Pay it Forward, A Festival of Blogs

I'm paying it forward. Here are three blogs I love...or four because I always cheat. After you check them out, you should check in with the founders and see the list of those participating if you haven't already.

1- Brent Wescott over at Building Castles on the Beach. He's a writer, hoping to get something published soon, a teacher, and very funny.

2- Emily White over at Emily White. She is an author and publishing her book, Element, soon. I'm excited for her and to read her novel.

3- Doug Stephens over at I Like Cheese. I do like cheese. I also enjoy his stickmen and he is hilarious. I did an interview with him and he had the funniest questions.

4- Chanel over at Fabulously Neurotic. She often rants and rages against the world or against the woman who tried to kick her dog. Her writing is beautiful and funny, more than she realizes I think.

Enjoy!

Neurotic Dog Part One

The other day we dropped off our dog, Mahoney, for his haircut. We decided to try a new groomer to support one of the parents of a student my wife teaches.

You must first know my dog is super neurotic. He's a huge chicken. He's afraid of the vacuum cleaner, exercise balls, our laundry basket, the spzzzzzzt sound of the mop sprayer, other dogs, and all people besides me, my wife, my brother, and my father in-law.

We've tried to help him overcome some of these. We tried taking him to the dog park so he could make friends. He wound up cowering underneath our camp chairs and eyeing the other dogs suspiciously every single time. We've tried having people hand him treats when they first enter the house. We've tried holding him and letting neighbor kids pet him on our walks. They love him, but he squirms and whimpers. Nothing works. He remains the biggest chicken ever, but he's super cute and sweet with my wife and I.

We got the phone call to pick him up and we drove over. I walked in and paid while the groomer went and picked him up. She handed him over, but not without asking a question.

I got out to the car and sighed, turning to my wife.

I don't know what else to do. We took him for a walk at night the other day. As we passed a house with a bright porch light our shadows crawled across the ground.

When my shadow reached alongside our dog, he yelped, jumped, and almost fell in the gutter as he tried to get away from the scary thing.

I think there's no hope.

I'll leave you with some cute videos of Mahoney. Just click on them.

The ANTM Guilty Pleasure

Back when I had a job, I came home one day and opened the door to find my wife curled up with a blanket on the couch looking very ashamed and guilty. I gave her a questioning look and she looked down.

"You caught me."

I had no idea what she was talking about until I saw Tyra on the tv. My wife was watching America's Next Top Model. It comes on in these blocks, showing an entire series one show after another. My wife had been watching for hours.

I rolled my eyes, went and changed, and then started on dinner. I cook. My wife does not. As I made dinner, I found myself getting sucked into the madness and I ended up watching a couple episodes after dinner.

I've caught her a couple more times and ended up with the same results. We don't go out of our way to watch the show, but we end up watching it when it happens to pop up and nothing else is worth watching. My wife seems to be somewhat obsessed with watching them once she finds them on. I admit, the show is addictive.

Why?

Because it's bizarre...really really bizarre. That might not sound like a good reason to watch something, but it is. Isn't that why we read and go to movies? To find something unlike our normal lives. This show delivers that in droves.

First off there's Tyra. She is beautiful, but the craziest things come out of her mouth. It's like she's a half trained exotic bird. Everyone is excited to see her, but at the same time they're waiting for her to fly into the audience and attack someone. Some of the things she's said have made me laugh for ten minutes straight.

Then there are her friends and designers. They are beyond strange. Miss J insists on doing something outrageous each season that makes him look homeless or ridiculous. He wore an afro wig one season that got bigger each episode. Another season he wore a poncho thing made of a dozen different fabrics laid on top of one another that looked like he stole old ladies' doilies and dyed them.

These people are at the pinnacle of fashion? It's also funny to me that most of the judges and guest judges don't resemble the ideal model in the slightest. They are short, frumpy, and lumpy. They wear ugly clothing. They look average. How can these people sit and judge these models? Yet, they do. This irony always has me drawn in more than I care to admit. I want to see how unattractive the next designer is.

