Per my friend's request:
Six unique things about me:
1. I cut hair. In fact I was more or less the LDSSA (Latter-day Saints Students Association) barber at school for most of the guys.
2. I juggle fire. That's right, fire.
3. I can sew. Better than lots of girls, or so I'm told.
4. I built a loft for my bed. Since it wouldn't fit through the door fully assembled, I measured and cut all the parts in the basement, brought them to my room, and then built it.
5. I lived in Alaska when I was little.
6. I was once in a car accident that caused three dollars of damage. (Metal fencepost went into the grille and pierced the oil filter.)
7. That's right, you get a BONUS. One of my siblings once brought me to school for show-and-tell.
8. ANOTHER BONUS?? This is unreal! I helped raise potbellied pigs when I was little too.
Britt, Kim, and Charlee, you're up.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Sunday, June 10, 2007
The Kissing Scar
I have a strange fascination with scars. Often they tell a lot about a person's life, and even when they don't, there's usually at least a good story to go with it. And I love good stories.
During my college years there was a phenomenon we called Pie Night. Rumor contends that this tradition started at BYU where a group of roommates decided to showcase/advertise their domestic prowess each week by baking pies, brownies, and similar baked goods and then inviting an apartment or two of boys over to partake of the goods (baked and otherwise). As best I remember it, a few of them happened to live together after college in my ward and decided to continue the tradition.
The kissing scar incident occured in late November of my sophomore year. Pie Night was Thursday night and, sadly, I spent most of those evenings working on physics problem sets rather than attending Pie Night. The incident occured on just such a night and while I was not eyewitness to the evening's revelry, I was regaled with the story and saw its proof that very night.
Events transpired thusly: One of my roommates was conversing with the Pie Night hostess on one side of the kitchen, noting with particular interest the mistletoe hanging throughout the house. The other was meanwhile chatting with other friends and presently excused himself to the restroom. While he was there, the first roommate had an inspiration. He turned to the Pie Night hostess and, referencing the latter roommate, offered, "I Slurpee-dare* you to kiss him under the mistletoe when he comes back to the kitchen." (*A slurpee dare consists of a darer offering to buy a large slurpee for the dare-ee in exchange for completing the dare.)
"Okay," came the quick reply.
In a minute or two the unsuspecting victim emerged from the restroom and started walking back toward the festivities in the kitchen. The hostess and her accomplice/egger-on stood innocently talking, as he made his way through the living room. Fifteen feet away, then twelve. Ten feet, now eight. When he was six feet away, she "pounced like a caged lion" (my roommate's words, not mine, and yes, they kind of assume the prey in question is inside the cage with said caged lion. Be that as it may.)
She may have been a bit overeager. I'm not sure of the degree to which my roommate's wits were about him that evening and that moment, but when the attack starts from six feet away, it's not too hard to see it coming. He parried appropriately. In a jumble of confusion and reflex he backed away, threw up an arm or two and generally tried to avoid a wholesale collision with the human-sized object that had been flung in his direction.
The object, however, was not to be dissuaded. Despite his (still confused) struggling, she reached out with both hands and determinedly pulled him in close enough to plant one on him. A kiss, I mean. She planted a kiss on him. I'm not sure if the dare stipulated the kiss land on the lips or not, so I can't tell you the exact location of impact, but she made good and sure it met the requirements. And then she let him go.
The good natured victim quickly figured out what had happened and laughed it off. As he returned to his previous conversation a few seconds later, however, someone let out a gasp. There was a smear of blood trickling down from a gash in his cheek. In the heat of the attack/kiss, it seems somehow that the "caged lion"'s fingernail had sliced the flesh deeply enough to draw a fair bit of blood. The wound wasn't terribly serious, at least not suture-worthy, so they cleaned it up and that was that. It took a while, however, for the cut to heal, and when it finally had it left a light red scar streaking across his upper cheekbone.
And to the best of my knowledge, yes, she did get her well-earned Slurpee.
During my college years there was a phenomenon we called Pie Night. Rumor contends that this tradition started at BYU where a group of roommates decided to showcase/advertise their domestic prowess each week by baking pies, brownies, and similar baked goods and then inviting an apartment or two of boys over to partake of the goods (baked and otherwise). As best I remember it, a few of them happened to live together after college in my ward and decided to continue the tradition.
The kissing scar incident occured in late November of my sophomore year. Pie Night was Thursday night and, sadly, I spent most of those evenings working on physics problem sets rather than attending Pie Night. The incident occured on just such a night and while I was not eyewitness to the evening's revelry, I was regaled with the story and saw its proof that very night.
Events transpired thusly: One of my roommates was conversing with the Pie Night hostess on one side of the kitchen, noting with particular interest the mistletoe hanging throughout the house. The other was meanwhile chatting with other friends and presently excused himself to the restroom. While he was there, the first roommate had an inspiration. He turned to the Pie Night hostess and, referencing the latter roommate, offered, "I Slurpee-dare* you to kiss him under the mistletoe when he comes back to the kitchen." (*A slurpee dare consists of a darer offering to buy a large slurpee for the dare-ee in exchange for completing the dare.)
"Okay," came the quick reply.
