What to wear?

Today is the last working day before Halloween. The people at the office where I work had been talking about whether anyone would dress up, and by the end of the day we had a pretty good majority vote that dressing up would happen.

Costuming can reveal aspects of someone’s personality in ways unachievable by any other method. The person is given a blank canvas and an unlimited palate of colors to work with, so the possibilities are only limited to his or her imagination, creativity, individuality, and integrity.

“If I can’t find my hat, I can’t go to the party. If I can’t go to the party, I can’t show my face in the office again. If I can’t show my face in the office again…”

I really didn’t know what I was going to dress up as. I have too much self worth not to dress up, but none of the ideas I had or suggestions I was given were motivating me. I thought, if I can’t come up with something good, then I’m just not going to dress up at all. But that kind of a copout is selfish and irresponsible.

Over the years, the name Heath Bryant has become synonymous with awesomnicity. If there is ever an activity which is allowed to impose high expectations in presentation, people count on Heath Bryant to deliver a memorable performance. Whether its teaching a Sunday school class, recording an account of a cherished family tradition, or dressing up for Halloween, I have become accustomed to not just getting the job done, but to do it with dignity, with humor, and with my own personality woven throughout.

“We never lost an American in space. We're sure as hell not gonna lose one on my watch. Failure is not an option!”

Not dressing up was not an option. I had been milling over ideas for several weeks and nothing seemed to stand out. I had plans to hang out with my long time friend Allen and his wife last night, so I knew that any costume shopping would need to happen between 5:30 and 6 Thursday night, if I was going to need anything for my costume Friday morning. The only thing I’d seen which I’d considered buying was a Shaggy (from Scooby Doo) costume at Target.

Time was getting short and I hadn’t come up with anything better, so I swung by TarJe to pick up the outfit. I wasn’t completely into the idea, but the display photo on the packaging made it look like the kind of thing that, if executed well, could be pulled off successfully. So I picked it up, and determined to make it work.

“The clothes fit?”
“Yeah! Everything except the boots, Doc. They’re kind of tight! I dunno, are you sure this stuff is authentic?”
“Of course. Haven’t you ever seen a Western?”
“Yeah, I have Doc, but Clint Eastwood never wore anything like this.”

The minute I took it out of the packaging, I knew that wearing this costume would tarnish my reputation for ever. The wig was unruly, the stitching was shotty, and the pants were so small that when I bent my legs to sit down the waist line sunk to reveal a healthy three quarters of my healthy butt. There was no way I was wearing this to work—where I SIT at a desk for eight hours straight with my rear facing anyone who enters my cubical.

“Even if I wanted to go, my schedule wouldn't allow it... Of coarse if I bumped the loathing til 9:00 I can still be done in time to lay in bed, stare at the ceiling, and slip slowing into madness… But what would I wear?!”

By this time it was too late to shop for another costume (every store in Sandy closes by midnight—EVEN THE GROCERY STORES!) so I just went to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. How could I show my face if I underperformed on a holiday? It just seemed too uncharacteristic to be possible.

In my mind and in my closet I raced through anything that I might be able to pull together for a costume. A sheet for a sumo diaper? No, too revealing. A bath towel for a Punjab turbin? No, the Hindu lady I pass in the parking lot would be offended. Then I finally remembered my Superman T-shirt. I wore it on my mission and it was a huge hit.

“Sorry, Kid. I don’t do this joke any more.”
“Aw, c’mon.”
“Look, I’m sorry, it’s over.”
“But this is a solid bit! Please?”
“Alright, but I’m telling you for the last time.”

Now, I’m not one to repeat a costume—its demeaning to an audience to tell the same joke twice. But that was in California five years ago. There’s no shame in sticking with a solid bit—one that can work in any town with any crowd.

So I woke up extra early this morning and ran out to buy some glasses and black hair spray. I couldn’t find any hair spray, so I had to decide if I would just go with my light brown hair or improvise.

“Get us transport to England – boat, plane, anything.”
“I'll meet you at Omar's. Be ready for me. I'm going after that truck.”
“How?”
“I don't know. I'm making this up as I go.”

I’ve seen the old Christopher Reeve (rest his soul) Superman movies about a dozen jillion times and on some of the DVD special features director Richard Donner mentions that Reeve had lighter hair than they wanted, so they colored it with black shoe polish. So I thought I’d try the same.

“Lord Vader! We only use this facility for carbon freezing. If you put him in there it might kill him.”
“I do not want the emperor’s prize damaged. We will test it… on Captian Solo.”

I didn’t want to ruin my hair, or do something that would die my hair for weeks. I didn’t want to gamble, so before I jumped in the shower, I tested it on an inconspicuous patch of hair, the whereabouts of which will remain undisclosed. The shoe polish washed right out, so I decided I’d be okay with doing my entire head.

It was pretty messy and took forever, but it turned my hair black that’s all I wanted. So I threw on a suit leaving the shirt and tie undone with my superman shirt underneath. The glasses top it all off, but they’re 1+ reading glasses and wearing them hurt my eyes after a while.

“Look, John! There’s mermaid lagoon.”
“And the Indian encampment.”
“And look, there’s Captain Hook, the pirate!”

It was fun to see everyone else in the office dressed up. One guy was a beach bum, another a heavy metal rock star. One guy dressed up as a member of a co-workers office fantasy football team—the team hasn’t one a game yet, so the costume included band-aids, black eyes and broken bones.

“Oh, Mother! You look simply lovely.”
“Why, it’s just my old gown made over, but it did turn out rather nicely, didn’t it?”

What makes a good costume is when no-one has to ask what you are. Often, niche costumes can work too if worn within a niche community. In fact, many times a niche costume is much funnier and more appreciated when explained to those who understand the niche. If you have to explain, “well, I wanted to have this, or wear that, but I didn’t have it or couldn’t find one” that is proof that your costume sucks.

