up the next day with again with no plans. Well no plans, except for a job list from mom and a field of blackberries.

So why was my mind drawn to this morsel of nostalgia, as I drove with my grandparents across the barren expanse of eastern Oregon? Because for probably the first time since I was thirteen years old, I had a taste of my blackberry summers. I was back in my house, with all of my brothers and my sister for a week. We had no real responsibilities, except cleaning up after ourselves (which seemed optional). I spent the week hanging out all night, playing video games, talking, laughing at inside jokes our parents don’t get (though they have usually heard them enough that they stop asking).  It was like summers when I was a kid. Summers without worries or cares, summers where all you had on your agenda was to have fun and be with your friends. Maybe that was the other part; it was the first time I’d been with my all three of my best friends in along time. 

“Rufus, Brint, and Meekus were like brothers to me. And when I say brother, I don't mean, like, an actual brother, but I mean it like the way black people use it. Which is more meaningful I think.”

I’ve got many close (also called best) friends from various phases of my life: elementary school, high school, my time in Hong Kong, and college. For whatever reasons I moved or they moved, we lost touch; but the most consistent closest friends I’ve had throughout it all are my brothers. Whether it’s playing video games, going skateboarding, quoting Family Guy while we try to look like we’re working, laughing about the times we pushed our parents to the edge, or one of the fights that broke out among us, I love each of my brothers individually as well as collectively. I love things about them that I don’t even know how to put into words. Things we laugh about and mock each other for, but characteristics I love because it’s what makes them who they are. The age differences and location along the timeline of life fade and for the time that we have together, we’re just friends. The best of friends. If people saw us running along the side of the road or wandering aimlessly through the mall, I imagine they’d say, “Look at those guys, they must be old buddies, out having fun.” I always have fun with my brothers. Helping an elderly couple (with enough food storage to feed Cambodia) move into a new house or out in the fields in Medford picking blackberries, its always fun. And what makes this bi-annual reunion so bittersweet; to have one of my friends come home, means another has to leave. Off on his own great adventure, off to war.

“This, this one night, two of my brothers came and woke me up in the middle of the night. And they said they had a surprise for me. So they took me to the barn up in the loft and there was my oldest brother, Dan, with Alice, Alice Jardine. I mean, picture a girl who just took a nosedive from the ugly tree and hit every branch coming down. And... and Dan's got his shirt off and he's working on this bra and he's tryin to get it off and all of a sudden Shawn just screams out, Danny you're a young man, don't do it! And so Alice Jardine hears this and she screams and she jumps up and she tries to get running out of the barn but she's still got this shirt over her head. She goes running right into the wall and knocks herself out. So now Danny's just so mad at us. He, he starts coming after us, but... but at the same time Alice is over there unconscious. He's gotta wa... , wake her up. So he grabs her by a leg and he's drag, dragging her. At the same time he picks up a shovel. And he's going after Shawn, and Shawn's saying, what are you trying to hit me for? I just did you a favor! And so this makes Dan more angry. He tries to swing this thing, he looses the shovel, goes outta his grasp and hits a kerosene lantern. The thing explodes, the whole barn almost goes up because of this thing. That was it. That was the last, that was, Dan went off to basic the next day. That was the last night the four of us were together. That was two years ago…

…Tell me about your wife and those rosebushes?”

I guess it makes me sad to think that this could be one of the last times it would be just us boys. No wives, family or professions to worry about. Just a bunch of boys, a bunch of buddies, brothers. Hanging out in the warm summer evening, looking forward to the fun that awaits us in the morning...

...though still slightly dreading those blackberry bushes.

“The system goes on-line August 4th, 1997.”

VH1, along with MTV have seem to become less and less about a steady stream of Music Videos and become filled with more and more trendy programs aimed at relating to the youth market (I’m waiting for Road Rules Rwanda and the Real World Provo). One of the most recent and arguably most popular series is VH1’s “I Love the… (insert decade here).” This began with “I Love the 80s.” For some reason, everyone in loved the series. It had all the fun and at times ridiculous things that were the components of our childhoods and teen years. And to be honest I like it, it was clever and funny. Comedians, celebrities and some of the pop icons themselves commented on items ranging from Shrink-a-dinks to Pac-man cereal. It was funny because, it’s things that I hadn’t thought of in quite some years and so each episode was fresh and fun and resulted in many exclamations of “Oh wow, I totally remember those.” Although I did feel ashamed at times for what a predictable sucker of a kid I was. “If you like this cartoon, go have your mom buy you all the action figures and accessory toys.” Umm, ok. I really did think I was a Master of the Universe for over a year of my life, sword permanently down the back of my shirt and all (Thankfully no spinal damage ensued).
 
Then VH1, victims to the mentality “you can’t have too much of a good thing”, decided to have marathons of these episodes, in order to catch more viewers. I guess the executives didn’t really think through one important detail: There are only 10 years in a decade. If each episode covers an entire year, you only have ten episodes. Nostalgia has a short replay value. You can’t see something yesterday and then get excited when you FINALLY see it again in two days. So VH1 branched out with “I Love the 70s.” Ummm, this just sucked. It was cool to see what was big and popular, but for the 18-30 demographic, we are left with mostly a sort of “Oh I remember hearing about that” response to the series. Needless to say, like disco dancing (thankfully), it didn’t last long.
 
