Rushing the Field = Big MUSS

Saturday night was the final annual BYU Utah football game. From here on out, the game won't be played annually, but will be intermittent with a chance of meatballs.

BYU lost the game, which was very winnable.

I blame the Utes for scoring three more points than BYU had time to score. Well, actually BYU had just enough time to score that same amount of points, but didn't. The final game-tying field goal attempt bounced off the upright and into oblivion.

Or, did it bounce into our hearts? I have been told by a few sources that the final field goal attempt that would have tied the game and sent it into overtime, bounced off the upright at exactly 11:59 PM. One minute before 12:00 AM--the beginning of the Sabbath Day. BYU does not play on the Sabbath.

Had BYU gone for the win with a Hail Mary (er...Hi Emma, maybe?), they would have won the game. There is no doubt. Never mind that Riely Nelson really doesn't throw the ball all that well. I am convinced (by delusion) that it would have happened.

I have one more tiny little thing to talk about. Idiot Ute fans.

The fact is I like the University of Utah as an institution. I like the U's sports teams. I like Utah fans as individuals, but when you put them together in a stadium, and soak them with beer (which is what all BYU fans imagine when imagining a collection of Ute fans), they are less pleasant to be around--just enough of them that are vulgar and aggressive.

Also, there has never been a field that Ute fans have not wanted to rush. They love rushing fields like dental hygenists love asking open-ended questions while they put stuff in your mouth. The anticipation of rushing a field, combined with lots of alcohol, makes certain Ute fans wet themselves on a Tuesday morning.

So, at the end of the game the other night, Ute fans rushed the field...three, count them, three times. One of those times the said rushing of the field cost their team a penalty and may have, barring the Lord's unwillingness to let His team play on the Sabbath, cost their team the victory. Oh man, that would have been sweet. Ute fans losing it for their team. Alas, what could have been. So, in honor of that almost beautiful moment I have devised the following list:

Top Ten Reasons that Ute Fans Rush a Football Field:

10. To get monster truck tickets.

9. To sign up for apostasy classes.

8. To register for a three-credit hour class offered at SLCC (it transfers!).

7. To report accomplishing cold fusion.

6. To hire a BYU alum.

5. Because everyone else is doing it.

4. Because a guy is offering free beards.

3. Because they're in the PAC 12, duh.

2. To get away from other Ute fans!

1. To make BYU fans feel better about a crushing loss by acting like idiots! YAY!

Marry merry, Mary.

My nephew got married yesterday.

This is nothing new, I have other nephews who have married.  Nieces too.  Many of them have kids, which makes me a great uncle.  This is something new, because I have never been a great uncle until they had kids.  I have been a mediocre and poor and terrible uncle, but now I am a mediocre, poor, terrible GREAT uncle.

The nephew who married yesterday is a very kind and considerate young man named Schmeoff (pronounced Schmeff).  I think he'll be 22-years-old in November--I don't know that for sure (see above paragraph about terrible uncle).  And, I think he got home from his mission between two weeks and nine months ago (again, see above paragraph).  He's been home from his mission long enough to get married but short enough to both have the glow and speak the language.

He went to France, so his language is French.  His preferred cut of green bean: also french; mustard of choice: French's;  favorite actor: French Stewart;  favorite swimsuit cut: french cut;  favorite butler from Family Affair: Mr. French;  favorite character in the movie/musical Grease: Frenchy; favorite style of kiss: no comment (but judging by the wedding, it may be named after a western European country...Luxembourg); Favorite cut of potato: Julienne (from which he makes french fries).

As I watched this young man (born in 1990, I think) marry, I couldn't help but remember him as a toddler kicking soccer balls with great accuracy and power and angering self-absorbed trumpeters with his unbridled running.   Then, I remembered when he was eight- or nine-years-old  watching Jurassic Park II in the theater, and how five minutes into the movie he yelled, "RUN!" warning the little girl on the screen of the danger.  There are other less-specific memories.

I should mention his new wife, Schmemily, she is lovely, and judging by the accounts of the folks that gave toasts at the luncheon she's awesome.  My interactions with her consist of the following exchange that took place in the sealing room at the temple while she was being thronged by less-terrible uncles and aunts:

Me: Nice to meet you. Congratulations.
Her: Nice to meet you, too.
Me: Bye.
Her: Bye. (I'm speculating on this next part, but I assume once I was out of earshot she turned to Schmeoff and said) Who was that guy? (or) I could use a plate of spaghetti.
Schmeoff: Me too, and it's not even 4:00 yet.*

It is an exciting time for a young couple.  I wish them the best of luck.  Go celebrate with some French Vanilla Ice Cream.  And, if you see any little dinosaurs--even one--RUN!