For example: one girl at work dressed up as a hockey player. She wore a matching jogging suit—and that was it. I wanted to ask her, “so, are you supposed to be a jogger, or someone who’s staying home from work sick?” She said that she has rollerblades, a helmet and a hockey stick at her desk. So I’m thinking, “oh, so you’re GOING TO BE a hockey player.”

“Marty, you have to wear the boots. You can’t wear those futuristic
things in 1885. You shouldn’t even be wearing them in 1955.”
“All right, Doc, look. Once I get there I’ll put them on, I promise.”

My issues with her costume are these—if there is a part of your costume that makes or breaks it—for Halloween’s sakes: don’t remove that part! Later in the day, she put on the roller blades, so now, she’s wearing a jogging suit and roller blades. Another issue I have is that hockey is one of the sports that has a very distinguishable jersey style—and it doesn’t look anything like a warm-up jacket.

“Marv!”
“Harry?”
“Why the hell did you take your shoes off?”

“Why the hell are you dressed like a chicken?!”

Porcelain Etiquette

I doubt that women can relate to what’s on my mind today. They seem to enjoy relieving themselves in groups, so I’m sure they’re quite alright with “powder room” conversation. But we men don’t talk while in there, and maybe the reason is because the only powder being used in our bathrooms is “gun powder” (if you know what I mean).

“George, why couldn't I use the bathroom in that store?”
“Krama, trust me, this is the best bathroom in midtown!”
“Wha??”
“He knows.”
“…on the left--exquisite marble! High ceilings. An' a flush, like a jet engine!”
“Now, listen: uh… you better not wait. I'll catch you later.”
“You sure?”
“He knows.”

Men go to the restroom for one purpose only, and they need no assistance or coaching on the matter. In-the-bathroom is one of my least favorite places to be, so I wait until the last possible moment before entering, and I stay foras little time as possible. I don’t try to make chit chat and I appreciate it when others do the same. Just like when I’m at City Hall paying a traffic ticket, I don’t want to be there, and I don’t want a conversation to prolong the experience. So, please, let’s neither try to be pleasant. Let’s just get this over with as quickly as possible and I’ll be on my way.

“Look, I don’t want any help. I just wanna be left alone.”

This topic comes to mind because in the past week, I’ve had two unwelcomed greetings while in the bathroom. At the office, we work in on a floor with four suites—our company occupies only one—so we share a bathroom with the occupants of the other four suites. Just today, I walked in and both Nick and Sean from work were in there.

“You! I suppose you’re programmed for etiquette and protocol.”
“Protocol? Why, its my primary function, Sir. I am well-versed in all the customs…”
“…Alright, shut up.”

Now, assuming that it is understood by all men that conversation in the water closet shouldn’t be expected or even practiced, I simply ignored Nick and Sean (as is customary in such all-male surroundings) and made my way back to which ever stall seemed to have had the longest time since it’s last use—I hate a warm toilet seat: means germs. As I entered, I could tell that Nick and Sean weren’t talking, so I assumed that they must be aquainted with the rules of the men’s restroom.

Suddenly, Sean breaks every precedent by bellowing, “Hi, Heath!” I couldn’t believe he had spoken. It took me a while to decide how to respond. I was dumbstruck, Sean was waiting for a reply, and Nick was sort of watching over his shoulder from the urinal, waiting to see what happened next. “Oh… Hi, Sean!” I said, matching his volume and social ridgedness. The tone of the entire room changed from acceptably awkward, to awkwardly awkward.

“Look what you did. I can’t believe what you did!”

Sean’s about 29 or so, which means he’s had 4 years longer to adapt to the system than I have. But, I got the feeling that he was saying hello because he felt like he was being ignored. Now, he was being ignored, but shouldn’t he understand that? Apparently not: maybe these universal men’s room rules aren’t as universal as I had expected.

“You said to stand against the wall! I did just what you said. Its not my fault!”

My response probably seemed rude. I think I made an enemy today, but its not my fault. He should have understood.

“I believe the doors on the bathroom stalls , here at the stadium, don't offer much by way of privacy . But I was thinking if we extend the doors all the way to the floors ......”
“All the way to the floor ! What are you crazy ! You'd suffocate in there . Your lucky you have any doors at all . You know when I was in the army ......”

Sometimes I wish that urinal stalls were more private—or at least less vulnerable. In another recent breech of benevolent bathroom behavior, I was “assuming the position” when Tim the doorman walked in.

“I don't even like to use urinals, I've always been a stall man.”

Tim is an amazing person. He looks as intimidating as Christopher Walken, but he’s really as kind as Richie Cunningham. He stands guard at the building’s front door, and he greets each person by name as they enter the building. I don’t know how he does it, but he remembers everyone’s name.

“I was just in the bathroom with that Bob guy.”
“So what?”
“No, I kinda tried to test his hearing.”
“Get out! What’d you do?”
“Well, I kinda snuck up behind him at the urinal and tried to see if hecould hear me.”
“And?”
“Well, he flinched, sort of.”

So, there I was, doing my thing. I didn’t even hear him come in, then all of a sudden, “Well, how you doing there, Heath?!” I was only half relieved by this point, but the shock was such that all bodily functions ceased, and there was nothing I could do to kick start them again. Stage fright usually happens before one is on stage, so that’s not what you’d call it. I guess you could say that I just froze up. So, with an awkward countenance and a bladder that was still half full, I faked that I was done. I replied, trying to sound happy to see him, and I washed and left as quickly as possible.

“The other place I wanna be about six feet away is Urinals, you want some distance there too. ATMs and Urinals, I guess whenever someone's taking something valuable out of their pants you want to give them as much room as possible.”