Now the executives had to scramble to save this terminal, anthrax ridden cash-cow.
Well, why not do another 10 episodes of the 80s. They didn’t even mention classic 80s icons like Cagney and Lacey or Howard the Duck (Curse you George). They can even cleverly call it “I Love the 80s STRIKES BACK!”…see that’s a reference to the popular 80s movie Empire Strikes Back. Just in case you didn’t know.
 
That’s all fine and good, I even enjoyed some parts of the episodes, but the concept was feeling more and more contrived. Didn’t you love Thundercats? If you had any feelings for Michael Jordan or Lazer Tag, you would watch this show. It’s like having a family member hold you hostage with your own love for them. A girlfriend, “If you really loved me you’d spend time with me and my extended family.” And so despite the fact that your indirect or vicarious love of this thing keeps you there, you begrudge it. But again a return to the 80s can only last another 10 episodes. So…now what?
 
I love the 90s. It still feels like the 90s are barely over. I spent most of the episode or two like I was being lied to. “There is no way that was over 10 years ago.” The items are still so fresh and vivid in my mind, I don’t grin in gleeful delight. I smirk and politely nod, just as I do when a friend is telling me yet another “Hey do you remember when…” story for the 17th time. I didn’t forget about the 90s, in fact if I did forget anything, it’s because I wanted to. Probably because it sucked. Thanks VH1 for reminding my that Shannon Doherty was a b*tch on 90210. I had almost rid myself of that memory. Oh and Dennis Rodman was a freak? Thanks, I totally forgot.
 
Maybe I am a bit bitter toward the series. I think what makes me bitter is the way they took a fun and good idea and rather than releasing it in a rational and sensible manner decided to just pour the bucket of cool refreshing nostalgic water on us in one dump. And when they realized that, although a bit overwhelmed, we liked it, they decided that if they filled the bucket with just about anything, we’d like that too. Well, we couldn’t relate to the 70s and the 90s are to fresh to really feel like, it’s any sort of special experience or walk down memory lane. And I wonder how long until they start a series about this decade. What will they even call it?
 
…What do we call it now? The 2000s? “I love the 2000s”… already shaping up into a great series.

“Where does he get those wonderful toys?”

Standing. I’m at Costco standing in front of the video games. I’m thinking of all the reasons why I shouldn’t. And they’re not very compelling. I pace. Not enough to get away from it and break its tractor beam pull, but enough to look awkwardly deep in thought and racked with conflict to any passerby. Like a kid in a candy store. A kid in a candy store with a wad of dollar bills. Dang, it would be so sweet to own it. Have it and re-live it all over again. But then again its not something I need, exactly. I could get by and live without it. But would life be very enjoyable without it? No, you know what? I am working hard and I just want to take a piece of that and give myself a little slice of 1990 heaven. Yeah, I’m doing it. I’m buying it for my Gameboy. I’m buying Super Mario Bros. 3

Go ahead and write that one down. Another of my many impulsive buys. Even my Gameboy itself was a sort of a rather ‘spur of the moment’ buy a couple months back. As a matter of fact I think all of my purchases are impulsive. Thank goodness for eBay. If I had to pay full retail price for everything, I’d probably be in debt. Or maybe I would just not buy these things. Maybe eBay is not a savior but a facilitator. Because a 50 dollar slightly used, fully functional camera cellphone is much easier to rationalize than a 200 or even 100 dollar one. And when I see a DVD burner on ebay for 45 bucks, my mind grabs hold of that and goes wild, readily identifying jillions of reasons in the affirmative.

-Cue financial conscience-

This is what I’d like to thank my Dad for. For most of my life this part of me was all but non-existant. My Dad was the voice of reason saying, “Do you really need that?” or “How are you going to afford that?” Flashbacks to the 2,438 or so times I had to negotiate with him the purchase of a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle action figure. Now the voice is still my Dad’s, it’s just in my head now rather than over my shoulder. Unfortunately, voices in your head are usually quite neglectable and always negotiable. Well, most of the voices anyway.

While some may disagree, I think here lies a complication to being single and trying to save money. When I want to go out and buy something, I don’t have to get anyone’s approval. That seems like a great thing and sometimes it is, but after awhile you realize that when it comes down to making decisions in your household, there is a committee of one. The only person to submit any proposals is also the only one who votes. It’s like if the President of the United States got whatever he wanted...

I guess sometimes I need someone to say, “No, you don’t need another holster for your BB guns and it doesn’t matter how good of a deal you can get it for on the Internet.” Like when my Mom, as I approach with a king-sized bag of Skittles, lovingly saying “No, go put that back.” I know I wouldn’t get them but I still tried. I guess that’s why I wait to go grocery shopping until my mom is in town.

