Fortune and Glory

An American's guide to soccer [Ryan]

2010-06-18T22:35:00.001-07:00

Recently, with the continuous broadcast of the FIFA World Cup, Americans have become intrigued by soccer (which is called by the rest of the world, in a clear violation of copyright laws, “football”). Perhaps it’s because we’re suddenly possessed by the desire to fit it with the global community. Maybe it’s because with Lost over, there are only three things on TV these days, and we’re getting tired of the Gulf of Mexico oil spill and Kobe Bryant. Or maybe we just enjoy watching a bunch of multinational metrosexuals getting hit in the faces by soccer balls.

The fact remains, however, that this onslaught of weird foreign things, despite our sudden interest, remains confusing to many people from countries whose women shave their armpits. Thus, I will attempt to explain the game of soccer and its World Cup to the perplexed American:

The World Cup is the most-watched sporting event in the world. Some countries take the entire day off for the World Cup; it is believed that Hitler invaded Poland while the Polish were watching the World Cup, taking the Polish by surprise and beginning World War II.* Some countries ritually sacrifice virgins to the soccer gods to increase their teams’ chances of winning.**

According to tradition, soccer began when the Danish invaded Sweden, and the king of Denmark cut off the Swedish king’s head and kicked it all over town. (It’s believed that the King of Denmark wore Adidas sneakers, thus beginning the noble tradition of plastering sponsors’ logos everywhere from the stadium to the athletes’ underwear.) From there, billions have enjoyed the sport, flocking to stadiums in hopes of witnessing a high-scoring game (defined as any game in which someone scores a point).

The game is played on a pitch, which is a made-up British word meaning “large, goods-carrying motor vehicle.” (Or maybe that was “lorry.” I get my made-up British words mixed up.) Players may not touch the ball with their hands, a tradition dating back to the days before people had hands.

Fans of soccer are generally a courteous bunch who only occasionally incite riots in which multiple people are injured or trampled as if by a herd of rabid wildebeests. They (the fans, not the wildebeests) often bring loud horns to the World Cup matches to fill the stadium with the raucous sound of buzzing and frighten the other team into believing the pitch has been overrun by mutant locusts from outer space.

The players are an even more interesting bunch. The job of the goalkeeper, as his name suggests, is to keep the goal, though this is often unnecessary given the low frequency of players actually getting accurate shots at the goal. The forwards and centers run up and down the field just fast enough to allow their perfectly coiffed hairstyles to wave fashionably in the wind. Lastly, the seeker’s job is to catch the Golden Snitch, gaining for his or her team an additional hundred and fifty points.

That’s enough about soccer; I’m quite sure Americans have better things to do than listen to me witter on about nutter footies and their gaffers and rubbish like that. Cheerio! Also, I'm sorry if in this article I offended the soccer gods. If so, I'll gladly provide a virgin sacrifice for their appeasement.

* This is not true. But it could be.
** This might be true.

EPIC FAIL: another chicken blog [Connor]

2010-05-18T20:01:00.000-07:00

Unlike most of my blogs, this one has a moral to it.

Never, ever, ever,* ask a girl to a formal dance using a live chicken.

It all started, as so many tales of failure do, when, like a fool, I decided to ask a girl to prom.** The girl in question happened to be a good friend of mine. To protect her identity and spare her any embarrassment, I’ll refer to her as 'Schmessica'.

My plan was simple: a cardboard box containing a chicken, and a note, situated under the chicken, which read simply ‘Don’t be a chicken. Go to the dance with me.’ I planned a second delivery, which would involve my name hidden cleverly inside an egg.

I parked my car a short distance from her house, and crept stealthily across her lawn and up to her front door. I felt just like James Bond, supposing he was sneaking across a suburban lawn in broad daylight carrying a large box emitting clucking noises as the guy next door pauses from mowing his lawn to stare perplexed and debate calling the police.

I set the box on Schmessica’s step, rang the doorbell, gave a friendly wave to the neighbor (now holding his cell phone in readiness) to let him know I was, like himself, a regular human being who rarely deposits boxes containing chickens on people’s doorsteps, and hid behind a car. So far, so good. It occurred to me later that it would probably have turned out easier for all parties involved if the guy had called the police.

Nobody answered the door. Schmessica’s cat was showing intense interest in the box, so I elected to abort the mission and return later.

Take two: Still nobody home. Cat still showing extreme interest in the Magic Clucking Cardboard Box. Had I returned a third time, the cat would probably have obtained a crowbar with which to pry open the box.

After a second unsuccessful attempt, I was forced to take a break as I went to an employee meeting at my work. It so happens that Schmessica is one of my coworkers; after the meeting, she mentioned that, just minutes before leaving for the meeting, she had been asked to the dance. “Great!” I responded, while the words running through my mind were oh, fetch.

I arrived home to deliver the bad news to my family, who was taking a very active interest in my increasingly desperate attempts to deliver the chicken. “I have bad news,” I told my mom, and explained the new development.

“That is bad news,” my mom said. “While you were gone, we delivered the chicken.”

Fetch. It was of significant comfort, however, that I had not included my name in the note, intending, as I said earlier, to deliver that part separately. For a brief, pathetic moment, I considered simply leaving the chicken unclaimed and kidnapping it back later that night, leaving it forever a mystery of who the loser was who asked her second.

I received a text from a mutual friend, whom I’ll call Schmaley. She was currently with Schmessica and had limited knowledge of the plot. It simply read, You need to come get your chicken.

Why? I replied.

You need to come get your chicken, she replied again.

What the heck is going on over there? came my hesitant reply.

At this point, she called me. If somebody abandons a texting conversation to call you, it’s never a good sign. Good sign? On the scale of Signs and Omens, this one happened to be only slightly below Death Omen. Her message was brief, to the point, and left me scarred forever. She stated certain parts particularly vehemently, or perhaps particularly panicky. I’ve put them in all caps for your convenience.

“The chicken ATE ITS WAY THROUGH THE BOX and is RUNNING AROUND THE YARD like a POSSESSED BIRD. Schmessica has LOCKED HERSELF INSIDE HER HOUSE and WON‘T COME OUT. YOU NEED TO COME GET YOUR CHICKEN.”

“Eh?” I answered.

(At the time, this seemed the best way to convey the emotion I was feeling; specifically, the extreme desire to change my name and flee to Saskatchewan, where I would build a log cabin in the woods and spend the remainder of my days forever alone except for the company of small woodland creatures, none of which would be chickens.)

There comes a time in every man’s life when he must face up to his decisions, confront his fears, and retrieve the possessed chicken. With terror gripping my heart, I drove to Schmessica’s house for some severe damage control.

I saw immediately that the chicken was cornered at the top of a short flight of stairs leading to a side door on her house. Standing at the foot of the stairs with the air of a 17th century mob who had just cornered a witch, stood Schmessica, her mother, a lady I took to be her grandmother, three or four of her sisters, and assorted neighbors and random bystanders. At this point, I was earnestly considering recovering the chicken, then driving it out to a remote desert road and running it over.

It was a fairly simple matter getting the chicken back into another box. It didn’t run around possessed, just stood there clucking and leering at me with the cruel, satisfied smirk of someone who has ended your social life and forever shattered your confidence in one swell foop***. Despite the relative ease of imprisoning it once more, the prospect of taking it out to the desert and running it over was becoming more and more tempting.

After putting the chicken and its prison cell inside my car, the cat, in its fevered desire to get to the chicken, sprang at what it must have thought to be an opening in the car. Cats have apparently not discovered windows. The cat went THUD, face first against the window before sliding down it slowly with a comical squeal.

I apologized profusely to Schmessica, her family, and the assorted neighbors and random, deeply amused bystanders, explaining that the chicken had always been very well-behaved in the past and had never once previously exhibited behavior that would suggest it was possessed by evil spirits. No Brian Regan show nor Saturday Night Live skit has ever elicited more laughter than my deeply contrite, deeply humbled, and deeply, deeply, eternally embarrassed apology.

The icing on the cake came when I learned that, before eating its way out of the box, the chicken had consumed my note, so that Schmessica simply found a crazed evil homicidal demon chicken on her doorstep and no explanation whatsoever. For all she knew, it could have been a deliberate act of terrorism.

My highlight came as I was preparing to leave and overheard the following line, which I feel echoes Napoleon Dynamite’s famous line, “Do chickens have large talons?” I heard it as Schmessica reported the incident to her dad over the phone, who I imagine was doubled over, speaking to her in between gasps of laughter.

“You wouldn’t have come out of the house either! You should have seen the size of its talons!”

A few days later, I received a small cardbox with a note saying “Sorry, this chick has already been asked to the dance.” Inside, chirping innocently, stood a newborn baby chick. The chick’s name: Bigfoot.

*Ever, ever, ever, ever. Ever.
**Not to imply that I should have asked a guy.
***Er, fell swoop.

There and back again: The tale of an epic road trip [Ryan]

2010-04-21T21:11:00.000-07:00

One night, my brother Reilly, my cousin Zack and I were sitting around at home trying to think of something to do. Reilly and I wanted to go on a road trip; Zack and Reilly wanted to pick up an old motorcycle from our uncle Scott in North Carolina. Somewhere, we reached the conclusion that we could meet both goals in one really long car trip. A week later, we were on the road in our mom’s Toyota Highlander.

Day 1: Rigby, Idaho to Newcastle, Wyoming

Three young men. One Toyota Highlander. Enough high-calorie food to send a horse into diabetic shock but not enough to give that horse any sort of nourishment. So began our semi-impromptu quest to travel to the East Coast to get a motorcycle.

For a while, we tried to get a fourth guy, but it quickly became clear that such an idea would be impossible. We had barely enough room in this car for three. The food took up nearly an entire seat all by itself. Throw in a tent, sleeping bags, camp stove, electronics, and random odds and ends that we deemed useful for the trip and a fourth guy could only be a pygmy or small woodland fairy.

We knew where we were going pretty well. We had two GPS units, two iPhones with GPS capabilities, but no atlases.

Our parents set forth rules for this trip:
1) Drive “around” the speed limit
2) One person besides the driver must always be awake
3) No driving after midnight
4) I’m sure there were other rules as well, but we forgot them

Oddly enough, they failed to mention girls of any kind. So if we happened to meet girls on the way, pretty much anything goes. Or at least that’s what we figured … Ha! Just kidding!

We reached Wyoming. After an hour of driving around, looking for some place to camp, we found our preferences for sleeping arrangement becoming rapidly less discriminating. Finally we settled for parking behind a low billboard and rearranging our gear to allow for the three of us to sleep uncomfortably inside the Highlander.

Day 2: Newcastle, Wyoming to Omaha, Nebraska

We awakened gradually from the period of pseudo-sleep in which he had spent the entire night, changed into our church clothes in the parking lot, and found a nearby chapel. I fell asleep during the service.

We went to Mount Rushmore, which is somewhat smaller than we had expected, though still impressive. The next ten hours or so in a car passed quickly considering the amount of time spent confined in a car. We soon found ourselves in the middle of two gas crises: somewhere on the outskirts of Omaha, we were running out of gas. Our car was slurping up the last trickles of gas at the bottom of the tank when we finally found a little gas station with a truly ancient gas pump. It had an equally ancient machine that allowed for credit cards, but we couldn't figure out how to use it — it had apparently been made by Atari before Pong. We suspected that pushing the wrong button would either deny our debit card or launch a nuke somewhere in the former Soviet Union.

After filling up, we began the search anew for somewhere to camp. We found a Wal-Mart parking lot.

We set up a camp stove there in the parking lot. The assembly and operation of the stove baffled us for a while, but we eventually succeeded in cooking several servings of chow mein and Cup-of-Noodles without any significant fire damage to ourselves or the vehicle.

Our experience with sleeping in the back of the car allowed us to be a little more effective in arranging our gear tonight, and we found ourselves with enough space to lay somewhat horizontal, though moving once we were settled was out of the question.

Day 3: Omaha, Nebraska to dark, scary woods in Kentucky

After getting ready for the day in the Wal-Mart bathroom, we headed to the Winter Quarters visitor center, where we were greeted by perky sister missionaries. The sister missionaries soon passed us off to a senior missionaries, probably deterred by our three days’ worth of body odor, masked only slightly by liberal amounts of Axe bodyspray. This led to us to conclusion that our parents had not included rules about girls on the list simply because they knew girls would not be a problem, given our general lack of hygiene.

We traveled to the Gateway Arch. It was cool. We didn’t get to up up it, but we still got a great view. The end. We also listened to liberal amounts of Disney music.

The ride from the Arch included listening to Christian radio station that included a preacher screaming in his Southern drawl his bleak interpretation of the Bible, ending every sentence of his raucous admonitions that he deemed important with an “amen.” It entertained us for a good half hour, amen. We were almost LEFT WITH A DESIRE TO PURGE OURSELVES OF SIN AND GIVE OURSELVES GRACE AND SNATCH OUR LIVES FROM THE BURNING JAWS OF HELL AND DENY THE IMPULSES OF THE CARNAL AND FLESH AND THE EVIL THAT CORRUPTS OUR VERY SOULS, AMEN!

The plan was to camp near Mammoth Caves. We called ahead and assured that the campground would be open when we arrived. However, the fates conspired to hock a loogie into our plans. To get to the campground, we had to use a ferry to cross a river. Unfortunately, when we arrived, the ferry was closed, stranding us on a lonely road next to dark, scary woods teeming with horror movie clichés. A lone light flickered on and off next to the ferry. Now and again, we would hear mysterious noises from the darkness of the woods. I was totally expecting to hear the banjo song from Deliverance. Seventy percent sure that we would not finish the night without being mauled by a Sasquatch or murdered by some chainsaw-wielding sociopath, we elected to sleep in the car for the third night. We were actually getting pretty good at it at this point.

Day 4: Dark, scary woods in Kentucky to Hillsborough, North Carolina

We crossed the ferry in the morning. The ferryman was not as creepy and weird as we were expecting, though every time someone says “creepy ferry” I imagine a “creepy fairy,” perhaps a male Tinkerbell with a mullet and mustache lurking outside of playgrounds with his big gray windowless van. We then spent two hours inside Mammoth Caves, experiencing less than a mile’s worth of the longest cave system in the world. Still, it was cool. We also showered in the campground that had been just across the impassable river all night. We realized later that the three hours we spent showering and exploring the cave was the longest we had spent outside the car in four days.

Then we continued to drive. It was a mark of how bored we were that Reilly and I engaged in a rousing rendition of “A Whole New World” from Aladdin. I’m quite proud of how it sounded.

At this point, our expectations had become somewhat lowered. Anything that required extra effort to cook — like Cup-of-Noodles or top ramen — was suddenly high cuisine compared to the chips and granola bars we had subsisted on for three days.

We pulled into our aunt and uncle’s house after dark, looking forward to a real meal and a real bed, or at least something heated to eat and something reasonably horizontal to sleep on. Our aunt Chelsea met our expectations.

Day 5: Hillsborough, North Carolina

Today was merely a restful day, which felt great. The only time we ventured out of the house was to go the AAF tank museum. As the name suggests, it was a collection of tanks from various wars and countries. As the name does not quite suggest, it also harbored a flea market, spook alley, and collection of hats from around the world.

Day 6: Hillsborough, North Carolina to Heyworth, Illinois

Our uncle Scott took us to see Duke University. With our last good food for two days in our stomachs, we set out on the journey home. The motorcycle that was the reason for our travel was strapped onto the back. At first, it was wobbling horrendously, and we were steeling ourselves for the inevitable moment when we would look back and see a monstrous explosion behind us where the bike had fallen off the hitch, crashed into some unsuspecting Civic behind us, and engulfed the entire freeway in a conflagration of devastation. Fortunately, we added one more strap and it held pretty well.

Our GPS, which was probably getting as antsy as the rest of us, had been taking it upon itself to take us on more scenic routes. This mindset had taken us to the ferry a few nights before, and now it began leading us through hills and vales and dirt roads in Ohio. Not that I’m complaining — those hills in Ohio were really pretty.

Hours later, after the usual unsuccessful search for a campsite, we hit a new low in our quest for lodgings and parked in some tiny town in Illinois next to a Dumpster. We were pretty sure we were behind a bar. (There were probably creepy fairies out there somewhere.)

Day 7: Heyworth, Illinois to somewhere in Nebraska

We stopped at Nauvoo. The first temple session wasn’t till 2:00, so we took that opportunity to have a look around. We saw the blacksmith’s shop on Parley Street and walked around the historic homes. We looked across the river. Finally, we went through the temple, which is absolutely beautiful. In Zack’s words, it’s a “freaking awesome temple. “ (We’re pretty sure Brigham Young said the same thing.)

It was about this time that we finally discarded our vow to eat only the meager food we’d brought and plugged “Little Caesar’s” into the GPS.

This night, our last on the trip, was the only night we actually camped in tent. I thought it was great; Zack said it was his worst night of the trip.

Day 8: Somewhere in Nebraska to Rigby, Idaho

The pretty part of the drive was over. We continued across Nebraska and Wyoming. The important thing to know about Nebraska and Wyoming is that they fit into the same category as South Dakota: they have one or two really pretty parts and the rest looks like the angels threw up all over. In the very middle of one of those stretches of puke-brown wasteland somewhere in Wyoming, we pulled into a gas station with a nearly empty tank, only to be told that the whole county was out of power. (How does that happen?) We made a desperate drive to the next county, nominating Reilly to drive there because he was the one most likely to get good gas mileage out of it.

Late that night, we finally rolled into Rigby, Idaho and soon fell asleep in our real beds.

List of states traveled through: Idaho, Montana, South Dakota, Nebraska, Kansas, Missouri, Kentucky, Tennessee, North Carolina, Virginia, West Virginia, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Iowa, Wyoming.

How they should be [Ryan]:

2010-03-12T10:30:00.000-08:00

If you’re like me — a normal, oxygen-breathing, food-eating, Jane Austen-hating lifeform — you will, at some point in your life, have to read books you will have no desire to read. For instance, many a male has been made to suffer through the likes of Pride and Prejudice. Luckily for those of us whose taste involves a little less Victorian prattling, there’s a book out that combines the classic novel with, according to the back of the book, “zombie mayhem.” The book, Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, is making its way into the bookshelves of culture afficionados everywhere.

In such a spirit, here are more books, transformed from their classic state to something appealing and readable.

War and Peace
Leo Tolstoy

In the midst of warring Europe, the emperor Napoleon is discovered to be a robot from the future sent to provoke the world into full-scale war. Russia and her allies unite against this new threat. Will the noble prince Andrei Bolkonsky woo the luscious Natasha Rostov? Will Napoleon be sent back to the year 2018? Will the book ever end? Find out in War and Peace.

Jane Eyre
Charlotte Bronte¨

In keeping with my belief that books should be worth what you pay for them, the entire book is nothing but removable Craigo’s coupons and coloring pages. Enjoy. The end.

The Great Gatsby
F. Scott Fitzgerald

In this thriller set in the Roaring Twenties, socialite Jay Gatsby is found murdered in his home. Federal agent Nick Carroway finds that the murder is only part of a conspiracy, and he has 24 hours to stop the wheels of treachery before the Soviet Union destroys the American dream. Also, there’s something about materialism and the decadence of aristocracy.

Death of a Salesman
Arthur Miller

Arthur Miller’s classic tragedy introduces Willy Loman, a down-on-his-luck salesman whose struggle with his own futility devastates his family and leads the reader to investigate mortality and the value of self-knowledge. SPOILER WARNING: A dinosaur eats Willy.

Northanger Abbey
Jane Austen

Northanger Abbey is the secret location of a covert organization bent on world domination. Can the noble heroine, Catherine Morland, outwit the bad guys and employ her arsenal of top-secret gadgets in time to stop the nuclear weapon from launching, all the while extricating herself from the intricacies of high society?

A Midsummer Night’s Dream
William Shakespeare

Shakespeare’s classic play opens with the marriage of the ruler of Athens, unleashing a flurry of romantic misadventures, which are brutally cut short when the minions of the Dark Lord Sauron are unleashed upon the land. The play features a climactic duel to the death between the trickster Puck and the wizard Gandalf.

Twilight
Stephenie Meyer

Twilight is not a classic, by any means, but I must continue to wage my holy crusade against its inscrutable appeal. Twenty pages into the book, vampire Edward Cullen grows tired of new girl Bella Swann’s incessant chattering about how perfect he is and eats her. He decides he and the entire human race are better off without her pubescent whining and goes on with his immortal life. The rest of the book is spent defending the sleepy town of Forks from brain-sucking aliens.

Gone with the Wind
Margaret Mitchell

The devastation and brother-against-brother action of the Civil War dominates the novel, with a few afterthoughts given to the romance between Whats-Her-Name and that one guy.

The Grapes of Wrath
John Steinbeck

In the midst of the Dust Bowl, an impoverished farming family chases a dream — until one day, Nazi archeologists unearth clues in the desert leading to the lost Ark of the Covenant and the fabulous power contained within the Ark’s mystic confines.

Toilets in parallel universes are a pain to fix [Connor]

2010-02-26T07:47:00.000-08:00

There are two kinds of people in this world. On one hand, there’s the people who, if their truck broke down on a deserted road in the mountains, would be able to fix it quickly and be safely on their way. On the other hand, we have the people who would open the hood and stand there squinting dumbly at the engine until they were eaten by wolves.*

I represent the second group.