If the world we live in is such that not all men understand that the bathroom is not the place to meet and greet, then men—take note; and women—inform the men in your life. Conversation usually entails eye contact and eye’s ought not to come in contact with anyone or anything inside the men’s room. If we would all just live by this simple rule, there would be a lot less stress in this world. Heck, we may even be able to solve the male patter baldness problem. After all—women follow their own bathroom rules and do you see many of them losing their hair?

“Mickey’s Rival”

When I got home from my mission I was determined to keep a journal, but after a few years of “Amy’s so great... Amy just broke my heart; Kari’s so great… Kari just broke my heart,” I decided to write off journal writing because all my entries seemed to be about girls—and it seems like most girls I like (no matter how powerful my connection seems to be with them right off the bat) don’t remain in my life for long enough to rationalize the amount of pages I tend to spend on them.

When my good friend D$ opened my eyes to the wonders of maintaining a blog, I determined to write only fun stuff—nothing sappy, nothing love struck—I didn’t want to waste my time writing about every cute girl I met. But I want to write about this one, because what’s significant isn’t the fact that I’ve met a girl that I’m interested in (although that happens so seldom that it is, in itself, noteworthy), but the significance is in the competition surrounding this girl.

“Comes with the territory, Kent!”

I like pretty girls. In fact, I can’t think of any girl I’ve ever been interested in who was ugly. Pretty girls get a lot of attention from a lot of guys, so I’m accustomed to situations in which the girl I like gets attention from several (sometimes many) other guys.

“Truth to say, every portal to Katrina’s heart was jealously guarded by a host of rustic admirers.”

There’s an old Mickey Mouse cartoon entitled “Mickey’s Rival.” The premise is Mickey is trying to have a peaceful, romantic picnic with his main squeeze, Minnie, and another guy mouse by the name of Mortimer pulls up and starts hogging all of Minnie’s attention. Minnie is impressed and entertained my Mortimer’s tall physique, flashy clothes, fast car, and non-stop gags (which, unfortunately, come at Mickey’s expense). The entire time Mickey is steaming, because, although Minnie seems to enjoy Mortimer’s antics, Mickey can see past all that charm and see the weasel that Mortimer really is deep down.

“But Ichabod was confident he’d soon ride rough shod over these simple country bumpkins.”

I used to worry a lot about the competition if I knew that a girl I liked was being schmoozed by other guys, but the more of my competitors I meet, the more I get to know just how unique I am, and the more I realize that even if there’s no such thing as an ideal man, there is an ideal me—and I totally nail it. No guy will ever be as me as I am. And if it turns out that a girl chooses one of those chumps over me, then there is obviously something about that girl that either points her preferences toward an ideal other than the one I think is best (that best ideal being me), or that distorts her vision into thinking that the other guy is better at being me than I am.

“Don’t be upset, Jim dear. It isn’t that I don’t love you. I do. I love everybody. But when Ted explained how much he loved me, and…”

“All at once we both realized that we belong together.”

“The two of us dedicating our lives to making people happy with our feet.”

“The two of you, huh? Dedicating your lives to making people happy with your feet. That’s sweet. Well, I guess that kick I just got was a good start.”

Therefore, it doesn’t (completely) bother me to see other guys hitting on the girl that I like because I realize that the presence of inferior competition will simply separate the dross from the gold. If she falls for the Mortimers of the world, then it is she who is the dross, because she “shall not see when good cometh” (Jeremiah 17:6—if you enjoy irony, look up that verse (King James’ Bible) and read it from the beginning). And if she is the kind of 24-karat girl worth being interested in, then she will see those Mortimers for the dross that they are—despite their flashy clothes and fast cars.

“The most formidable obstacle of all, however, the schoolmaster failed to recon with. That was the redoubtable Brom Bones, himself.”

What’s newsworthy about the competition with this girl is that my competitor this time isn’t the usual shallow, superficial, one-dimensional Mortimer that I’m used to dealing with. No, this time it’s none other than my truest bro, Dustin (‘D’, D$, D’Narrow, Glaige) Glaizier.

Let me explain—our other roommate, Ty, and his girlfriend, Lisa, set up Dustin and me with some of Lisa’s friends for the six of us to go on a triple date. My date was quite pretty, yet quite not what I’m looking for. I won’t say what, I wouldn’t want to embarrass her or offend the mutual friends we have, so I’ll just say that for me and my preferences, she was without question a Mortimer.

Dustin’s date, on the other hand, was very cute and totally my type. She was bright, she was bubbly, and she gave the impression that she was the type of girl that would have no trouble picking out a Mickey from a crowd of Mortimers. The three couples stuck together for most of the night, so all six of us got plenty of time to hang out with each other—which I loved because it gave me a chance to finally get to know Lisa without her and Ty being all smoochie-faced on the couch. It also gave me plenty of chances to interact with Dustin’s date, Cassy. Cassy and Lisa are roommates and they invited Ty, Dustin and me over for dinner that Sunday, which gave us all more time to get to know each other.

“Now, the ease with which Brom cleared the field of rivals both peaked and provoked the fair Katrina.”

It was pretty obvious that Dustin was into Cassy, and she seemed pretty down with him. Seeing as how fate had set the two of them up together on the date, I realized that regardless of how impressed I was with her, I needed to stay out of the way. But, I knew that would be hard to do, because there was no denying that I was more impressed by her than by any girl I'd met in a long, long time.

“So, what do you think of her, Han?”

“I’m trying not to kid.”

One of the things that has brought D$ and I so close, especially as of late, has been the fact that we can both discuss dating woes with the other guy, and unlike most people I talk with, his advice actually makes sense and rings true with my goals and expectations (because his are the same as mine). Given that that feeling is mutual, Glaige e-mailed me a few days after that group date to ask for my take on what I thought would be his most favorable next move to make with Cassy.