23 years old and I still love toys. DVD players, video game systems, even light-up lightsabers from time to time, I don’t know why, buy I am a sucker for them. Add to this my impulsive nature and you’ve got a recipe for a room full of toys and gadgets. I’ve got my Xbox that I had modded and is now more of a computer and complete entertainment system, playing movies, music, and about 75% of all the video games ever made for consoles. I’ve got a device you plug into a headphone slot to broadcast on to the radio. I’ve got portable, personal DVD player. I’ve got loads of Legos, a box of Star Wars action figures, a snowboard, two air-soft BB guns, a Mini-Disc Player, a replica Colt Peacemaker with real leather gun holster, and an electronic Chinese-English/English-Chinese dictionary with Oxford dictionary and Cambridge Encyclopedia.

“We're consumers. We're by-products of a lifestyle obsession. Murder, crime, poverty -- these things don't concern me. What concerns me is celebrity magazines, television with five hundred channels, some guy's name on my underwear. Rogaine, Viagra, Olestra.”

Everyone always says, “Wow dude, you’ve got so many great toys.” But at the end of the day my commercialization and consumerism gets to me. Why do I need all this “stuff” these things that are little more than versatile solutions to modern living, totally non-essential to my living and existence. And yet they bring me such joy and excitement. Well maybe not joy, just fun. And the excitement of thinking about buying it and even buying it can be better than actually having it. The day after Christmas is never as exciting or fun as the day before Christmas. And when I buy my next electronic gadget or video game, I think, “That’s it, that’s the last video game system I’m gonna need. No matter what else happens, I’ve got that video game problem handled.”

...you know they have the original Legend of Zelda for the Gameboy now.

“You're smart. I like you. I'll probably give you a nickname.”

Of my many experiences and observations this weekend, the subject of nicknames was one that while of brief occurrence, I have thought about a bit. Nicknames are such an oddity, because they can become so engrained and characteristic of an individual that the very name becomes a dimension and component to the person. It’s fascinating to see the way with which nicknames are introduced and perpetuated. And perhaps most difficult is that you can’t choose your own nickname…it will never catch on and always seems artificial. I believe there was a whole episode of Seinfeld devoted to George’s attempt to get a good nickname at the office. I think his name of choice was T-bone.

Thinking back on my years so far at college, many of my friends and associates have eventually gotten a nickname. Some they seemed to bring with them and are totally inexplicable, like my buddy Skillet my freshman year. Nobody really knows why he was called Skillet and he’d been called that before he even came to school. But it fit him and I barely can remember his real name at all and I don't think he's listed in the phone book under Skillet. Others are a joke or name that is either misquoted or just wrong but is repeated enough that it becomes the “correct” way to say it. Marlo is a classic example of this. Marlow’s real name is Brandon. I don’t think I knew that until after hanging out with him for sometime. His freshman year, his friend heard the name Brandon and thought of the late actor Marlon Brando. Well he thought the name was Brandon Marlo, so he started calling him Brandon Marlo, Brandon Marlo, Brandon Marlo, until the Brandon was soon dropped and only Marlo remained.

Actually this truncation of names is another common forum for nicknames. Ty Lewis, my roommate and buddy, is often referred to as simply ‘Lew.’ And sometimes the abbreviation doesn’t occur until after some funny pronunciations and inside jokes. I had a roommate last year named Tony. Now many of my roommates in this same apartment would ‘urbanize’ our language with the addition of “O” or percussive “Fffflow” randomly in the middle or end of words. Tony became Tone (like Tone-Loc but white, from Texas and listens to Rush Limbaugh in the kitchen all day), then Tone-flo, then Tone-flee-o, then simply Flea-O. And it stuck. Other’s were a simple joke, like Heath and the Jay-Z song Izzo (H.O.V.A.). After singing along with the line, “H to the Izzo,” the similarity of H for Heath and (like Snoop Dogg’s “izzle”) the growing popular suffix Izzo, sounded humorous, particularly coming from Heath. So he began as “H to the Izzo” then, because nicknames are to be not only functional but simplistic, simply Izzo. After moving up to Sandy, I frequently talk to him via email. And when typing, Izzo and 1220 look very similar. So similar, that 1220 has since become synonymous with Izzo.

Duff: We should make up some fake names.
John: Why?
Duff: Just in case we have to communicate while we're inside.
John: OK.
Duff: I wanna be Kyle. I knew this guy at camp. He was maybe 13. He got *two* girls pregnant, man. *Two* girls pregnant. Yea, Kyle. Who you gonna be? John: Steve...
Duff: Steve.
John: Yeah.
Duff: OK, Steve.
John: OK, Kyle.
.........
Duff: Wait.
John: What?
Duff: I wanna change. I wanna be Steve.
John: I'm Steve; You're Karl.
Duff: Kyle!