In a minute or two the unsuspecting victim emerged from the restroom and started walking back toward the festivities in the kitchen. The hostess and her accomplice/egger-on stood innocently talking, as he made his way through the living room. Fifteen feet away, then twelve. Ten feet, now eight. When he was six feet away, she "pounced like a caged lion" (my roommate's words, not mine, and yes, they kind of assume the prey in question is inside the cage with said caged lion. Be that as it may.)
She may have been a bit overeager. I'm not sure of the degree to which my roommate's wits were about him that evening and that moment, but when the attack starts from six feet away, it's not too hard to see it coming. He parried appropriately. In a jumble of confusion and reflex he backed away, threw up an arm or two and generally tried to avoid a wholesale collision with the human-sized object that had been flung in his direction.
The object, however, was not to be dissuaded. Despite his (still confused) struggling, she reached out with both hands and determinedly pulled him in close enough to plant one on him. A kiss, I mean. She planted a kiss on him. I'm not sure if the dare stipulated the kiss land on the lips or not, so I can't tell you the exact location of impact, but she made good and sure it met the requirements. And then she let him go.
The good natured victim quickly figured out what had happened and laughed it off. As he returned to his previous conversation a few seconds later, however, someone let out a gasp. There was a smear of blood trickling down from a gash in his cheek. In the heat of the attack/kiss, it seems somehow that the "caged lion"'s fingernail had sliced the flesh deeply enough to draw a fair bit of blood. The wound wasn't terribly serious, at least not suture-worthy, so they cleaned it up and that was that. It took a while, however, for the cut to heal, and when it finally had it left a light red scar streaking across his upper cheekbone.
And to the best of my knowledge, yes, she did get her well-earned Slurpee.
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Lofty ambitions
I recently moved to a new room in my house. It so happens that the room into which I moved is somewhat smaller than the previous one, so there was a bit of a connundrum as to how to make the best use of the space. There's also the connundrum that just can't help always looking for ways to make things more efficient, bedroom space included.
One night, shortly before the move, I was struck with a stroke of brilliance: a loft. It took me an extra thirty minutes to get to sleep that night because i was excitedly designing it in my head. The next afternoon I made a rough sketch, which was then refined into a better sketch, which was then refined to an AutoCAD file on my computer (ok, i didn't really do that last part). It was easy enough. Next: a trip to Home Depot.
It was a major plus that I already had the tools for the job: saw and drill. All I had to pick up was the lumber. I made some rough estimates on lengths and figured I'd need nine 2 x 4s and four 1 x 4s. And some screws. Finished (not "rough-cut" or "rough-hewn") 2 x 4s are actually 1 1/2" x 3 3/8" so I figured I could get away with some 3" screws and still have them grip plenty on the other side. Amazingly, it all fit in my little Civic with the seat folded down. I was quite impressed, way to go Honda. Now I'm wishing I had pictures of the process to show just how perfectly it fit. No such luck/prior planning. So moving on...
Once it was all home I began initial measurements and cutting. I decided to do the top as a platform of 1 x 2s (kind of like a pallet) on rails of 2 x 4s. Cut those, then cut the legs and some triangle braces, then carried it all up to my new room (the whole setup would have been awkward to build in the basement and then carry up to the room, so instead I just brought up the pieces and built it there). First I built the "platform", then flipped it upside-down and added the legs and braces.
The braces were tricky. You've got to have them to make the thing stable, and you want to make sure that when you screw them in, everything's good and square so it's not imbalanced or skewed off-kilter. I don't trust my eye to do a very good job of that, so I made a few little makeshift plumb-bobs by tying a drill bit to one end of a piece of dental floss and a pushpin to the other end. Sticking the pushpins into the wood, I could see if the legs were plumb (vertical) by how well they matched the dental floss line. My roommate held everything steady and once it was plumb, in went the screws for the braces. Another important point for any future do-it-yourselfers out there: pre-drill the holes, especially if they're near the edge of the board you're drilling. Usually you want the pre-drilled hole to be just a little smaller than the screw you intend to put in it, to make sure the screw doesn't crack the board when you put it in, but also fits snugly. It's also worth while to put two screws at every point you're connecting things; keeps it all more stable.
Got the whole thing done, turned it back right-side up and voila! Except I only had about two and a half feet between the mattress and the ceiling. The legs were a little long. So I flipped it all back over and cut off a few inches and voila again! Good to go. I have to admit, I'm quite pleased with myself over it.
Finished product (pre-leg-chopping):
One night, shortly before the move, I was struck with a stroke of brilliance: a loft. It took me an extra thirty minutes to get to sleep that night because i was excitedly designing it in my head. The next afternoon I made a rough sketch, which was then refined into a better sketch, which was then refined to an AutoCAD file on my computer (ok, i didn't really do that last part). It was easy enough. Next: a trip to Home Depot.
It was a major plus that I already had the tools for the job: saw and drill. All I had to pick up was the lumber. I made some rough estimates on lengths and figured I'd need nine 2 x 4s and four 1 x 4s. And some screws. Finished (not "rough-cut" or "rough-hewn") 2 x 4s are actually 1 1/2" x 3 3/8" so I figured I could get away with some 3" screws and still have them grip plenty on the other side. Amazingly, it all fit in my little Civic with the seat folded down. I was quite impressed, way to go Honda. Now I'm wishing I had pictures of the process to show just how perfectly it fit. No such luck/prior planning. So moving on...