“Though a wiser man would have shrunk from the competition, love—they say—is blind, and Ichabod was aware only of the dame fortune that was at last thundering at his door.”

I had been back and forth in my mind as to how, or even whether, I would tell Dustin that I was digging Cassy. It was obvious that he liked her, and it was apparent that she enjoyed both Dustin's and my company. I had come to the conclusion that I would just hold off telling him until it seemed absolutely necessary. Well, now that he was asking for advice, it seemed absolutely necessary—for I didn’t want to allow my interests in her to even give a threat of biasing my broish advice.

I replied to his e-mail saying that I probably wasn’t the best person to be giving advice on the matter, because I was interested in her myself. He wasn’t upset—in fact, he said it came at no surprise. We had discussed the matter before of approving of each other’s future wives: that the only way you could ever truly feel that a girl was good enough for your bro would be if you felt a bit of jealousy—meaning that you wouldn’t mind having a girl just like that yourself. So instead of getting mad and telling me to get my own girl, he just smiled with an implied understanding that I considered her good enough for him.

“Oh, that’s going to be easy… like peeling a turtle.”

We were very open about how difficult it would be to both be vying for the same girl’s attention—especially since we can both see what she might see in one guy or the other. And we’re both so similar, we’re both such Mickeys, that the advantage that we usually enjoy over the many Mortimers who we’re each so used to competing with is gone. It’s hard not to feel in competition with him. I can feel the temptation to start looking for flaws in him, but I stop myself because he’s my bro.

I can totally see why she’d chose him over me. He’s so chill about everything, whereas I get pretty anal about this or that. He’s got his own style—the way he dresses, his sense of humor, his colored hair, and me—I mostly just dress and look the same as every other conservative preppy.

“There was no doubt that Ichabod was the man of the hour. Brom knew that he must concede his rival still another victory, and yet, there was still a chance his time would come…”

Yet at the same time, I’m really not too concerned about her choosing him over me. I feel like who I am, is exactly the kind of product I want to present, and if she likes someone else—even my ultimate bro D’Narrow, then she obviously sees in him something that she doesn’t see in me—and I’m sure when I see what it is, the mere discovery that such a thing would be as important to her as to be the factor that distinguishes me from another guy, I’ll lose all interest in her, because it will be the part that makes him him, and if that's what she wants, then she's not what I want, because I want a girl that is looking for a guy like me.

It won’t be something that he and I have in common, and it won’t be something I could or would want to adopt, or worse--fake. Some things just aren’t me, and if another guy has it and its something that one particular quality girl is looking for, then my blessings are upon them and their future, because I’m really not interested in changing who I am just for a girl, nor in “dedicating my life to making people happy with [my] feet.”

“You’re crazy, Maimey.”

“I’m crazy?! I knows Miss Linda. I knows her like I knows my own kids. Why, she ain’t the fancy type no more than you are. What she wants is what you got right here."

But in the off chance that what she's looking for is what am, I'm willing to endure any competition necessary. And I'm confident that there's no risk of damaging a friendship, because as Glaige and I have discussed on several occasions, the reason we're friends isn't because we like to do the same activities, or listen to the same music, or wear the same brands (in fact, we're polar opposites on all those things), it's because of who we are and how we perceive and approach life. It's because we're not just friends, but bros.

“We're the same... split, right down the middle...”

Uncle Craig

This December is my Uncle Craig’s 50th birthday. My grandma asked that I put together a short memory of him, which she’ll put together with those of everyone else in the family. I should be safe posting this because I don’t think Craig visits my blog, but if you are reading, Craig—stop now, because it will ruin your birthday present.

An uncle is one of those characters in the story of your life who you seem to have a lot of contact with when you’re a kid, then gradually less and less as you get older. Perhaps a big part of that is being the child of an older sibling—my mom is two years older than Craig—because, I was around before Uncle Craig even got a chance to start and become occupied with a family of his own.

I was born the day after my Uncle Craig’s birthday and I’m his first and only nephew, so naturally we have an innate kinship that no mere neice (or sister of mine, to be more specific) could even get close to.

With his birthday two days after Christmas and mine a day after that, Craig taught me the fine art of disallowing relatives to consolidate Christmas and birthday gifts. One essential tactic is to let everyone know that you demand your birthday presents be wrapped with birthday paper—NOT Christmas paper. You can also drop hints to suggest segregational gift buying—“I heard such and such will be 30 percent off at the after-christmas sale, etc.”

Another trick, which I don’t remember ever seeing Craig do, but had proved to be somewhat effective for me is to casually start a “so, did you get everything you wanted for Christmas” conversation with a family member—the items you lamentably list in those few well invested minutes serve as a perfectly placed subtle reminder of what’s still available for them to get you.

I always heard other kids complaining about having their birthdays so close to Christmas, but I don’t remember ever feeling that way. To some kids, the Christmas-time-birthdays were a burden, but thanks to the wisdom and tutorage of my dear uncle Craig, for me it was like a three-day, happiness-insurance policy.

I can remember as a kid, you could always count on Uncle Craig to get you the presents you were really hoping for, but were too extravagant for even Santa Claus to bring you. One year it was Hotwheels’ slot-car racers; another year, He-Man’s Castle Greyskull; and a Kermit the Frog party another year. I don’t know how he always knew exactly what I wanted, but when it came to pulling through with the ideal gift, he was as reliable as Steve Largent’s hands on a sideline catch.

With Uncle Craig, it didn’t matter whether it was Christmas day, my birthday, or any given Thursday—he’d have some little prize to give me every time I saw him. I became so accustomed to it that I began to expect something with every visit. I can still remember the first time he didn’t have anything.

My four-year-old self asked him what he’d brought me.

He answered, “a kiss on the cheek.”