The models themselves aren't all that attractive. This is the true reason we watch. These girls are thrown together in an upscale apartment surrounded by pictures of Tyra in a way that only a stalker would truly appreciate. Pictures of Tyra stare at them in the closets, hallways, even bathrooms. Seriously, it's creepy.

I had a mental picture of super models being perfect delicate creatures we mortals can barely understand. They glide into rooms and men flock to them, throwing their power and money at them in vain attempts to capture their beauty for themselves. This is not the case. These women are often weird looking and awkward. It amazes me each time they show the pictures at the end and you see a stunningly beautiful model. You look from the picture to the girl and shake your head in wonder. What? How?

The photo-shoots are another great part of the show. Let's have you stand next to a burning car in the desert, crawl through garbage at the landfill, rub your body against a stone wall, dress you up in 16th century hooker outfits, or put you in a plastic bubble and have you walk on water. Who comes up with these and what is wrong with them? Are they ancestors of the Spanish Inquisition? Sometimes the shots are gorgeous and sometimes they scare the stuffing out of me. I will leave you with some cartoon portrayals of what I mean.

Best Award Ever!...or at least within a three block radius

I've received several awards since I started blogging. I really do appreciate these. I do not, however, know what to do with them. They don't usually fit the style...or lack thereof on my blog. They come with rules and questions. Overall, they are a lot of work. So...I smile and then do nothing with them. Sorry to all who gave me one and saw me ignore it. I still think you are all awesome.

As proof, I created my own award. This is the debut of the "If I were rich, I would not fly to your home and have my stunt double kick you in the shins" award. Pretty much a long way of saying your blog doesn't suck.

There are no rules. You do not have to post a link to me and babble about yourself. You do not have to give it away again. You can do these. You can also print it out on rice paper with edible inks and eat it. You can pretend it doesn't exist. You can put it on your mantle, blog, pet lemur, head, car, spouse while sleeping, you name it. You can burn it, scorn it, treat it like an elderly sibling who always got more attention than you. I do not care. No rules! Anarchy in blogland, I know.

Here are the people I am awarding for all around non shin kicking abilities:

Brent over at Building Castles on the Beach. He doesn't endorse them being built in other places apparently. He is clever and funny without making you angry with your life choices.

Chanel over at Fabulously Neurotic. She has an interesting writing style that makes me smile at life's frustrations.

Danyelle at Myth Takes. She is a very nice person and a writer. That happens a lot...look at me, but she also gives great advice.

Emily at Her Website. She is a writer and soon to be author. She lives in New York, which I think is awesome. Her blog is fun and approachable despite her fame and notoriety.

Michael over at SLC Kismet. He has been very supportive of my blog and my writing. He does very funny posts about writing and pop culture.

Doug and his I Like Cheese site. Who doesn't? He does short, funny bits and he draws stick figures dear to my heart.

And our final winner is dbs and Think Stew. Mmmm...brain stew. Well written and thoughtful.

That's it for this round of lucky award winners. I'm not even going to go tell them that they won. If they find out, great! If not, no rules people!

Why Skunks Love Me - Part Three

The greatly anticipated Part Three is here! If you have not read Part One or Part Two, you should. I also recommend you read the post that got the skunk thing going.

This story happened when I was much older...around 22 or 23. We decided to go on a camping/paintball extravaganza. It was going to be epic and in many ways it was. We gathered a decent amount of interest, gassed up our paintball tanks, loaded up on paint, food, supplies, and headed off into the wilderness. We drove up into the mountains to Kolob reservoir which sits above Zion National Park and shares borders with this most beautiful area in the universe.




Yes, I took this pic. The hike up there just about killed me, but so worth it.

 We found a nice spot next to the reservoir, water lapping softly against the shore feet away. We pitched our tents, cooked food, laughed, and told stories, but not these stories. Soon darkness fell. We continued talking as the fire died. Soon someone yawned and the contagion spread through our camp until we realized we had to sleep.

