Forest Anthony

Lets all give a round of a applause for our main man Forest Anthony for making this whole past week more interesting. He looks like Andrew McCarthy, has a great shoe collection and taught me that ordering a Jr. Bacon Cheeseburger with sourdough bread is almost the same thing as an actual Sourdough Jack, but about two dollars less expensive. He made friends with over half of Arizona and won just about every free female heart with his "aw-shucks" charm. He never got to play foursquare, but I have a feeling he'd be good at it. He hunted and killed deadly scorpions. He fashioned his own swim wear out of a t-shirt. He donated plasma to those in need. He has an almost-visible mustache. He even gave me gas money. What a guy. He most likely has returned safely to Provo by now, so thanks to everyone who contributed to the "Save the Forest" campaign/cause. God Bless Forest Anthony.

Now Just Hold On Now. That Isn't Completely True. What About Alberta #2?

I'll concede by admitting that this blog is relatively boring with no decent excuse. That being said, did anyone take a look outside? How about that weather...

Why Don't I Own Any Wilson Phillips?

Good Question.

Give Me What I Deserve.

I think I like Mariah Carey's new single because it sounds like it could be R. Kelly's new single.

Ogden Nash

"I would live all my life
in nonchalance and insouciance,
Were it not for making a living,
which is rather a nouciance."

"There is only one way to achieve happiness
on this terrestrial ball,
and that is to have either a clear conscience
or none at all."

An Open Letter to Karis Webb.

I recall one lunch period of my 7th grade year. I somehow had it in my mind that, on that particular day, my lunch wouldn't be complete without some delicious Zebra Cakes. I rushed back in line of the outside a la carte area, fearing that they might close up before I was able to purchase some. Shortly after establishing my place in line, an 8th grader nudged me out of his way and cut me. At first I thought he was confused about my position in line, but after his snide chuckle I realized that he was taking advantage of his ranking in the Jr. High social hierarchy. There was little I could do about the situation, as I was smaller than average, even for a 7th grader. Just then, you, in an adjacent line, looked right at the 8th grade boy and said, "Don't cut." He looked at you, then down to me, then back at you and said, "Oh, um, I didn't even see him, okay?!?" defensively but somewhat remorsefully. He nudged me back in front and said, "Sorry kid." I looked up to thank you but you were approaching the window to buy whatever it was you were buying. Now, I wouldn't expect you to remember this brief tale of heroics, but as a lowly 7th grader, being stood up for by a 9th grader is a thrill not soon forgotten. I never had the chance to properly thank you, or never had the guts to, really. So... thank you. 

P.S. I was able to get my Zebra Cakes that day and remember them among some of the best I'd ever had. 

The Thoroughbred

Sitting at a table, laboring over an eight letter "Bogart & Bacall" title that I still can't recall, for a crossword that will go unfinished, I overheard the owner/operator of the restaurant giving orders to an employee. It wasn't what she said, or even how she said it, but simply delegating a task that could have easily been done herself. I sat back in my chair and felt sorry for the worker who had to stop what he was doing to fulfill the new chore set before him. For a moment, I was the thoroughbred who ran so fast the saddle fell off and took the rider with it. I was very pleased and content to be there, bound only by the last half-dozen of that morning's crossword puzzle. Maybe if I were stronger I'd be able to continue working retail, doing whatever I'm told, saving the little money and pride I have for the rainy days. That actually sounds more like weakness now to me. I took a final sip of Dr. Pepper from my styrofoam cup and decided I couldn't be there any longer stood up in a hurry. Just then, the radio began playing Bill Withers so I sat back down and started recounting my immediate fortunes. 

     "Tonight, I am going to Tucson to hear some music."

And so I did. It was wonderful night for music, too. An inspiring night even. That night I went to bed feeling better about myself for the first time in sometime and maybe this living spree isn't such a free fall after all. 

Please Don't Be Boring

I opened my notebook and began writing carefully in the bottom right corner of the page. My penmanship was terrible and there were too many words. I scribbled it out and moved to a different corner for another go at it.  This time I gingerly started tearing it out as not to draw any attention from the rest of the class, but in the process I accidentally tore some of the content of the note. Unsatisfied again I moved to the top right corner, but this time simplified the message down to, "killer boots." I gave a quick glance over my right shoulder and just as quickly determined that to any observer, my intentions must have been obvious. Maybe if I waited till the end of the class it would be better. Perhaps it'd be more memorable and craftily executed if I just casually passed it to her on my way out the door. I remembered that I had a few questions for the instructor after class so it was gonna have to be that moment or not at all. I looked up a the instructor in his peach colored shirt, awkwardly attempting to set up the power point. He reassured us several times that it was new and that he needed a moment to figure it out. At one point he groaned and half-desperately beseeched the class for anyone technologically savvy and computer literate. A portly fellow in a Perfect Circle shirt and unfortunately un-ironic facial hair offered his assistance. I took this as my cue and calmly tore the freshest attempt out, folded it in half, then turned to my right. I set the folded piece of paper on her table, made eye-contact, nudged it toward her, and turned back around just as soon as she had it in her hand.