I gave him a sly grin (as sly as four-year-old chubby cheeks can get) and I gazed at him from the corner of my eye thinking, Aw, that Uncle Craig is such a great kidder. So, I slugged him one and said, “No really, whadja bring me?”

He wasn’t joking! I couldn’t believe it. I can remember feeling a little upset about the fact that his perfect record had been tainted, but I also remember looking at my two little sisters (who did receive little Uncle Craig trinkets) and thinking (or at least feeling), I guess I’m just not a little kid anymore.

In third or fourth grade, Uncle Craig had gone on a trip somewhere—I don’t remember where he’d gone, but—when he came back, he brought four gold bracelets with him and he gave one each to me and my sisters. The three of them loved ‘em and wouldn’t take them off for weeks, but I did not approve and I confronted him about it. “Bracelets are for girls! What am I gonna do with this?” He suggested I hang on to it for a while and that sooner or later, I’d find a girl that I wanted to give it to. I found that preposterous—“Me? Like a girl? Ha!” But you know, about two years later as Rick Pettibone and I were staring at Nicole Boyer from across the 4-square court, talking about how gorgeous she was, I realized that my Uncle Craig was right. How was it that he knew what I would want—even before I knew? This was even more amazing than the surprise Castle Greyskull play set.

My High school years were some of the greatest of my life, and I attribute much of that fun to football. I love football. I loved playing it, I loved the lifelong friends I made, and I loved the unique experience of walking out under the lights with my teammates, before a cheering crowd of our peers with one united purpose in mind—to inflict pain on our opponents.

My class and the class before me weren’t very deep with athletic talent, so our teams weren’t really dominating throughout the league. Each year it came down to one game that would determine whether we’d advance to the playoffs. My junior year it was sad to have lost that game, but my senior year it was devastating. I knew probably wouldn’t play college ball, so this would be the last time I’d ever strap on a helmet. This was the last time Bryant, Peterson, Anderson and Hall would walk out along the 50-yard line to call the coin toss before a game.

I remember our last game—it was late October. When the game was over and the bus brought the team back to the school, all the girls from our group of friends were there to cheer us on, even though we’d lost, but I couldn’t help but bury my face and sob. I knew my football days were over and I had nothing to remember it by—no championship, no trophy—just the memory of losing my last game.

The following December the 24th, our family met with the Elton side at Grampa Larry’s—same as we do every year. Margo served a great meal, complete with her patented green salad with raisins. My sisters, my cousins and I ate at the kids table, as usual. Then, just like always, we took our places on the sofa and the floor around the tree to unwrap our presents.

Everything was typical: a fancy sweater from Grampa and Margo, Mom blabbing on and on about how each gift she received “would go just perfect” with this outfit or that, but when I opened my present from Uncle Craig the predictability stopped. It was a photo album of shots he’d taken from the sidelines from each of my football games that season. It was like an NFL Films highlight reel starring me. It was a collection of photos of everything I’d loved and everything I wanted to remember from my limited time playing my favorite sport.

I kept my composure as I told him “thanks,” but once the presents were all unwrapped and everyone retired to the kitchen for dessert, I lingered in the living room and discreetly cried as I thumbed through the pictures and relived the moments—moments that had only recently passed, but that I had feared were at risk of being forgotten.
How did he know what I wanted? I never told him, and I’m not even sure that I new myself. How did he know? How has he always known? I couldn’t tell you how, but I can tell you this, that even though an Uncle’s role becomes less and less involved in your life the older you get, his interest and his affection remain.

“Fly: yes—land: no.”

“A ride? You mean would I like to fly?”
“Well. I'll be handling the flying of course.”
“This is utterly fantastic! If only Clark could see me now...”

My old roommate Brian (aka: Guait—pronounced g’white) works at the Provo airport on the Utah Valley State College airstrip. He’s a certified flight instructor, and as such, he can take perspective students up for their introductory flight. Now, I’m not necessarily planning on signing up for lessons, but when he said he could arrange a free trip up I jumped at the chance.

“So long Earth. Catch you on the flip side.”

I’ll admit, I was pretty nervous about going up. Its not that I don’t have confidence in Guait’s flying ability, but all day long I heard echoes of every local news report of plane crashes in Utah County that I’d ever heard. I spent most of the day hanging out with another old roommate, Ty (aka: Lew) and when he heard of my plans to go up he got pretty nervous too.

“And I’ve got ‘is blankets.”
“Oh, their still warm. Don’t pay extra for the warmth, you know.”
“You should! It’s the only warmth ‘e ever ‘ad.”

I was staying at Lew’s place and when everyone else found out about the flight, and about my worries about possibly not returning from it, all the guys started calling dibs on my possessions. “Dude, I get your TV.” “Hey, can I have your Xbox?” Dustin, who has a Cherokee almost just like mine said, “all I want is your car for parts.”

All apprehensions aside, I arrived at 5pm as scheduled. The adventure began before I even saw the plane. Every pilot in every movie I’ve ever seen always has his wire-rim sunglasses on, so I made sure to bring a pair, then we went to the hanger office where I was equipped with my own headset. Brian grabbed the keys and the flight kit and we headed out to the airstrip. Due to a scheduled resurfacing of the asphalt just outside the hanger, the aircraft were parked about a half mile away from the hanger. Most of the pilots hanging around the office were complaining about this with one another, but I loved it because it made the journey from the hanger to the plane that much cooler.

The first time our family went to Disneyland, my sister Bri was barely two years old. On the trip home, after several days of meeting all the characters and going on all the rides, Mom asked all us kids which was our favorite ride and Bri answered, “That one in the parking lot.” Her answer was a little confusing until we remembered the stupid little tram that shuttled people from the Dopey or Pluto lot to the park’s front entrance. Well, I understand a little more of why she’d choose that as her favorite.

