The rest of the story

Here is that story I wanted to tell two posts ago, but didn't because I couldn't stop talking about feudal chair societies.  As it turns out the story is not that great.  Oh well, here it is:

I was on a plane last month, just minding my own business when the flight attendant offered the person next to me a beverage. That person asked for water. The attendant filled a cup with ice, then added water. As she was handing the water to the person, the cup and its contents fell from her hand.  As a result, the ice and water spilled forth out of the cup and landed safely on me.

This was very lucky for the attendant because I'm really nice, and I like it when weird things happen to me.

That's all.  Not the best story, I know.



Oh, I forgot to mention that the place where the water and ice landed on me and the way it soaked certain parts of my clothing was... well, let's just say that I haven't sported that particular wetness pattern since first grade.  Luckily, back then I wore Toughskin jeans, which, I think, were manufactured out of plastic because if you ever got them too hot they would melt, literally.  Wet or dry, Toughskins looked the same.

This time I was wearing blue jeans.  And, as I inspected myself, I realized that no matter what had actually happened on that plane--to the people I would encounter over the next several minutes--I had essentially wet my pants.  The signs were unmistakable, a dark patch that started in the central pant region and spread outwardly in a circular pattern.

I calculated how much longer I would be airborne before having to deplane.  Was there enough time to dry?

It would be close.

I took solace in the fact that I was heading to Seattle.  The only better city in the Western United States for wetting one's pants: Portland.  Surely, neither the hippies nor the nerds would judge me harshly for my apparent bladder-control issues, I imagined.

The plane landed.  I stood.  I deplaned.

For some reason, as I wandered through the SEA-TAC airport, doing my best to stagger as if I were drunk--thus giving plausible reason for grown-man-wet-pants--the old jingle for Pull-ups repeated in a continuous loop in my head, "Mommy, wow!  I'm a big kid now."

Glory be to KFC

Hello, Folks,

This is one of the weirdest things I've ever seen. We'll need to talk about this when you're done viewing. Meet me below.





Ok. Um...I'm not sure where to begin. I want to first and foremost say, WOW! This is simultaneously the best/worst, most awesome/terrible thing I've ever seen. The performance (i.e., voice, passion, timbre, verve, etc.) is amazing. The words (i.e., what she's saying) are crazy.

A few favorites:

This chicken died that we might live.
Breastesses!
I wanna be thick for you, Lord.
Don't let me die skinny.
The sheer number of times she says, "mac and cheese"


As I think about it though, I am not appalled by this song. I am in fact weirdly endeared to it. This woman loves chicken. She also loves Jesus. Her life's activities, even the mundane aren't separate from her spiritual life. I like that.


So tonight, when I eat my chicken, rice, mac and cheese, and collard greens. I am going to turn my thoughts to the chicken who gave its life for me.

Then I will think of my Savior.

Mmmm. Finger-licking-goodness.

Have a Seat

Hey, y'all,

It's been a while since we've talked.  Do you have a minute?  Good.  Have a seat. Yes, I know you're already sitting.  I just wanted to give you this chair.  I want you to have this seat.  No, you won't have to take it anywhere.  Let's just leave it where it is, but both of us will know it's yours now.  Good.  You now have a seat.

Can I tell you a quick story?  No?  Why?  No time for stories? Why, then, did you take my seat?  I want that seat to belong to a person who has leisure time. No, no, it's yours.  I can't take it back now, your ownership is all over it. 

It's okay, I'm not sad.  It's just been a stressful day, and now I own one fewer chair than I did just a minute ago.  Well, where I come from the number of chairs one owns establishes that person's status.  Why do you think I offered you a seat?  I was just being polite.  You didn't have to take it.  I have never actually taken a seat when offered one.  It's kind of rude.  No, no, I don't want the seat back. 

I can't take it back.  Please don't have me arrested.  I can't take it back from you; you are a very powerful seat owner that has so many chairs that you've even got one at my house. Yes, I know I just gave it to you, but your status has changed.  You're way better than me now.  I am your serf, taking care of your property, and I'm grateful for the opportunity.

What?  NO!  It's too much.  I can't just be granted ownership of all of the seats in your house.  That is the most generous offer anyone has ever made, but I couldn't.  Oh, please don't insist.  Well, okay.  I will accept your seats.  I am humbled. 

Ok.  Now that I own all of your seats, I need you to send them over to my house.  I am taking your seats.  They are mine and I demand that you relinquish your seats to me!  All of them: past, present, and future!  How dare you refuse me?  I could have you imprisoned for such insubordination!

I'm sorry.  I've not been the most benevolent dictator.  Although ownership of your seats gives me full control over your life and property, I have behaved rudely.  I will appoint you to a council position in one of my seat properties.  Let's see, my vast empire of seats stretches from my house to your house. 

Ah, I have it!  You will sit on the council governing the toilets at your home.  What?  Don't you need to sit on a toilet from time to time?  Well, I have granted you access as chair of the toilet council.  How dare you!  Yes, I know I said "how dare you" once before, but I don't know how you keep daring.  I have the power to revoke your privileges for both numbers 1 and 2, so mind your Ps and Qs.  Ha ha!  That's funny--you know what the P stands for, but what about the Q.  Clever.  Oh, I can never stay mad at you, my humble companion and servant.

What's that?   You're ready for my story now?  Ok.  Have a seat and I'll...oh you clever sprite.  I see what you've done.  You just tricked me into offering you a seat.  And, I fell for it!  Oh, don't deny it.  You are a crafty little wizard.  Well, I suppose this means we are back on equal ground.

Now, about that story...

end scene

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