I have no aptitude for mechanical things whatsoever. As I write this, the basement toilet has the toilet flu — which, as those of you with mechanical knowledge will know, is the technical term for when a toilet randomly floods every half hour. Normally this would not be cause for emergency, except that the two members of my family with any mechanical skills — and therefore the power to cure this toilet of its toilet flu — are away fishing, happy in the knowledge that, in the case of an emergency, they can fix the truck before the wolves get them. Which leaves myself and my mom at home with the solemn duty to hold the toilet at bay. Our current plan consists of bailing the water out of the toilet bowl with a bucket and into a larger container, which we then dump out outside. It’s kind of like being on a sinking ship, except that, if they fail on the ship, the sailors don’t have to worry about whether or not they need to call someone tear up the carpet. It’s rough, that toilet flu.

Not everybody would get eaten by the proverbial wolves when the proverbial truck breaks down on the proverbial mountain road. My brother Reilly is an example of this. My dad, who would also survive the proverbial wolves, will tell him some kind of complicated mechanical job that needs done around the house, like reassembling a Toyota from the molecular level, or fixing a doorknob. A couple hours later, Reilly returns, and something similar to the following conversation takes place:

DAD: So, did you get it fixed?
REILLY: Yeah. It took me a while because the truncated grommet components were the wrong caliber. I had to get some more at the hardware store.
DAD: I thought we had some of those around here somewhere. Connor, do you know where the truncated grommet components are?
ME:

Just now, as I wrote the script above, we finally got a plumber over to take a look at our ailing toilet. After inspecting it for several minutes from different angles, he announced solemnly that “it’s coming from someplace else.” For a tech-savvy person like me, that clears up the matter in an instant. I’m surprised I didn’t figure it out before, really. Clearly, there is a toilet in a parallel universe that transports water to ours whenever it’s flushed!

I’ll avoid making a joke here about the condition of the people using that toilet in the parallel universe and the fact that they’re apparently flushing every twenty minutes. The plumber is currently sticking a ten-foot long metal thing into the toilet. I’m assuming it has a note on the end addressed to the owners of the parallel universe toilet, politely asking them to quit flushing the toilet. We’ll see how it goes. In the meantime, it’s my turn to bail out the toilet.

To keep updated on the status of my toilet, become a follower of my blog. If that's not a very tempting offer, follow the blog anyway.

*Wolves strike me as the kind of capable, masculine animals that would be able to repair the truck after they ate us, thus dramatically improving their mobility in the future.

Bring me five teenagers with attitude! [Ryan]

2010-02-10T21:02:00.001-08:00

I’ve been thinking about my childhood. Specifically, I’m referring to the shows that dominated the airwaves of my youth. It was a simpler time then, when we were too young to look at the premises of our favorite shows and ask precisely which part of the brain stem of the shows’ creators had been taken over by alien sponges.

Hey, that would make a great idea for a 90s TV show.

Foremost among my memories of childhood television is Mighty Morphin Power Rangers. If the omission of a necessary apostrophe in its title were the show’s only grievance, it might have become more than a reasonably predictable acid trip. Instead, with a little supplementary information from Wikipedia, I’ve compiled the basic premise:

A couple of astronauts accidentally free an evil space witch — the devious Rita Repulsa, an aptly named villain with a curious resemblance to Madonna — who immediately sets her sights on conquering Earth, or at least California.

Her arch-nemesis Zordon, whom she trapped in an alternate dimension a long time ago and whose base is conveniently located in California, manifests himself as a giant floating face and speaks to his robotic servant Alpha 5. (Makes you wonder what a floating head has been up to for all this time. He probably has a database somewhere of himself making funny faces in PhotoBooth.) Zordon gives Alpha 5 the succinct and totally logical command, “Bring me five teenagers with attitude!”

Alpha 5 beams five ethnically diverse teens into their headquarters, who spend a remarkably short time coming to terms with the idea of calling upon the spirits of prehistoric beasts and fighting evil on a weekly basis under the direction of a psychedelic floating head.

Each episode begins with Rita Repulsa throwing another clay-mation figurine into the oven. The creature then materializes on Earth, where it begins wreaking havoc until the Power Rangers attempt to stop it. But they can’t — and they have to call in their Zords, giant robots that somehow manage to hide in the wilderness of California.
The Zords and evil beings do battle, but the evil clay-mation creatures always prove too tough to handle, resulting in the Zords joining up to ultimately defeat them.

This happens every week. It seems like a fair assumption that the most efficient course of action would be to simply combine the Zords and kick some bad-special-effects butt right off the get-go, but we have to remember that these “teenagers with attitude” agreed to wear checkered jumpsuits in their quest to fight evil, so we can’t ascribe too much common sense to them.

Speaking of common sense, it’s a wonder this show ever became popular. Looking back at my memories, I’m inclined to believe that gas fumes in our basement near the TV contributed to my enjoyment of the series. However, I could also just write it all off as the follies of youth.

It’s a wonder I turned out normal.

Top Five Worst Songs of 2009 [Connor]

2010-02-04T17:15:00.000-08:00

This is a countdown list of the top five worst songs of 2009 that I wrote for my school newspaper, the Trojanier. Tragically, I forgot about Cobra Starship's "Good Girls Go Bad" when I wrote this, or it would have placed at least third. Also, "Imma Be" by the Black-Eyed Peas failed to become popular until the week after I wrote this, or it would have taken its well-earned seat in the countdown as well. Honorable mentions go to Brittney Spears' "If U Seek Amy" and anything by Drake.

5. “One Time” - Justin Bieber

Everybody who heard this song for the first time and assumed it was a girl raise your hand. Yeah, me too. It’s no coincidence that there’s a Facebook group called “I thought Justin Bieber’s song one time was sung by a girl.” The guy (if that’s what he is) isn’t allowed to sing in most buildings due to the likelihood of his (her?) voice shattering the windows.*

4. “You Know You Want Me”- Pit Bull

No bueno. “If I could become famous by counting to four in another language and repeating the line ‘I know you want me, you know I want ya’, I certainly would,” says junior Sam Merril. Actually, Sam is incorrect- the singer only counts to three in another language.

3. “Sexy Chick” - David Guetta

If ol’ David really is “trying to find the right words to describe her without being disrespectful,” as the song says, he comes up with what can only be described as EPIC FAIL (cymbal hit). The song’s lyrics are a jumbled mess of vulgar descriptions and poorly disguised innuendos. “It makes me want to scream and tear my radio out of my car with my bare hands,” says Kaitlin Perrenoud, a junior.

2. “Boom Boom Pow” - Black-Eyed Peas

It’s a little known fact that this song was actually recorded as an aerobics workout so Fergie would have a beat to exercise to. Not even the Black-Eyed Peas actually dreamed anybody would want to buy it. They only put it on the album because they lost a bet with Justin Bieber, who, had he (she?) lost, would have had to put on his album a recording of himself singing “Santa Baby.”*

1. “I Gotta Feeling” - Black-Eyed-Peas

I gotta feeling that tonight’s gonna be a good night

That tonight’s gonna be a good night

That tonight’s gonna be a good good night

A feeling that tonight’s gonna be a good night

That tonight’s gonna be a good night

That tonight’s gonna be a good good night

If you’ve heard that, you’ve heard the whole song. It’s a mark of how repetitive it is that I simply had to copy and paste the first stanza to create the second. On the scale of Things That Drive Me Crazy, this song ranks just ahead of People Who Drive Seventy Miles With Their Left Blinker On and just behind Girls Who Honestly Believe They Will One Day Marry Edward Cullen.

*Ok, there’s a possibility, however slim, that these facts are wrong. If you plan to sue me, please disregard them.

Excuses, excuses

2010-01-25T18:02:00.000-08:00

Sorry it's been a while since we posted. The holiday season, the new year, and the return to college has been crazy. Expect a blog by the end of the week. If no blog appears by the designated time, feel free to march up to our house with pitchforks and torches, screaming for justice.

Spreading the gift of guilt: my experience as a Salvation Army bellringer [Connor]

2010-01-13T17:23:00.000-08:00

Joy filled my heart as I decided to sign up to ring a bell for the Salvation Army at Christmastime. What a wonderful way to display my love for my fellow man.

You can imagine the joy that filled my heart when I learned that you can get PAID to ring the bell.

What's more, I learned, it was decent pay; nothing you could support a family with, but it certainly tops the minimum wage I work for in the summer. Needless to say, I was on board. The next day, my friend Sam and I showed up at the Employment Solutions office in charge of hiring bellringers.

At this point I should clarify the job to which I refer: I'm talking about the people dressed as Santa* standing outside of Walmart, shouting "Merry Christmas" to random passersby and, of course, ringing a bell, all in the hopes that the random passersby drop money in a little pot next to the Santa. As far as I'm aware, no Santa has ever stolen the pot of money.

So there we were, me and Sam, men on a mission, applying for the position of bellringer. There are two kinds of bellringers: the volunteers and the paid workers. Signing up to be a paid worker takes slightly more paperwork, the helpful registration lady informed us. You'd think, of course, that we'd sign our names somewhere, maybe show them our driver's licenses and, if they were really thorough, be given a five-minute orientation ("Bell goes this way. . . Bell goes that way. . . You're doing good so far!")

No.

The registration packet was approximately as long as the Old Testament and contained sections for previous job experience, detailed character references, and waivers out the wazoo. In addition, we had to provide three forms of ID, including our social security cards. Finally, we had to watch a 30-minute orientation video. (Really.)

Midway through the paperwork, Sam and I looked at each other, nodded, and threw our papers in the trash.

"We'd like to volunteer instead," we told the helpful registration lady.

"Ok, sign your names on this paper. What shift do you want?" was her response.

Two days later, we stood outside Walmart wearing Santa hats.** It's quite a fun job, actually. The object is to get people to make eye contact with you, leaving them with no other choice but to dredge up a few coins out of their pockets to drop in the pot. People would go to amazing lengths to look anywhere but at the guy in the Santa hat waving and calling cheerily to them. They'd do a kind of hurried shuffle past me, staring transfixed at a stained ceiling tile. "Merry Christmas!" I'd shout to them with true Christmas spirit, joyfully spreading the gift of guilt. One of those people later drove past me in a shiny new Mercedes. I hope somebody scratches it with their keys.

In society's defense, not everybody tried to dodge us Santa had-clad volunteers. In particular, my thanks goes out to the guy who donated the $100 bill. In case he should ever happen to read this blog, I'd like to thank him on behalf of myself and Santa hat-wearing people in general: Thank you for your generosity. We tip our Santa hats to you.

And to the rest of you: [A late] Merry Christmas.

Ha! You made eye contact.

*In the sense of wearing a Santa hat and being human. All similarities tend to end there. You don't want your kids to get their impression of Santa from the bellringer Santas outside Walmart; they could grow up in the belief that Santa is a large black woman.

**In addition to other clothes. Don't want to give kids the wrong impression of Santa.

Twilight, a resurrected blog post

2010-01-04T20:37:00.000-08:00

I published an older version of this article over a year ago in the BYU–Idaho Scroll, but the threat I addressed then has yet to be vanquished. In fact, with the release of the New Moon movie, the inexplicable appeal of Twilight has only grown stronger. Like orcs from Mordor, the screaming legions of Twilight fans bearing their arsenal of officially licensed merchandise issue forth, spreading darkness over the land.

Plus, I’ve seen enough of freaking Taylor Lautner. Maybe we should wait until he’s old enough to vote before we slap his grinning, lycanthropic mug across the tabloids.

Thus, here is the expanded version of the article, with more quips, quibbles, and references to better franchises.

Let's pretend that instead of being the thrilling space opera it is, Star Wars had been written by a woman with only the faintest grasp of what makes a good plot. Let's say that Han Solo spent all three original movies telling Princess Leia how much he wanted to kill and eat her. Let's speculate how things would be if the excitement built up to the point where Luke flew off to destroy the Death Star, only to have him pass out en route and wake up a few hours later with everyone celebrating, all the action having happened while he was frolicking in dreamland.

Sounds like a formula for failure, right? At least, that’s what you’d think.

When I finished Twilight, I honestly wasn't too impressed. Maybe it's because I'm a guy and my literary needs involve a few more explosions and fewer declarations of undying (no pun intended) love.

First, I could have gone without Bella's incessant reaffirmations of Edward's utter perfection. I understand that his skin is flawless, his eyes are rapturous, he has superhuman strength, his kisses have the power to instantly put a woman into a state of extra-bodily bliss, and even the results of his most basic bodily functions probably smell like Bath & Body Works lotion. I just don't need those facts repeated ad nauseum every chapter.

Next, I feel there is something unhealthy and possibly unrealistic in Bella's attraction to a vampire who wants to drink her blood. If I followed Edward’s example, I will tell my date (repeatedly; perhaps every ten minutes) that I hunger for her in more ways than one. If I believed Twilight, nothing would turn her on more. Girls love Edward because he can control his urges; what about us normal human beings? I've been on dates with girls I've been strongly attracted to, and to my knowledge, I've been pretty good at controlling my hormones. Would it be better, if you're a hot girl, if I told you at regular intervals how much I lusted after you but was able to contain my infatuation? Seems to work pretty well for Edward.

I had a girl explain to me once that Edward represents the guy every girl dreams of: a guy who’s protective, chaste, handsome … and utterly perfect. Let’s switch it around and take a look at Edward as though he were a girl, the embodiment of all the best qualities of male fantasy.

If Edward were a girl, she would be beautiful. She — Edwarda? Edda? Edwina? — wouldn’t just be gorgeous, though. She’d be an angel fallen from heaven, a genetically engineered Victoria’s Secret model. Her hair would float behind her by the gust of an invisible breeze when she walked. Her measurements would be within the “flawless” range, and she would not need to exercise, eat, or undergo any sort of physiological maintenance in order to keep her figure. Her eyes would be almond-shaped, glittering, and maybe (for good measure) able to shoot laser beams. She would also, apparently, sparkle in the sunlight.

She could quote the entire extended editions of The Lord of the Rings, could name every Heisman Trophy winner* from the award’s introduction to the present day, and would not only know the recipe for Pizza Hut’s deep-dish pepperoni pizza but could make it from scratch using only a can opener and a block of cheese.

Of course, she would also be a vampire that would thirsted for her lover’s blood with every makeout session.

Now comes the biggest quibble I have, the one that, if fixed, could have almost redeemed the book. WHERE THE CRAP DID ALL THE ACTION GO? It's not that the author got too busy to put action in; there's plenty of it. It just happens behind the scenes: There's a part where you're in a hotel room with Bella as she frets like a six-year-old girl and you're wishing intensely to be out there with Edward, tracking the bad guy vampire, but do you ever get to see the exciting stuff? Nope. Wouldn't it be more effective, as far as the story goes, just to SHOW the danger Edward's in, instead consigning the reader to hear Miss Whiner's jumbled thoughts about her lover's peril?

Then comes the clincher. The plot builds, and so does the reader's anticipation, as Bella finds herself face-to-face with an evil vampire James. Edward is on the way, tensions are rising, your heart is thumping — and then she blacks out, only to awaken having missed the whole fight between the bad guy and Edward. What's the use of having the action take place offstage? It's like spending hours preparing food, only to fall asleep and hear others describe it later.

There you have it. Twilight: the perfect escape from reality for thirteen-year-old girls who have yet to realize that men are human, not undead incarnations of Jane Austen love interests (Yes, Pride and Prejudice's Mr. Darcy is not human, but a robot from the future sent to destroy women's perceptions of men). Twilight: the perfect blubberfest for people whose literary tastes are flawed and whose emotions run unchecked.

*My criteria for a perfect mate does not include this, but I figured other guys might appreciate it.

Writer's block and wayward analogies involving overflowing toilets [Connor]

2009-12-11T15:27:00.000-08:00

I’ve come to despise writer’s block. You may notice my blogging has been lagging behind a little lately; my blogs are fewer and farther between. It’s not that I have nothing to write about, or that I have no time to write; in contrast, I’ve considered dozens of topics, and I have more free time now then I’ve had since August. I simply start writing something and find that, after a paragraph or two, my writing fizzles out like a. . . like. . . see? Further evidence of the onset of writer’s block. I should have been able to come up with a snappy, witty comparison involving an overflowing toilet, a Democratic senator, and a couple of chimpanzees, or something.

After five or six different attempts at blogs on topics ranging from my angst with Christmas political correctness, to the idiocy of Edward Cullen as the “perfect man,” to the book I’m reading which compares, among other things, real estate agents to the Ku Klux Klan.* Nothing clicked. They all just fizzled out like (insert witty comparison involving an overflowing toilet, a Democratic senator, and a couple of chimpanzees here).

So I decided to write on writer’s block. I mean, it’s only logical that I write about the reason I can’t write, right?

There’s a lot of topics I plan to cover as soon as I can plunge the clogged toilet of writer’s block.* In the meantime, stay tuned.

*It’s really quite a logical comparison, provided you have the proper amount of hallucinogens in your bloodstream. No, seriously, it makes sense. The book is called Freakonomics, should feel any curiosity as to exactly how the comparison works.

**I promise I’ll cut down on the mentions of clogged toilets.

Between Bauer, Bourne, Bond, and Norris: Who would win? [Ryan]

2009-12-03T13:33:00.000-08:00

There is a question that has been bugging me. Sometimes, in a moment of deep contemplation (or the brain stupor that comes from watching an entire season of 24 in two sittings), I ask myself the same question that Confucius or Aristotle often asked themselves:

“Who would win in a fight between Jack Bauer, Jason Bourne, James Bond,* or Chuck Norris?”

(Confucius, for the record, put his money on James Bond, which places some doubt upon any further wisdom we may encounter from him. I mean, we all know Confucius was basing his judgment on the Pierce Brosnan version of the character.)

The greatest scientific and philosophical minds of history have yet to come up with a satisfactory answer. All four men are rough, tough, and, by all appearances, able to survive anything, including nuclear detonation and exposure to anything by Lady Gaga. Let us, for a moment, examine each candidate** in turn to analyze his strengths:

THE CANDIDATES

Jack Bauer: According to 24.wikia.com, he has 227 on-screen kills to date. He’s even ripped out a guy’s jugular with his teeth. He has the uncanny ability to heal from any wound within several hours; I suspect he shoots himself in the foot every night before he goes to bed just to acclimate himself to a little pain.

Jason Bourne: If you tick him off, he will come for you, he will hunt you down, and he will kill you. He’s one of those people who can kill you with a pretzel if they want to.***

James Bond: He’s always had the ability to woo any woman he breathed his martini-scented breath on, but in his last incarnation he acquired some pretty mean fighting skills that didn’t require gadgets such as invisible cars, flame-throwing bagpipes, or magnetic grappling hooks that shot from his suspenders. He has also survived a particularly painful interrogation that makes it a wonder he is still capable of pursuing women (see Casino Royale).

Chuck Norris: We’ve all heard the facts: Chuck Norris does not sleep; he waits. Chuck Norris is the reason Waldo is hiding. There is no chin behind Chuck Norris’ beard; there is only another fist. Apparently, he is not only indestructible, but he is also omnipotent, omnipresent, and able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. At least Superman was killed eventually.

THE VERDICT

In deciding who would win in fight between the above-mentioned action heroes, we must consider the fact that none of them has ever truly lost a fight. True, Jack Bauer has been captured by terrorists and interrogated, but he has always escaped. Jason Bourne was shot in the back and dumped into the ocean, but he survived. We already mentioned James Bond’s horrific torture in Casino Royale. And Walker, Texas Ranger is no longer running, so we can count that as a relative demise for Chuck Norris.

But they always get back on their feet and rip out some more jugular veins.

So we must ask ourselves: in such a contest, would there be a victor? Could any of them actually lose, or would their battle continue forever, like the struggle between good and evil, or Cher’s career? Or would such unstoppable forces clashing against immovable objects create an explosion of energy that would eradicate life as we know it?

I conclude that because none of them can lose, none of them can actually win. Let’s allow them to stick to fighting nuke-wielding terrorists, clandestine operatives, greedy billionaire industrialists, and drug-dealing space aliens, or whatever the heck is it that Chuck Norris fights.

* Has anybody else ever noticed that these guys all that same initials? Does that mean that if I were to change my name to Jordan Brick, I would suddenly be endowed with the ability to take out all of Al-Qaeda with nothing but a stapler?

** Honorable mentions include Liam Neeson’s character from Taken, who possesses all the indestructibility and potential to kill a dozen guys with his bare hands as the others but lacks originality; and Han Solo, who is still going strong and running parsecs around the bad guys in the Star Wars books, despite the approach of his seventieth birthday.

*** Yeah. One of those people.

Or does he?

Twenty-four contestants. Four competitions. One victor. [Connor]

2009-11-22T19:14:00.000-08:00

Twenty-four contestants*. Four competitions. One victor.

This is the saga of Mr. RHS.

For those who don’t attend Rigby High School, Mr. RHS is a yearly spoof of Junior Miss in which guys from our school compete in four divisions: Clubwear, Fitness, Talent, and Sensitivity. The objective is to determine which contestant can get the most members of his family to deny any relation to him. Technically, of course, the point is to display the best talent, exhibit the best fitness, etc., but we all know the truth.

Following the tradition set by the Junior Miss program of practicing and preparing exhaustively for every event, we began an arduous practice program nearly a week before the pageant. Many of the intensive practices lasted over a half hour. We began by practicing the fitness routine; essentially, a dance routine incorporating pushups, sit-ups, and other exercises. The dance itself was extremely physically strenuous, requiring the utmost fitness to compete. For the pushups, for example, we did three. The girls on the school dance team would show us the dance and then coach us through it, step by step. Afterward, we would try to imitate the girls. How did we do? Picture a duck trying out for American Idol.