But as for me, I always seem to be called D. How this works, I don’t know, but everywhere I go, eventually, I am “D.” I was “Big D” as a child, I imagine in a nice way to boost my young and fragile self-confidence, I could have very easily been “Little D,” having a father named Don. High School and freshman year of College it was just D, people feeling less inclined to complicate such subtle simplicity. For two years I proceeded to ignore my first given name and was referred to simply as Glazier for short, but then again with all the missionaries I knew, I didn’t know many of their first names either. But my first year back from Hong Kong, I starred in a short film that Scott Hannay, one of my friends and a resident on my floor in the dorms, was making for a student film festival. The topic was given and then the people had 24 hours to write the story, film it, edit it, and have it ready to submit. It was a pretty lame. Scott did wonders with the editing and filming, but the story was...weak. I played the character “D-Money” a cocky, 21 year-old ladies man, that wears Seventies cop glasses, a polo shirt with the collar up and a brown “Back to the Future” vest. I made a fool of myself at the Wilkinson Center in front of small evening crowd gathered to study or eat at the Cougar-eat. Nobody really ever saw the film, but we would joke about the nickname the rest of that year. Then last year, joking around with some snowboard buddies about “hustler” nicknames, I remembered the short film “Redemption” and said “D Money, that’s what they call me. D Money.” Everyone laughed and they wrote it down. And then for the rest of the snowboarding season, they all kept calling me that. It even got shortened down to D$ (pronounced the same though). And once we had made our slightly comedic snowboarding movie, everyone knew me as D Money. Now some even call me simply “Money.” But most of the time its D...just D.

“I had a nickname for you! You wanna know what it was? I'm not going to tell you...

...All right, it was "Laser.”

“It’s a trick – get an axe.”

My brain is a bucket of oily rags and someone has just dropped a cigarette. Burn. It’s not that bad, but sometimes when you think you got everything under control and cleaned up, and then someone goes and drops a match or a flaming college acceptance list in the trash can.

“It was, it was a total electrical fire, it as like uhh the switches had sparks comin' out and the sockets and uhh... it was like the fourth of July man.”

“Why aren't you wearin' your pants Joe?”

“I tripped and...uhh then I had to take them off to, run faster out of the flames.”

I’m a Fleet Commander of a World War II Naval battle group stationed in the South Pacific. Sirens wail as incoming enemy craft are spotted and specks of an enemy fleet are seen on the horizon. Enemy bombers start in on my Cruisers and Frigates. I scramble my fighters and try to destroy them ship to ship. Just as I manage to mop up most of the enemy fighters, in come the enemy Destroyers, guns blazing, then a salvo of torpedoes. And of course, another wave of fighters. One assault after another and I start to wonder if I can even retreat now, let alone come out victorious. And to think just yesterday the seas were calm, the men were all restful in their bunks and in the mess hall, and my fleet was cleaned and polished, a well-oiled, precision machine. Charred hulls and billowing smoke now, and my ears still ring from the impact of repeated concussive explosions. What if I surrender? It’d be for all the soldiers, the boys and men who want to see their families again, I tell myself. But no, it’s not for them. The only thing I am worried about is me and my precious life and untattered, decorated uniform. Another blast rocks the command bridge, my vision blurs and I taste blood.

I grab the radio and call the nearest Fleet Commander for assistance. He can only send his regards and some tips for how to deal with the fighters; he’s under a full attack as well. I radio in to headquarters, to tell the Commander-In-Chief that we are getting pulverized and its time that we cut our losses and just retreated. “Admiral, hold that position” is the firm and calculated response. So are you saying you think we can win this or do we just need to hold this for while before we retreat or... “Admiral...hold that position.” I don’t even see why this position is even that important. All I know is that I am taking a beating and the only guidance and directions I have is to stay here and stick it out. Not directions, orders. I taste blood again and this time the high pitch ringing in my right ear doesn’t fade.

My XO stands there, mouthing words at me, his voice starting to become faintly audible in my left ear. “What are you orders, sir?” The edges of my vision dim, black tunnel vision. I don’t know what to do. I’ve always known what to do, in almost every battle, every engagement. I’ve been in control. And now, with all my rank and all my prestige, all my experience, I find myself with the least amount of power, the least amount of control. Yesterday, we had them on the run; we we’re on the pursuit and they flee before our might. But they didn’t flee like a rat or a dog, the fled like a snake; falling back only to coil and strike the aggressor. We got bit right in the face.

I stand up and order a launch of all remaining fighters, flight groups of two’s, engaging the bombers first and then the fighters, flight patterns maintained over our crafts. Don’t chase the cougars to their den. Bring around the cruisers and the destroyers, arch the formation into a semi-circle and bring all the guns to bear on the command ship, we’ll cut the head off the rattler.

“Let’s give ‘em hell”

Incoming transmission. One of my officers hands me the paper, I read. I look up and shake my head. Not forward, but straight up, fists clentched and despair in my eyes. Another enemy fleet is heading this way. And they, are fresh.

Oh, I talked to Anne today.

“Well hello Mr. Fancy-pants."

"I got news for you pal; you ain't leadin' but two things right now. Jack and $hit... and Jack left town.”

Happy Birthday, sean.

“Strange things are afoot at the Circle K.”