My mom and a few siblings took the tent. Mark, my older brother, and I thought it would be a good idea to sleep outside. It was a beautiful warm summer night. We unrolled our sleeping bags and crawled deep into them, still one of my favorite sensations as the crisp air washes over my face, cooled by the lake, while the bag warms up to a toasty level.

Why did we sleep outside? Anyone who has looked up at the night sky from Southern Utah doesn't need to ask this question. The stars are so bright and numerous, it would be a shame to ignore them. I also like to see one or two falling stars before I drift off to sleep. Camping tradition.

Kolob sits over a thousand feet above Zion. The air is thinner and the stars even closer. You can practically taste the milky way in the air and almost hear the stars sing their lonely songs as they spin and dance in the emptiness of space. The stardust in your blood from ancient supernovas picks up the song and hums back to distant relatives. You feel connected to the universe for a few moments before sleep folds you down into oblivion and dreams.

I don't remember my dreams while camping. I sleep too deeply and well. I awoke with a pressure on my chest. For a fraction of a second I thought of my little brother's dog, Puppy (Real original name, I know), and I thought of pushing him off.

I have always been a spacial person. I have never been one of those people who wakes up unsure where they are, forgetting where they fell asleep for minutes until the memories flow back. The reality of my location in a sleeping bag on top of a mountain spiraled back into my mind before I even opened my eyes. I was NOT home! That was NOT Puppy on my chest!

I had a creeping suspicion what I would find as I cracked open one eyelid, carefully controlling my breathing and movement.

Yep...just what I had expected...a skunk lay curled up on my chest, sleeping.

I know, right? How do they find me? Is there some skunk social network with little black and white posts? "Hey, my skunk peeps. If you run into Charlie, he's cool. Totally hang with that guy! Feel free to let him scratch your head, give you some gum, or just take a nap on his chest."

Whatever the reason, they know! I had to lay there frozen as the little guy snoozed soundly on my chest, like the family cat on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Then Mark started to snore...loudly. It is the only way he knows how.

The skunk started awake and gave my brother the dirtiest look I have ever seen a skunk give.

It stood up and paced back and forth on my chest, raising its tail at my brother. I could do nothing. I just watched as it puffed out its fur and kept making angry faces at the noise emanating from my brother. This is it, I thought. This is the time I'm going to get sprayed. Thank you Mark.

But then the skunk turned, looked me in the eyes, and waddled off into the woods. I breathed a sigh of relief and then started laughing. I woke up my brother and told him how lucky he really was to have my silent communion with skunks save him. Then my mom started snoring.

 My mom's snores put my brother's to shame. Her snores rolled across the lake, echoed off the hills, woke up slumbering chipmunks miles away. A bull on the other side of the lake must have thought the deep thrumming sound was a mating call of some wild cow, sorry mom. He took to answering her snores with deep lowing. This went back and forth for several minutes as we giggled outside the tent.

When the bull, bulky black hide and long pointed horns, started making its way around the lake to us, we woke my mom up. Didn't want to find out what a lonely bull would do when it found out it had been duped.

We then played paintball. Mark plays like Terminator. He walks through the forest, paintballs bouncing off him left and right. If you spot him first, you better not miss or you are dead.

This was the first time I remember getting him out. I was cowered in a bush waiting. I heard him take out four or five people, their screams as paint tore into them...or at the injustice of paint bouncing off my brother. I knew he headed my way. I breathed slowly. He came over the rise, making his way toward me. I resisted the urge to just shoot. I had made that mistake before. I waited. I breathed. He walked closer. I waited. He looked toward my hiding spot and I knew he saw me. My finger reacted. POP! He could no longer see me, pink paint blocking all view as my first shot splattered across his mask. One of my happiest moments...ever!

This is my last skunk post...until my next skunk encounter. I am going to build a teardrop camper though so, hopefully, I can keep the things from sleeping on me again. Love them, but enough is enough.