The Clubwear event consisted of all of us dressed to represent an organization or interest that we represent**. I was Mr. Couch Potato, dressed in pajamas, a large T-shirt with a pillow stuffed inside to serve as a belly, sitting in an armchair with a bag of potato chips and eating them off my chest. (At one point, a girl asked me if I was Mr. Pregnant.) Other Clubwear contestants included Mr. Wrestling, who wore a spandex suit; Mr. Warcraft, who wore cardboard armor; and Mr. River Guide, who wore an actual kayak and was pushed onstage by a girl from the dance team. (Needless to say, he won that division. I bet the girl slashed his tires.)

The competition heated up in the Fitness portion of the contest. We separated into groups of five and displayed our dancing skills for the world to laugh at. Several of the groups, realizing that mere dancing would not pull through to a victory, added to the dance or took it in a new direction***, figuratively speaking. In defense of my group, our idea of tearing off six progressive layers of Velcro-ed clothing worked great in practice. (Important note: we did, in fact, plan to keep on the final layer, which was entirely modest and covering, except in the case of my friend who wore a Strawberry Shortcake shirt that reached down to his sternum and boxer shorts that spelled I’M TOO SEXY FOR MY SHORTS across the rear.) During the actual performance, however, the outer layer decided to grab the other layers of clothing and hold on for dear life. The result was that instead of a group of guys ripping off their shorts in unison and throwing them coolly into the audience, who would fight amongst themselves to grab them and keep them as a souvenir, what the audience got was a group of five guys bending over, wrestling madly with their shorts and toppling over, still grappling to pull off a good twenty pounds of excess clothing, as the song continued without them. My group placed undisputedly last in that competition.

The talents were generally pretty good. The title of the winning talent was “Singing in the Shower.” Other talents included a comedy routine, which included a joke implying that Hillary Clinton is a fair trade for a chihuahua, the Napoleon Dynamite dance, and two guys performing an interpretive dance to the hit song “Kryptonite,” by 3 Doors Down.

The goal of the final competition, Mr. Sensitivity, is to prove yourself as the sweetest, most sensitive of the contestants, or at least to deceive the judges to think you are. Numerous mothers, grandmothers, and girlfriends were called up to the stage, told how much they meant to the contestant, read poems, given hugs, chocolates, roses, Ferraris, etc. My eight-year-old brother Quinnie won this event. Ok, technically I won it, but take into account that I didn’t speak a word, or even put in any effort aside from smiling. Quinnie, the most sincere and sensitive person you’ll ever meet, had written the following:

“My brother is sensitive because he plays Legos with me. Sometimes, when there are bees in the clubhouse, he goes in first, so they get him instead of me. He likes small animals. He also took my mom on a date for her birthday.”

Eight-year-olds reading stuff like this aloud to a tearful audience have a special place in judges’ hearts, it seems.

Remember to follow my blog!

*Give or take the ones I forgot to count or counted twice.

**A message from the department of redundancy department.

***Of course, many of us were already dancing in completely different directions, but that had nothing to do with planning.

The triathlon [Ryan, with Connor's observations]

2009-11-11T07:46:00.000-08:00

Here’s my take on our recent triathlon. Connor’s observations are in bold.

Three months ago, my aunt Jessica approached me with a proposition. There was a triathlon coming up, she said, and she wanted me to do it with her, Connor, and my cousin Zack.

You know that feeling that comes when someone asks you if you want to ride a pterodactyl through a ring of fire? No? I’m surprised. But it felt a bit like that — you just want to laugh at their nerve.

A triathlon? Me? You’re dreaming. Besides, I never give into peer pressure.

Good thing she didn’t offer me crack or something.

Three days a week, I ran. My training regimen was fairly consistent. Unfortunately, I never swam. I never biked until the night before the triathlon.

That night, my brother and the rest of my family brought our rented racing bikes from Idaho. I couldn’t immediately tell what set them apart from normal racing bikes. Apparently, they had skinnier tires, which reduced the risk of hazards like staying balanced during turns.

Triathlon bikes are basically cars without the safety features. Almost as fast, but without the seat belts, air bags, padded seats, and the actual car, which is your main line of defense when running into, for example, a brick wall. In a car, you at least have several feet of metal, engine, dashboard, and airbag to cushion you. In a bike, you have . . . nothing! This isn’t really a problem with regular bikes, but triathlon bikes are deadly. These bikes are built for speed, weighing about the same as a half-drank can of Sprite and sporting tires sold in sizes almost as small as bullet diameters.

I strapped on my helmet and took the bike for a test spin. Five minutes later, I limped into the house with a throbbing hand, a jagged tear in my jeans, and pride that couldn’t have been more injured if I had been mugged by one of the costumed Disney Princesses at Disneyland.

Who injures himself the night before the triathlon? I put ice on my swelling hand, scraped my mutilated pride off the asphalt, and prepared for the morrow.

The next morning, we gazed around at the masses of people, who ranged from inexplicably fit — these are the spandex-clad android replicants making their way among humankind in preparation for the final invasion — to people I was sure I could beat.*

Triathlon people (or “triathletes,” as they’re called) believe spandex is a reasonable substitute for actual clothing. Let me be frank: that is incorrect. I do not wish to elaborate anymore on this topic. Suffice to say that when the biker in front of you is leaned forward to be aerodynamic, exposing only one part of their anatomy to your view, you will agree with me.

When the gun went off, 500 triathletes ran toward destiny, or at least the general direction of the finish line. My injured hand wasn’t yet bothering me, so I took it as a good omen. When the run ended, my spirits were still high.

Those high spirits dissipated some time in the middle of the bike segment, when I realized that with my injured hand, I couldn’t use my back brakes or half my shifting capabilities. This proved particularly terrifying when descending and climbing hills. During the former, I nursed my front brakes gingerly; during the latter, I was forced to climb without my gears.

At one point, the race required us to ride in one lane on a public street in downtown Orem, while traffic traveling the same direction would use the adjacent lane. During this part of the race, I looked to my side and noticed two things: first, I was racing a Chevy truck.** And second, I was winning. During the downhill parts, we were expected to ride at approximately 175 miles per hour, or at least fast enough to make our handlebar-mounted speedometers catch fire. The experienced bikers were doing about twice that speed.

It sounds more fun than it was.

The swimming part was the hardest. Though the swim was less than a mile, my one-armed stroke left something to be desired. Imagine a mentally-challenged dolphin with one good fin trying to flop through the water, and then throw in dozens of other dolphins crowding the lane, their churning fins hammering the poor retarded dolphin as if it was all some lawless water polo tournament. Then the handicapped dolphin is eaten by sharks. That’s only a slight exaggeration. (There were no sharks.)

All triathlons have raffles for free equipment at the end, and it seems that longer the triathlon, the better the prizes. Ours was called a “splash” triathlon, and is the shortest form of triathlon I’m aware of outside the 5 and Under division. Just a 5k run, 10 mile bike ride, and a quarter mile swim. Apparently, at the end of some triathlons, they raffle off expensive running shoes, bike helmets, and even actual $1000+ racing bikes. Not so at our triathlon. The announcer would say, “And for number 399, we have here a brand-new pair of shoelaces!” and some spandex-clad person would wander up to the front and accept the gracious gift with a confused smile. Then the announcer would proceed to raffle off some other potentially useless item, like a water-bottle holder, a bike-helmet chin strap, or something called “yanks,” whose nature we never figured out. When they’re short on funding, they probably raffle off whatever stuff has gone unclaimed for six months in the fitness center Lost and Found box. (“And for number 256, we have this nice pair of like-new men’s briefs!”)

It was actually kind of fun. My hand injury complicated things somewhat, but I still wouldn’t trade the experience for anything.*** Next year, more of the family, inspired by our pioneering examples, plans to join in.

But I’ve written long enough. After all, it’s hard to type with a sprained thumb.

* During the bike phase, half of these people passed me. Nothing is more humbling that getting overtaken by a fifty-year-old woman with thighs the size of dinosaur bones.

** No, this isn't a shot at Chevy, although, for the record, I bet a Toyota would have beaten me.

*** Except maybe gold, jewels, a nicer car, the ability to fly, an authentic Boba Fett costume, or an iPhone.

Isn't technology great? [Ryan]

2009-10-29T10:45:00.000-07:00

Before my mission, I had never sent a text message, never poked anyone* via Facebook, and never looked up the Marvel character Deadpool on Wikipedia because I just wanted to know. In fact, I had only a vague idea what Wikipedia was. I didn’t yet own an iPod, and I was still borrowing my mom’s clunky Nokia cell phone with a pull-out antenna. I was also still a fervent acolyte of the PC cult, regarding anything Mac with distrust usually reserved for infomercial salesmen and Ku Klux Klansmen.

After a two-year break from reality, I returned to the technology dimension and found it a different and scary place.

Now I really have no idea where I would be without it all.

Facebook. At its core, it’s a way whereby you can keep in touch with friends old and new. But after spending a few minutes there, it’s clear that it’s much more: Facebook is a way to let everyone, both those who don’t care and those who really don’t care, know which farming implement you most resemble or which Transformers character you and 40 million other people are most like.**

Wikipedia. An online encyclopedia that anyone can edit. Sounds like a great idea, right? Despite the obvious possibility of anything of Wikipedia being written by someone’s cat who someone gained control of a keyboard, it is truly a useful tool. Many academics malign Wikipedia for its inherent lack of trustworthiness, but let’s be honest here — if you’re sitting in class, possessed by a sudden desire to learn about anything from African trade routes to the lightsaber, this is the place to go.

(Did you know you can click on “Random article”? Let’s see: “Turkey at the 2006 Winter Olympics” … “1993 Australian Baseball League season” … “2 gauge” … “Dave Ford” … “Hypoiodous acid” … “Stargate” …)

iPod touch. I can sit in the back of Sunday School, ostensibly flicking through my vast collection of Church manuals and scriptures that came with my scriptures app. Actually, I’m playing Hero of Sparta and defeating various denizens of the underworld. Not that I’m really fooling anybody.

Laptop. My Macbook truly is a wonderful thing, despite having been made obsolete several times. I mean, right after I bought mine, Apple came out with the new aluminum Macbook, which carried facial recognition software; the new aluminum Macbook Pro, which was durable enough to withstand a minor nuclear blast; the new larger Macbook Pro, which had battery powerful enough to run Iron Man’s suit for thirty minutes; and the newest Macbook, which is, apparently, so earth-friendly you could actually plant it and expect a tree to grow. ***

Cell phone. I’ve never been an excessive texter, but it’s easy to see how addictive it can be to have a conversation with someone without having to actually open your mouth, put on clothes, or even devote more than fifteen seconds of every minute to the effort.

Isn’t technology grand? I don’t know how I ever survived without it.

Become a follower. Tell your friends.

* One of my friends and I are engaged in a poking competition, wherein we poke each other on Facebook. The complex ritual goes like this: one of us will poke the other. When the poked party discovers he or she has been poked, he or she will poke back, after which the original poker retaliates with a new poke. The possibilities are truly endless.

** Most people get Optimus Prime when they take this quiz. As flattering as this may be for you, you’ve got to realize that not everyone really has it takes to be a self-sacrificing giant robot who turns into a semi truck. Somebody’s got to be Ratchet or Ironhide.

*** I want to know what would grow on this tree. Smaller Macbooks? iPods?

My very first hate mail- I feel so proud. [Connor]

2009-10-19T19:31:00.000-07:00

One of my friends' Facebook' account recently got hacked. The hackee (I assume) wrote an angry status report in which they shouted at the hacker and called them (I'm not making this up) "a tire-kissing bum." Needless to say, I had to comment on their choice of words. I mean, really. Is that the best they could come up with? It was meant in harmless fun, of course. This is the response I got. The hackee is a pretty nice person, so I assume it's from the hacker:

Oh really? My bad. Ya your right- I guess I could have used better vocabulary for you- how about a stuck pig? Ya! Perfect! Your the kind of person who is fed up with yourself and who can't help but make yourself look like a douche bag whatever it is that your trying to do to graduate from girlhood to boyhood, and even more harder for you, manhood. It is also apparent that your too afraid to fight because of the fear of dying with a little blood leak from your body. I'll bet you've never fought for anything in your life, by the way. Plus, with the disease that you have that makes you keep bleeding without your blood clotting, even if something like a chicken does scratch you, you can't do anything about it and a stuck pig is a perfect name for you! (I'd get rid of that chicken if I were you so you don't have to worry about dieing from chicken scratch (ha ha, good one huh?) Might as well because one of those chickens obviously is out to get you if it got into your house in your front door) Are you a fan of make believe gophers that carry a machine gun? What does the word HOPE supposed to mean int that picture? I'm guessing your hoping that gophers take over the world with little machine guns or something to protect you? I mean, really? (It's ok Connor- if your only hope for friends is little gophers that carry little machine guns then good luck,) but really? GET A LIFE

Whew. I need to take a nap after reading that! Let's look back at it for a moment. Ignoring the aspersions cast on my manhood, I'm kind of confused about this blood stuff. What the heck is this about my "fear of dying with a little blood leaking from your body?" Huh? "The disease you have that makes you keep bleeding without your blood clotting?" I honestly had no idea that i suffer from hemophilia. The things you learn from hate mail.

Am I a fan of "make believe gophers that carry a machine gun?" Of course. It's an axiom of teenage guyhood that small woodland creatures carrying assault weapons are cool. On the Coolness Scale, "make believe gophers that carry a machine gun" are only a single level below "microwaving a Cup Of Noodles full of gasoline and watching what happens."

"I'd get rid of that chicken if I were you so you don't have to worry about dieing from chicken scratch (ha ha, good one huh?)" . What? If anybody can shed some light on the humor behind "chicken scratch", I'd appreciate it.

What a lovely response. It truly made my day, what with attempting to insult my manhood and lifetime achievements while simultaneously inferring that I have hemophilia and hope armed gophers take over the world. Also, after reading this upwards of eight times, I THINK that the writer is implying he hopes I get killed by a chicken.

I'm going to print and frame this.

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What I know [Ryan]

2009-10-13T07:31:00.000-07:00

I’m not sure about the purpose of this particular blog entry. I think it’s coming from a number of needs — to prove my own faith to myself, to respond in kind to Elder Holland’s last talk in general conference, or to answer the challenge from various General Authorities to share the gospel over this newfangled thing called the Internet.

I don’t know where this blog is coming from, but I do feel the need to write it.

I encounter a lot of anti-Mormon stuff when I’m at work. It seems someone is always trying to bring the Church down. Sometimes they have understandable concerns, like people who despise the Church because its stance on same-sex marriage, and sometimes they’re just nutjobs, like the guy who wrote in last week saying the Ensign was part of carefully calculated plot by the LDS Church to manipulate the world’s thinking and take over various secular governments.

Sometimes, honestly, it makes me think. Is the Church off-base on gay marriage? What exactly is the deal with blacks and the priesthood? Does unfavorable DNA evidence disprove the Book of Mormon?

I’m slowly coming to an understanding of those and other troubling issues, but my purpose today is not to tackle the things I don’t completely understand. If you want to hear the arguments batted back and forth ad nauseum, go Google them.

But running down every argument will only get so far. There’s always compelling evidence for both sides. An argument based solely on logic can go on forever; logic is based on facts, which are subject to change as new facts are discovered and tested.

Truth, however, comes from somewhere else, and it never changes.

And it’s truth that is important here: It’s not what I don’t know, but what I do know that makes the difference.

Here’s what I know:

Jesus Christ’s sacrifice made it possible for us to fulfil our eternal potential.

In 1820, Joseph Smith saw God the Father and Jesus Christ.

Joseph Smith translated the Book of Mormon using divine power granted as a part of his calling as a prophet.

Joseph Smith’s successor continues to exercise that role as prophet.

There are some who would call my reasoning flawed — how could I know these things? How can I so callously dismiss logic and hold everything to the standard of knowledge that can’t possibly be proven?

Call it a leap of faith.

How do we truly know anything? Even the most godless, stoic atheist must accept that what he takes as absolute fact must still be taken with a degree of faith — what is reality? How do we know our conscious interpretations of the world are right? An ancient philosopher once asked, “I had a dream I was butterfly — or was I a butterfly awakening from a dream that I was a man?”

We all have to take the world on faith sometime. Every man has to be backed against that wall and make his stand. Sooner or later, we will have to accept that we cannot truly know anything without the assumption of faith.

This my faith. This is what I know because of it. What I don’t know shrinks in the face of what I do know with the promise that all will be made clear someday.

I’m nothing special, but somehow I got lucky and have been able to develop this knowledge. My words lack thundering rhetoric delivered over a pulpit, but you can be assured that they are not less heartfelt that the speaker of such words.

That's what I know.

Prepare To Puke On the JUMP TO LIGHTSPEED! Coming soon. [Connor]

2009-10-03T20:28:00.000-07:00

There’s nothing like a weekend trip to Lagoon to inspire ideas that are impossible to think of anywhere else without the aid of powerful hallucinogens. After spending a day being strapped into giant scary-looking contraptions designed by disturbed mental patients, propelled through the air at ridiculous speeds, dangled upside down while being flung around in circles, and otherwise jerked and thrown around until the vomit you release is intermixed with loose gray matter from your brain, all kinds of crazy ideas start to make sense.

Such is the case with my brilliant idea for a Star Wars-themed amusement park.*

Actually, it kind of makes sense, sort of. I mean, we already have a Disney-themed amusement park, with people roaming around dressed as Disney characters such as Goofy and Mickey Mouse (at least, I assume they’re people dressed as them. Maybe the Disneyland people convinced the actual Mickey Mouse and Goofy to help them out). Would it really be that different if, instead of Goofy wandering around acting, well, goofy, we had a fully armored Boba Fett stalking around, carrying his blaster and staring at small children until they cried?

No more need for creepy carnival ride employees. The ride attendants would all be smartly dressed as stormtroopers and line up in ranks to meet you with a full military salute as you entered the park. Overhead, the speakers would broadcast the voice of Darth Vader reminding you to keep your head, hands, and feet inside the ride at all times. There could be a roller coaster resembling an X-wing and celebrating the destruction of the Death Star by weaving through a giant trench like the one in A New Hope. People watching the ride would be free to pay a quarter to soak you with water out of squirt guns that looked like laser turrets.

Forget Boba Fett, though. Goofy’s place would immediately be taken by the obvious replacement: Jar Jar Binks. Tell me with a straight face that you’ve never noticed an uncanny resemblance between them. Picture a little kid with a balloon clutched in his hand, walking around and peering up at the rides and crowds of people, and suddenly being swept up into a big bear hug by an alien shrieking, “Mesa so happy to see you!”

All of the employees selling admission tickets would be chosen on a basis of being extremely short and would all be dressed as Yoda. They would, of course, be required to mess up their syntax and, for good customer relations, say cheerfully to each customer, “May the Force be with you!”

Park managers would be required to wear cloaks and carry lightsabers on their belt.

The park’s fastest roller coaster would be called “Jump To Lightspeed.” If it encountered a mechanical problem, such as the car being derailed and skidding flaming into the parking lot, it would be referred to as a “hyperdrive malfunction.”

Nightly entertainment would feature bands such as the cantina band from A New Hope** as well as an all-Wookiee a capella group. A guy dressed as Admiral Ackbar would do standup comedy shows.

So you see, it really isn’t that different from a Disney-themed amusement park. What’s weirder, short green aliens with pointed ears or short black cartoon characters with big round ears? Okay, I don’t know either. But I bet Yoda would kick Mickey Mouse’s cartoon-animated rear in a lightsaber duel.

Oh, and let me know if you know of an all-Wookiee a capella group looking for some work.

Remember to become a follower of my blog, and may the Force be with you.

*Correction: It was my mother's idea. Really.
**”Figrin Da’n and the Modal Nodes.” Don’t ask me why I know that.

Fishing [Ryan]

2009-09-29T07:45:00.000-07:00

I don’t get fishing.

It’s not that I’ve never done it; I have many fond memories of sitting, freezing on a boat in the middle of a lake, downing the last of the Cheez ‘n Crackers, as my dad waited for some particularly stupid fish to ignore the mistakes of his predecessors and bite the lure.

And it’s not that I hate it, either; unlike certain activities, like golf, I can see how fishing might be fun: you get to see nature, you get to spend time with the people you love — you know, stuff like that. But I can get those experiences by hiking, or by living with my family in a cabin in the woods filled with pizza and "The Office" DVDs.

Thus, it’s just that I don’t see the point of fishing. True, if tomorrow the world were reduced to a post-apocalyptic landscape and we had to forage for food, fishermen would suddenly be in high demand. But for the modern fisherman, actually eating the fish seems secondary to the apparent joy of sitting for an hour in anticipation of reeling in a fish, watching it wriggle around in the air, then tossing it back into the depths from which it came.

Am I missing something? I imagine it must be weird for the fish, as well. There they are, just going about their menial lives, when they are suddenly whisked into air, subjected to various indignities, and then thrust back home without explanation or apology. I bet that’s what an alien abduction feels like.

Then there’s the environmental factor. Fishermen will brave cold, rain, heat, and sometimes active volcanoes for the chance to dip their line into the water. I remember a time we went to Mexico. My dad, not content to enjoy the beaches or pyramids, took my brothers and me on a six-hour fishing trip in a tiny boat with a guide named Angel or Jorge or something like that. It was a chance for my brothers and me to become men, or at least reasonably adept net-holders for when Dad caught a fish.