My nose is raw from repeated blows. You always think tissues are soft and gentle until you have repeatedly wiped your nose with them. Each time it feels like a lower and lower grit of sand paper. By the end of the day I’m somewhere at 30 grit (gravel glued to the paper). But other than that I’m feeling much better and work wasn’t too bad. Of course it’s hard to complain about going to work when you haven’t been in four days.

Now, fresh out the door from work I get a call from my good friend 1220 (Izzo, Heath, H. Thomas Bryant, call him what you will) letting me know that some friends of his are going to go see Napolean Dynamite. Not wait in line for a free screening and then end up going home unfulfilled like so many teenagers Saturday night mind you, but really going and seeing the movie. It was in regular release now and so I figured, “Finally go see a funny movie, I have greatly anticipated, with a best friend?” I love Mike Tyson’s punch out, but it will still be waiting for me when I return to Castle Greyskull. So I am off to Sandy to team up with Izzo. It lightens the load when I only have to drive to Sandy. Alhough I can’t imagine having to commute that everyday. What some people do in the name of “Bro”-dom .

The movie was hilarious. Although I found I had to tell myself to relax and just enjoy it. I have found that people who have a heightened sense of humor, which is to say that people tend to think they’re funny, often can be very selective of what they find funny or allow themselves to laugh at. It was typified in a “behind-the-scenes” special I saw about Saturday Night Live. When all the cast members meet to pitch there skits and ideas to the rest of the cast and most importantly Loren Michaels Wednesday nights, nearly every cast member and writer mentioned to the interviewer that you try to never laugh at someone else’s stuff. It’s as though by laughing at someone else’s jokes or acts, you are saying they are good and better than you, but if you don’t laugh you are somehow...better. And often I find myself caught up in some sort of twisted comic elitism. Particularly odd since I’m not even a comic. But I relaxed and just enjoyed the movie. It was quite funny.

After the movie we dropped off Heath’s friends and it was still early enough and we both had the munchies. So what do you do when you and a buddy have the munchies and want to just chill. You ‘stoop.’

\Stoop\, n. [D. stoep.] (Arch.) Originally, a covered porch with seats, at a house door; the Dutch stoep as introduced by the Dutch into New York. Afterward, an out-of-door flight of stairs of from seven to fourteen steps, with platform and parapets, leading to an entrance door some distance above the street; the French perron. Hence, any porch, platform, entrance stairway, or small veranda, at a house door. [U. S.]
       -- Webster's Revised Unabridged Dictionary

‘Stooping’ is a long lost forum for fraternal dialogue and exchange. Seemingly forgotten are the days of young men and boys passing the afternoon and evening hours away on the entry way to a local housing establishment or community market, talking about the joys and excitements of life (girls and money) as well as lamenting and consoling one another on the daily pressures and problems of life (girls and money). Well not for me. I still love a good ‘stoop.’ And my ‘stoop’ is a little franchise called 7-eleven. I’ve been going for there for over a year. They even have them in Hong Kong. But last night I was not in a foreign land, I was in Sandy, Utah. (Which now that I think about it, can be about as foreign as China). Izzo and I sat on the curb in front of that 7-eleven and we just talked. Like I’ve said before, it’s like therapy. You have someone to confide in and talk about things openly with. Not judgemental or authoritative, often times simply a sounding board for your thoughts. And what makes it great is Heath thinks like I do, analogously. Comparing situations to everything from Off-Track Betting to Aerospace Communications. Perhaps what I like most of all is that many times talking to Heath is like having a conversation with a part of myself. You learn a lot when you talk to yourself. And besides...

...I like myself.

“The key to faking out the parents is the clammy hands”

I was so sick yesterday. I was honestly sick. There are only a few times that I can think of in my life when I have actually been sick. Most of the time I would describe my alignments as more of a general discomfort or physical uneasiness, but not ill. Sick days were a time for rest. But when you are really sick, the day is anything but restful.

I woke up at my standard 7:30 am and dutifully jumped in the shower. In my semi-cognizant state I realize how sore my throat still was from the day before. With my head titled back I try to gargle some water and then find that the warm of the water only moderately soothes my throat but undoubtedly loosens up a glacier of mucus, running down my nasal passage and throat like the melting of the ice age. And like some primordial virus or bacteria locked in nature’s own cryogenic storage, my head cold was released. Out of the shower I only manage to get on my pants before I realize that I need to lay-down. Not the “oh-my-bed sounds-so-much-more-appealing-than-my-chair-at-work” feeling to lay-down, but the “I-am-a-hazard-to-others-and-myself-behind-heavy-machinary-and-I-am-having-trouble-compsing-thoughts” feeling to lay-down. So I called my boss and left a message, and emailed my team members, then laid down.

When you’re sick and in pain, you’re attention span barely registers somewhere between a 3 year-old with ADD and a humming bird doped up on speed. Nothing is sufficiently engaging and if it is, it requires too much effort to be maintained. So I slept, read, watched TV, watched a Movie, played video games, went to the bathroom, repeat. And after 12 hours, I’m not really that tired any more, but my energy well seems only deep enough to get me to the kitchen for some frozen waffles. Mmmmm, eggo’s.