*Schmeoff played basketball in high school and would eat a plate of spaghetti at 4:00 PM on game days.

Death Comes A Knockin', You Just Keep On Walkin'

So, I found out that my brother died this morning.  It was hilarious.

A while back my older brother, Schmott, decided to quit Facebook.  So he deleted his account.  This was just a few days before he and his family went on vacation to San Francisco. His wife and two sons are still on Facebook and they documented the trip by posting photos of the trip:  Alcatraz, a couple of beach shots, Ghirardelli Square, etc.

None of the photos that they posted had Schmott in them--well one may have, but his back was turned so you couldn't really tell.

His wife posted things like "on a trip with my boys" (which could be interpreted as sons, not necessarily sons and husband), but never mentioned Schmott by name.  In fact, Lady Buffington and I wondered aloud if Schmott had stayed home (or if, perhaps, he had died).

This morning at about 7:15 AM, as I was walking into work I got notification of a message. I opened it. It said:

Hi Wilson (names have been changed). Not sure if you remember me, but I was friends w/Schmott in high school. I didn't know who to ask about this and then I noticed you were friends w/my brother on here. I heard that Schmott passed away, but I couldn't find his obituary, so I wanted to confirm that with you. If so, I am really sorry for your loss. He was a great man and one of those friends I will always remember!

I laughed, because it wasn't true.  Was it?  WAS it?

So, I ran to my office and called Schmott.  It rang and rang and went to voicemail.   I left a message.  Then, I called my mom.  It rang and rang and went to voicemail.  Was she dead too?  WAS she?

Then I realized that I had just learned of my brother's death on Facebook.  And, as we all know, that is a crappy way to find out about things like that.  And, to add insult to injury, my mom had died at some point too.

Saddened, I started my day.  Waiting for the phone call that would confirm the tragic events of that morning.

Then, the phone rang.  Trembling, I answered, "hello?"

The voice of my deceased brother from the other end of the connection spoke in wavering tones, "Riiiiiiick, IIIIIIII aaaaaaam deaeaeaeaed"*

"Speak apparition," I replied.  He spoke. We exchanged pleasantries.  We hung up and went about our days--me at work; him, I assume, into the next life.


Rest in Peace Schmenneth Schmott Schmurdock





*I had the choice to write it deeeeeeead or deaaaaaaaad, I didn't like either so I went with deaeaeaeaeaeaed to indicate no change in the vowel sound as you draw it out.

I'm Sensing a Theme

Today is my younger sister Schmana's birthday.  She and I spent many an hour over our 3.5 and 3.7 respective decades singing old 80's theme songs.  And so, in her honor I have posted a few 80's theme songs.  Also, I move that we all begin to declare our age by how many decades we are.





Keeping with the theme of wonder:
 


and, while I'm at it:
 
 I know it's from the 70's mostly, but it has the word wonder in it. It still counts because I remember going over the Schmister's and watching that show and all the girls sang "Wonder Woman" and Schmadam Schmister had to sing the verse and didn't know the words, and it was funny, and I said to myself, "I will never forget this moment," and just to prove that I haven't forgotten, I added the clip. 


And, because sometimes the world looks perfect on the wings of one's dream:





 Here's a horrible recording of a show we hated and never watched:


But, it leads nicely to this:
 


 Now that you've watched that thirty times, back to themes:



Did you ever think forever was the best you could do? I'm not sure what the hell that means, but no, I didn't either. I guess it just goes to show that life is more than mere survival, so go ahead, dropkick your jacket:
 

 Did you know that Jif is peanuttier? Now you do.


 Happy Birthday, Sis! Here's to watching your slow, drawn-out demise over the next 3.5 decades.

 -Rick

Getting to the Bottom of it

A few weeks ago my two-year-old son, Cubby (names have been changed), was sitting with me at church when he dropped a piece of whatever cereal he was eating.  The cereal piece rolled down my right side and back behind me on the pew.

Cubby quickly reached back there, grabbed the cereal and ate it before I could stop him (of course, he's the fourth kid, and who stops the fourth kid from eating whatever he wants to eat?  Not me.  All of the energy that went into that practice was used up on kid #1).

Anyway, the reaching behind me to get the cereal had sparked a question in the lad.