Imagine, if your faculties can envision such a scene: there we were, sitting in the searing afternoon heat, honoring the ancient tradition of father/son/Mexican guide bonding time with an equally ancient boat. We couldn’t swim (that would scare the fish). We couldn’t talk loudly (that would also scare the fish). The fish weren’t biting. Jorge Angel stood on the prow of the boat like Columbus entering the Americas, casting his long shadow across the water, but that didn’t scare the fish. I think my dad caught a few fish, but I can’t help but wonder if we were somehow outsmarted by beings with brains the size of Skittles. (My personal theory is that there were very few fish in the first place; most of them were on vacation, checking out the ruins at Chichen Itza or Uxmal.)

I love the outdoors, but I don’t need to be knee-deep in icy water or adrift underneath a scalding sun to enjoy it. If you’re a fisherman (and all of my immediate paternal ancestors are), you go enjoy it. It’s just not for me.

The World We Live In, Part I [Connor]

2009-09-19T09:05:00.000-07:00

I’ve heard that no writer could invent a world weirder than the one we already live in, nor imagine a species more eccentric than our own. When you look at the evidence, it’s hard not to agree. Case in point: The accompanying picture is of Mr. J. A. G. A. M. C. H. Elessar-Jankov, whose story we will cover momentarily.

The following is an excerpt from a story in the Post Register newspaper:

“A Northern Idaho woman who was skewered by a tree limb during a recreational drive along the Lochsa River earlier this month says she is recovering at home. Michelle Childers, 20, and her husband were driving down a rural road in north-central Idaho on Sept. 5 when a spruce tree crashed through the passenger side window of their pickup truck. Childers, a Kamiah native, said she could feel a strange pressure on her neck and shoulder when her husband, Daniel, a 22- year-old who works in the lumber industry saw the tree limb had impaled her and started to panic. ‘I asked him, “What? Where is it?” Childers said. ‘It’s in your neck,’ her husband answered. “

Hmm. Why is the fact that her husband works for the lumber industry included? Did he draw on that experience to help diagnose her injury? “Honey, I feel a strange pressure in my neck!” “Hold on, I work for the lumber industry! I am experienced in these matters! (examines her neck briefly with a thoughtful expression on his face) It seems you have the limb of a spruce tree going through your neck.”

An online teaching website now offers a course for high-school P.E. credit called “P.E. With the Wii.” Wow. A similar class could be “Rock, Paper, Scissors Your Way to Awesome Biceps.” Or even “Sexy Abs through Foosball.”

The Forest Service in California recently issued a statement warning campers to watch out for marijuana growers posing as campers. The Forest Service included three warning signs for recognizing disguised marijuana growers:

1. They eat tortillas.
2. They drink a certain brand of beer that is popular in Central American countries.
3. They listen to Spanish music.

They withdrew the statement two days later and issued a statement to the effect of “Sorry, we honestly had no idea how racist that sounded.” Given those signs, I’m surprised they list nothing about sombreros.

Huffingtonpost.com reports the following story:

"According to Norwegian site VG Nett, bus driver Andreas Jankov has formally changed his name to Julius Andreas Gimli Arn MacGyver Chewbacka Highlander Elessar-Jankov. 'I wanted to show that it is possible to be serious and at the same time take the name you like,' said the film enthusiast. 'I wanted to see how far I could take it with respect to the number of names. I started thinking about this three years ago and it was approved in January this year.' Apparently, he's had his passport and bank card reissued, but the name was too long so he dropped 'Highlander.'

Thanks to our commenters, we've been able to break down the name:

- Julius is an homage to the famous chimp at the Kristiansand Zoo
- 'Arn' is a Swedish knight movie
- Elessar and Gimli are from 'Lord of the Rings'
- 'MacGyver', just the greatest Richard Dean Anderson show ever!
- 'Highlander' could refer to either the movie or TV show
- Chewbacka is from 'Star Wars'

So, When/If he gets married will he make his wife take his name?"*

My only question is, who's got the guts to tell the poor guy (who does not look unlike his namesake Wookiee) he misspelled "Chewbacca"? It's almost as bad misspelling your girlfriend's name when you get it tattooed on your chest.

This is the world we live in and the people we live among. Gotta love it. Of course, these are just crumbs out of the cake. I could cite examples of burglars suing homeowners after injuring themselves during a break-in or mention the ‘Miss Beautiful Morals** Pageant’ held in Saudi Arabia (wouldn‘t they all have to be wearing burkhas? How exactly do they pull off THAT pageant?). And just when your faith in, well, sanity and common sense has reached an all-time low, an article found on CNN’s website comes along with this sentence: “South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford made matters worse at home by apologizing for an affair with someone he called his ‘soul mate.’” There’s not much I could say here to make it worse. I bet his wife was thrilled with THAT sincere apology.

Remember to become a follower of my blog!

*I don't we should worry too much about that scenario. My money's definitely on the "If."
**I can imagine the viewers' reactions: "Whoa! Get a load of THOSE morals!"

What I do [Ryan]

2009-09-15T09:06:00.000-07:00

I resolved at the very beginning of this blog that it would not be one of those blogs where the readers get a weekly travelogue or life update, like some kind of extended,
useless Facebook status.

(Those usually go something like this: “Hey, everybody, thanks for reading my blog. I just took my dog out for a walk this week, and my sister visited. We went to the movie and it was great. 'Julie and Julia' was good and kept us entertained. Then we ate out at Red Lobster. Stay tuned till next week!” If anything exciting really happens, they writer springs it upon the rest of us as an afterthought, like this: “… kept us entertained. Then we ate out at Red Lobster. One of the live lobsters they keep in the tank had mutated and took control of the restaurant for six hours until a SWAT team arrived.”)

But I think I might break that rule. Two weeks ago, I started my internship at the (LDS) Church Magazines, and people have been asking me exactly what I do. I’m going to assume that most of my audience is LDS, but for those who aren’t, I’m going to briefly give some background:

The Church magazines are monthly publications put out by the LDS Church that include news of the Church, inspiring articles written by Mormons all over the world, and messages from Church leaders. They are headquartered on Temple Square in the Church Office Building.* There are no mutant lobsters anywhere in the vicinity.

So what exactly is it that I do?

I write news. The stuff that goes in the back of the "Liahona" (the international magazine) and the "Ensign" (the English-speaking magazine) is pretty much all me. I spend my time calling the people like the Church’s West Africa public affairs director and writing articles about them.

I have an iMac in my cubicle and a high-tech phone that I really haven’t yet figured out how to use.** I’ve never liked answering phones, for various reasons. First, just about anyone can get a hold of you, which leaves all sorts of amusing possibilities for the kinds of yahoos who might have your number. And I’m not talking about prank calls.*** I also have three X-Wings made out of tape, paper clips, and Post-It notes.

Occasionally I see General Authorities, the leaders of the Church. My fourth day on the job, I ran into Elder L. Tom Perry in an elevator. He said, “Greetings!” and I said, “Hiiiii,” though it really sounded like I was trying to expel a pigeon through my nose. It wasn’t that I was star-struck; I simply was caught off-guard and everything clever I’d ever written in my hypothetical "Things to Say When Caught In An Elevator With a General Authority" book went out the window. I see Elder Yoshihiko Kikuchi from time to time; I guess he’s involved with the magazines a lot.

There’s a cafeteria in the basement that serves a basket of chicken and fries for under four dollars. A piano’s off to the side, playing hymns, Broadway songs, and folk tunes. The other day, a girl sat next to me at the table and asked in her heavy accent, “Did you know that the Church is not of man, nor of the Earth, but of God, and that we have a prophet today?”

Trying not to be rude, I said, “Uh … yeah, thanks. I’m already Mormon.”

She seemed slightly disappointed, and left. Maybe she was practicing for her mission. Maybe she was nuts. Maybe she just forgot that she was sitting in the basement of the LDS Church Office Building.

There you have it, folks. That’s what I do.

* The whole Church Office Building experience actually reminds me vaguely of the Ministry of Magic in the Harry Potter universe.

** These are actually the exact phones used in the TV show "The Office." Really.

*** Semi-related anecdote: A friend of mine recently got a job at a pest control center answering phones. She got a call one morning from a person with the following dire question, which neither she nor I are making up:

“I’ve got pests and I can’t tell if they’re mice or bats. My neighbor says they look pretty much the same. How do I tell the difference?”

I don’t remember what my friend told the caller, but I’m sure I would have referred her to my #1 Bat Vs. Mouse Rule of Thumb:

Check if it’s flying.

Unless you’re dealing with handicapped bats or genetically-altered mice, that rule is pretty much fool-proof. Obviously not idiot-proof, though.

GI Joe: my review [Connor]

2009-09-02T17:30:00.000-07:00

I recently watched the movie GI Joe, and I fully and sincerely recommend it to anybody craving a two-hour long montage of ridiculously overdone computer-generated laser battles, absurdly grandiose secret underground fortresses, and laughably mediocre acting. Combine that with a plot that feels like it was written by the screenwriters’ children during an activity on Take Your Kid to Work Day, and you have your end result: a movie ridiculously overdone, absurdly grandiose, and laughably mediocre.

In addition, the movie is riddled with scenes, dialogue and other elements so unrealistic and juvenile that it is surprising that actual actors play the characters, rather than the original action figures suspended in the air by strings.

For instance, during the Paris chase scene, Snake Eyes* gets on top of the speeding Hummer and starts sticking a katana through the roof while trying to reach his nemesis Storm Shadow**, a problem that I expect will be hard to explain to the mechanic. In order to get him off, the bad guys inside push a button that causes a rack of spikes to come out of the front of the car. When the Hummer hits a car, it flips said car spectacularly in a thirty-foot arc over the Hummer. Was this Hummer really manufactured with an appendage specifically designed to flip cars over it? Or does it have some real use, like. . . um. . . er. . . agriculture?

Actually, I can think of one practical use for it. I mean, haven’t you ever gotten stuck on the 75-mph freeway behind one of those terminally slow drivers who will really floor it one day and go, say, 35? Well, if you have that handy-dandy patented trailer-hitch-attachable titanium-alloy Car Flipper, you can hit the gas and flip those pesky slow drivers right over your car! Problem solved! It’s only a matter of time until it’s advertised on long infomercials exhibiting its many uses and stating that, if you call now, you will receive NOT ONLY a second Car Flipper ABSOLUTELY FREE, but also the handy Sunroof-Mounted Laser Cannon!

I wasn‘t kidding about that laser. Later on in the chase, the bad guys in the Hummer press yet another button*** and this laser cannon thing comes out of the top of the Hummer. Where did THAT come from? Unless it’s a Magical Materializing Laser Cannon, it would have to have come DIRECTLY OUT OF THE BACKSEAT. So basically, this car has got a giant laser gun occupying the middle back seat. What would you do with that thing during a road trip? Pass time by blowing up passing traffic? Throw a pillow over it and fall asleep on it? And I bet that backseat laser cannon would be pretty hard to explain when the cop pulls you over for speeding, and, I suppose, blowing up cars with a laser. Heck, even going through a Wendy’s drive-thru with one of those could raise awkward questions.****

There are more complex flaws, too. I mean, when did Cobra Commander turn evil? The movie features a dramatic backstory where, as an innocent young soldier, he stumbles upon a laboratory containing information that could one day kill thousands. Without skipping a beat, he is suddenly and inexplicably transformed into an evil genius. Instantly. There's no time to even decide to turn evil, let alone any decent character development. Is he really transformed in the blink of an eye from a naive young good guy into a creepy madman who is apparently distantly related to Michael Jackson? Imagine if Darth Vader's story was like that: a nine-year-old Anakin Skywalker fresh out of the Podrace witnesses the Force and immediately turns to the Dark Side. Be kind of a letdown, wouldn't it?

Granted, there are situations where GI Joe is a movie not only appropriate to watch, but preferable. An group of eight-year-olds at a sleepover, for example, ideally at 3 in the morning. But if that, by any chance, is not your case, then I suggest you watch something with a little more depth and thought behind it. I suggest the "Charlie Bit Me" video on Youtube.

Remember to become a follower of my blog!

*Played by the same actor who plays Darth Maul. In this, he plays a ninja who has taken a vow of silence. As I recall, Darth Maul had one speaking line. Apparently, they don’t trust his acting enough to allow him any dialogue.
**Yes, Storm Shadow. That's his name. I would have gone with just "Storm" or just "Shadow." It's as if someone gave him a list of evil nicknames, but he couldn't pick just one. I can imagine: "Hmm, there's Wrench, Griphook, Shadow, Viroid, Megatron, Evilor, Dino-tor, Storm, and Syphilis. Oh, can't choose! How about Storm Megatron Shadow? Oh, Megatron's taken? Okay, fine..."
***There’s a whole RACK of buttons in there. What do the rest of them control? Decepticon mode? Pop-out juice machine?
****Like: “Is that a laser?”

The great rooster murder [Ryan and Connor]

2009-08-27T20:50:00.000-07:00

They say revenge is a dish best served cold. I disagree. When we dined upon the flesh of the victim of our vengeance, it was quite warm. It also worked really well with a little barbecue sauce.

So ended the saga of Jumper the rooster. For this post, we felt two authors would truly put the tragedy, the test, and the triumph in perspective. Ryan's contributions will be in regular typeface, while Connor's will be in italics.

Not long ago, Mom got another scheme to build character in her children: to raise chickens and sell their eggs. One of the chickens we bought turned out to be a rooster, which my lovable but somewhat uncreative brother named Jumper.

Jumper soon proved to be a menace.

My younger brother and sister’s daily journey to feed the chickens became a journey fraught with peril once the rooster appeared.

He would stand in our doorway, refusing to let us in our own house. My dad decided it was time to end the rooster’s reign of clucking, preening terror.

When your eight-year old brother carries a plastic lightsaber into the chicken coop purely for self-defense reasons, it’s time to step up as a man and eliminate this threat to your family. And if you question why I had to use a machete, you clearly have not consumed enough Otter Pops.

In my defense, I don’t usually go around killing chickens with machetes. This rooster was the Al Capone of chickens, ruling the yard with an iron talon, surrounded at all times by his harem of hens.*

Somewhere along the line, we bought a machete, and somehow it ended up occupying a semi-permanent place in our living room by the side of the couch. Like villagers arming against the monster on the hill, my dad and I prepared to storm the rooster’s citadel and wreak our vengeance.

But my little sister, even injured by Jumper as she was, barred my dad’s path, distraught that the rooster she had raised from a chick was about to be dismembered with a instrument that had probably never really been sharpened. My dad retreated, and the rooster laughed in mocking.

Soon, though, my brothers and I took matters into our own hands. We were prepared to do what needed to be done, to protect my little sister’s honor even if she was too noble to avenge the wrongs done unto her.

I grabbed a shovel; Connor grabbed the machete and noose.

INTERMISSION: my mom once related to me a story told to her by an older man standing next to her in line at the hardware store. It was similar to ours, except that rather than resorting to a machete, the man had drugged the chicken until it was asleep, put it in his car under cover of night, and thrown it over the fence at Bear World. "Wait a minute. You don't know my name, right?" the man asked quickly after relating the story.

It’s not easy to murder a rooster. You have to contend with all sorts of difficulties, not the least of which is the guilt of killing another living being. To overcome this obstacle, we simply remembered the crimes he had on his record, including attacking our little brother, attacking our little sister, exercising unrighteous dominion, and being named Jumper. (Possibly embezzlement, bank fraud, prostitution and weapons smuggling as well. You never can tell.)

After a quick trip to the restroom (I never kill on a full bladder), we tried Phase One. This involved sequestering Jumper in the fenced area and chasing him with a machete.

And so I found myself standing with a machete to Jumper’s throat, his baleful gaze urging me to strike him down and complete my journey to the Dark Side. But I couldn’t do it! There’s something about holding a blade to a living, breathing creature’s throat that truly makes you feel like a coldhearted murderer. After twenty seconds of tense stalemate, my nerve failed me and the chicken walked free. I returned to the house to seek reinforcements to finish the job.

We resorted to Phase Two — shooting him with a paintball gun.

As it transpires, a paintball gun is insufficient to kill a tough chicken. The paintballs merely hurt the chicken enough to make the shooter feel like a really horrible person who tortures small animals.

Phase Three consisted of Connor chasing Jumper in a futile attempt to strangle him in the most humane way possible. (Notice the omission of the word "catching.")

It’s impossible to strangle a chicken when said chicken realizes you’re attempting to strangle it and instantly transforms into a raging demon bird that will do anything and everything in its power to escape.** That attempt marks the only occasion in my life that I have fled a chicken coop in terror.

At last came Phase Four. It was simply time. We had dilly-dallied for long enough, and I took a shovel and —

I’m going to censor that part, but if you need a visual aid, think of the shower scene in "Psycho."

*Or, as I like to refer to them, his hos. Hoes? Ho's? Houghs?
**including, but not limited to, attempted murder and assault with a deadly weapon.

Observations from Washington, DC [Ryan]

2009-08-19T20:55:00.000-07:00

I missed last week’s blog because I was in the midst of heading off for Washington, DC. It’s an amazing city, full of helpful people who will stop at nothing to help you in any way they can, whether it be helping you read a map* or selling you a souvenir T-shirt that disintegrates upon washing.

Here are some keen observations I gathered while in our nation’s capital:

OBSERVATION 1: ALTERNATE REALITIES. One of the first things you should know about our nation’s capital is that it may be the crux of several alternate realities. Though this theory has been largely refuted by scientists, we proved the existence of such realities when we tried to meet a friend at the Smithsonian Metro entrance. My aunt Jessica was on the phone, describing where we were (at the entrance, looking toward the massive Department of Agriculture sign on an arch), while the friend recounted her surroundings (at the entrance to the Metro, looking toward the Department of Agriculture sign). The trouble was, the friend was nowhere in sight. My agile scientific mind immediately leapt to the possibility of unseen alternate universes, a notion the others in my group were slow to accept. When we finally agreed to meet somewhere else, the others finally conceded that my explanation was the only plausible one.**

OBSERVATION 2: SMITHSONIANS ARE FREE. The Smithsonian museums, we were pleased to discover, were all free. Having already surveyed our finances and found that we would probably need to subsist on pretzels and water for the duration of the trip, we took this news with great jubilation.

(To say we lived on pretzels and water is to employ only mild hyperbole. At the beginning of the trip, I bought a box of 25 large microwaveable pretzels. I ate these for lunches nearly every day. Near the close of our excursion, one of my companions complained that we had nothing left to eat. I pointed out the giant supply of pretzels still left in the fridge — which, despite my eating them, never seemed to decrease in quantity — and, surprisingly enough, the others maintained that, yes, we had nothing to eat.)

OBSERVATION 3: FOGGY BOTTOM. There’s a district in DC called Foggy Bottom. (Isn’t that fun to say? Foggy Bottom.) Despite sounding like a symptom of something you’d catch if you drink impure water, this is not only a real place, but it’s the location of George Washington University. Foggy Bottom.***

OBSERVATION 4: THE METRO CAN BE HAZARDOUS. One of the great parts of DC is the Metro subway system. Within a few days, we learned how to work this complex network of underground trains, with only a few minor hitches. One such complication came at one of our stops, when a slow gentleman man with a gigantic pile of luggage lumbered out the door with the speed of a tectonic plate, blocking the entire doorway. My brother managed to get out before the man began his one-man congestion of the subway door, but as the man finally dragged himself and his luggage out of the surging crowd and into the terminal, the doors shut. My fourteen-year-old brother watched as the doors shut, dooming the rest of us on a journey to the next stop with out him. I’d like to continue this story and ad more danger and drama, but we found him quickly after taking an abrupt 180 at the next stop.

OBSERVATION 5: METRO MUMBLING. At every stop, the Metro conductor lets you know where you are. Sometimes, unfortunately, the guy’s accent makes it sound like he’s speaking through a dying transistor radio from Jupiter with a mouth full of cottage cheese. When he intends to say something like “This is the Blue Line train to Franconia-Springfield, Pentagon City, doors opening on left,” you hear something like “Blue laaahhn train to Frncnnnnaaah-Sprrinnfff, Peggnuuhhhctiuhhh, doors opening on left.”**** You’ve just got to listen.

* Within the first two days of being in DC, no fewer than four people stopped to help us with directions. We had some indefinable quality that branded us as tourists adrift from our moorings. It might have been the subtle way we hesitated before getting on the Metro. It might have been the bulges in our back pockets, betraying the presences of guidebooks. Or it might simply have been the way we peered at our maps with all the confidence of a squirrel reading the Rosetta Stone.

** Not long afterward, we discovered there were two entrances to the Smithsonian Metro station, both with a view of different parts of the Department of Agriculture building. I still cling to my theory.

*** Foggy Bottom. Foggy Bottom. Oh, it’s so much fun to say!

**** The part about the doors opening is always clear. Don’t ask me.

One-week hiatus

2009-08-11T07:34:00.000-07:00

We're taking a week off due to a trip to Washington, D.C. Expect a blog next week.

A confession involving Hannah Montana [Connor]

2009-08-04T21:57:00.000-07:00

I’m not proud of it. But I will never live with a clear conscience while carrying this secret: I’ve been listening to Hannah Montana music a lot lately. Not just Hannah, either; Selena Gomez, the Jonas Brothers, Demi Lovato, you name it.