Once it was all home I began initial measurements and cutting. I decided to do the top as a platform of 1 x 2s (kind of like a pallet) on rails of 2 x 4s. Cut those, then cut the legs and some triangle braces, then carried it all up to my new room (the whole setup would have been awkward to build in the basement and then carry up to the room, so instead I just brought up the pieces and built it there). First I built the "platform", then flipped it upside-down and added the legs and braces.
The braces were tricky. You've got to have them to make the thing stable, and you want to make sure that when you screw them in, everything's good and square so it's not imbalanced or skewed off-kilter. I don't trust my eye to do a very good job of that, so I made a few little makeshift plumb-bobs by tying a drill bit to one end of a piece of dental floss and a pushpin to the other end. Sticking the pushpins into the wood, I could see if the legs were plumb (vertical) by how well they matched the dental floss line. My roommate held everything steady and once it was plumb, in went the screws for the braces. Another important point for any future do-it-yourselfers out there: pre-drill the holes, especially if they're near the edge of the board you're drilling. Usually you want the pre-drilled hole to be just a little smaller than the screw you intend to put in it, to make sure the screw doesn't crack the board when you put it in, but also fits snugly. It's also worth while to put two screws at every point you're connecting things; keeps it all more stable.
Got the whole thing done, turned it back right-side up and voila! Except I only had about two and a half feet between the mattress and the ceiling. The legs were a little long. So I flipped it all back over and cut off a few inches and voila again! Good to go. I have to admit, I'm quite pleased with myself over it.
The one that got away
When I was on a family camping trip one summer, we discovered a dock that had somehow become unanchored from the shore. It was large enough that we were able to essentially use it as a raft for six or so kids. We spent one afternoon fishing on and swimming around (not at the same time) the aforementioned dock out in the middle of the lake. The older cousins were planning to take turns swimming and towing the raft back to shore, but just as it was getting near dinner time, one kind boat (rather, the kind people in a boat) offered to tow us back to land.
A minute or so into the trip, I suddenly felt a strange tugging on my neck, so I reached up to find some fishing line wrapped around it. My cousin, it turns out, had decided to try to get one more cast in, and was at the moment waving her pole about trying to get it unstuck from what she thought was the lake bottom. I reached out and gently grabbed her pole, and assured her the lake bottom had very little to do with our dilemma.
My fingers traced the line from her pole around my neck where it ended in a spring-loaded treble hook with a big glob of powerbait hooked on my chin. I bit the line, tied the remaining line to her pole and waited until we got back to shore. (It didn’t really hurt, mind you; I guess there aren’t too many nerves there.) It's a good thing there weren't any girls around I was trying to impress with my dashing looks, because when we got to shore I was told it looked like I had a giant booger on my chin.
As much as I wanted to set a new trend in body piercing and decoration, it was decided that the hook should be removed. So we went back to camp and washed the powerbait off the hook, then clipped off the eye and slipped the spring off the hook. That was the easy part. You see, the proper method of removing a barbed fishhook isn’t to just pull it back out; the barb would rip things up along the way. Instead, you push it all the way through until the barb comes back out of the skin, clip off the barb, and then back the hook out of the wound.
In order to do this we had to first clip off the other two (unembedded) hooks. Easily enough done. As for the barb itself, my mother (in a calm but somewhat frantic and worried state) decided that we needed to sterilize the pliers before using them to clip the barb off. I still haven't figured out how germs, dirt, slime, or anything else on the pliers would have had any effect on the hook, but you don't always think these things through during medical emergencies. We didn't have any alcohol available (only mormons would find themselves on a camping trip with a group of 25 people and no alcohol) so she just stuck them in the blue flame of our camp stove for a minute or two to kill any germs. Then she pulled them straight from the flames and pressed them against my skin to get as close a cut as possible. At first it all seemed fine and dandy. And then I started to feel an unusual burning sensation. I quickly made the surrounding crowd aware of said sensation and after a brief discussion ("Ouch!" "Oh, it's still hot.") it was decided that the pliers should be allowed to cool a little more before the operation continue. When it was complete, I had a miraculous recovery, though a small white burn scar remains on my chin to this day.
A minute or so into the trip, I suddenly felt a strange tugging on my neck, so I reached up to find some fishing line wrapped around it. My cousin, it turns out, had decided to try to get one more cast in, and was at the moment waving her pole about trying to get it unstuck from what she thought was the lake bottom. I reached out and gently grabbed her pole, and assured her the lake bottom had very little to do with our dilemma.
My fingers traced the line from her pole around my neck where it ended in a spring-loaded treble hook with a big glob of powerbait hooked on my chin. I bit the line, tied the remaining line to her pole and waited until we got back to shore. (It didn’t really hurt, mind you; I guess there aren’t too many nerves there.) It's a good thing there weren't any girls around I was trying to impress with my dashing looks, because when we got to shore I was told it looked like I had a giant booger on my chin.
As much as I wanted to set a new trend in body piercing and decoration, it was decided that the hook should be removed. So we went back to camp and washed the powerbait off the hook, then clipped off the eye and slipped the spring off the hook. That was the easy part. You see, the proper method of removing a barbed fishhook isn’t to just pull it back out; the barb would rip things up along the way. Instead, you push it all the way through until the barb comes back out of the skin, clip off the barb, and then back the hook out of the wound.