The Camping Trip I Ruined

The sun sat low in the Western sky as we sped down dirt roads in the Southern Utah desert...not to be confused with dessert which usually turns out much less dry or sandy. Twilight fell, not full of sparkly vampires, but full of difused sunlight from behind the mountains and more stars than you could ever dream of counting. We were running late, so we raced the Blue Cantelope (my car) out to the Spot.

The Spot was a beautiful stone outcropping that jutted up from the fairly flat desert in the middle of nowhere. My friend, Adam, would spend hours driving around looking for the best places to camp. To get to the Spot, you had to drive out of town through miles of farmland until you came to the last house, then you made a left and drove through sand dunes and empty nothingness until the Spot rose out of the dust before you. It really was a great place to camp, do bonfires, and hang out thinking deep teenage thoughts, you know about like life and like stuff.

On the way out there, speeding through the dunes, kicking up dust, we spotted a bunny.

Out here bunnies are vermin. They are shot on the spot by farmers, hit by cars, and publicly mocked in makeshift tribunals. My friends immediately shouted out, "A bunny! Hit it!" They took up a chant.

Did I want to hit the bunny? No. I don't like killing things, it's not in my nature. If you ever spot me walking down the sidewalk when a colony of ants happen to cross at the same time, you will see me break out into a strange game of hopscotch as I jump, skip, and ninja/twister my way past without stepping on a single one. I like ants. I used to feed them when I was a kid, crumbs of doritos, drips from my popsicle. They discover the prize, call their friends, and seconds later nothing is left as they trundle the gift home. Amazing to me still. But, this is not about that...back to the bunny. I caved to peer preasure and hit the gas, knowing that my chances of hitting the bunny were still slim.

Bunnies are fast, dodgy little things. I had never hit one before this and I have never hit one since. Don't worry. I didn't hit this one either. As we sped toward the furry thing, it mutated.

The very manly boys in my car screamed in confused terror as the bunny took to the skies.

It was an owl. We laughed, pretending the initial screams hadn't happened.

A few minutes later "another" bunny dodged out in front of my car, this time a real one, no owl. I locked up my brakes, skidding to a sliding halt in the sand.

Adam mocked me. "I can't believe you locked up your brakes for a jack rabbit!"

I turned to him and very seriously explained. "The last one had WINGS!" We then laughed until we cried.

That was the good part of the trip, then we made it to the Spot. Other friends had already made it out there. A few more showed up shortly after us. We had a decent gathering. We built a fire and then climbed to the top of the rock overhang by firelight and dim flashlights.

As we sat on the rock, watching the last vestiges of the sun wink out in the distance, someone mentioned ghost stories. I said, "I don't tell my ghost stories."

That was the wrong thing to say. It just piqued their interest and everyone began jumping up and down, begging and pleading me to share them. I caved again.

Something you should know about me, I do not scare easily. I will walk through a haunted house giggling. I laugh hysterically through scary movies, making comments like, "Really. I am sooooo scared. The tooth fairy is gonna get me. Ha haahaahhaa!" or "When a creepy dead girl crawls out of your tv, you grab a baseball bat and knock her butt back in. When she tries it again, you knock her butt back in and say 'Keep trying, chick, I can keep this up all night.'" I walk through supposedly haunted cemeteries and lay down on the ground in order to figure out the mysterious ghost light (a neat trick of the light due to trees, landscaping, and a pefectly shaped hill that sends blue light from passing cars to bend and crawl across the grass without any obvious source). I DO NOT scare easy, but I have seen things that scare me. My ghost stories are not about some man with a claw for a hand who attacks unwary campers. My stories are REAL!

Don't ask me to share them. I won't. The idea of committing some of the things I've seen and heard to the hard lines of our written language gives me chills. It is not going to happen.

Anyway. I shared them that night. I started small, talking about the UFO's I've seen. I don't think they were aliens. I'm weird. I'm not a crackpot. I'm pretty sure the first one I saw was my childlike imagination turning a low flying plane into the ship from The Flight of the Navigator. The second one looked very much like some early military testing of the stealth bomber. The last one I saw might have been an actual weather balloon as it fell back to earth, silver disk flip flopping in the sunlight. Then I moved on to stories I've gained from others, things that may or may not be true. Then, I moved on to my own stories from houses I've lived in, places I've been, things that stick with me. The group fell silent, stopped asking questions as I went into details about the sound a light made or the...wait...no, not gonna talk about that.