It sort of makes me wonder about all the times in high school and college that I was sick. Not truly sick, I suppose, as I mentioned earlier, but where I just didn’t feel like going out. Being mentally sick, or convincing yourself that you you’re not feeling “good” is the best, because it’s like you have a holiday, or a day to relax. Sure there’s some guilt about the things you’re missing or will have to make up, but you’ve already justified or rationalized these things when you decided to stay home today. And in the end these things lack in comparison to the fact that you have more energy, more drive, more focus than you did yesterday. My mom called them “Mental Health Days.” Days when she knew we weren’t really sick, but let us stay home anyway. My mom is rad.

There is a part of you that gets lonely after a whole day of being sick. Quarantined. Human beings are social creatures, and sickness not only afflicts us physically but socially as well I guess. There is a part of you that wants to have someone take care of you and wait on you. But you don’t want to ask for it. The same goes for a backrub or a back scratching. If someone does it of their own fruition and charity, it totally rules. But when forced or compelled to, it’s about as fulfilling or enjoyable as watching your mom clean your room for you.

And when you’re really sick, all the sleep you get doesn’t give you more energy. No, rather it gives you a lessened capacity to fall asleep at a decent regular hour. So, you lay there on the couch, awake, no trace of sleep, but limp and listless trying to think of something to do to fill the time till you’re not sick. Something to entertain you. Something to captivate you. But all you can do is try to think of what it felt like yesterday, when you were fine and all you dreamed about at work was laying around on the couch, playing video games, watching movies, sleeping and then repeating it for the duration of the day.

After you’re sick, you need a “Mental Health Day”

“Fra-gee-lay. That must be Italian”

Remember Ralphie from the movie A Christmas Story. All he wanted for Christmas was an “Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle.” That’s all nothing fancy. Now imagine that you are Ralphie and you’ve been handed a wrapped “Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle” (oh the joy and elation) but being told “don’t open this, we’re giving it to the less fortunate family down the street.” Ok, that’s one thing, you try hard to understand why you can’t at least enjoy the rifle for a while and then give it to them in “like new” condition or even just give it to them already. But no, instead you have it placed under your tree all month long, burning into you with its fiery red and envy green wrappings. And all you can ask is “why? Why can’t I either open the Red Ryder BB-gun or get rid of it already?” You forget about charity and the true meaning of Christmas and all you can think of is rage. Cool, calm, collected rage.

...I promise I won’t put my eye out.

“Uh, I think that says FRAGILE"

“I am Jack’s Raging Bile Duct.”

Sometimes in life, I get spun off into a mental whirlwind. It’s like a tornado of thought and emotion swirling around, tossing the livestock and real estate of my mind into upheaval. Unfortunately when such a personal natural disaster touches down, there is no forerunner warnings, no emergency broadcast systems in place, no time for me to find my dog or even my brother and get into the storm cellar. Just enough time to look up into the dark, swirling sky and mouth the words “Oh, no.” And perhaps the most disconcerting or unnerving characteristic of this storm is that from the outside, to anyone looking at this State and all of its internal tempests, nothing is seen but a calm empty blue sky, devoid of any weather whatsoever.

And suddenly, Sunday night, as I walked up the stairs to my apartment to get some eggs for Monica, the storm hit. A mental car accident.

“This must've been what all those statistics felt like before I filed them into my reports.”

Eight car pile up blocking all four lanes; ambulances and Highway Patrol at the scene; all traffic is at a standstill. Each car magnifies and complicates the resolution of the problem, impedes the flow of traffic; impedes the flow of thought. A bit of personal revelation. A decision to be made. A group gathered together. A change in preferences. The exposure to something new. My worst fear. And just like a multi-car accident, these are the worst kind of mental crashes and take the longest to clean-up. And when there is a pile-up on the Interstate highway of your mind, nothing gets through, and all you have to focus on is the mass of twisted metal and blown out glass. Nothing else seems important or note-worthy; everything comes to a halt. And here you are, standing on the stairs outside your door, and the sirens and flashing lights come swirling up in the shoulder of the road.

“She'd invaded my support groups, now she's invading my home.”

I go back over to Plymouth for our dinner group. I eat the lasagna and garlic bread. Chicken was good, beans were a bit soft. And I don’t talk much. At least not with anyone else. Everyone keeps asking me why I’m so quiet or if I’m alright. “I’m fine,” my ready response. When a storm hits or an automobile crashes you don’t invite others to come over and check it out. You don’t even really want to call anyone. This is your problem, your issue, and you’re going to deal with it. Anyone else besides yourself is only there for pity or at best empathy.

I don’t need a pity party.

And so, I spent the rest of the evening quiet, lost in my own thoughts. I walked down the road to one of my favorite thinking places, the steps of the library. Everyone needs a place to go and sort things out, think and process, “get my Yin and Yang in balance ('cause I, FRIGGIN LOVE HARMONY!!).” And the steps of the library is where I can go to be alone without being alone. Solitude among the populace. Isolation among inclusion. This is my tree house...