Walking out onto the airstrip with my sunglasses on and my headset in hand made me feel so cool that I sware I could feel time wind down to frame the moment in a sweet slow-motion shot—just like the movies. Then when we got out onto the strip, a guy in a jumpsuit with sunglasses and a crew cut swung by in a golf cart to drive us to our ship. Brian and I held onto the side rails of the cart, sitting on the back and faced south as we were chauffered north—it made me feel like an astronaut!

“Apollo 13 Flight Controllers. Listen up! Give me a
go/no-go for launch... Booster!”
“Go!”
“RETRO!”
“Go!”
“FIDO!”
“We're go, Flight!”
“Guidance!”
“Guidance go!”
“Surgeon!”
“Go, Flight.”
“EECOM!”
“We're go, Flight!”
“GNC!”
“We're go!”
“TELMU!”
“Go!”
“Control!”
“Go, Flight!”
“Procedures!”
“Go!”
“INCO!”
“Go!”
“FAO!”
“We are go!”
"Network!”
“Go!”
“Recovery!”
“Go!”
“CAPCOM!”
“We're go, Flight!”
“Launch Control, this is Houston. We are go for launch!”

Before we could take off, Brian had about 50 pre-flight procedures to go through. He checked every gauge and inspected every bolt. It was sort of interesting and very boring, but seeing how much care it required really set me at ease about the possibility of anything unexpected happening.

“No, I don't think the Empire had Wookiees in mind when they designed her, Chewie.”

We were in a small Katana with one wooden propeller. There was about as much room inside the cockpit as you’d find in a phone booth. Brian and I were situated so close together that our shoulders were pinned together the entire flight. The rudder pedals were adjustable, so I had plenty of leg room, but when we closed the canopy it hit my head. I tried to slouch in my seat as much as I could, but I was just too tall for the plane. I was looking forward to a nice long flight, but when I realized that I’d be uncomfortably craning my neck to the side the entire trip, I decided that a short flight didn’t seem too bad after all.

“Really, what number did you call?”
“Two, four, niner, five, six, seven...”
“I can't hear you, you're trailing off, and did I catch a ‘niner’ in there? Were you calling from a walkie-talkie?”

Brian taxied us around and onto the runway. They just finished the air traffic control tower next to the runway, but its so new that there’s no one in it yet, so all traffic control is dependent on all the aircraft communicating with each other. Our plane’s call numbers were N986CT, which in pilot talk is November Niner Eight Six Charlie Tango. Brian would call out the number into the radio followed by our positioning and our intentions to take off. It turns out that air traffic (in non commercial zones anyway) isn’t nearly as organized as I had expected—mostly its just each pilot telling all the rest where he is and what he’s doing. Other than that, you just keep scanning the horizon for neighboring aircraft and try not to hit them.

“You know how to fly a plane, don’t you?”
“No… do you?”

After a very smooth take off, we were airborne. We flew around a little bit, gaining altitude all the while. Then, before I knew it, we were right above LaVelle Edwards Stadium, holding steady at 7,000 feet and Brian was telling me, “okay, the controls are yours.”

“How hard can it be? Airspeed: okay. Altimeter: okay. Fuel: …fuel!”

I thought he was joking but when I noticed the altimeter reading drop and he didn’t grab the stick, but say, “um, you’re gonna need to pull back a little on the stick,” I finally realized that he was serious.

“Traveling through hyperspace isn't like dusting crops, boy! Without precise calculations we could fly right through a star or bounce too close to a supernova and that'd end your trip real quick, wouldn't it?”

I was pretty hesitant in my movements at first—I didn’t want to do anything too drastic that would put us into a tailspin and sent us screaming toward the earth, but he coached me into this turn and that, and soon enough I was flying with no coaching at all. He gave me freedom to go wherever I wanted, so I turned east and headed up the Provo canyon.

“These guys are talking about bangs and shimmies up there? Doesn't sound like instrumentation to me.”

I’ve been on planes in turbulent air before, but when the plane is no bigger than a geo metro it really gets rocked—add on top of that the cumulative winds encountered in a canyon, and you can imagine how jolty our journey was. Much of the calm to my nerves that came from the confidence Brian had in me to maneuver the plane quickly faded once that choppy air started its spin cycle.

“Use the force, Luke… Let go Luke.”
“The force is strong with this one.”
“Luke, trust me.”

My grandfather was an Air Force pilot during World War II and flew in the reserves for years. He died two years ago next month. Even though I wasn’t under a lot of pressure to perform, nor did I have the fate of the freedom of the entire galaxy on my shoulders, in the same way Ben Kenobi’s voice came to Luke when he was flying down the trench en-route to destroying the Death Star, I too could feel my Grandpa Bryant’s presence in the cockpit with me, calming me. It was the closest I’ve felt to him since his passing.

“You were in a 4g inverted dive with a Mig28?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“At what range?”
“Um, about 2 meters.”
“It was actually about 1 and a half I think. It was 1 and a half, I've got a great Polaroid of it, and he's right there--must be 1 and a half.”
“It was a nice picture.”
“Thanks.”

I took us up the canyon, around the Heber valley, and back down the canyon, then I handed the controls back over to Guait, so I could snap a few photos of the view. The rock formations on the mouth of the canyon are gorgeous so I got a few shots of that. We also flew right over the corn maze in Pleasant Grove that Ty, Dustin, and I had been at just two days before—turns out the maze is cut into a picture of John Kerry and George Bush. To fly over Provo reminded me of the beauty of that place, and I’m grateful for the experience, because so often in a town where we have lived but have been so busy that we just run around to get things done, we forget to look at how pretty everything around us is, and even though its right under our noses, we miss it.

“The defense department regrets to inform you that your sons are dead because they were stupid.”