I finished my tales and this is what happened.

The last little group of friends looked at one another and didn't even have to say it. No one would be camping in the dark desert that night, especially as our group had dwindled down to nothing. My friend, Adam, made me give him my keys. "Don't want any bunnies getting us killed." I handed them over.

The trip home took half the regular amount of time...and we were followed by a blue ghost light.

I promise, for good or ill, that thing hovered over the desert off to our right until we made it safely back to the city.

My wife is weird and I am Hat Eye!

I love my wife. She is quirky and odd. Can you imagine me with anyone who isn't? The funny thing is most people don't see that side of her. They see her with her nose in a book or with a stack of papers to grade. I am going to take advantage of my blog stardom and expose the real Jazzy to the world.

Here is a conversation we had on IM. I was at work. She was home. I teased her about something. I can't remember exactly what, but I probably called her stinky or made fun of her inability to cook. I scribbled down everything that came after, thinking I would remember what instigated the conversation. I should have known my memory doesn't work that way. Here is what came right after the teasing:

Jazzy: i hat eyou/

Me: I hat eye you too dear

Jazzy: and i can't type

Me: Hat Eye, the Avenger!

Jazzy: Are you coming home to help me make dinner?

Me: Nope. You make dinner. I am avenging the wrongs with my haberdashery super powers of sight!

Jazzy: I have no idea what that means.

Me: Haberdashery? Google it.

Me: *waiting like three seconds for her to google it*

Me: Besides clothing, they made hats.

Jazzy: Why do you know these things?

Me: Because I am Hat Eye! Pay attention.

Jazzy: I do. You are just weird.

Okay. I know what you are thinking. This makes Jazzy look normal and me like a weirdo. But, would a normal person put up with me? I think not.

I've got a better example. I sat in the bath, playing with the bubbles and patting the water like usual. My wife wanders in as she does sometimes. Don't worry. This is not in any way dirty.

Jazzy: *wanders in singing* Lalalalla la...you're a firework.

Me: I'm a firework?

Jazzy: It's a song...

Me: *ignores that it's a song* What kind of firework am I?

Jazzy: Like...pfft pffft...*she puts her feet shoulder length apart, raises her hands, and shakes her fingers like sparks*

Me: So...I'm a lame firework?

Jazzy: *laughs and walks out of the bathroom*

Me: *bubbles are suddenly less fun*

See that. She is funny and goofy. You still don't believe me? Yes, you need more proof. One more funny story about my wife:

Me: *sleeping soundly and happily in on a day off*

Jazzy: *jumps on bed and tackles me* (I know you can't tackle someone who is laying down, but she still tried.)

Me: ummmffftt *half asleep*

Jazzy: Wake up, it's 8:30!

Me: *stretches and bumps her in the forehead with my elbow*

Jazzy: Ow. You smoke me in my pants! (I heard 'smote', but she claims she said 'smoke') *falls over laughing*

Me: Did you say 'I smote me in my pants'?

Jazzy: *rolls around the bed next to me laughing*

Me: *laughing* What is wrong with your brain?

Jazzy: *gasping for air while laughing* I don't know.

Odd, definitely odd to have those words come out of her mouth when she meant to say "Ow, you poked me in the face." I give you unavoidable proof that my wife's brain does not function. I was the one half asleep. She had been up for at least an hour. Jazzy, I love you. Stay weird. I need it to keep me sane.

The best camping trip, ever!

This is going to be a long one, but I've made a lot of pictures to go along with it. So, it should be just as awesome as you all have come to expect...maybe even more so.

After I had lived in Salt Lake for a little while, some friends and my brother decided we should go camping. We piled a bunch of food and stuff in our cars and took off. Everyone designated me as lead car even though I still didn't know the wilderness areas very well. We took off up a canyon with high hopes of finding the perfect spot.