The storm passes; traffic resumes and everyone’s lives go back to normal. Except those without homes or those trapped under their cars. For them, everything’s different.

“…and the cost would be more than I could bear.”

It was a great Fourth of July on Saturday, albeit occurring on the Third of July. It’s weird how a whole state has an unspoken agreement to “preserve” Sunday, the non-verbal “nod” that says “Yeah, dude, I know.” Izzo (Heath) came down from Sandy for the day. We both got some soccer cleats real cheap at one of those Mega Sport stores, the ones where all the employees where athletic gear; suggesting that as soon as they get a break or their shift is over they’re going to go run or compete in the decathlon. So, Izzo and I went and played soccer for awhile. We would sprint up and down the field and (attempt to) do some “give and go’s” and then we just stood on the field and kicked the ball back and forth. I hadn’t played soccer in so long, but I was surprised how much of the fundamentals I still remembered. And there are few things as fun and rewarding as kicking, hitting or throwing a ball back and forth with a good friend while you just talk about life. Some people pay hundreds of dollars an hour to do the same thing with a psychiatrist. They don’t usually kick a ball back and forth, just talk. Sometimes, I think I need to spend more time in “therapy.”

We ate lunch at Wendy’s, played video games, and took a nap. All excellent activities, worthy of any national holiday (well, any day for that matter). We got some fried chicken and watermelon and went to Rock Canyon Park in the evening to meet up with some friends. The Plymouth girls (Mindy, Brit, Monica, Whitney, etc.) and the NorCal guys were there and played wiffle ball. Its funny I have these tall adidas soccer socks and I wore them just for fun. But when you dress like a professional, people treat you like a professional. Izzo and I kicked the ball around for a while again while we waited for the fireworks. During the course of which I had no less than three kids come up and ask if I played on a team and how good I was. Even Jon, one of the NorCal dudes, was like “So did you play soccer a lot in high school?” So I ran with it, “Yes, these are socks from playing high school soccer. Yes, I’m comfortable with that. I, am an athlete.” No, but I did spend every Saturday in the fall watching game after game of soccer as a referee. So in a way I guess I never really left soccer. Even in Hong Kong I alternated playing basketball and soccer on Preparation Day, even got to play on this huge dirt field in Macau with giant Chinese billboards for Coca-Cola and San Miguel beer hedging the field. GOAL!!!!!

So, despite a howling wind shooting out of the canyon and the sprinklers coming on, the archetypical pyrotechnic display of patriotism was enjoyed by all. But I found this year a sort of personal revelation or perhaps more of a personal metamorphosis. The Fourth (or even Third) of July isn’t so much about explosives or glowing displays of man-made fire and brimstone. For me, the fourth of July has become a holiday to celebrate the freedom of this nation by simply spending time with those close to me. Fireworks are simply a forum for socializing. Nobody really likes lighting sparklers or “Spinning Pagoda’s” by themselves. And as you get older, just like an alcoholic or cocaine addict, it takes more and more money to get you that buzz from the fireworks. So you just stop caring. When the fireworks are rad, you “ewww” and “ahhhh” just like a little kid; but at the core, what makes for a memorable holiday is spending time doing what you like with those you like. Isn’t that what this country, our constitution, our military, our nation stands for? Doing what you like, when you like, with whom you like. Freedom. Like eating KFC with Elder Lundgren on a brief lunch break at a mall in a place where the Fourth of July holds significance as merely the place holder between July 3rd and July 5th.

...this is freedom.

“Say, I smell bacon. Does anyone else smell bacon?”

So Mindy’s been a bit of an "A hole" lately (her words, not mine), and in a round about sort of way I called her on it. Which I guess is only fair since I was being an "A hole" and she called me on it. Anyway, she does this thing where she’s real cold to me and evasive, the sort of thing people do when they don’t want you around (I may have seen it once or twice before). They act distracted or preoccupied and that your presence is a sort of nuisance. Then like a half hour later, she’s fun, cool, wants to hang out and everything’s fine. “First you wanna kill me, now you wanna kiss me...BLOW.” So I scratched my head, had a few ‘Dews’ and figured she’s probably just trying to get mentally ready to leave and not get attached (as if I’m that irresistible). Do I like this? No. Do I understand this? Well, yes. So I decided to just give her some space. And by give her some space, I mean ignore her. Not in some rude sort of way, I just did my own thing. And apparently I’m about as easy to read as a comic book, because she came over after work and straight up asked if I was pissed at her. “Umm…yeah.” We talked and it turns out that I was pretty much right about what was going on, but she didn’t want to not hang out; she just didn’t want to be a jerk. Hey, I’m cool with that. So...problem resolved, I guess. Better still, she thinks she’s probably gonna come back out here until she goes into the MTC. Bonus.