In order to do this we had to first clip off the other two (unembedded) hooks. Easily enough done. As for the barb itself, my mother (in a calm but somewhat frantic and worried state) decided that we needed to sterilize the pliers before using them to clip the barb off. I still haven't figured out how germs, dirt, slime, or anything else on the pliers would have had any effect on the hook, but you don't always think these things through during medical emergencies. We didn't have any alcohol available (only mormons would find themselves on a camping trip with a group of 25 people and no alcohol) so she just stuck them in the blue flame of our camp stove for a minute or two to kill any germs. Then she pulled them straight from the flames and pressed them against my skin to get as close a cut as possible. At first it all seemed fine and dandy. And then I started to feel an unusual burning sensation. I quickly made the surrounding crowd aware of said sensation and after a brief discussion ("Ouch!" "Oh, it's still hot.") it was decided that the pliers should be allowed to cool a little more before the operation continue. When it was complete, I had a miraculous recovery, though a small white burn scar remains on my chin to this day.
Monday, June 4, 2007
The Monkey Story
While I was serving a mission for my church, we were always assigned to work in pairs. One of my companions was an amazing missionary in all kinds of ways; he was bright and thoughtful (I assume he still is), an incredible artist and people just seemed drawn to his enthusiasm for life and his wonderful sense of humor.
Typical missionary stuff aside, one of my favorite aspects of the three months I spent working with him was the amazing and hilarious stories he would tell. To this day I'm never quite sure how much was fact and how much fiction, but with his personality I'm inclined to believe they were more fact than most people would expect. In his own words, one of my personal favorites: The Monkey Story
I was down in Payson, Utah, spending my time doing nothing like I usually do and I decided I wanted to go on an excursion and see the beauties of Utah. So I climbed in my good old 1966 Ford Mustang (cherry red, black fuzzy seats with a little hula girl on the dashboard), and ventured out of my house on the long trip up to Salt Lake City. My plans were as follows: I was going to see the historical Temple Square, the Joseph Smith Memorial Building, the Beehive House, and eventually down the road, Hoggle Zoo. It turns out I have a little Dr. Doolittle side to my…. Oh, I forgot to mention one of the most important factors of my whole story here: I was wearing my favorite set of disco bellbottom pants. They were red corduroy bellbottom pants; they were the coolest things you have seen in your entire life. I was wearing another shirt, it was a disco shirt, butterfly collar, it had wooden buttons up and down the front; it was sooooo pimp.
I was on my way to see the lions, the tigers and the bears – that’s not an “oh my” – when something flew over my left shoulder. I spun to see what it was and it turned out on the sidewalk next to me was a pile of spittle. Yes, something had spit at me. I looked around and the only person in the entire vicinity was a large, portly woman in a pink shirt that said Coca-Cola. So I automatically assumed the obvious and I said, “Hey! Hey you, bag! Turn around!”
She turned around.
“Yes?”
“Did you just spit at me?”
“Um, I don’t know…”
“You just spit at me!”
“Um, I’m…”
“You spit at me! I can't believe that. Look, no one spits at me, honey....”
And she got upset and stormed off. Although I’m never wrong, I thought hey, why not give her a chance, so I looked around to see if there could have been anything else in the entire area that could have spit at me. To my left was a large monkey cage, an outdoor monkey cage, and sitting there on the side of the chain link fence was little bright-eyes. Yes, a primate.
Up to this point I had nothing wrong with monkeys. Nothing wrong. I wasn’t prejudiced or racist. I was bias…neutral. So I stood there a couple more minutes wondering whether something from the Planet of the Apes could spit, let alone contemplate hitting me. When it happened. (Spitting noises) Right smack dab on the left side of my disco shirt. Oh. Oh. I was angry. Not furious, just angry.
“Oh you stupid little monkey….” (More spitting noise)
My pants. The monkey did the only thing in the entire planet that could affect my character: he hit my disco pants. It was over, it was soooo over. I stepped over the fence and up to the monkey cage and kicked it, a Bruce-Lee-kick…gum-bum-piyah! pkah! Monkey jumped off, did a little monkey back flip – ow ow ooh ooh ah ah. Picked up a rock, threw it into that cage. Ooh, it was so gonna die. Well (spitting noises) my turn. (More spitting) Me and the monkey had a little spitting competition.
Then I was tapped on the left shoulder. Spinning around, I saw what appeared to be a lovely, delightful little Hoggle zoo park ranger. I forget his name, it was something like Jeff or John…started with a J, it’s not important. I looked at his nametag and said, “Yes, John, is there something I can help you with?” and he said, “Um, sir, we’re going to have to, uh, ask you to leave the park.”
I was like, “What? This monkey spit on my…. I’m, I have some work to finish, just a second (more spitting). He stopped me.
“What?! Can’t you see this monkey needs some humblin’?” He stopped me again, “Um, sir, we’re going to have to ask you to leave the park.” I’m like, “What? I just got here. Lemme finish with the monkey and I’ll go and see what I was wanted to finish seeing. I have this little map here, look, there’s pictures, I think it’s kinda delightful. You should have had me draw it ‘cause I probably could have done better.” Anyways, he pulled me away…or he attempted to – I get a little bit hotheaded. “Uh, Jeff, Jeffrey," I don’t even know his name…John…let’s just call him “J”. “J, I am not leaving this park.” He pulled me away again, “Um, sir, we’re going to have to ask you to leave the park. You’ve created a disturbance.” I was like, “What disturbance?! The monkey’s the one spitting at all your people who come in here. What’s gonna happen if a German guy walks through your park, huh? The monkey spits on the German guy? The worst thing he can do is yell at him in German. You won’t even know what he’s saying; the monkey…agh! I’m not leaving the park.”