After some sight seeing, Brian asked if I was done taking pictures. I said I was so he said, “Okay, then. Hold onto your camera.” I did as he said and no sooner than my last finger secured its grip on my camera, Brian cut the throttle to zero and dove the nose of the plane. My stomach leaped up into my throat and stayed there until he pulled up and out of it. I was panting and Brian was laughing when he explained, “you just pulled your first G.”

“What's your problem, Kazanski?”

“You're everyone's problem. That's because every time you go up in the air, you're unsafe. I don't like you because you're dangerous.”

I’d always heard pilots say that on movies and stuff, but I’d never experienced it. I was so scared the first time that I didn’t get to enjoy it. So I asked him to do it again. This time I took my camera out of the death grip I had on it to video tape the dive. It was a whole lot more fun the second time—probably because I was expecting it, but disappointingly it doesn’t look half as exciting on film as it really was. The one thing I really remember was how difficult it was to hold up my camera—it felt like the little 8 ounce camera suddenly became a 16 pound bowling ball.

“Gentlemen, it's been a privilege flying with you.”

We landed shortly after that—a very smooth, very safe landing. We went through the post-flight procedures and left the airstrip in the same rockstar/astronaut way. I couldn’t stop thanking Brian. I had so much fun and it was the kind of thing I’d never have been able to do on my own, and may never get to do again. Its out of the ordinary things like that that make life sweet. Experiences that you don’t have every day, when you do have them, you realize how wonderfully unpredictable life can be. Thanks, Guait—it was something that I’ll never forget.

"Clear and copious"

“I can’t stop once I start—it stings.”

Today’s blog is mostly about bathroom-type situations. If that offends you, I suggest you stop reading now, because the ideas are coming and I know there’s no way of stopping them. So, Pops, I guess I’ll catch you next time.

I’ve heard tons of different statistics about how much of the human body is made up of water but I’ve never heard the same one twice, so I wont attempt to quote an exact number here—but it’s well understood that it’s a surprisingly high percentage—more than 50% I’d guess.

Ironically, the body seems to have the ability to run short on what it’s made up of. This is called dehydration. I’ve heard that dehydration causes headaches and that often times when we take aspirin to alleviate the headache, it may not be the pill that provides the relief, but the glass of water that you drink while downing the pill.

I had a high school football coach who used to demand we drink a lot of water (contradictorily, he hardly ever gave us water breaks). His famous quote that anyone who’s been through his two-a-day practices could recite is that you know you’re well hydrated when your pee should be “clear and copious.”

I attempted to follow this advice by drinking two liters of water between two-a-day practices and the night before each game. It’s not easy to drink that much water at once. I can remember going to bed the night before a game feeling like I was so full that I could throw up. You’d also be surprised at how disgusted you can get of the flavor of such a tasteless beverage.

I don’t think I ever realized that pee had characteristics, let alone that those characteristics could change, but when I entered the MTC, I realized the meaning of “clear and copious.” All the guys in my district and I seemed to get head colds all at the same time (this was probably due to the 12 of us spending 10 hours a day in a 30 feet by 20 feet classroom with a window that couldn’t open). We were given the advice to drink a lot of fluids, which was to “flush the cold out of your system.” I don’t remember getting better any quicker, but I do remember the 10-12 glasses I’d collect on my tray (after all, who wants to make another trip through the line just for refills?), and I remember the countless trips to the bathroom. I must have had to excuse myself once every 15 minutes—which I didn’t mind because it was at least something to break up the monotony of class.

Now that I’m in the same type of situation—where I just sit at a desk for 8 hours a day—I again enjoy my bathroom breaks. Don’t misunderstand me—I can’t stand being in the bathroom. Some people like to read and relax in there, but I am strictly business: I don’t go in until its beyond absolutely necessary, and I come out as soon as I possibly can. Maybe it’s the walk to and from the can that I enjoy.

Well, the company I work for keeps a refrigerator full of juice, pop, and sports drinks, there is also an unlimited supply of coffee beans and cocoa mix. I’m not a big soda drinker, so that really isn’t much of an issue for me—but I do love juice and I’ll drink an occasional sports drink—but even those are loaded with sugars and sodium (I talk like I know whether and why those are bad for you, but I really have no clue about nutrition and dieting).

Drinking something all day long is a must—even if you’re not thirsty, you still need a good excuse to not be on the phone for a few seconds, or to not be typing a report. I try not to make too much of a habit of drinking all those product beverages—I think my motivation is the gut on my manager: he’s been working here for three years and he doesn’t seem to do much more than just sip a can of pop or two each day. So I drink from the water cooler.

I have a 20 ounce bottle that I refill and I must empty it three or four times per day. 60-80 ouces is a good number of ounces, and it ads up to just about the equivalent of a 2 liter bottle, so you can imagine how often I head to the bathroom.

As I said, I love the break. I like leaving my desk and getting a chance to get out of my chair. And for the first 7 months or so of working here those little 2-3 minute reststops were as ideal as anyone could have planned.

But about a month or two ago, we hired a receptionist. Previously, the front desk was unoccupied, so I could come and go unnoticed, but now there’s a girl up front who can notice every time I leave. She can also meter just how long I take. 2 minutes means one thing, 5 minutes: something else. I doubt that she really does this, but it’s the possibility that disturbs me.

I ran this dilemma past my good buddy D$ and his advice was genious. He said, walk out and head down the hall leading away from the bathroom, take the scenic route to the john, then on your way back, before you get back in sight. Take out your cell phone and act like you’re just finishing a call. His rationale was that people step out of offices all the time to take a noisy or a personal call—do that and she’ll be none the wiser.

“Help control the pet population: have your pet spayed or neutered.”