After a day of work, Institute and a wicked good nap, what better than to join some friends in the outdoors for a bonfire? The San Jose posse from down the hall has a bonfire every Thursday night called “Weekend Warm-up.” They go down to Utah lake or usually up by this 4X4 path in Lindon. It’s really nice up there, you can see out all over “Happy Valley.” So like always we all drive up, and unload some palettes and start a nice little bonfire. They burned rather quickly and as I walked around exploring/looking for fire wood, a white suburban pulled up. I thought “that’s weird; I wonder who else was coming?” Oh, that’s right we invited the cops. Actually it was first some older gentleman who asked us if we knew it was illegal to be up there and then informed us that some officers were coming up. So what do I do? I run and dive in the bushes. And I hear a “Ouch! Would you get down, you’re gonna give us away!” Turns out Brittany and Mindy were already in the bushes. Why is it that when authority figures show up, my instincts are to run?

I don’t hate cops…no, really. But I do seem to have issues with the authority, especially here in Utah. It’s hard for me really like them when they chase you down, shine a flashlight in your eyes while they radio in to call off the man-hunt, as though you had just committed a triple homicide hit and run then shot a man in the face as you escaped with a kidnapped 14 year-old – I was skateboarding on the sidewalk near the dorms. Or when they treat you like a bunch of drunken gang members and threaten to charge you with trespassing and breaking and entering when you go swimming in the pool after 11 – even if you live there at the apartment complex. At any rate, there is some sort of rush running down a mountainside as the cops are rounding people up and putting the fire out. I guess it like a high stakes game of hide-and-go-seek. Instead of just being “it” if you get caught, you also get a large fine and a criminal record. Yipee!

It turns out that all anyone got was warnings, which I expected because there were no signs stating that it was illegal to be up there, or even anything hindering a car from the approach (it was an obvious dirt road). But one of these days, I’m gonna get a group of people together and we’re gonna wait for a cop to drive by. And when he does, we are all gonna sprint away as fast as we can in the most frantic manner, with the most guilty looks on our faces. And when they (plural because the one will obviously have called in back-up) catch me, I'll just smile, with my hands cuffed behind my back and say “Tag,” *headbutt* “You’re it!” Don’t the cops have better things to do than cite kids for longboarding in the street without reflective vests on? In Provo, maybe not. Just remember, you never keep ID on you when you go do marginally culpable activities and you always keep the personal information of a close friend or associate on the tip of your tongue. Isn’t that right, Justin Crandall?

...“Yeah, I definitely smell a pork product of some type.”

“I can do anything I want. And so can you.”

Last night was another failed attempt at seeing Napolean Dynamite. Apparently I would have had to have been there 4 hours early to get in a position to have been able to get in, I just chalked it up to experience. I went with some guys from work, so it wasn’t that bad and a carpool is always nice.

So, I came home a couple hours earlier than I had intended and with the desire to be entertained. So, I decided to watch the movie Donnie Darko in its entirety. I had seen parts of it and I think even had the story told to me at one point (I had since forgotten it), but my brother Todd had mentioned watching it again recently, he and Spencer both really like the movie, and so I decided to sit back and enjoy. And I did.

I like movies, they’re fun and entertaining. But every so often you come across a film that speaks to you, that encapsulates an emotion or sensation, that some how captivates you on a deep level. It makes you think, it makes you feel. Many people pass these movies off as being weird, dark, odd, or even just disturbing. And often months or years after their release, they are refered to as “cult classics.” I think this just means a movie that many people love, but of which the general public or even just the movie industry does not approve. “How could anyone like that movie?” Sorry if it doesn’t have a huge special effects budget, a clever hollywood ending and massive commercial marketing tie-ins. Maybe it’s the story?

I love Fight Club. Its hard for me to say why it is that I love this movie. I stumbled across a pirated version of it on the internet my freshman year, shortly after its release. My roommate and cousin, Mark and I watched it, and then watched it again and again. Despite its poor quality on my computer, it riveted us nonetheless. Maybe it was the time in my life that I came across it, or maybe it was the circumstances under which I first watched it, but it became a sort of anthem at that time. I have watched it tens of dozens of times since. I have it on DVD, VHS, AVI, and the book. The movie is profane, violent, and should be a movie I despise. But I don’t. To me the words often sound poetic and capture some of my own raw emotions. Many remember it as that movie with Brad Pitt beating people up; thinking it something akin to a Jean-Claude Van Damme’s Lionheart. And if all you get out of Fight Club, is a club of people fighting, then I am sorry. Its like saying that Michealangelo's David is just a pornographic statue or that Catch-22 is just another war novel. For me, the film was about purpose, frustration, self-discovery...freedom.

And then, something happened. I let go. Lost in oblivion. Dark and silent and complete. I found freedom. Losing all hope was freedom.

Webster’s dictionary defines catharsis as: the process of relieving an abnormal excitement by reestablishing the association of the emotion with the memory or idea of the event that first caused it, and of eliminating it by complete expression; a technique used to relieve tension and anxiety by bringing repressed feelings and fears to consciousness.

Is that why I love these movies? That cathartic feeling, the expression or purging, somehow makes me feel that much more alive? Is it a comparison or a contrast? Maybe I just like to be given a stimulus to think and feel in ways that I never have...or don’t allow myself to.

...“You met me at a very strange time in my life.”