He asked, pointing to my backside, "Dad, is that your bum?"

As a Mormon, I am trained to not talk about bums at church (unless we're talking about changing diapers), so I ignored his question.

So, he asked again, "Dad, is that your bum?"  This time he asked a little more emphatically.

I, still feeling the need to ignore the topic, said, "shhh."

Being shushed aggravated the boy,  he just wanted an answer to a simple question.  "IS THAT YOUR BUUUUUM!?!?!"  He screamed.  I'm not sure if this is accurate or not, but in my mind the speaker stopped speaking and the entire congregation turned, I guess, interested to see if THAT was indeed my bum.

I did the only thing I could do.  I leaned down and into his ear whispered, "Yes.  That is my bum."

Satisfied, he went back to eating his cereal.

We Need a Hero

Superhero name 
The Clapper

Secret identity name
Marcus J. Connecticut

Place of origin  
Clappington Heights,  Kansas, USA

Super skills  
Supersonic Clap, Subatomic Clap, Uber Zeitgeist Clap, Clapalanche (or “Slow Clap”) Instigation, Scuba certified

Vulnerabilities/Weaknesses  
Hand injuries, Awkward silences, Applause meters, Applause meteors


Brief description of your best superhero moment
Once, a guy gave a really good speech--a triumph-of-the-human-spirit-type speech--and everyone listening was completely silent.  So, I stood up (we were on the bleachers in the student section) and started my first clapalanche. Slowly, with purpose, I clapped once, then twice, then three times.  Picking up speed I clapped again and again the flesh of my palms slapping forth the great crack of the human clap.  Others joined me.  The noise grew out of nothing, building in crescendo until it crashed like great waves of sound.  We applauded.  We applauded like no group of humans had applauded before. All because of my gift and that guy's speech.

Superhero picture

\

Different Things to Different People, That's What.

Hi,

It's no secret that my Mom's side of the family, the Schmalleys, are legion.  No, I'm not saying that they are demons that should be cast into swine and drown in the sea (but, if the shoe fits).  What I mean is that there are a ton of them.  Grandpa and Grandma Schmalley had ten kids(!) and each of those kids had 7.5 kids of their own.  And so on, and so on.  

If you do the math correctly, you will discover that I have 74 first cousins on that side of my family. If you do the math incorrectly, there is no telling what you'll come up with, but unless you are really bad at math it will probably be close to 75.  This figure does not count the 120 first cousins once removed, or any of their spouses (although it's possible that some of them are married to each other).  Like I said, LEGION.

So, when I was a kid we'd go to family reunions where every family would have to write words to the song "Happiness Is."  You may not be familiar with this song.  I only know it from the Schmalley reunions--it's not on youtube or I would post it.  Come to think of it, I actually have no idea if my memory of the song is in the least bit accurate.  Don't worry, accuracy has never been a strong point of this particular blog.

Anyway, each of the ten families would have to rewrite the words to the song in order to explain what happiness was to each of that family's family members.  For example, and I'm just making this up:

"To Tommy, it's a punch in the gut; to Susan, it's a slap on the butt;
to Mikey, it's the booze that he drank, to Devin it's a night in the 'tank'."

So on and so forth.

Then, at some point during the reunion, we'd have to get up and sing the song as a family in front of all the other miserable families who also had to do it too...as well.  (Grandma made us do it; she was never tried for her crimes).

Each of us systematically had our personalities boiled down to one item of happiness that had to rhyme with one of our sibling's items of happiness.  And, of course, the family reunion would slog on and on, the same melody ringing through the air.  I don't know what Hell is like, but I may know the soundtrack.

Here is a version that my family may have sung at one point:

"Happiness is (cha, cha, cha), happiness is (cha, cha, cha)
different things to different people, that's what happiness is.
For Schmoland, it is fresh mustache wax, for Schmargaret it's the phrase 'battle axe,'
For Schmim Scrubs, the color maroon, for Schmobert it's the act of  'buffoon.'
For Schmathie Jaffra spatulas and cards, for Schmobin it's a night with the Bard,
For Schmon it is metal-band hair, for Schmrian it's his pink underwear (he'll show it to you ... or else).
For Schmotty it's a ball of some kind, for Skicky (one of my actual nicknames) it's his tiny behind.
For Schmana it's the end of our song..."

You'd awkwardly end when you were out of children to name.

I had never noticed until this moment that my parents has given us all S names.

Here's to happiness.





Here is a TED talk on happiness.  I like it. Enjoy.