Well, it’s at this time I looked around and I realized I’d created a small crowd of onlookers; they came for the show, I suppose. A half-moon circle of people had gathered around the monkey cage to watch “man vs. monkey”.
Anyways, “Jeff,” “Jeff,” I said – we’ll call him Jeff – “Jeff, I’m not leaving your park. I still need to go see the polar bears. I came all the way up here and I still have to see your little baby polar bears. I’ve seen them on the blasted TV 24/7 and I’m going to see the blasted baby polar bears. If I get home and when I tell my little sister I went to the zoo and she looks at me with her little beautiful cute china-doll eyes, batting them, “Oh, um, _____,” – That’s my name, my first name, remember my first name – “Um, _____, how were the baby polar bears?” and I tell her I didn’t even go see them she’ll go, “What?! What? You spent eight lousy dollars going to Hoggle zoo, wasting gas money and your precious time to not even see the baby polar bears that have been plaguing our television for the past three months?” Actually, I didn’t really have the dialogue with my little sister part…to make a long story short and I know it’s waaay past that point, I pulled away from Jeff, ran over the fence to the other side of the little monkey area and I was cut off by another park ranger. Her name was Jane; she was a burly woman with a little bit of scruff.
“Um, there sir, you’re going to have to stop. We need you to leave the park.”
“No, Jane, I’m not leavin’ the park until I see your baby polar bears.”
“Um, I can’t let you do that.”
“Why not, Jane?”
“Because you’re creating a disturbance. You’re gonna have to leave the park.”
“Well, Jane, I’m going to see your baby polar bears.”
Well, Jane tried to stop me, restrain me actually, grabbed both of my arms.
“Listen, Jane, it’s not my fault your blasted monkey spits, just let me go see your polar bears. Jane? Jane.”
“Um, monkeys don’t spit.”
“Oh, you wanna see monkeys…. You wanna see…look at this, here’s a monkey spit: (spitting noises).”
I guess it didn’t make her too happy. Two more rangers popped out of the middle of nowhere and they started dragging me off. I was throwing a big hissy fit, the crowd was laughing and the monkey was flipping out in the cage, which made me all that much more angry.
I cut them a deal: I told them that if they could pull the monkey trainer out of his back room doing his little monkey things, and I could prove to them that their monkey does spit, that they would let me go see the rest of their polar bears. Well this seemed like a logical idea, or the only way to get me off their backs, so Jeff called on his radio. He got the little monkey man out there. When I saw him my fears turned for the worst: He was short, balding, and his name was something like Dilbert…Edward, Dilbert? I don’t know. Jeff looked Dilbert in the eyes, I looked Edward in the eyes, I mean, aaagh! Anyway, I looked the monkey trainer in the eyes:
“Tell them your monkey spits, Dilbert. Tell them your monkey…tell them your blasted monkey spits or I’m gonna rip your little jugular….” Jeff restrained me again.
“Yes, Dilbert, tell him our monkey doesn’t spit; you’ve been training him for thirteen long years…this close to retirement you should know if you monkey spits or not.”
“What?! You can’t tell him that; he’s obviously going say his monkey doesn’t spit. That’s it. That….” Guess what Dilbert ended up saying….
“Yes, uh, my monkey doesn’t spi….”
I was, I was, I didn’t even let him finish his sentence, I was so mad, but they dragged me to the front gate, they pulled me into their little office and they took a Polaroid mug shot of my head, writing my name below it. I wasn’t allowed to enter the park from that point on.
I spent eight lousy dollars to get into Hoggle zoo for what? For what? To be embarrassed in front of everyone and to have everyone think I was a liar and to get my mug shot and not be allowed back in the park for eternity? Blasted Mormons…they’re always dealing with the eternal spectrum thing. Anyways, they took my mug shot, I got out in my Mustang – I forgot to mention, my Mustang’s name is Medusa, even though she’s a beautiful car…temperamental beast…I named her Medusa. I drove around in my Mustang in the parking lot, screaming at people as they went into the park, “Don’t go in there, it’s a commie regime! Their monkey spits! Their monkey spits!” The rangers had to chase me out of the parking lot….
Typical missionary stuff aside, one of my favorite aspects of the three months I spent working with him was the amazing and hilarious stories he would tell. To this day I'm never quite sure how much was fact and how much fiction, but with his personality I'm inclined to believe they were more fact than most people would expect. In his own words, one of my personal favorites: The Monkey Story
I was down in Payson, Utah, spending my time doing nothing like I usually do and I decided I wanted to go on an excursion and see the beauties of Utah. So I climbed in my good old 1966 Ford Mustang (cherry red, black fuzzy seats with a little hula girl on the dashboard), and ventured out of my house on the long trip up to Salt Lake City. My plans were as follows: I was going to see the historical Temple Square, the Joseph Smith Memorial Building, the Beehive House, and eventually down the road, Hoggle Zoo. It turns out I have a little Dr. Doolittle side to my…. Oh, I forgot to mention one of the most important factors of my whole story here: I was wearing my favorite set of disco bellbottom pants. They were red corduroy bellbottom pants; they were the coolest things you have seen in your entire life. I was wearing another shirt, it was a disco shirt, butterfly collar, it had wooden buttons up and down the front; it was sooooo pimp.