I grew up in St George, Utah. St George is one of those little towns where if you drive up a canyon you will run into some dirt roads. Follow a dirt road and you will find another smaller dirt road. Follow that dirt road and next thing you know you have stumbled across a beautiful camp spot with a stunning view of the valley below, usually in less than twenty or thirty minutes of driving. This had happened for me a thousand times.

Salt Lake is not like St George. We drove for a good twenty minutes. Nothing. I expected this. I thought it would take us a little longer to get away from civilization and find a nice road to nowhere. Twenty minutes later and still nothing.

My older brother was sitting next to me, giving out great suggestions. "Maybe that's a dirt road...nope. Are we there yet? We've got to find something soon." Then he squeaked.

My brother had the hiccups. I was already annoyed at being the leader when I didn't know where I was going and frustrated at our lack of success. This sound made me angry.

What you must understand is my brother doesn't make sweet little hiccup sounds. Imagine something more annoying and then times that by three hundred. Seriously, if you take a dolphin...

 ...and mate it with a pterodactyl...

 ...the crime against nature love child's screams would be somewhat less annoying than my brother's hiccups.



...which continued for the next hour and a half. I tried to get him to stop.

Me: "Rawr! Did that scare you?"

Bother: "A little, but...screeeeeech uuurp!"

Me: "Drink some water!"

Brother: "I'm thirsty, not dirty. EEEEEeeeeeerp skaaaaaw!"

Me: "Try some Dr Pepper then."

Brother: "Glug glug. Sreeee....eeeeeeeeeep!"

Me: "Hold your breath."

Brother: "Gasp.............scruuuuuuummmeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeech!"

I eventually gave up trying to get him to stop. The hiccups were relentless, my ears violated with every eeep and skreeep. I turned up the radio. Did not help. I rolled down the windows. Nope. I started to loath the sound and loath my brother for making the sound. He would stop just long enough to give me hope and then erupt again in the tormenting noise.

I finally reached the limit. I stopped the car. My friends pulled up next to me as I was about to murder my older brother. I didn't care that he was bigger or stronger. It had been nearly two hours of his screeeching and I would take it no longer. He had to die.



About that time, he finally stopped and the insanity bled away from me to something just above detest. It was almost dark now and we were running out of time. We came across a reservoir a few minutes later. I don't like designated camp spots much, but we decided it was a good idea at this point. We paid the fee, pulled into a spot, and started dinner.

Dinner went surprisingly well. We made some quick dutch oven food in the dark, good food. We ate in the dark by lantern light, happily joking about the adventure up till then. We laid out a tarp and threw our sleeping bags on it, looking forward to some rest and stargazing.

That's when it started to rain. We dragged a tarp over us and huddled together. It would have looked something like this:

My friend, Jyro, is in the middle. We were getting comfortable, warming up in our sleeping bags, when Jyro suddenly cried out.

I sleep with a flashlight in my bag with me...you know...in case you gotta pee. I pulled out the light and handed it to Jyro.

That was a mistake, a big mistake. He flashed it around and found a skunk. Skunks are not a big deal. I will have several posts later as to why skunks do not bother me. They freaked Jyro out though. He sat up and spent the next hour frantically keeping track of the skunk's movements.

We tried to calm him down. It did not work.

It seemed like forever, but he finally calmed down enough to let us sleep.

Once Jyro fell asleep, I was able to relax and let myself drift slowly to....WHAT THE CRAP?! A horrible sound came from a ditch not far from where we were sleeping. It was deep and low, vibrating with creepiness. My friend, Adam, and I bolted awake.

I turned to Adam.

I had gathered twigs from that ditch earlier. There had been nothing but dry sage brush. This is more or less what happened next:

We slept after a while. I kept waiting for the sound to repeat, but it never did. We checked the ditch in the morning and found nothing. We may never know what woke Adam and I. We may not want to know. All I do know for sure is this was one of the best camping trips ever.