Before you accuse me of being of those creepy teenagers who actually buy Jonas Brothers albums in defiance of the law of reality which clearly states that the Jonas Brothers are the territory of nine-year-old girls, I’ll point out that it’s a work-related sacrifice. At the amusement park where I work, we rely on satellite radio for music, and the most “family-friendly” station available is Radio Disney. Consequently, all of the employees are extremely familiar with all Disney songs, a situation leading to embarrassing situations wherein an entire line of customers waiting at an attraction witness an employee belting out the lyrics to “He Could Be The One” by Hannah Montana.

The point is, four months of listening to Radio Disney have left me uncomfortably familiar with certain singers and their music. People like Hannah Montana, Miley Cyrus (of COURSE they’re different people! Hannah Montana is just as real as Santa Claus!), and the rest of them, including, most unfortunately, the Jonas Brothers (No, I don’t have anything against them, except that they dress in clothes four sizes too small and their excessively juvenile music is at a level of maturity usually associated with mooning). I also know a lot of random facts about them; I could tell you, for instance, that Selena Gomez (star of the Disney TV series Wizards of Waverly Place) was born on my own mother’s birthday. I could also tell you that Miley Cyrus secretly wishes to own a house where everybody can write on the walls with crayons.*

There are worse things I could listen to. Most songs these days are total crap (wait, or do they call it rap? I can never remember). Many of them (“Boom Boom Pow” and “Poker Face” spring readily to mind) sound as though the synthesizer machine has gone rogue and is attempting to devour the lead singer. Actually, I have a pet theory about “Poker Face”: I think Lady Gaga had a decent song recorded, but the day before deadline, her five-year-old son got into the studio and messed with the song. They didn’t have time to fix his changes, so they just sold the song that way and were shocked when it climbed to the top ten song list. This accident probably inspired the making of “Boom Boom Pow”, come to think of it. Some of the songs these days are so bizarre it’s no wonder some of us are pushed to listening to Hannah Montana.

Don’t worry; I do listen to other music too besides Hannah Montana. It’s really the best of both worlds.**

*I’m serious.
**If you had to ask your nine-year-old sister about that reference, good for you.

Why Star Wars is better than Star Trek [Ryan]

2009-07-27T21:39:00.000-07:00

Our world is full of conflicts — the Americans versus Iraqi insurgents; Israelis versus Palestinians; PETA versus actual carbon-based, food-eating life-forms; Twilight versus the free world. Beyond all of these is a conflict that touches the outer reaches of the galaxy.*

I’m talking about Star Wars versus Star Trek.

Let me be clear on one thing: I’m talking about the franchises as whole entities, not considering individual mediums. I mean, anyone with the brain of a B’omarr brain spider knows J.J. Abrams’ new Star Trek film is light-years — or parsecs — ahead of Attack of the Clones. But when you consider the big picture, what you see changes.**

Let’s begin. Let’s look at the depth behind each. What is Star Trek? I can understand the “boldly go where no man has gone before” allure — but there are some places that man was no meant to go, like Star Trek: Nemesis. (Did you see that one? Felt like someone had puked all the science fiction cliches they could think of all over the carpet.) Sorry, I couldn’t resist. Seriously, though, there are only so many times you can boldly go before you’re boldly rehashing old plot lines.

The there’s Star Wars. Entire books have been written on the mythology of Star Wars, how the saga brings the age-old story of the Hero’s Quest and places it in a galaxy far, far away. The light and dark side of the Force appeal to our innermost nature. Within each of us are light and dark, our own yins and yangs, and we cannot help but find ourselves immersed in a story that highlights the definition of humanity.***

Star Wars redefined special effects and the action sequences those effects could create. The hum of lightsabers could be heard as scarlet and green blades crashed while Captain Kirk was still shuffling around trying to defeat zipper-suited lizard men with nothing but his facial expressions and phasers that shot beams that appeared to have been drawn on the screen with a Sharpie.

Does anyone else think that, as a whole, Star Trek ships look goofy? The Bird of Prey being a possible exception, nearly any Star Trek ship of the line could have been designed by a monkey with a crate of Legos.

While we’re on the topic of vessels from the respective franchises, let’s not fret about who would win if vessels and forces from one franchise were to meet those from another; such a contest could hardly decide which one was better. (But if we were to use such a finicky method to decide superiority, Darth Vader could Force-choke the entire Borg collective and fling their dorky cube ship — remember what I said about monkeys and Legos? — into a moon before they could utter their tired “Resistance is futile” line.)

Both franchises have their weaknesses, especially in the dialogue department. I concede that I’d rather eat bantha poodoo than watch Anakin woo Padme by mentioning how her skin is soft, unlike sand (really, Anakin? Does that one work on Tatooine?), but the alternative from the other universe is to hear technobabble like this:

SCOTTY: Captain, we’re experiencing a hyperwarp electro-skype!

CAPTAIN KIRK: Only one thing we can do! Engage hypermatter polar thrusters and defibrillate the starboard filament decondensors!

SCOTTY: I can’t, sir! We’ve got a wee problem! The electro-nacelle preemptors are gravitizing to the point where the transmogrified crypto pistons are scrambled!

CAPTAIN KIRK: That sounds like a serious problem. Do we still have wireless internet, at least?

There you go: in one galaxy, a thrilling space opera full of love and betrayal, heroes and villains, action and intrigue. It’s the stuff dreams — and a lot of eBay-based collections — are made of. On the other end, you have a story full of promise but that get stale with every new inflation of Willam Shatner’s ego. ****

Join me. Together we will …

Yeah, you know.

* Or beyond the far reaches of the galaxy, if you count the Yuuzhan Vong incursion 25 years after the Battle of Yavin in Episode IV.

** Point of interest: the new Star Trek utilizes elements like man-eating creatures on a snow planet, a world-destroying superweapon that reduces a main character’s home to extragalactic rubble, and other Star Wars elements. Chris Pine, the guy who played the young Kirk, said he used Indiana Jones and Han Solo as his inspiration for his role. See http://www.news.com.au/couriermail/story/0,23739,25346545-7642,00.html

*** No idea what I just said. But it sounded cool.

**** Man, I hate that guy.

Give peace a chance: why germs aren't so bad [Ryan]

2009-07-19T22:06:00.000-07:00

I’ve officially finished my time as opinion editor of Scroll, so my topics of choice are no longer confined by paltry things like truth or relevance. No, seriously, my feelings are mixed regarding my departure from the paper, but newspapers are going down the hole like faster than a super-powered ferret pursuing the Flash down a giant high-powered toilet (if you ever hear of a such a scenario existing in reality, please call me!) and I thought I’d try my hand with other mediums.

My topic today is my lack of germaphobia.

I’m not sure what the real name is, but I don’t have a fear of germs. I once picked up a half-eaten bag of popcorn in a movie theater left over from the previous show, discarded some of the wrappers, and proceeded to happily eat away.

The ten-second rule doesn’t apply to me unless the food in question falls into something radioactive or onto a bathroom stall floor. Some people will balk at the thought of retrieving a morsel of chicken that has fallen to the dining room floor; I’ll still probably eat it. What I can’t see can’t hurt me (except Chuck Norris, naturally).

It’s all the same, right? My food, your food, it all has the same organisms who just want to be left alone to thrive in their peaceful microscopic utopia and smoke pot. (No, I don’t have scientific evidence to back this up. I would have thought the advent of things like Wikipedia would have erased such an outdated tendency.)

Contrast my habits to the habits of one of my brothers, who acts as if food someone has bitten off of has been contaminated with large amounts of terrorist-grade plutonium.

Now, there is one area where I agree with him: food found on bathroom floors is not edible. (It may not, technically, be food anymore, but that’s as far as I’m going to take that line of thought.) Bathrooms scare me. The germs thriving in bathrooms are of a completely different breed of microbe. The germs found on a piece of pizza that fell on the living room floor are as harmless as hippies; the ones in the bathroom are the al-Qaeda of microorganisms.

So there you have it — a semi-scientific treatise on the follies of most varieties of germaphobia. Don’t drop this on the bathroom floor.

(Dang! That last line only worked if this was printed in a newspaper.)

Uh … don’t drop your laptop on the bathroom floor. (Unless it’s a PC.)

The choice between a voicemail message and a restraining order: a blog with barely a mention of Optimus Prime [Connor]

2009-07-14T07:54:00.000-07:00

“Hi, you’ve reached Connor, who is NOT Ryan, Ladine, or Lucine.”

Allow me to explain my current voicemail message.

Apparently, my cell phone number bears an extreme resemblance to that of several other people. Multiple times in a week, occasionally multiple times in a day, I receive calls from people I have never met nor heard of. Most of these people ask for a guy named Ryan. I originally assumed that this meant my brother Ryan, since the phone number belonged to him until about a year ago. But no; Ryan confided that when he took calls, he first had to verify it was Ryan Kunz they were asking for, not this mysterious other Ryan. Sometimes these calls are social calls; sometimes, they’re definitely work-related. For a while there, I was receiving calls from the hospital, asking how his treatment went. I sure hope it went well.

Then there are the Ladine People, as I’ve named them. They call about twice a week, asking for somebody named Ladine. Frankly, I don’t think anybody old enough to still have been named “Ladine” would have a cell phone, but I haven’t pointed this out to the Ladine People. I used to answer these calls and patiently inform them they had the wrong number, but they just kept calling. Rather than file for a restraining order, I’ve just added them as a contact in my phone and have given up answering their calls. At least I can be secure in the knowledge that if I’m ever going through a difficult time and need someone to talk to, the Ladine People will be there for me, faithfully dialing the wrong number time and time again.

Finally, we reach my favorite. During third trimester last year, an elderly lady would call me every day during third hour. Seeing as I was in class, I only managed to take her calls and inform her of her mistake once or twice. She was always asking for someone named (I’m not making this up) Lucine, and would become very distressed when she couldn’t get a hold of Lucine. These eventually culminated in the Holy Grail of blogworthy voicemail messages, which I swear on Optimus Prime’s grave I am not making up:

“Lucine, Lucine, are you there? I need to talk to Ladine. Or your grandmother Nadine. . . This is Josine.”

It doesn’t get much more priceless than that. As much as I enjoyed these messages, though, they were clogging up my voicemail inbox and my phone memory. Eventually, I changed my voicemail to the one featured at the top, stating clearly that this was not Ladine, Lucine, or Ryan. Both Josine and the Ryan Club have pretty much ceased calling. The Ladine People, however, have faithfully continued calling AND LEAVING MESSAGES. To leave one of their messages asking for Ladine, they must first listen to a message stating that this is NOT Ladine. I have no explanation for this. I want to meet these people.

Lost in hypotheticals: Who would you take on a deserted island? [Ryan]

2009-07-06T22:08:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, I wrote an editorial about not wasting time, about finding time in your college years for the things that really matter.

Somewhat ironically, I wrote the entire thing while watching a marathon of "Lost."

For the longest time, I was content with other TV shows. Watching Jack Bauer save the world every week was sufficient for my mind, even if he never used the bathroom or exhibited any kind of normal human function other than grimacing slightly every time he got shot in the chest.

It’s one of those shows you simply can’t just stop watching.

I’ve recently gotten into the show, which, for those of you who haven’t seen it, is about a group of improbably good-looking people who end up stranded on a mysterious island.

(By “gotten into,” by the way, I mean, “become obsessed to the point where my Facebook relationship status should say, ‘in a relationship with "Lost"’”)

The fifth season ended earlier this semester, leaving my questions unanswered and my imagination running rampant. My questions things like these: Why is the island so hard to find (Maybe it’s because the island is only there if you believe in it, like Santa Claus or global warming) and what is the creature they call the monster?

And of course:

Who would I like to be stuck on a deserted island with?

The last one is a valid question, of course; the applications are many and the likely affective scenarios myriad. Who might add some hope, flavor or protection during the lonely days on a deserted island?

President Obama: If I was stranded with the President of the United States, especially our current one with his near religious following, the civilized world would waste no time rescuing us. Forget whatever harm his debilitating economic polices can do to already ravaged economy — they might even send an aircraft carrier to pick us up.

Jack Sparrow: We all know Jack would probably spend the entire time frolicking on the island drinking some sort non-alcoholic beverage, so of course I would join him in his good clean mayhem. Maybe, after fourteen Doctor Peppers, we would sing “A Pirate’s Life For Me” while dancing around a campfire.

Optimus Prime: If we’re allowing fictional characters, by the way, into this scenario, then of course we can allow Optimus Prime. I’m not sure what his practical use would be, honestly — but come on! He’s Optimus Prime! He wouldn’t be too much use in fishing or gathering wood, but you’d definitely be safe from any island-dwelling Decepticons.

Edward Cullen: The arrangement would be utterly perfect. First, he wouldn’t have to eat, so I could eat all the meager food. And speaking of food, he is so perfect he could probably conjure up a four-course meal by simply breathing on the sand. Lastly, if something ever happened to his food-producing ability, I could simply — in an act of poetic justice lauded by males everywhere — eat him.

Chuck Norris: Do I even have to explain myself?

Problem solved.

A discussion of psychology and Optimus Prime: another blog possibly induced by eating too many Otter Pops. [Connor]

2009-07-01T16:25:00.000-07:00

Recently I’ve been reading a book entitled The Color Code, by Taylor Hartman. It’s a psychology book detailing a method to understanding human behavior and actions: why we feel the way we feel and why we act the way we act. Pretty deep, huh?

In truth, it starts out pretty simple. There are four fundamental personalities, named after colors: red, blue, yellow, and white. Everyone, except maybe Disney’s Mitchell Musso, fits into one of these personalities. Each color has a unique set of traits, strengths, and limitations. Reds are aggressive and dominating, thriving on challenges. Blues are emotional, often altruistic, and center their lives on relationships and following their own moral compass. Yellows are fun-loving people who want to have a good time. Whites are laid-back people who like to stay out of the limelight and enjoy feeling secure. Up front, many people may seem to be a mix of the colors; however, everyone is driven by a single core motive, one central thing that they seek after. Reds strive to overcome challenges and gain power. Blues want intimacy: relationships, understanding, love, call it what you want. Yellows crave fun, whereas Whites want to feel secure. Since I started reading the book, I find it fascinating to select people and identify their personality color.

Which brings us to my central discussion. I made an interesting and disturbing discovery: even fictional characters will fall into one of the color categories. This has led me to a disturbing line of thought resulting in my identifying Darth Vader as a Red, for his aggressive, dominating personality; Obi-Wan Kenobi as a White, for his apparent need to stay independent while staying comfortably out of the spotlight, and Samwise Gamgee as a Blue, for his altruism-based effort to support Frodo Baggins in the quest to destroy the One Ring.

My mom let out a justified laugh when I admitted to having gone so far as to classify certain of the Transformers into colors. Optimus Prime, my personal hero, is another Blue, for his self-sacrificing, moral-driven mission to save Earth from the wrath of the Decepticons. (It’s sad to admit, but Optimus holds a special place in my heart. I was roused to tears by his go-down-swinging dying scene in the second Transformers movie.) Megatron, like many villains it seems, appears to be a Red.

I admit: it doesn’t get much nerdier than this. Applying principles of psychology to fictional (except in the case of Optimus Prime- don’t you DARE imply that he isn’t real!) characters. But I for one find it interesting, at the least, that made-up characters, even alien robots, can be grouped under categories of human personalities.

PS. I’m a Blue.

PPS. So is Batman.

Who makes up what books get to be classics? [Dillon]

2009-06-27T20:25:00.000-07:00

Well, my teacher made me read "Pride and Prejudice" and I got thinking who makes up what books are classics anyway? I mean what makes "Pride and Prejudice" better then other books? 1st it's supposed to be ironic and funny ,but there's plenty of good books like that.
2nd yes, it does use large vocabulary in which the author (Jane Austin) is the only one who has ever known what some of those words mean. If your going to judge good books by its vocabulary then just put all of the dictionaries in the so called "classic list". I don't know about you ,but my dictionary has plenty of large words.
3rd "Pride and Prejudice" shouldn't be a classic because it's not even possible for a guy to like that book. Oh, by the way I didn't actually read it.

Why science and religion can coexist [Ryan]

2009-06-22T10:45:00.000-07:00

I recently saw the movie Angels and Demons. One of the main themes in the movie was the conflict between science and religion. It’s not the only medium where such a theme exists — “Science and Religion” has its Wikipedia entry.

As I walked from the theater after watching the movie, I reflected that I was glad I belonged to a religion where we can be assured that science and faith can coexist.

A few weeks later, I overheard someone here arguing that we wouldn’t need science anymore once we were exalted. The next week, I learned of a person who left the Church because he couldn’t reconcile obvious evidences that pointed to evolution and his religious beliefs.

I think we may need to step back and look at what both science and religion are, and I think that we Latter-Day Saints might find the two a little more friendly than we might think.

Science is based upon theories, upon things we can see. It’s our quest to understand the world around and inside us through trial and error. Truth in science is established through finding proof.

Religion is based on a belief on a higher power, a sense of purpose. Like science, it’s our quest to understand the world around and inside us, and it’s also a little more: it’s our struggle to overcome the mundane and become more than we already are, also through a little bit of trial and error. Truth is established through faith.

They have their differences and their similarities, but can these estranged stepbrothers coexist?

Of course.

For example, we know for a fact that the earth (or the parts thereof, at least) is at least billions of years old. Tradition, including a passage in the Doctrine and Covenants (see D&C 77:6), tells us the earth has a temporal existence of only seven thousand years. It would seem that two dates contradict one another.

However, I firmly believe that because God works through science as well — but a higher form a science, one we don’t quite understand yet — that both statements may easily be and probably are true. Firstly, we might not even understand the basic statements as well as we think we do — who knows what exactly “a temporal existence” means? — so who are we to say they don’t match up?

Maybe the parts of the earth are billions of years old, but the formation of those parts as we now know it has only been around for a few thousand years or so. I don’t know. That’s just one explanation, and by no means the most authoritative one. Men a lot smarter and more educated than me could probably come up with better ones if they applied their knowledge of both science and theology, using both methods in their respective places to fill in aspects of the final truth.

Both science and faith have their places. The Book of Mormon isn’t going to help us much with the formation of limestone, and science won’t tell us whether abortion is right.

But when you put them together, you have a nearly complete picture, and even those places where they seem to overlap with a little discrepancy can be accepted as testaments to God’s use of natural laws to which we simply don’t have access.

It’s completely possible to live in harmony with both science and religion, as long as we recognize that they both have their place and together they give us different pieces of that great eternal puzzle that is ultimate truth.

Just have to try again in 2012, huh? [Connor]

2009-06-18T10:26:00.000-07:00

During the final stages of last year's presidential election, I discovered that I had a lot of free time, even after doing dozens of Facebook quizzes with titles like "Are You A Potato?". This realization led to me entering the presidential race via a write-in campaign. Due to popular demand (two people), I've published here my election platform and views I used during the presidential election. I did, in fact, garner a grand total of 1,029 votes for me as president, although, granted, 1000 of them were cast by me, and 23 of the remainder were cast by people too young to actually vote.

Important note: I lost the election. But without further ado:

Election Platform

1. All stupid lawsuits will immediately be done away with. If somebody puts a bug in your salad at a restaurant, for example, you may NOT sue them for tens of thousands of dollars!

2. People on welfare who are unemployed have two weeks to get a job or the welfare checks stop coming.

3. All taxes will be cut in half. To make up for this, all Elvis impersonators, Katy Perry fans, and male cheerleaders will be taxed 10 times as much.

4. Donald Trump will fund the healthcare system.

5. All telemarketers must first serve a one year tour of duty in Iraq before being allowed to telemarket.

6. In order to boost the economy, we will immediately annex Japan, since they produce pretty much all of our cars, electronics, sushi, etc.

7. Britney Spears, Lindsey Lohan, and other attention-hogging celebrities will be forced to live in one-room cabins with no power in northern Alaska on an all-Spam diet.

8. The first person to send me a cash contribution will be made Secretary of State. After that everyone who sends me contributions will be put on the Supreme Court.

9. America is going green! We are going to find new and innovative ways to get energy. To demonstrate this, Air Force One will be powered by the latent energy of a single baked potato. Also, the White House will be airlifted directly into Rigby, Idaho. Specifically, we are going to put the White House on the island in Rigby Lake.

A Question of Rebellion [Connor]

2009-06-18T10:24:00.000-07:00

I'd like to pose a question here. You're entitled to your own opinion on it, unless of course you disagree with me, in which case you're wrong.

No, I'm kidding about that, but without further ado, here's the question:

Why is TPing considered so bad?

I'm referring here to the practice of spreading toilet paper around on your friend or neighbor's property. A harmless, fun little prank that used to be a valued element of Rigby's summertime culture. What happened to that? Every year, more and more parents suddenly become convinced that TPing is apparently some kind of evil practice. The way some people talk about it, you'd almost think it was on par with, for example, terrorism. I'd like to prove that that line of thinking is totally off the roll, if you'll pardon my metaphor. Of course, there are a few arguments, used time and time again, as to why TPing is so evil. For example:

1. TPing is vandalism.
2. TPing is disrespectful.
2. TPing is a rebellious pastime that encourages kids to misbehave in other, worse ways as well.

Let's be honest. TPing is NOT vandalism. The online dictionary lists vandalism as "willful or malicious destruction or defacement of public or private property." Hmm. As destructive as toilet paper can be, I don't think it quite qualifies as "destruction of property." Defacement? Depends, really. I suppose if one believes that spending 15 or 20 minutes of time outdoors on a beautiful morning performing an easy cleanup on your lawn is a terrible punishment, then maybe it's defacement.