I was on my way to see the lions, the tigers and the bears – that’s not an “oh my” – when something flew over my left shoulder. I spun to see what it was and it turned out on the sidewalk next to me was a pile of spittle. Yes, something had spit at me. I looked around and the only person in the entire vicinity was a large, portly woman in a pink shirt that said Coca-Cola. So I automatically assumed the obvious and I said, “Hey! Hey you, bag! Turn around!”
She turned around.
“Yes?”
“Did you just spit at me?”
“Um, I don’t know…”
“You just spit at me!”
“Um, I’m…”
“You spit at me! I can't believe that. Look, no one spits at me, honey....”
And she got upset and stormed off. Although I’m never wrong, I thought hey, why not give her a chance, so I looked around to see if there could have been anything else in the entire area that could have spit at me. To my left was a large monkey cage, an outdoor monkey cage, and sitting there on the side of the chain link fence was little bright-eyes. Yes, a primate.
Up to this point I had nothing wrong with monkeys. Nothing wrong. I wasn’t prejudiced or racist. I was bias…neutral. So I stood there a couple more minutes wondering whether something from the Planet of the Apes could spit, let alone contemplate hitting me. When it happened. (Spitting noises) Right smack dab on the left side of my disco shirt. Oh. Oh. I was angry. Not furious, just angry.
“Oh you stupid little monkey….” (More spitting noise)
My pants. The monkey did the only thing in the entire planet that could affect my character: he hit my disco pants. It was over, it was soooo over. I stepped over the fence and up to the monkey cage and kicked it, a Bruce-Lee-kick…gum-bum-piyah! pkah! Monkey jumped off, did a little monkey back flip – ow ow ooh ooh ah ah. Picked up a rock, threw it into that cage. Ooh, it was so gonna die. Well (spitting noises) my turn. (More spitting) Me and the monkey had a little spitting competition.
Then I was tapped on the left shoulder. Spinning around, I saw what appeared to be a lovely, delightful little Hoggle zoo park ranger. I forget his name, it was something like Jeff or John…started with a J, it’s not important. I looked at his nametag and said, “Yes, John, is there something I can help you with?” and he said, “Um, sir, we’re going to have to, uh, ask you to leave the park.”
I was like, “What? This monkey spit on my…. I’m, I have some work to finish, just a second (more spitting). He stopped me.
“What?! Can’t you see this monkey needs some humblin’?” He stopped me again, “Um, sir, we’re going to have to ask you to leave the park.” I’m like, “What? I just got here. Lemme finish with the monkey and I’ll go and see what I was wanted to finish seeing. I have this little map here, look, there’s pictures, I think it’s kinda delightful. You should have had me draw it ‘cause I probably could have done better.” Anyways, he pulled me away…or he attempted to – I get a little bit hotheaded. “Uh, Jeff, Jeffrey," I don’t even know his name…John…let’s just call him “J”. “J, I am not leaving this park.” He pulled me away again, “Um, sir, we’re going to have to ask you to leave the park. You’ve created a disturbance.” I was like, “What disturbance?! The monkey’s the one spitting at all your people who come in here. What’s gonna happen if a German guy walks through your park, huh? The monkey spits on the German guy? The worst thing he can do is yell at him in German. You won’t even know what he’s saying; the monkey…agh! I’m not leaving the park.”
Well, it’s at this time I looked around and I realized I’d created a small crowd of onlookers; they came for the show, I suppose. A half-moon circle of people had gathered around the monkey cage to watch “man vs. monkey”.
Anyways, “Jeff,” “Jeff,” I said – we’ll call him Jeff – “Jeff, I’m not leaving your park. I still need to go see the polar bears. I came all the way up here and I still have to see your little baby polar bears. I’ve seen them on the blasted TV 24/7 and I’m going to see the blasted baby polar bears. If I get home and when I tell my little sister I went to the zoo and she looks at me with her little beautiful cute china-doll eyes, batting them, “Oh, um, _____,” – That’s my name, my first name, remember my first name – “Um, _____, how were the baby polar bears?” and I tell her I didn’t even go see them she’ll go, “What?! What? You spent eight lousy dollars going to Hoggle zoo, wasting gas money and your precious time to not even see the baby polar bears that have been plaguing our television for the past three months?” Actually, I didn’t really have the dialogue with my little sister part…to make a long story short and I know it’s waaay past that point, I pulled away from Jeff, ran over the fence to the other side of the little monkey area and I was cut off by another park ranger. Her name was Jane; she was a burly woman with a little bit of scruff.
“Um, there sir, you’re going to have to stop. We need you to leave the park.”
“No, Jane, I’m not leavin’ the park until I see your baby polar bears.”
“Um, I can’t let you do that.”
“Why not, Jane?”
“Because you’re creating a disturbance. You’re gonna have to leave the park.”
“Well, Jane, I’m going to see your baby polar bears.”
Well, Jane tried to stop me, restrain me actually, grabbed both of my arms.
“Listen, Jane, it’s not my fault your blasted monkey spits, just let me go see your polar bears. Jane? Jane.”
“Um, monkeys don’t spit.”