I’m not really sure what the point of sharing all this was, but hopefully it will awaken an awareness in you to the importance of keeping well hydrated.

Foosball Frustrations

The company I work for recently had a change in presidents and ever since the change, things around the office have become a lot more relaxed: there are a lot more funny e-mails circulating the office, when the president takes our department out to lunch it turns into lunch and the video arcade, and in the office we now have a love sac in front of the plasma TV, a putt returner, and a foosball table.

The office has become a lot more fun, but I’m not sure that the increase in fun has help alleviate any of the workplace stress. Now, my work related stress is way down, but my competition related stress is way up.

I take competition a lot more personally than I’d prefer to, and it’s not logical that I would because I’m playing against guys like the uber-mormon who’s played foosball at the institute building for the past 6 years (I haven’t even been to institute six times), and the guy who lived in Germany for two years, he says foosball is huge in Germany (I’ve never spent a night on foreign soil). So why do I take it so personally when I get worked at a game I never play by guys who play it for a living?

This competitive frustration isn’t a new thing either—last year I lived with a bunch of friends who were way into Xbox. Xbox is great because not only can you have four guys playing on one box, but you can link one box to another and get exponentially more guys in one game than ever before. It’s a great way for all the guys in an apartment to enjoy chilling together with a bit of healthy competition, without having to reserve a basketball court or wrangling together enough guys to field two football teams.

The best game for multiplayer gaming I HALO. I’ve probably logged around 20 hours cumulatively of playing the game, yet I still get uncontrollably frustrated when I lose to guys who have invested cumulative years into the game.

A common conversation in our apartment after a few rounds of me getting the HALO kicked out of me was me saying, “Freak Dudes, I’m done!” “Oh, come on, dude. One more game.” “Dude, I can’t. It hurts my heart.”

“‘Every time you lose, you die a little bit—you die inside, a portion of you. Not all of your organs, maybe just your liver.’ Pain is inevitable.”

I honestly do take it personally. I don’t know why I expect to dominate at everything, especially when it comes to things I never even practice. But when Walt schools me at Foosball 10-2, I get so frustrated that I want to go on a testosteronic rampage. Walt’s such a nice guy that when he sees my frustration he offers some gentile words to soften the blow of defeat. But hearing words like, “Man, that was a complete fluke—I wasn’t even trying to make that shot” just fuel the fire because what kind of loser loses to a guy who’s not even trying!

“Great, Kid. Don’t get cocky.”

I’m really pretty envious of friends like D$, who can play a competitive game and even when he loses, he can notice what it was you did to beat him and he’ll enjoy how great you did. “Man, did you see that spin move your guy put on me? That was amazing!”

"Arf..Arf..."

"You pooped in the refrigerator?...You actually Pooped in the refrigerator, if I go and open up the door there'll be poop in my refrigerator?"

"Arf!"

"How'd you do that? In fact I'm not even mad. that's amazing."

One of the few memories I have of enjoying defeat in such a way was, ironically, with D$ two summers ago. He was in Portland for the summer and I was in Seattle. He came up for a short visit and we went to the GameWorks video game arcade down town. It was a great trip because some dad was leaving with his boys just as we got there, and as we were waiting in line to buy our play-time tickets, he handed us his own and said that they each had about an hour’s time left on them—so we played all the games we wanted for free.

But really, the only game we were interested in was the Star Wars pod racing game. We must have raced a half dozen times. We had a movie to catch that afternoon, so we decided to play one last game. I was in the lead the entire time, and feeling pretty good about myself. As we approached the last stretch of the race, Dustin was right on my tail. I had a safe enough lead that all I needed to do was maintain it for the last few meters.

That last stretch included a long but gradual dog-leg to the left. I’ve always heard that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line, so I decided to take that turn as tightly as possible, and to maintain that tightness I had to be in a constant turn, which cut down on my throttle about 5 percent. Meanwhile, D$ decided to go in a straight line, full throttle and correct his direction once, making more of an angled approach to the finish line.

“Now THIS is podracing!”

Being in the lead, all I could see ahead of me was the finish line. I was confident I had the win in the bag. But when I was about half a meter from the finish line, my frame froze and a big “2” flashed on my screen. I looked over and saw “winner” flash on D$’s screen. I couldn’t believe it! He’d totally stolen the win from me, which in most instances would have caused me to blow my temper, but how he did it was so unexpected, that I was more entertained by his win than I was disappointed by my loss.

I’m positive that it’s a measure of immaturity that causes me to be so bothered by getting beat—but I think its mostly getting blown away that makes me mad. I don’t mind losing a pod race by half a meter, but I can’t stand losing a HALO game 25 kills to 7.

But I guess this experience has given me some insight to why my best friend Ray didn’t like playing basketball with me when we were kids (I was 6’0 and he was 5’5), or why my sisters never wanted to play me at Tecmo Bowl on the Nintendo (nothing too witty to say here, they just plain sucked at Nintendo).

“It's suicide. You've seen him, you know how strong he is. You can't win.”

Why do I continue to play these games even though I continue to get rocked? Well, the competitive side of me thinks that each time I lose I get a little bit better (although my track record would say otherwise). But the social side of me (void of any competitiveness) will say that its for the sheer comradery of the game. I enjoy doing things with my friends, even if it is watch them work me and flatten my pride for a day.

“Hey, you kids are probably saying to yourselves: I'm gonna go out there and grab the world by the tail and wrap it around and pull it down and put it in my pocket! Well, I'm here to tell you that you're probably going to find out, as you go out there, that you're not going to amount to jack squat!”

Perhaps the best way to enjoy myself is to simply expect (or almost even hope) to get blown out of the water, that way if I do I’ll be emotionally prepared for it and I’ll be able to better enjoy my friend’s victory, and if I don’t: hey—I just kicked someone’s butt, what would I have to complain about?