Nor is TPing disrespectful. I've TPed my best friends on multiple occasions, and they've TPed me. In fact, the tally of my TPing Jed Billman's house is now approaching five. Is TPing supposed to send some kind of "I hate you" message? Of course not. It's a harmless joke. Is the TP permanent? No. Pick it up. Is the TP going to bite? I sure hope not. What kind of TP are YOU using?

Does it lead to worse activities? Quite the contrary, actually. Kids need some kind of rebellious outlet, if you will, a little way to rebel. It's in kids' DNA. We have to do something to defy authority. TPing allows for a harmless way to vent out that inherent need to rebel. My own mother, actually, says that TPing is a good way to satisfy kids' need to rebel. Kids have to rebel somehow; would you rather know that they're putting toilet paper on a neighbor's lawn, or be comfortable in the knowledge that they're sneaking out at night, inventing their own nighttime activities to entertain themselves until the cops arrive?

I'm not saying, of course, that you should stand by and let somebody TP your house. Feel free to quietly slip out of the house, tackle them, and force them to clean up the house the next morning (I still bear scars from Bobby Roos' tackle during one epic TPing job). But FOR GOODNESS' SAKE, DO NOT CALL THE COPS ON TPERS. Sorry for stooping to using capital letters, but let's get real: is throwing a little TP around your property worth notifying the police? If the answer is yes, you need to get your priorities straight. Also, if your kid wants to go TPing, don't immediately refuse and put him under house arrest. Find out who he's doing it with and who he's TPing, and then let him go. It's that simple.

TPing is harmless way to have a little fun. Kids will always rebel somehow. It's your choice: you can choose to let them rebel and still know where they are, who they're with, and what they're doing. If that's too much, then you can tightly control them, ban them from this harmless outlet, and wait for them to find other ways to rebel. It's your choice.

Stupid Drivers (as seen in the Trojanier) [Connor]

2009-06-18T10:20:00.000-07:00

This was another article I wrote for the Trojanier. I had recently suffered several close calls due to these so-called stupid drivers (a school bus swerved across my lane ten feet in front of me on ice, for instance), and we needed opinions for the Trojanier. Voila.

America is full of them, and they’re probably a bigger danger to our safety and sanity than the struggling economy and the threat of terrorism combined:

Stupid drivers.

I’m talking about the people who drive 25 mph in the left lane on the freeway for 175 miles, oblivious to the hundreds of irate drivers behind them honking, yelling, and opening fire with shotguns. I’m talking about the people who will drive down the freeway for that same 175 miles with their left turn signal on the entire time, the light slowly blinking and blinking and blinking and blinking in a never-ending routine that slowly drives you insane. I’m talking about (not mentioning names here) the people who take their complete attention from driving to text a message like “omg lol” as their cars, happy to be free from the control of a driver, swerve joyfully around the road, narrowly dodging signs, dogs, houses, etc.

Our country is filled with these people. For example, on one of my drives in Driver’s Ed, I passed a car that was randomly swerving across the highway. The driver, it transpired, was attempting to drive, text, and fill out a newspaper crossword puzzle at the same time. How do these people survive? I mean, if a moment of distraction is all it takes to get in a car wreck, how is it that these drivers, the ones who can drive from Rigby to San Francisco without ever once glancing out the windshield, have survived this long without driving straight through a McDonalds, or at least ramming into a garbage truck?

And how did these people attain license to drive? Many of them should not be allowed to operate a toaster, let alone a car. No offense to the people who text as they drive, but, in terms of safety, you might as well walk into a crowd and take random potshots with an AK-47, because texting and driving WILL eventually catch up with you, possibly in the form of a Greyhound bus into your passenger side door at 65 mph.

Use common sense. If your turn signal has been on for 175 miles and the driver behind you is attempting to slash his wrist on the rear-view mirror, turn the signal off. If you’re going 25 mph on the 75 mph freeway, speed up. And, for all of our sakes, if you’re going 55 down the road and a friend texts you, wait 5 minutes until you’re home to answer the stupid text. Thank you.

What girls should know about guys (as seen in the Trojanier) [Connor]

2009-06-18T10:15:00.000-07:00

This is an article I wrote for our high school newspaper, the Trojanier. The idea was that I write an article for girls on how to interpret guy behavior, and a girl (Sierra Divine) write an article for guys on how to interpret girls. I found it pretty funny the article on how to interpret girl behavior made sense only after several more girls translated it for me. (Nothing against Sierra, who is, in fact, a far better writer than I am.)

What Girls Should Know About Guys
By Connor Kunz

When I first found out how confusing girls think guys are, I laughed until I cried. Guys are pretty simple, whereas trying to understand the mind of a girl is like trying to nail Jell-o to a tree. Even when a girl gives a straight yes or no answer, it turns into a cross between a code-breaking exercise and a Princess Bride-style battle of wits. When does yes mean yes? When does yes actually mean no? And does it ever mean “yes, if you put deodorant on first”? These are all questions every guy must ponder. Compared to girls, guys are pretty simple. There’s just a few things to keep in mind:

1. Guys think stalkers are creepy. Do not spend entire days with a puppy dog expression on your face, following ten feet behind a guy, and then wonder why he never talks to you. If you are talking to a guy for the first time, do NOT begin the conversation with anything along the lines of “Hey hottie! I want a boyfriend!” It’s known as the Leech Approach, and the average guy reacts to it pretty much the same way as he would to a gigantic leech stuck to his forehead: Scream, peel it off, and put as much distance between himself and it as possible.

2. Guys don’t like girls who cheat on them. It’s that simple. If you like your boyfriend, then don’t cheat on him. If you don’t like him, then break things off. Cheating insults yourself more than it does him.

3. Find the happy medium between “Easy Girl” and “Complete and Utter Mystery.” Pay attention to this one. No decent guy wants a girl who will happily take any random guy who comes the day after dumping her previous boyfriend. It’s too easy, and it makes the girl look shallow. At the same time, don’t be a complete mystery whom no guy can even begin to fathom. Dropping hints is always preferable to the Leech Approach, but remember that guys aren’t great at picking up hints, so if the hint requires an entire team of professional code-breakers (all of them guys) to figure it out, play a little less hard to get and turn the mystery down to where he can, at least, in his male mind, figure out that you’re trying to send him a message.

One final note: Do not compare every guy to Edward Cullen. Edward Cullen is not human, nor is he real. If you are looking for “your Edward”, you will never find him. Sorry to be the one to tell you. We’re just ordinary guys here on Planet Earth.

Be careful what you write- the teacher might actually read it. [Connor]

2009-06-18T10:10:00.000-07:00

This is an 8-page essay I wrote for biology. I figured it was just busywork and took a few liberties in writing it. Actually, Mrs. Beddes read the whole thing, and when the class asked what she was laughing about, she read it aloud to the class. I was surprised by how many people read it and loved it.

Phylums!
Connor Kunz

1. Calcarea
Despite sounding like a terrible tropical disease, or at least something you could catch from a poorly cooked taco, Calcarea is actually a thriving phylum of simple, completely sessile creatures known as sponges. Sessile means that they do not move and remain stationary, which is why scientists have dubbed them “nature’s couch potatoes.” They also lack true tissues, a fact that no American outside of a college-level biology class will understand, and that probably only half of those in a college-level biology class will understand. Sponges live a relatively simple existence as suspension feeders, meaning that they spend their days trapping particles of food passing through their internal channels and watching old episodes of M*A*S*H.

2. Silicarea
Silicarea and Calcarea are in fact, separate phylums, a fact that the writers of our beloved biology book apparently overlooked when they wrote it, seeing as they grouped them both under the heading of Porifera so as to provide a less satisfactory explanation. Not that I harbor any animosity toward the wonderful men and women who wrote this book. Anyway, it lists them as having exactly the same statistics and characteristics, and simply groups them all as sponges.

3. Cnidaria
The spelling of Cnidaria confuses many people into pronouncing it wrong. The trick is to remember that the ‘C’ is silent, so that it is correctly pronounced ‘pterodactyl.’ Cnidaria is also the only phylum thus far to be included in my computer’s spell check, a noteworthy fact. There are over 10,000 species of Cnidaria, including corals, jellies, and hydras. In a stunning revelation that will gross the average reader out for days, it is revealed that they are equipped with only a gastro vascular cavity, meaning that their mouth and anus are, in fact, one and the same. There is an unlimited number of tasteless jokes I could make here involving that fact, but I won’t.

4. Cnetophora
Also known as “comb jellies”, Cnetophora are largish, glowing jellyfish-like creatures that don’t look at all like giant radioactive nasal discharges, so just get that thought right out of your mind. They are diploblastic, which, for the benefit of those who have something better to do with their time then study biology books, means that they have only two “germ layers” around their coelom, instead of three. At least I think that’s what it means; I’m not totally 100% sure, and frankly, I have six more pages to write. Anyhow, many scientists believe that, because they are both diploblastic, Cnetophora and Cnetophora (pronounced “pterodactyl”) may share a common ancestor eons ago.

5. Echinodermata
Echinodermata are actually pretty cool. They exhibit radial symmetry, which, aside from being a somewhat outdated and out-of-style evolutionary adaptation (who knows? Maybe it will come back in style!), is pretty cool-looking in my own humble opinion. They include sand dollars, sea stars, and sea urchins. As a helpful little side note, do not ever touch a sea urchin. Now let’s move on. Another interesting fact about Echinodermata is that they move using a system of internal canals to pump water to different parts of their body.

6. Chordata
There are over 52,000 known species of Chordata, several of which are represented in the US Senate. Most of them are vertebrates. Meaning, of course, that they have a backbone. However, several groups, including tunicates, Democrats, lancets, and hagfishes, have no backbone. Frankly, I don’t know why they were grouped with Chordata. My personal theory is that the scientist in charge of classifying them was having a long day and decided that, in all actuality, nobody would ever notice that he had grouped a couple obscure species into an equally obscure phylum. Maybe he was also the one responsible for turning our biology book into a 1300-page monstrosity of indecipherable scientific jargon. I don’t know.

7. Brachiopoda
Brachiopoda are a group of giant, reptilian creatures characterized by their long necks, up to thirty feet in length. The creatures themselves grew up to eighty feet tall. They were herbivores, feeding primarily on gingko leaves.
Oh wait! Sorry, that’s Brachiosaurs! Brachiopoda are a phylum known as ‘lamp shells’ and are, in fact, closer to clams, only no doubt less tasty. Also, I doubt that “brachiopoda chowder” will catch on much. They are different, however, in that they have a stalk-like structure that anchors them in to their substrate. There are three hundred thirty-five species of Brachiopoda.

8. Phoronida
Compromising a rather pitiful 20 species, these are also known as marine worms. I don’t know about you, but for me this conjures up a mental image of a gruff-looking worm in a beaten-up US Marine Corps helmet and carrying a rifle, perhaps helping to raise the flag on a hill on the newly conquered Iwo Jima. Something tells me this is not the case. Anyways, marine worms live in tunnels on the seafloor. They have also been known to extend a tentacle out of their tunnels to trap food in a manner that has earned them a starring role in many undersea horror movies.

intermission
Whew. Four pages of PHYLUMS! Wasn’t that fun? Let’s all take a break for a moment to breath before diving into Act II, shall we?
Ok. Time’s up. On to Ectoprocta!

9. Ectoprocta
There are over 4,500 known species of Ectoprocta. They are a puzzling mystery that has baffled science as one of the most mysterious phylums in existence. At least, that’s the conclusion I came to after seeing the shocking lack of information on them. Even our book, which normally can drone on for hundreds of pages on such topics as the desaturated ionization of eubacterial DNA, has no more than a sentence on them. I did glean, however, that they are also known as ‘bryozoans’, they have a rough, protective exoskeleton, and that they live in sessile colonies, no doubt spending their days watching football.

10. Platyhelminthes
Platyhelminthes (pronounced “pterodactyl”) are classified as flatworms, a group that includes planarians, tapeworms, and flukes. They have bilateral symmetry but no body cavity, which is a fairly unique concept. Platyhelminthes are also known for their terrific batting average. ‘Platyhelminthes’ has been a standard in the National Spelling Bee for years, no contestant ever having spelled it correctly.

11. Nemertea
Nemertea compromise over four hundred species including proboscis worms and ribbon worms. I won’t lie: I find endless reading about phylums of obscure life-forms rather tedious, don’t you? I have a solution. Give me an A, and I’ll let you stop reading this. Okay?
Want to keep reading, huh? All right, have it your way. Nemertea have no true coelom, but have instead evolved with an alimentary canal, or digestive tract. They swim in the water (rather redundant, I suppose) or burrow in the undersea floor. Some Nemertea also use their proboscis to catch prey, which I personally find somewhat creepy.

12. Mollusca
Mollusca is tonight’s runner-up for number of species, with over 93,000 species of mollusks. Mollusks include snails, clams, squids, and octopuses. At least, the book refers to them as octopuses. I’ve always heard that called octopi, haven’t you? Mollusks have a soft body with a hard shell on the outside. Seeing as I haven’t eaten in hours, I now have a vivid mental image of a meal from Red Lobster: the feel of the hard shell of a king crab leg, and the butter-smothered taste of the soft meat within. Yum.

14. Annelida
I’m going on four hours almost straight of working on this, and frankly, I’m nearing my breaking point. It’s no coincidence that ‘studying’ is ‘student’ and ‘dying’ put together. Now, down to business. There are 16,500 species of Annelida, all of them apparently worms. The book lists them as segmented worms, which I assume is referring to the fact that they are worms with segments. Many Annelida have a cool feature that allows them to continue living after being cut in half. Imagine if humans were like that. Okay, I think I need to get done. Like, fast. . .

15. Rotifera
There are 1800 species of Rotifera. They are microscopic in size but nevertheless have very complex organ systems, including a digestive tract. I realize that having a digestive tract is not necessarily a sign of sophistication or intelligence, the Jonas Brothers being Example A. Anyway, these complex little Rotifera feed on microorganisms. It’s anyone’s guess WHY they choose to eat microorganisms; my guess is that nobody’s told them about pizza delivery.

16. Nematoda
Nematoda. Nematoda. Nematoda. It’s kind of fun to say, really. Nematoda.
Boy, I had better get done with this.
There are 25,000 species of Nematoda. The phylum is composed of roundworms. They are enormously abundant and diverse. Nematoda enjoys golfing, spending time with friends, and long walks on the beach.
And now. . . Our final phylum. . .
(drum roll)

17. Arthropoda
Arthropoda is tonight’s grand winner, with over one million different species and counting. Arthropods account for the vast majority of all known animal species, including crustaceans, arachnids, insects, and Joe Biden. They have segmented exoskeletons and jointed appendages. They also have the distinguished place of being the last phylum I cover in this assignment, meaning that as I type this, I am thinking of the wonderful and blissful freedom that lies ahead of me in having this assignment finished with. I hope you had fun in Costa Rica. Please give me an A. Thank you.

Will the parents of these people please stand up? [Connor]

2009-06-18T10:08:00.000-07:00

Last night I attended an amazing concert by BYU Vocal Point. I've heard them sing before and was expecting a great concert, and I wasn't disappointed. At least, not by the performers. But I was downright horrified by the behavior of some of the audience.

Immediately behind me and to the left was the standard for any performance: the annoying guy right behind you who laughs too hard. There's always one, whether it's a movie theater or a play or what. But this guy took it to new extremes. If, for example, a singer introduced himself as Bob Johnson, this guy would start start laughing his head off at a volume that shook dust off the ceiling. Honestly, he was MUCH louder than the actual singers, who had him outnumbered nine to one and were equipped with microphones and powerful amplifiers. So every time they talked, I would hear something like this: "This next song is a personal favorite of ours because it-" "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA DID YOU HEAR THAT GUY? A PERSONAL FAVORITE? HAHAHAHA! HAHAHAHAHAHA!" Needless to say, it drove me crazy. I started giving him strategic looks about a quarter of the way through. I thought he took a hint, but after intermission he resumed with a vengeance. I can only hope that his wife, if he ever finds one, is deaf.

Even worse, in my opinion, was the person behind me whose cell phone went off not once, not twice, but THREE TIMES during the first half of the concert. Now I can understand once- you're in a hurry, you forget to silence your cell phone and your friend calls to ask something. Now two times is pushing it- I don't know why the first time you disrupt the performance wouldn't be enough of a wake-up call to take the extra five seconds to turn your cell phone on silent. But THREE? I am very curious to know why that person evidently felt that showing off their ringtone was more important and interesting than an impressive concert that everyone present had taken time to attend and paid money to see. If they think that hearing their phone ring is more important than the actual concert, which it appears they did, I suggest that next time they stay home and keep their phone on. But if they want to attend a concert as a mature adult, I can only hope they realize that the people sitting around them, myself included, would probably have dragged them out into the parking lot and beaten them over the head with our own cell phones if that phone had rang one more time. Oh, and one more ring and that phone was going around the bowl and down the hole, if you get my drift.

I realize that was a lot of rambling. But for the life of me I cannot understand why some people apparently cannot help but make an effort to be disrespectful and downright irritating. If these people ever have the privilege again to attend a concert or at least a relatively civilized public event of some kind, I hope that they can, for the sake of the performers as well as the audience, at least try to PRETEND that they were raised by someone more civilized than wolves.

Of Death Stars and seal liver: why marriage can wait

2009-06-17T20:23:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, I published an article in which I suggested that I wasn’t into girls who had kissed a lot of people. This was the main point I wished to convey. Throughout the following week, I discovered many people who found my opinion somewhat disagreeable, including a few who apparently wished me serious bodily harm.

Of course, such controversy was very welcome, and nothing other than a pay raise or a pet cybernetic space monkey could cause an opinion writer more joy.

Thus, I thank all the people who disagree with me — and even those who wish me certain death — for making my writing career all the more fulfilling.

One point was made in a letter to the editor, however, that has some merit. A girl asked if why we dwell on dating and relationships so much here at BYU–I when there are so many other important things.

A good question — why do we focus so much on those things?

Is it because our leaders tell us ? Is it because we’re at that age when our blood is seventy percent hormones? Could it be the two factors together, combined and fermented to the point where they’re causing BYU–I students to become unstoppable juggernauts of eternal desperation?

I don’t know what the cause is, but I know the result: too often, I feel like a participant in a feeding frenzy. Does anyone else feel like we’re either the tiny scrap of seal liver floating in the water or one the crazed sharks desperate to be part of that exclusive club that gets a piece of meat?

It’s happened a lot: the first day in a new ward, everyone is scoping out the opposite sex. I’m going to describe this from the point of view of someone possessing a Y chromosome, since that happens to be the kind of human I am.

We guys see a cute girl — and to avoid more spiteful letters from than necessary, I will here define “cute” as “possessing enough attractive qualities, both inward and outward, that, upon first glance, outweigh any visible bad qualities” — and instantly, that girl is the Death Star and we are the Millennium Falcon, caught hopelessly in her tractor beam of love. Then, once attraction has been established, you can catch a whiff of desperation in the way the guys in the ward descend like carrion birds.

I’d like a wife as much as the next guy — assuming the next guy’s not a giant lizard or anything — but I’m not sure I want a part of that.

I agree that marriage is important, and that without it we’re in a bit of a bind as far as eternal things go. I just think that just maybe we might be able to let other things float to the surface of our minds occasionally.

This is probably the part where someone will dredge up an out-of-context General Authority quote that says we have to get married now — yes, this INSTANT! — and hurl it at me, but I don’t care.

Marriage is important, and infinitely so, but it’s my opinion that in the when a girl sees a guy wallowing in desperation to find an eternal companion, her attraction for him is about as nonexistent as a mother in a Disney animated classic.

It’s corny, but I heard someone say once that we get more success trying to “be” the one rather than trying to “find” the one.

I think there might be some truth in that.

Let's not be the sharks. Let's not be the seal liver. Let's be the ... well, this metaphor can only go so far. But my point — let's take a break from the desperate marriage race and just enjoy the ride.

After all, every shark gets a nice meal eventually.

Welcome to Fortune and Glory

2009-06-08T22:26:00.000-07:00

This is the first post that is unique to this blog. The other day, I was sitting in my Media Management class thinking about all the people who were making huge amounts of money blogging, and I thought, "Man, Mace Windu could totally beat Darth Maul." Then I thought some more, and I started thinking about blogs, and I thought, "Man, I might be able to make some money off of this."

So that's the purpose of this blog, I'll be honest. I'm trying to put my writing talents to use. I get a lot of feedback: some people want to shoot me and others will take a bullet for me. I'm hoping to get both categories here, something I probably wouldn't get if the blogs appeared only on my Facebook account.

So come and browse, read and comment — or just click on the ads. I need an iPhone.

How time travel would work — really

2009-06-08T22:17:00.000-07:00

This is not one of my normal columns, but I think of what kind of letter to the editor I would get if I published this in Scroll. Some of my columns border on irrelevance, but this one ... well, just read it.

There are three ways that time travel works in books and movies. I'm not talking about how you actually travel back, but I could devote another column to the methods I've seen — sorry, heard of — used, including black hole, flux capacitators, temporal displacement and the like. I'm talking about the logistics of what would happen when you travel back in time and inevitably change the past.