“Oh, you wanna see monkeys…. You wanna see…look at this, here’s a monkey spit: (spitting noises).”
I guess it didn’t make her too happy. Two more rangers popped out of the middle of nowhere and they started dragging me off. I was throwing a big hissy fit, the crowd was laughing and the monkey was flipping out in the cage, which made me all that much more angry.
I cut them a deal: I told them that if they could pull the monkey trainer out of his back room doing his little monkey things, and I could prove to them that their monkey does spit, that they would let me go see the rest of their polar bears. Well this seemed like a logical idea, or the only way to get me off their backs, so Jeff called on his radio. He got the little monkey man out there. When I saw him my fears turned for the worst: He was short, balding, and his name was something like Dilbert…Edward, Dilbert? I don’t know. Jeff looked Dilbert in the eyes, I looked Edward in the eyes, I mean, aaagh! Anyway, I looked the monkey trainer in the eyes:
“Tell them your monkey spits, Dilbert. Tell them your monkey…tell them your blasted monkey spits or I’m gonna rip your little jugular….” Jeff restrained me again.
“Yes, Dilbert, tell him our monkey doesn’t spit; you’ve been training him for thirteen long years…this close to retirement you should know if you monkey spits or not.”
“What?! You can’t tell him that; he’s obviously going say his monkey doesn’t spit. That’s it. That….” Guess what Dilbert ended up saying….
“Yes, uh, my monkey doesn’t spi….”
I was, I was, I didn’t even let him finish his sentence, I was so mad, but they dragged me to the front gate, they pulled me into their little office and they took a Polaroid mug shot of my head, writing my name below it. I wasn’t allowed to enter the park from that point on.
I spent eight lousy dollars to get into Hoggle zoo for what? For what? To be embarrassed in front of everyone and to have everyone think I was a liar and to get my mug shot and not be allowed back in the park for eternity? Blasted Mormons…they’re always dealing with the eternal spectrum thing. Anyways, they took my mug shot, I got out in my Mustang – I forgot to mention, my Mustang’s name is Medusa, even though she’s a beautiful car…temperamental beast…I named her Medusa. I drove around in my Mustang in the parking lot, screaming at people as they went into the park, “Don’t go in there, it’s a commie regime! Their monkey spits! Their monkey spits!” The rangers had to chase me out of the parking lot….
So the story goes...
My cousins and several friends live in Alaska. One winter afternoon they were out riding around on snow machines when one of the machines broke down. It was getting late and cold and dark, so rather than lug it home they decided to chain it to a nearby tree, intending to return for it in the morning. Morning came and went. Then a week passed, and then months. It was spring when finally returned for it. They walked all around the area where they had left it chained, but nothing. It simply wasn't anywhere to be found.
And then they remembered something important. Alaska gets cold in the winter. And snows. A lot. Several feet in some areas. Somebody looked up and there it was, dangling from the tree several feet above the ground. And to top the moment off, my cousin exclaimed, “Wow, I didn’t know trees grow that fast.”
And then they remembered something important. Alaska gets cold in the winter. And snows. A lot. Several feet in some areas. Somebody looked up and there it was, dangling from the tree several feet above the ground. And to top the moment off, my cousin exclaimed, “Wow, I didn’t know trees grow that fast.”
By Way of Introduction
Welcome to my blog. If anyone were to remember but one thing about me, I would want it to be my personal conviction and testimony about Jesus Christ and His gospel.
And so there shall I commence.
First and foremost, I add my witness to the millions that have been given that Jesus Christ is our Savior and Redeemer, our Lord and Master, our Counselor and Friend. He is the Life, the Light and the Way, the only way home to our Father in Heaven. He truly and freely gave his life for us; he suffered and died on our behalf, and so also spent every moment of his life providing a perfect example for us to follow. He is the cornerstone of the gospel: if our lives' foundations are built thereon, we cannot fall.
His great atonement is the central and most critical and transcendent event in the history of the universe; it is the lifeblood of the great plan of happiness. Without that atonement, the plan, the world, our very lives would literally fall apart. He suffered for all our sins that we might not suffer if we will but repent. I know that through the atonement of Christ we can be completely cleansed from our sins and mistakes when we truly repent and change, for I have felt its healing and cleansing power. He also felt all our pains and anguish, every hurt and sorrow that any mortal will ever experience; no matter what difficulties we face, we can take comfort in knowing that he has been there too and knows what we feel.
I testify that we are each children of a loving Heavenly Father. In order for us to have real and complete faith in Him, there are a few things we must understand: First, by knowing that He is omnipotent we understand that He has the power to do anything He chooses. Second, He is omniscient. Thus He understands all the circumstances (past, present and future, many of which we ourselves don’t see) of our lives and everyone else's. He always knows the best course of action to achieve his desires. Third, He is perfectly just: we know that He will always follow the laws He has set forth and that in the end (though sometimes not in this life) He will see that things are fair. Lastly, in knowing that He is our Father and loves us beyond comprehension, we understand that He will do whatever is in our best interests, though sometimes we may not see it that way. Our Father in Heaven’s greatest desire is for us to return home to Him and to learn to become like Him. In order to allow us to really learn for ourselves, however, He has given us agency to choose whether to return or not. The wisest choice we can make is to trust him, to allow him to lead us by the hand through wilderness and oases, storms and still waters, until at last we reach our eternal home.