I've actually been thinking about this pretty deeply. To illustrate each, let's say I went back in time and killed my grandfather before he could ever meet my grandmother. In each scenario, let's look at what might play out next.

Way #1: The predestination paradox model. Basically, everything that you did while going back in time was supposed to happen and has already been taken into account in the current timeline. This is the time-travel model used in the TV show "LOST." If I went back in time and killed my grandfather, somehow that's how things were SUPPOSED to happen. Maybe the guy I thought was my grandpa wasn't — maybe he was a guy who would have killed my real grandpa had I not killed him. It's also used in the "Terminator" movies — a robot from the future was left in a factory and the factory workers used that robot to build more robots, which resulted eventually in a robot from the future being send back in time. ...

And then, in "Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban," Harry's interaction with the past didn't change anything in the past. He simply used a Patronus to save his past self the way things were supposed to happen. In other words, the events originating from your supposed interference in the past were already in place in the established timeline before you traveled back in time. Daniel Faraday, from "LOST," says it best: "Whatever happened, happened."

Way #2: The one universe model. According to this model, whatever you go back and change will be reflected when you return to your own time. Though this is the model used in the "Back to the Future" movies, it's impossible and creates and entire host of universe-shattering paradoxes. Let's say I were to go back and kill my grandfather before he could have a chance to meet my grandmother. This would make it so I was never born, right? So if I had never been born, nobody would have gone back and killed my grandfather. If nobody had killed my grandfather, I would have been born. Then, I would have gone back and killed my grandfather. Then I would have never been born and ... See the mess that this creates? "Back to the Future" simplifies this concept.

Way #3: The multiple universes model. This is used in the new "Star Trek" movie and is the least complicated of the three models of time travel. If you go back and change the past, any change you make will only create a parallel universe — your own universe will be totally unaffected. If I were to go back and kill my grandfather before he could meet my grandmother, it would only create an alternate universe where none of my grandfather's descendants were alive.

Stay tuned for more ramblings, assuming your head hasn't yet exploded.

Five principles of girl-ness

2009-06-08T22:16:00.002-07:00

Before I begin my regular column, I think I owe an apology to all the Jane Austen fans I offended last week. No, I take that back — actually, I just an apology to Ms. Austen herself. Jane, you’re welcome to stop by and have a free Otter Pop anytime — on me, as a token of my regret for my naïve suggestion that your books might benefit from a little less feminine angst and a few more gunfights.

To any Twilight fans I may have offended, however — well, you’re on your own.

There are some things we’re not meant to know. Where dinosaurs fit into the scheme of things, for instance. Or why the Spori doesn’t have a vending machine for drinks.

Or what drives the inner workings of the female mind.

Nevertheless, I’m going to sum up the basics of what I’ve learned in my years of living on the same planet as the female half of the human race.

Correct me if I’m wrong, which I probably will be.

Principle #1 — Girls are absolutely necessary for the survival of the species. Just trust me on that one. Or go ask your mom.

Principle #2 — Girls don’t have any clue what they want. In this way, they are much like sea sponges, except more infinitely intelligent, more beautiful, and somewhat less predictable. So — not like sponges at all, I guess. (The analogy was worth a shot.)

Principle #3 — Girls don’t mean exactly what they say. I reference Kelly Kapoor from The Office: “Who says exactly what they’re thinking? What’s up with that?”

If a girl tells you she wants to hang out sometime, what she actually means is a) she is trying to be nice and doesn’t seriously want to do anything with you, or b) she actually wants to hang out, or c) she is planning to emigrate to Mexico. It could be any of the three, or none of them. You never actually know.

Principle #4 — Girls tend to be more lovey-dovey than males. They leave posts like this on each other’s Facebook walls: “OMG! You’re so beautiful! Come visit me!” A guy would never, ever, write something like that on another guy’s Facebook wall, even if the alternative proved to be a dire threat to his life or manliness, like having to watch the six-VHS set of Pride and Prejudice.

Principle #5 — Girls are wonderful, beautiful, indispensible additions to humanity, without whom I would probably be at home watching reruns of 24 again this weekend.

BYU–Idaho Pharisees miss the mark

2009-06-08T22:16:00.001-07:00

I love BYU–Idaho. Weekly devotionals, an unparalleled (and somewhat idiosyncratic) dating scene and prayer before classes — you just don’t find this kind of environment in very many places. “Another great day at BYU–Idaho” is possible every day if you’ve got the right attitude.

But what is that right attitude? It might be more elusive than you think.

When you live in perfect little LDS bubble, some people tend to develop perceptions of righteous that are — I’m going to be honest here — hypocritical, Pharisaic, and somewhat skewed.

Remember last summer? Scroll’s letters to the editor were rampant with angry comments on several topics that shouldn’t have merited the heated discussion that followed.

I’ve chosen examples from last year so as to not offend more people than is necessary to get my point across, but if you peruse recent letters to the editor and listen to conversations on campus — anyone remember the Naked juice controversy last semester? — this kind of Pharisaic misinterpretation of the standards of the Church is ever present and thriving.

What happened last year was this: The Sun Shack, a student-operated eating venue on campus, had an advertisement that featured an attractive, modestly dressed young woman with ketchup smeared on her face. An angry student wrote to Scroll decrying the evils of such a provocative ad, and then the dam broke, flooding the email inbox of Scroll with responses, both in the negative and the affirmative.

That same semester, a headline reading “Little shop of horr … uh, flowers” — obviously a clever play on the musical “Little Shop of Horrors” — drew similar frustration from people who somehow interpreted the “horr” in the headline to mean something totally different. (Oddly enough, the connection didn’t even occur to most of us. What does that say about the mind-in-the-gutter factor of those who were offended?)

I’d like to think I try to my best to live the gospel, but that doesn’t mean burdening others with my own grossly inflated view of spirituality. When someone does that, we miss the mark with our attempts to make up rules and standards or impose our exaggerated standards upon others.

I’m not perfect, but that’s my point: nobody is, and maybe we should concentrate on real issues before we allow our need to feel spiritual interfere with feeling the Spirit.

How to waste time

2009-06-08T22:15:00.001-07:00

Do you have one of those troubling lives where everything you do seems to actually mean something? Do your actions fill you with a sense or purpose? Do you look forward to the future with optimism that your hard work will pay off?

If so, you need to get a life.

Such a life, of course, is found by wasting time. Goals, work, intelligent conversation with actual carbon-based life forms — all those things are meaningless smoke in the wind.

How do you waste time?

Spend time on Facebook. It’s an excellent black hole for time. It’s easy to interact virtually with hundreds of people without ever putting on pants. You can even update your status so often you begin to refer to yourself in third person.

Watch 24. This is a TV show where every episode depicts an hour in real-time of a day in the life of federal agent Jack Bauer. In the course of 24 hours, Bauer always manages to kill dozens of terrorists without ever needing to use the restroom or eat. It has the potential to hook you, like televised cocaine, until your heart beats tick-tock and you can’t walk around in a normal social setting without searching for an exit and a place you can hide and call for backup during a firefight.

Play World of WarCraft. Trust me, nothing impresses a girl like describing your level-67 Night Elf Rogue and your quest to find the Lost Trinket of the Faraway Voodoo Isles — except maybe telling her that you haven’t slept in four weeks and are currently alive only because your blood is pure Red Bull.

Have a marathon of all the extended edition Lord of the Rings movies. Want to see the entire quest, from ”The world is changing” to “Well, I’m back”? Want to travel from the Shire to Mordor and back again? Want to see Saruman and Gandalf, Aragorn and the Army of the Dead, Theoden and Eowyn? Want to watch approximately 32,000 orcs with the combat prowess and aim of turnips be skewered by the good guys? With the minor sacrifice of twelve paltry hours of your life, all these things can be yours.

Play Halo on XBox. Have you ever awakened at two a.m. wishing you had the Halo theme stuck in your head? Have you ever cursed yourself when Jeopardy comes on, frustrated at your inability to answer Alex Trebek when he reads, “This is the best way to snipe out the pilot of a Scorpion tank from atop the Blood Gulch cliff”? (Answer: “What is a rocket launcher?”) Have you ever possessed the mad desire to suddenly snap to consciousness, a game controller in your hand, potato chips on your face, and no memory of the last day and a half? Halo can help your dreams fly higher than a Covenant Banshee.

See all the benefits of wasting time? Why would any one harbor a productive desire when so many wonderful options are available?

Time to get a life.

Finding faith with other faiths

2009-06-08T22:14:00.001-07:00

When I was little, I viewed people who weren’t members of the Church like they were in some way irreconcilably different from the people like me. I viewed them way I would lepers, aliens in disguise, or Democrats.

They were different from the others in my predominantly LDS community. Some people had tattoos; others had earrings in odd places. Some people just smelled different — a clear indication that they weren’t on the straight and narrow.

I remember when the first family of non-members moved into our subdivision. I rode my bike past them with furtive glances over my shoulder, as if their dark influence might cause my tires to explode, leaving me at their mercy.

My parents were and are great examples of tolerance, but I still couldn’t get over the way non-Mormons were simply different — and that made nonmembers scary.

A mission was an eye-opening experience. Most of the people I met weren’t LDS, and many of them could totally have passed for such. In my two years of service, I encountered hundreds of amazing, wonderful people who either hadn’t had a chance to find the gospel or simply weren’t interested.

Still, these people loved their families, went to work every day, watched Star Wars, called themselves Americans, used deodorant and ate regular food. They went shopping at the mall, drove cars, spoke English, celebrated holidays and got irritated when people played hip-hop at full volume in the middle of the night.

They did not, however, sacrifice goats to their demons gods, plot the hostile takeover of peaceful neighborhoods, eat babies or soak their tentacles in specialized alien fluid every night to keep their skins moist in Earth’s atmosphere.

In other words, these people really were normal human beings.

I went to General Conference recently, where the protestors against the Church were engaged in their semiannual quest to save our souls. Four years ago, when I attended conference before my mission, I saw the protestors as minions of Satan out to destroy the peace that existed on Temple Square.

Now, I see them as possibly God-fearing, good people who might just see their holy crusade against Mormonism as nothing more than their own version of missionary work.

Then, just as I was coming to appreciate a heterogeneous environment and accept that a world where everyone was a clone of me might not be the ideal situation, I came to BYU–Idaho.

I wouldn’t say that diversity is dead here, but I wouldn’t say it’s alive and thriving, either.

I simply wish we had a little more diversity to even things out and prepare us for the real world, where not everyone is a Primary graduate.

A few weeks ago, I went on a date. It went great, and afterward, I called up the girl’s roommate, with whom I am good friends, to get the scoop. “Oh, she had a great time,” said the roommate, who then filled me on more details.

Certain that I knew all I needed to know, I swooped in and asked the girl out again.

This time, as we were making cinnamon rolls, she blithely informed me that she couldn’t eat sweets because she was on Lent.

Yeah, she was Catholic. Here at BYU–Idaho. I stuffed my cinnamon roll into my mouth, uncertain of what to say.

It seems my spiritual journey had reached an apex — She wasn’t LDS, and yet she shared our morals and values. There really can’t be anything too bad about that.

I love my religion, and I know it’s true. But I can accept that others might have their own beliefs, creeds and faiths.

Here’s to BYU–Idaho, where you can be assured that the person sitting next to you probably shares your values.

And here’s to the real world, where there are still a lot of good people, and where we can all join together and do some good.

What could have been if I hadn't become a comm major

2009-06-08T22:13:00.001-07:00

I’m a proud communication major with an emphasis in journalism, but sometimes I wonder what life would have been like if I had taken the road less traveled, or at least the road traveled by people who actually want to make money in their lifetime.

Just kidding — there are plenty of good jobs left in journalism, provided you’re willing to sell a kidney now and then to supplement your income.

But what would life have been like if I had chosen, say, accounting, as my major?

My dad is an accountant, and a good one, but the apple in my case fell so far from the tree that it landed in Portugal. I was never able to look at vast arrays of numbers and think of anything but gnawing off my leg.

Or what if I had instead majored in English? I’m one of those shallow people who prefer the ticking clock on the TV show 24 to iambic pentameter, and I’m pretty sure Jack Bauer could beat up T. S. Eliot, anyway. No contest.

How about wildlife biology? I love animals, I really do. It’s just I like jerky, steak and Chicken McNuggets more.

Speaking of which, I could have gone into beef production — a time-honored industry with all the direct involvement with meat that I could ask for. Oh, wait a minute — do I really want to know what actually goes into my McNuggets? Small dogs? Maybe Department of the Treasury employees?

Psychology — I think they’ve got their approach all wrong. Why waste time on the human psyche when they could be working on deciphering the female mind? It’s not like we’re trying to marry Freud, for goodness’ sake.

Or university studies? I honestly have no idea what that is. I’m pretty good with context clues, but all I can deduce is that you’re … studying … uh … university … stuff. That’s all I’ve got.

I could have been a business management major, but when I was five, aliens stole my brain and switched it with a future Freddie Mac executive. Man, those aliens messed up.

I doubt I could have been a child development major, despite the significant amount of cute girls in that department (by the way, child development girls, I’m a lot better looking than my picture on this page suggests). However, I’ve heard through the grapevine that applying the use of tranquilizer darts to unruly children is discouraged.

I couldn’t have been a nursing major. What is it about blood and guts that makes me cringe? Oh, it’s the fact that they’re blood and guts, which are wonderful things only when kept secured safely inside of me.

History education — Someone has to teach college history in those huge lecture halls in the Ricks, despite the fact that every student is, in fact, playing Solitaire. It’s just not for me.

I’m not bashing anyone else’s majors. If communication majors ran the world, the economy would be in even worse shape, but at least President Bush could have actually hired a real speechwriter. I’m just wondering what could have been.

However, if I had been something else, you wouldn’t have this blog.

And wouldn’t that have made you sad?

Life within a life

2009-06-08T22:12:00.000-07:00

We’re all born. We grow. We get disappointed. We gain victories. We watch our children grow. We’re happy, we’re sad, we’re hopeful. Then we all die.

Some people get to do it twice.

I served as a missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in New Mexico. In a way, this experience was a microcosm of life, a shortened version of all that gives life its venerated humanity.

Nearly two hundred years of missionary work has spawned a lingo that only missionaries can understand — Fathers give birth to sons, sons succeed fathers, and the circle of life spirals on and on to the measured rapping of calloused knuckles on doors.

I was “born” in the little town of Bloomfield, a splotch of diners and gas stations on the prairie of northwestern New Mexico. My “father” — my trainer — was a self-admitted hick from Driggs, Idaho, a scion of the same old polygamous family that produced me.

Like any child, I sometimes wanted to learn faster than I was — I cried, I fumed. I strained through spiritual growing pains, falling on my face and trying to walk before I could crawl. Soon, I was able to do full door approaches alone, hawking the Book of Mormon like a vacuum salesman with the desperate belief that his Hoover could solve the world’s problems.

It wasn’t over. My inadequacies haunted me. Sometimes, in the quiet of my study at the twilight of a long day, my shoes piles at the door covered in dust, I would kneel in prayer and beseech my true Father for relief from my infirmities, that I might better serve him.

But this was life, and I was a child walking in faithful obliviousness to my parents’ purposes for me.

In time, I sired a son of my own — my first trainee, Elder Findlay, was a spirited young missionary with a headstrong passion for the work. When our paths diverged, I watched his progress, watched him grow.

Every emotion embedded in the human psyche, every feeling that combines to separate the human creature from the other animals on this God-given earth, exists in some form on the mission.

Sadness prevailed when an investigator fell away into the mists of dogmatic falsities. Joy reigned when I returned to Albuquerque to watch a women I had taught and baptized enter the temple.

Disappointment struck me again and again, contention reared its sagebrush-laden head, and even romantic love ebbed and flowed, only to be snuffed out by the subsiding trickle of letters.

And then, as in the age-enduring lament of poets and bards, death faced me. Two years of service stared me in the eye with all the ferocity of a life spent. I recalled my first years as a missionary, my growth, my successes and failures —

Then I stepped off the plane. One life was over; I was ready to continue the next, the things learned in the first stockpiled for the second.

One can never live too many lives.

Nerds, unite (except Trekkies)!

2009-06-08T22:11:00.000-07:00

My Mac dictionary offers, among others, this definition: an intelligent, single-minded expert in a particular technical skill or discipline.

Before I buffet the reader with the blustery gale of my nerdiness, I’m going to state that everyone fits the above description to some degree — some obviously more than others.

Take me, for example. I like to think of myself as a person possessing basic social graces. For instance, I have enough sense to avoid interrupting people when they’re speaking. I can sense when a particular action would be unacceptable in polite company, like telling generic, endless stories about my mission or setting fire to my eyebrows. I like to think that I can survive socially.

But I do have one nerdy vice.

Before my mission, you could pick out some minor character from the background of any movie and I could tell you that person’s backstory, home planet, and lightsaber color. I have a cabinet back home of Star Wars paraphernalia, including a limited-edition Revenge of the Sith cereal box and the entire set of Star Wars Pez dispensers — except that pesky R2-D2 one, which has so far eluded me. My bedroom here at college has three separate representations of Darth Vader.

Am I a nerd? Yeah, and proud of it.

Do I still have standards? Of course. For those of you still subsisting in woeful ignorance, Star Wars and Star Trek are two totally different franchises; the first is cool and the latter is nothing more than a cheap science fair dressed up with some semblance of plot and character development.

(If I get letters to the editor about that one, I will truly consider it the highlight of my writing career.)

But there are other ways of being nerdy. I have several roommates who stare at the TV like it’s some sort of primitive idol, sacrificing their spare time to the heathen gods of ESPN. There’s nothing wrong with this, but when I hear them spouting off facts about the winners of the Heisman Trophy or the last three coaches of the Lakers, I smile to myself. We all have our own kind of nerdiness, don’t we?

Everyone’s head contains some sort of useless information, whether it’s the home planet of Luke Skywalker (Tatooine), the best way to win Guitar Hero (set fire to the guitar console) or the only person to win the Heisman Trophy twice (Frodo Baggins).

A nerd is nothing more than a person with a passion. We’ve all got passions. Some people cook. Some people play golf. Some people sing. As long as we have a hobby to divert our time from the demands of reality, we are nerds.

Show me a person who claims he’s not a nerd, and I’ll show you a person who has no life.

Why I'm not married yet

2009-06-08T22:10:00.001-07:00

DISCLAIMER: If you're looking for a depressive rant about the sad status of my love life, go somewhere else. (Also, you might want to ask yourself exactly WHY you're looking for such a thing, and possibly seek help.) This is not the rambling of a lovesick loser lost in his laments, but an intellectual look at the reasons behind my — and perhaps other people’s — lack of the One Ring to Rule Them All on my left hand.

Two more of my friends recently got engaged. Another one or two are close. My friends, none of them older than 22, are all biting the matrimonial dust. And those are only the male friends. My old female friends, for the most part, were sucked into the marriage dimension a long time ago.

And yet here I am, lingering in limbo. I don’t feel any particular pressure to get married, but it would be nice, sometime down the road, to have an assurance that my wife wasn’t killed by a stray arrow in the war in heaven. It would be nice to discover that romance was more than, in the immortal words of The Monkees, “fairy tales / Meant for someone else / But not for me.

“What’s the use of trying? / All I get is pain / When I wanted sunshine / I get rain …”

Thought the use of that song carries the risk of relegating this serious reflection to the status of whimpering melodrama, it really can sum up how I feel sometimes.

I try to think what my problem is. I’m attracted to enough girls to rule out the possibility of my being gay. I think I might just be too picky.

My ideal girl is smart, talented, attractive, spiritual, and mature. The exact definitions of those qualities are a little flighty, allowing for some leeway, but I know exactly what I want, and I’m not willing to budge.

Somebody once told me that in order to find the one, I have to be the one. That could be why I’m not yet married. Have I learned enough? Have I honed my talents enough? Have I attained a level of confidence enough to accent my attractiveness? Have I grown enough in my spirituality? Am I mature enough?

I don’t know.

To employ a horribly sappy metaphor, my heart has been broken at least three times since I’ve been home from the mission. Not that this is any unusual feat at BYU–Idaho, where loves are found and lost like the rise and fall of petty empires, but it still hurts.

If you jump off a diving board and do a belly flop, you try again. If you belly flop again, you still climb up the ladder to give in another shot. But what happens if you get the same result the fifth or six time? Statistically speaking, you’re going to eventually do a flop-free dive, but try telling yourself that when you stand dizzily at the top for the eighth time, your stomach still smarting from the last seven impacts.

That’s how I feel about the whole love thing. What’s the use of trying? All you get, after all, is pain. The Monkees knew what they were talking about, even if they could’t spell worth a flying banana.

My point in writing this blog isn’t to sound depressed or desperate, only to get my thoughts onto the screen — where, like any good writer desires, people can read them.

If, by some crazy random happenstance (to borrow a line from Dr. Horrible), my future wife is already one of my Facebook friends, listen up. I’m trying to make myself better for you, so be patient.

I'll find you soon enough, but it's not my priority yet. I'm not yet what I want to be for marriage. It would also help if I had some money.

Wife, be ready for me.

Also, I sometimes quote Star Wars in my sleep, so be prepared for that.

My thoughts on gun control

2009-06-08T22:09:00.000-07:00

Over two hundred years ago, the right to keep and bear arms proved to be one of the strengths that bore the struggling American colonies to freedom as a united nation. Minutemen and ill-equipped militia banded together to drive one of the world’s superpowers from the American shores.

Now that right, assured of its hallowed position in the history of the United States., is in jeopardy. Liberal groups, claiming the interest of safety, want to remove the Americans’ right to have their own firearms.

The Second Amendment to the Constitution guarantees “A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms shall not be infringed.”

There are some who would interpret the word “people” in that statement to mean the military, and those whose official duty it is to keep the peace. However, it is unlikely that the Founding Fathers meant it that way, having just emerged from a war where the common man, not only the police or a standing army, took up arms against tyranny. While law-enforcement and military professions are noble, each individual citizen should retain the ability to protect himself and his family.

Gun safety will always be an issue. Many well-meaning people believe that taking guns away from people will solve many of the crime problems societies face. However, statistics show otherwise.

A study based from the FBI Uniform Crime Report illustrates this point. Though the handguns per capita in the United States since 1945 have risen dramatically, the amount of gun-related crimes has remained relatively steady. Contrast that with Washington, D.C., which banned handguns in 1976. From 1976 to 1992, crime doubled, while the nation’s crime rate grew by a mere 12 percent.

Look at the example of Peru, where citizens aren’t allowed to own firearms. Instead, houses are enshrouded in bars to defend against criminals with no such restrictions. A former missionary who served there said, “In America, criminals live behind bars and people are on the streets. In Peru, criminals are on the streets and people live behind bars.” Such is the price of laws where ordinary people have no access to any means of defense.

Making laws against guns will only affect those who obey the laws. Great Britain has enacted strict gun control laws in the last fifty years. Now, according to several English newspapers, the number of illegal guns in the country has doubled. Those who choose not to obey the anti-gun laws will find their own ways around the law as they always have. Then the guns will have been taken out of the hands of the law-abiding citizen, though the criminal will still procure firearms from methods outside the law.

There is a necessary right for every American to be able to protect himself. Without the realization of this need in the past, America may never have been able to gain independence. In another study, this one by the Northwestern School of Law, Americans use firearms to defend themselves from criminals at least 764,000 times a year. The same organization surveyed imprisoned criminals and found that 34% of them had been "scared off, shot at, wounded or captured by an armed victim.”

Perhaps local governments should be given the ability to regulate firearms. It’s acceptable for an Idaho government, made up of Idahoans who know how Idahoans think and what Idahoans need, to decide what’s best for Idahoans, for instance. It is not, however, acceptable for a bureaucrat in Washington, D.C. to decide what is best in a faraway state in which he has never set foot.

And what would ordinary citizens need guns for?

Many different tastes and varied pleasures abound in the great United States, which stretches thousands of miles across mixed lifestyles. Many of those cultures fused into the great nation enjoy hunting and other outdoor pursuits, in which guns — held by responsible, benign adults — play a major role. Others enjoy shooting targets; still others collect firearms as a hobby.

Responsibility is a key factor. Simply arguing that something can be dangerous is not a justifiable reason for cutting off its availability. The key is to teach how to properly store, care for, and use firearms to avoid accidents. Thus, the law-abiding citizen — the only ones truly affected by anti-gun legislation, as pointed out earlier — would continue to enjoy the benefits of firearms.

Americans must be aware of the issues surrounding gun control and make choices based upon logic and statistics, not propaganda from either the right or the left. American history was written by those unafraid to stand up for their rights. The loyal supporters of the Constitution must never allow the precious pieces of American legacy to be stolen — like the freedom to keep and bear arms.

[Random point for Scrollies only: Alderaan was a peaceful planet, without weapons, and it got blown up by the Death Star. See where gun control got them.]

Apples to apples

2009-06-08T22:08:00.001-07:00

I think I can safely say that most BYU–Idaho students know the dangers of premarital sex and will agree that such relations are in violation of the commandments of the Church.

But violations of the law of chastity, in my mind, are not the only things that can spoil a girl for me.

Somebody once compared sex to an apple, saying that the more a girl indulges in premarital violations that sacred act, the more she becomes like an apple of which someone has taken a bite.

After while, you don’t want an apple everyone’s taken a chomp out of, right?

For me, kissing is like slobbering on an apple. It’s not quite like eating an apple someone already bit out of, but it’s not quite as appealing as munching into a fresh ripe fruit.

I realize the analogy isn’t perfect, but it works if you’re a non-germaphobe like me, who once ate a bag of popcorn I found on the floor at a movie theater after pulling out the empty candy wrappers.

Still, I wouldn’t want to partake of an apple coated in twenty other guys’ glistening drool.

I met a guy on my mission who bragged about making out with 35 girls, at least five of whom he hadn’t know their names at the time. In my Math 108 class a few semesters ago, we took an anonymous poll of how many girls each guy had kissed. One guy scored over 50.

Where would the fun be in that?

I don’t mind if a girl I date has kissed a few guys. A little experience is tolerable, and maybe even preferred by some. Few people will find their eternal mates without a few failed relationships behind them, and it’s okay to have lips that carry a little experience. But I don’t want someone who’s been around the block too many times.

This rant isn’t the resentful whining of the words of an embittered mind behind inexperienced lips. It is, I hope, a plea for people to prioritize before the regrets have time to accumulate.

Guys, let’s think about this. Maybe there’s some low-moral hottie who will let you make out with her. Maybe there are a lot of them. Maybe you’re attractive enough to maintain a physical relationship with a girl you’re not really into, resulting in a lot of noncommittal lip-locking.

It might be fun, but what would your future eternal companion think of all that?

I doubt the girls we really want would appreciate it much.

And, girls — you may be a hit if you’re willing to give a little of yourself to every guy who comes along, but that won’t last.

If you kiss your heart away, you might have fun for while, but you’re simply not the kind I want to marry.

And keep your apple away from me. I hate slobber.

An actual response I received to my Twilight column

2009-06-08T22:07:00.002-07:00

This is a letter I found waiting for me in the office today. It was written in all caps with blue marker on four plain pieces of paper. I've kept all the original spelling and punctuation. I just wanted to share this joy with everyone. It reminded me of a ransom note, the kind of thing taped around a brick and thrown through a window.

DEAR RYAN,

OR TASTELESS MALE YOUR CHOICE. TWILIGHT IS A BOOK AND GRANT IT OR NOT SUBJECT TO OPINIONS BY THE READER READING IT. I HAVE READ THE ENTIRE SAGA AND ONLY LIKE THE ACTION PARTS OR AT LEAST/MOSTLY THE PARTS OF ACTION BEHIND THE SCENES, (I RECOMMEND THE MOVIE, IT TAKES THE WHINE OUT OF BELLA AND THE ACTION IS MORE PROMINENT.)

STAR WARS IS NO COMPARISON TO TWILIGHT. STAR WARS IS WAY BETTER AND FAR MORE INTERESTING.

ONE LAST THE ... THIS IS AMERICA WHERE YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO SPEAK YOUR OPINION. IF YOU'RE NOT WELL YOU MUST LIVE IN A COMMUNISTIC PRISON. BUT, I MAY SOUND STUPID BUT, YOU GIVE POWER TO THE EVENTS THAT YOU ENCOUNTER. IF YOU DON'T LIKE YOU DON'T HAVE TO LISTEN, JUST BURN IT. IT IS NOT YOUR THOUGHTS.

BUT IF YOU WANT A HATEFUL, ANGRY LETTER ...

[Here follows the letter "Q" in red letters all over the next page.]

WELL GOOD THING THAT IS OVER! HOPE YOU ENJOY YOUR OPINION BECAUSE IT IS YOURS.

SINCERELY, YOUR FRIEND OF PERKINS HALL...

THE HUMAN ENIGMA

That's it. Is that not amazing? After reading it five times, I'm pretty sure this person liked my column, but I'm not quite sure what "you give power to the events that you encounter" means. I'm not entirely sure that English is the native language of the writer. But whoever it is, thanks for agreeing with me ... I think.

Help us, Barack Obama — you're our only hope

2009-06-08T22:07:00.001-07:00

t seems there are multiple opinions concerning Barack Obama, and they seem to be leaning toward the extreme ends of things.

On one end, we’ve got the frenzied liberals who think Obama is some sort of Chosen One reserved for the latter-days to save the world. According to these Obama fans, as far as I can tell, Obama will end single-handedly end world hunger, lift the country out of the recession, stop terrorism, defeat Lord Voldemort and bring balance to the Force.

On the other end we have the imperiously self-righteous conservatives who denounce Obama as the antithesis of all that is good in the world. They apparently regard him as the Antichrist, up there with trolls who eat little children and people who wear brown belts with black shoes.

I don’t mean to lump actual human beings into stereotypical groups, but we all fall somewhere between the two extremes, and we have to be careful to recognize both good and evil for what they are, and to find good where we can.

For instance, on the Obama-liking scale, I’m somewhere in the middle. I don’t sacrifice goats to a golden Obama statue at the equinox; nor do I use one of the many issues of Time plastered with his face to wipe spaghetti sauce from my chin.

No, I didn’t vote for him, but I support him.

Our country is in trouble. Our economy is in the toilet, and it won’t take much for the money we’ve still got to spiral into oblivion down a capitalistic S-bend. The war in Iraq continues to drag on without an apparent purpose to the average American.

At this point, I’m willing to see what Obama has to offer. If there’s anyone in a position now to pull America out of the doghouse, it’s our new commander in chief.

He’s definitely not perfect, our president. But he’s got some good ideas, and he’s our only hope short of direct divine intervention, and I hope we’re not due for the Second Coming for a few years yet.

And so, to paraphrase Star Wars’s Princess Leia:

Help us, Barack Obama. You’re our only hope.

The evils of hip-hop and rap music

2009-06-08T22:05:00.002-07:00

I see that other people have other tastes. A lot of guys like watching football, for instance. Some people are obsessed. I’m pretty sure my dad makes ritual sacrifices to Bronco Mendenhall, BYU’s head coach, under the full moon. Some people, possibly through some bizarre genetic defect, don’t like Star Wars.

But that doesn’t mean I have to share these tastes, or that I can’t, in the spirit of free comment, point out that aliens have clearly taken over the brains of individuals whose tastes differ widely from mine.

Today I will denounce a force for evil that has been more destructive than nuclear bombs, more immature than wearing your underpants on your head, and more pointless than golf.

I hope you’ll excuse me for including a small amount of healthy sarcasm for a topic I feel strongly about.

It’s rap. Hip-hop.

Sometimes, when I’m trying to sleep, I can feel the seismic vibrations of rap permeating the walls of my apartment. It doesn’t matter than the walls are thin; I suspect the thump of the hip-hop beat could penetrate thirteen-inch-thick titanium.

That’s just one of the reasons I hate hip-hop. Even though my tastes are base enough that high culture like Twilight escapes my appreciation, I simply can’t stoop far enough to settle for what could reasonably be called failed poetry.

Can’t write sonnets about love, draft verses about the moon, or even pen limericks about porcupines? Not a problem. Just write awful lyrics where the word “player” somehow manages to rhyme with “say.”

Consider yourself shallow? Just rap. Most rappers seem to be consumed by the threefold desire to get some action, make money or shoot somebody, in no particular order. Granted, those three desires have permeated literature for thousands of years, but rap has simply found a way to reduce those already basic themes to nearly animalistic urges.

I’ve always felt that rap lovers have a compelling need to compensate for a definite lack of masculinity. What other explanation is there for their preference for booming systems where a beat like some sort of Apocalyptic war drum drowns out any last vestiges of genuine music?

And I’m not racist. I don’t care what ethnic or racial groups are generally associated with hip-hop. White people made country music, and I hate that, too.

Everyone has different tastes. I recognize that others have different tastes than I do, and I won’t judge anyone with such tastes, except to say that they obviously inhabit a lower rung on the evolutionary ladder than myself. Ha. Just kidding.

On MY mission ...

2009-06-08T22:05:00.001-07:00

I run the risk of sounding like an arrogant punk, I know. I only ask that during the short slice of time when your eyes are perusing this column, you suspend any judgment of me and instead evaluate what I have to say.

As my mission drew to a close, I harbored the impression that once I got back, I would be honey to all the beautiful flies out there, to use a completely unflattering metaphor for girls.

I thought that using my newfound powers of spirituality, I would be able to woo any girl I wanted.

Now I wonder what alien parasite burrowed into my brain, forcing upon me such naivety.

Here at BYU–I, everyone is a returned missionary. Sometimes I swear I can hear the Manwaring Center vending machines reminiscing among themselves about the good old days when they baptized a village in the Amazon.

Hardly an FHE goes past without those weary words “When I was on my mission …” RMs are full of stories. If they’re not telling about the time they had to spend a night in an active volcano, they’re describing the incident where they followed a hunch and converted half the country’s mafia.

The details may vary from RM to RM, but the premises, unless we’re cautious in the sharing of spiritual experiences, can be a dime a dozen.

However, it’s not my intention to sound cynical.

The mission experience was a microcosm of life, all the hopes and sorrows of life compressed into two years. The Spirit abounded. It’s only natural for RMs to let flow the rivers of memory. It’s another idiosyncrasy typical of those quirky communes of righteousness we call wards and stakes.

And another thing — there were a lot of missionaries out there who were mediocre at best. My mission, during the two years I resided within its borders, contained a significant number of those who considered themselves outside the realms governed by petty things like rules. My mission even had a few real bad apples, the ones who got into trouble I can’t even mention.

Anyone who has served a mission should know what I’m talking about. Perhaps you were one of them. And not to sound narcissistic, but it might irk missionaries who tried their best that such former elders are also claiming the title of RM.

And what is a returned missionary, exactly?

Before I came home, my mission president told me that there are two kinds of returned missionaries.

First, there are those who come home after two years or eighteen months of dodging rules and enduring the admonitions of priesthood leaders confident that at long last they have earned the exalted title of returned missionary and can take their place in LDS society. These missionaries went on a mission and returned to life as it was.

Then there are the ones who return home, but don’t return to the way things were. They can’t. The people they were before the mission are forever buried beneath a polished sheen born of hard-learned lessons. For them, the RM title isn’t an honorific, like a cold medal pinned on a uniform. It’s an invitation to continue the growth that so accelerated during the course of their service.

Listen to me. I sound like John Bytheway. Again, I’m not trying to vaunt myself above anyone else. I won’t tell you what kind of missionary I was. I’ll let those who know me now and who knew me on my mission be the judge of that, one way or the other.

But, girls — remember those two kinds of returned missionaries? Which one do you want to marry?

Give everyone a chance; the principle of repentance is real. My only request, really, is that every returned missionary act like one.

An Albuquerque Christmas

2009-06-08T22:03:00.000-07:00

My mom asked me, in lieu of a traditional Christmas card in which the family members’ achievements over the course of the year are detailed and quickly forgotten by the reader, to write up a summary of our recent Christmas trip.

With that boring introduction out of the way, let me back up — a little over a year ago, I got home from serving an LDS mission to New Mexico. Our family elected to head back there to see the sights and visit some of the people I’d met during my time there.

Now, just to clarify, our family includes Dad, enjoying the reprieve after his recent release as bishop; Mom, always at work keeping the house from disintegrating into utter mayhem; me, Ryan, a genius writer majoring in communication at BYU-Idaho; Reilly, currently in France Connor, a sophomore in high school, beginning the long road to understanding girls; Dillon, future NFL coach currently enduring junior high; Abby, a feisty little girly-girl who bleeds pink; and Quinn, everyone’s favorite youngest brother.

Before the trip could begin in earnest, however, we had to endure the ride down there. From Rigby, Idaho, to Albuquerque, New Mexico, is about fourteen hours in a car, theoretically. There’s a little-known theory of relativity devised by Albert Einstein’s half-brother Alberto that states the number of hours in a car grows exponentially when influenced by the amount of passengers in a vehicle, the amount of random stuff accumulated underfoot, and the ratio of juices boxes and jerky to actual food. All in all, the drive to Albuquerque took about fourteen years, but we made it.

Our first site of interest was Mesa Verde, a spot in southern Colorado where ancient Pueblo Indian ancestors built homes into the sides of the cliffs. Next, we went to church in a small town on the Navajo reservation called Crownpoint, where I served for four months about two years ago. I was pleased to see all the same people I had known there, and I was especially happy to learn that several of the people whose baptisms I had a hand in were still active and holding callings. There are few things more rewarding for a returned missionary (one of which is finding a wife, but that’s a ramble for another year’s Christmas letter).

Then we embarked. In the Albuquerque area, two things stood out. First, I’d forgotten how many drunks, homeless people and generally scary people there are in the otherwise enchanting city of Albuquerque. Of course, even the hairiest, most insane denizen of the ghetto deserves a decent Christmas, so we collected gift bags for the homeless people and went around giving them out. Next, we visited Sky City on Christmas, an Acoma village built directly on top of a mesa and observed a sacred dance in which villagers dressed as elk danced in an old Spanish mission before gun-bearing honor guards.

In the end, we returned to Idaho a little tired, a little carsick, and a little weary of fighting one another for a bed. But our hearts, like our stomachs and our bladders, were full by the time we finished the long car ride.

It was an amazing experience, to be sure; it was a welcome departure from the Christmas traditions, which, unless we’re careful, can become as rote as a second-rate nativity play.

I know it sounds corny, but it’s true. If you ever have the chance to serve a mission, do it. If you have the chance to go back, do it. And if you have the chance to eat Navajo tacos, do not put barbecue sauce in them. It messes you up.

Happy New Year.

My Twilight review

2009-06-08T22:01:00.002-07:00

Let's pretend that instead of being the thrilling space opera it is, Star Wars had been written by a woman with only the faintest grasp of what makes a good plot. Let's say that Han Solo spent all three original movies telling Princess Leia how much he wanted to kill and eat her. Let's speculate how things would be if the excitement built up to the point where Luke flew off to destroy the Death Star, only to have him pass out en route and wake up a few hours later with everyone celebrating, all the action having happened while he was frolicking in dreamland.

Pretty stupid, right?

I recently finished the bestselling book Twilight, and, honestly, I wasn't too impressed. Maybe it's because I'm a guy and my literary needs involve a few more explosions and fewer declarations of undying (no pun intended) love.

First, I could have gone without Bella's incessant reaffirmations of Edward's utter perfection. I understand that his skin is flawless, his eyes are rapturous, he has superhuman strength, his kisses have the power to instantly put a woman into a state of extra-bodily bliss and his pukes probably smell like Bath & Body Works lotion. I just don't need those facts repeated.

Next, what the heck is up with Bella's attraction to a vampire who wants to drink her blood? Next time I go out on a date, I will tell my date (repeatedly; perhaps every ten minutes) that I hunger for her in more ways than one. If I believed Twilight, nothing would turn her on more. Girls love Edward because he can control his urges; what about us normal human beings? I've been on dates with girls I've been strongly attracted to, and to my knowledge, I've been pretty good at controlling my hormones. Would it be better, if you're a hot girl, if I told you at regular intervals how much I lusted after you but was able to contain my infatuation? Seems to work pretty well for Edward.

Now comes the biggest quibble I have, the one that, if fixed, could have redeemed the book in my opinion. WHERE THE CRAP DID ALL THE ACTION GO? It's not that the author got too busy to put action in; there's plenty of it. It just happens behind the scenes: There's a part where you're in a hotel room with Bella as she frets like a six-year-old girl and you're wishing strongly to be out there with Edward, tracking the bad guy vampire, but do you ever get to see the exciting stuff? Nope. Wouldn't it be more effective, as far as the story goes, just to SHOW the danger Edward's in, instead consigning the reader to hear Miss Whiner's jumbled thoughts about her lover's peril?

Then comes the clincher. The plot builds, and so does the reader's anticipation, as Bella finds herself face-to-face with an evil vampire. Edward is on the way, tensions are rising, your heart is thumping — and then she blacks out, only to awake having missed the whole fight between the bad guy and Edward. What's the use of having the action take place offstage? It's like spending hours preparing food, only to fall asleep and hear others describe it later.

There you have it. Twilight: the perfect escape from reality for thirteen-year-old girls who have yet to realize that men are human, not undead incarnations of Jane Austen love interests (Yes, Pride and Prejudice's Mr. Darcy is not human, but a robot from the future sent to destroy women's perceptions of men). Twilight: the perfect blubberfest for people whose literary tastes are flawed and whose emotions run unchecked.

Light and Truth — a poem

2009-06-08T22:01:00.001-07:00

Here's a poem I wrote while I was on my mission. It works with the tune of "Brightly Beams Our Father's Mercy," "Come, Thou Fount," and any song with an 8787 meter.

Light and Truth
By Elder Ryan Kunz

From oblivion’s rambling matter
To the void’s vast, empty sea
Sprung a light, a noble purpose
Heav’nly Father’s plan to be.
Separating light and shadow,
Bringing form to formless night —
Through God’s word creation’s workings
Would bring truth into our sight.

Far away, from darkness fleeing,
Trav’lers sought the Lord in prayer.
‘Cross the sea, the Lord reserving,
Promised lands awaited there.
How to light their ships for sailing,
How to keep their passage bright?
Sixteen stones, with God’s own finger,
Lent the vessels heaven’s light.

In a grove, for wisdom seeking,
One young boy spoke from his knees.
In an answer, light descended
In a pillar through the trees.
“This,” He said, “is my Beloved,”
God of knowledge, truth and light!
Through the boy they lit a beacon
‘Luminating paths of right.

God our Father, source of all light
Shared His truth in ages past.
The Dispenser of all reason
Shines his lamp again at last.
As we share it, we discover
Our own light will never dim.
For this is light eternal —
To know God and dwell with Him.