I testify of the power of prayer; I know that our Heavenly Father truly listens for and hears our sincere prayers and answers them. Sometimes his answer is no, and answers often doesn’t come when or as expected, but I know that they come. Often those answers come through the power of the Holy Ghost; as we learn to recognize and understand its promptings we will find ourselves led in the paths our Father would have us walk in life.
I also add my witness to that of many others that the Book of Mormon, Holy Bible and our other standard works are truly the word of God unto salvation. In it we can find endless patterns and symbols through which to learn of Christ and His plan. There is tremendous power therein, power which often lies sadly untapped by those who could use it most. I especially love the clarity of the Book of Mormon in teaching the doctrines of the gospel of Jesus Christ. It is a true record written for us; Mormon saw our day and the challenges with which we deal in our time and included those writings which will be most helpful in addressing them.
We must each seek to gain and strengthen a personal testimony of the truths of the gospel for ourselves, for borrowed light or unsure faith will not be enough to sustain us in the storms of life that lies ahead. What could be more valuable than to know the truths of the purpose of life, of our nature and relationship with God and His plan for us and to know that we know them? I know that by studying, pondering, praying and living the principles it teaches, we will find sure answers regarding their truthfulness through the witness of the Holy Ghost. It speaks to each of us in a unique and personal manner; While the methods of communication vary for each person, the answers do come to all who truly seek them. Once those answers are given to us, we are bound to faithfully live the truths we have received and share them with those around us. There is no place in the gospel for fence-sitters; we cannot stand with one foot on the Lord’s side and the other in Babylon. I hope and pray that we will all choose to serve valiantly in the Lord’s cause all the days of our life, and in so doing, become ever more like Him.
And so there shall I commence.
First and foremost, I add my witness to the millions that have been given that Jesus Christ is our Savior and Redeemer, our Lord and Master, our Counselor and Friend. He is the Life, the Light and the Way, the only way home to our Father in Heaven. He truly and freely gave his life for us; he suffered and died on our behalf, and so also spent every moment of his life providing a perfect example for us to follow. He is the cornerstone of the gospel: if our lives' foundations are built thereon, we cannot fall.
His great atonement is the central and most critical and transcendent event in the history of the universe; it is the lifeblood of the great plan of happiness. Without that atonement, the plan, the world, our very lives would literally fall apart. He suffered for all our sins that we might not suffer if we will but repent. I know that through the atonement of Christ we can be completely cleansed from our sins and mistakes when we truly repent and change, for I have felt its healing and cleansing power. He also felt all our pains and anguish, every hurt and sorrow that any mortal will ever experience; no matter what difficulties we face, we can take comfort in knowing that he has been there too and knows what we feel.
I testify that we are each children of a loving Heavenly Father. In order for us to have real and complete faith in Him, there are a few things we must understand: First, by knowing that He is omnipotent we understand that He has the power to do anything He chooses. Second, He is omniscient. Thus He understands all the circumstances (past, present and future, many of which we ourselves don’t see) of our lives and everyone else's. He always knows the best course of action to achieve his desires. Third, He is perfectly just: we know that He will always follow the laws He has set forth and that in the end (though sometimes not in this life) He will see that things are fair. Lastly, in knowing that He is our Father and loves us beyond comprehension, we understand that He will do whatever is in our best interests, though sometimes we may not see it that way. Our Father in Heaven’s greatest desire is for us to return home to Him and to learn to become like Him. In order to allow us to really learn for ourselves, however, He has given us agency to choose whether to return or not. The wisest choice we can make is to trust him, to allow him to lead us by the hand through wilderness and oases, storms and still waters, until at last we reach our eternal home.
I testify of the power of prayer; I know that our Heavenly Father truly listens for and hears our sincere prayers and answers them. Sometimes his answer is no, and answers often doesn’t come when or as expected, but I know that they come. Often those answers come through the power of the Holy Ghost; as we learn to recognize and understand its promptings we will find ourselves led in the paths our Father would have us walk in life.
I also add my witness to that of many others that the Book of Mormon, Holy Bible and our other standard works are truly the word of God unto salvation. In it we can find endless patterns and symbols through which to learn of Christ and His plan. There is tremendous power therein, power which often lies sadly untapped by those who could use it most. I especially love the clarity of the Book of Mormon in teaching the doctrines of the gospel of Jesus Christ. It is a true record written for us; Mormon saw our day and the challenges with which we deal in our time and included those writings which will be most helpful in addressing them.
We must each seek to gain and strengthen a personal testimony of the truths of the gospel for ourselves, for borrowed light or unsure faith will not be enough to sustain us in the storms of life that lies ahead. What could be more valuable than to know the truths of the purpose of life, of our nature and relationship with God and His plan for us and to know that we know them? I know that by studying, pondering, praying and living the principles it teaches, we will find sure answers regarding their truthfulness through the witness of the Holy Ghost. It speaks to each of us in a unique and personal manner; While the methods of communication vary for each person, the answers do come to all who truly seek them. Once those answers are given to us, we are bound to faithfully live the truths we have received and share them with those around us. There is no place in the gospel for fence-sitters; we cannot stand with one foot on the Lord’s side and the other in Babylon. I hope and pray that we will all choose to serve valiantly in the Lord’s cause all the days of our life, and in so doing, become ever more like Him.
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