Feliz Cumpleanos

Twenty-four years ago today my wife and mother to the handsome devil to the right made her first appearance on the scene. To her Max and I say with mucho gusto: Happy birthday! (Doesn't it feel like that "b" should be capitalized? But I digress...)

Yes indeedy, we love you very much and hope you have a special day! May it be filled with chocolate chips, lots of hugs and kisses, and little or no fussing.

T-minus 1:50 and counting

Ever have something looming in the distance that is so menacing that you can't do anything but wait for impending doom to arrive? Enter my Operations and Supply Chain Management final.

Still there? Good. I know even a remote mention of supply chain management has the potential to derail the most faithful reader, so I just wanted to be sure you were still with me.

So my teacher, bless his heart, is getting ready to retire. And you know what that means -- he officially stopped giving a crap about 10 years ago. Boy does it show. His "hint" for the final was to tell us that "70 percent would be computations and 30 percent short answer." What kind of lame hint is that? Is that somehow supposed to help me prepare in some way? All that tells me is that the test is going to be 70 percent of stuff I'm 100 percent sure I'm not going to know the answers to.

Dude, you know it's gonna be ugly when the guy declares at the start of class last week: "Now, a lot of you will probably ask yourself in the middle of the test, 'What planet is this guy from?' So, be ready for that."

It's encouraging words like this that have me TOTALLY FREAKED OUT. I'll let you know how I fare.

Ladies man #1

I am sitting at my desk trying to study for an important exam. But can I concentrate? No. You see, there is a dance going on about a block from my office. The music is loud. The DJ is obnoxious. I am annoyed. However, I feel inspired to share the inspirational lyrics of the very special song that's playing right now. They mean the world to me:

"If it hadn't been for Cotton-Eye Joe, I'd been married a long time ago. Where did you come from, where did you go? Where did you come from Cotton-Eye Joe?

He came to town like a midwinter storm. He rode through the fields so hansome and strong. His eyes was his tools and his smile was his gun. But all he had come for was having some fun.

He brought disaster wherever he went. The hearts of the girls was to hell broken sent. They all ran away so nobody would know. And left only men cause of Cotton-Eye Joe."

A masterwork! My kudos to the songwriter for masterfully weaving tune and verse in such an emotive way. Sounds to me like despite Cotton-Eye Joe's visual impairment, the guy had no trouble bagging chicks. Way to pull yourself up by the old bootstraps, Cotton-Eye Joe!

Wish you were here

The other night my wife had a dream in which I was Superman and, at the request of the supreme Greek god Zeus, flew her to the country of Exxador. (Actually, I may have been charged by his Zeusship with saving the country -- at this moment I can't remember anything else about her dream except the words "Superman," "Zeus" and "Exxador".) Yes, that's cool I was Superman, but the real point here is that her sleep-self created an entirely new land with an entirely bitchin' name.

Since then, I have asked myself many questions like, "What do the citizens of Exxador look like?" and "What is their principle exxport?" "Do Exxadorians speak English?" and "Do they use the metric system?"

I have to admit that this newly discovered country fascinates me. And don't get me started on the people! Warm, friendly, hospitible. I can't get enough of their cuture, language and history -- I really want to know it all.

Someday Cara and I will go on a magical trip to this special place and see its many sites. When we do, I will be sure to send you a postcard.

Bye-Bye Band

When I was in college (the first time) I was in a band. We called ourselves Eleanor Blushes and played a hard-to-peg brand of music that was all over the joint -- blues, rock, butt-rock, grunge, disco, jazz. You name it, we played it. (Badly at first, but we got pretty decent by the end.)

Part of the reason we blew so much in the beginning is because we cluttered the sonic landscape with three guitar players, a bass player and three "lead" singers. Dude! At the most we should have had two guitar players and one singer. In a word, we lacked focus. (Okay that's three words, and that's my point.) Compounding matters, at times I fancied myself a "tortured musician" and wanted our lyrics and songs to be dark and artistic. The reality was if we wanted to play gigs in Provo (Utah, not Spain) we had to be a college house party band. That meant uptempo crowd pleasers that "had a good beat and that people could dance to." In retrospect, we probably should have called the band "Eleanor Schizophrenic."

Reason two: our first drummer couldn't keep time. Please note that this is not a good quality in a drummer. When he got married and moved to Texas, we all secretly rejoiced. Wherever he is, I hope he's doing well (in a steady 4/4 kind of way).

Finally, we had some creative differences. As the lead singer and rhythm guitarist, I was the de facto leader and made the song choices (hey, I had to sing them). The lead guitarist never really got what I was aiming for, sonically speaking. I tired of telling him that he wouldn't be playing that "Freebird-esque" solo for eight minutes. And he tired of me bossing him around. Eventually, he started another band in SLC that was heavy duty butt-rock. I heard him play a couple shows. Not bad if you're into Poison, Aerosmith, crap, etc.

So it went. EB eventually evolved into a three piece, then back to a four piece. We changed our name to Kent, then to Vaughn, then to Spartacus (turns out the Swedes have the corner on Kent and Vaughn, damn them)! Spartacus stuck, although I got the feeling the bass player never really dug it.

We started playing less frequently. Then we only played on special occasions. Now we don't play at all. Kind of sad, but that's what should happen to college bands, I think. At least really unfocused ones with drummers who can't keep time. Hey, we can't all be the Rolling Stones, who will probably be coming out on stage soon with the help of walkers, can we?

My offspring looks nothing like me

I suppose it's not that unusual for a father to hope that his son looks something like him. Alas, I hope in vain.

My three-month old is a handsome devil, don't get me wrong. (And I'm not just saying that. Look at these photos, and tell me he's not a fine specimen.)

I have occasionally commented to his mother that he is the baby of a thousand faces. This is because no two photographs we take of him look quite the same. The problem is that not a single one of his many faces looks like me.

Because of this, I have to take solace in similarity with other body parts. He has two wonderful ears and a pair of fantastic legs, which his mother calls "Romanesque" (read: fat) that are both shrunken versions of mine.

I do, however, take full credit for his "cute" and "rascal" genes.

Didn't quite do it for you?

Okay, so that last post was me being a bit too literal.

Like father, like son, I guess. The other day (Father's Day, no less) I made the gross error of asking my Dad, "What's up?"

I was then regaled with an exhaustive list of things that are indeed "up," including "the sky, the roof, birds, the sun, airplanes ..."

After the master-of-punnery (oh yes, he's good at puns, too) listed about eight more things I said, "Okay Dad, I get it. That's some real funny stuff you got there."

Unabated, he continuted, "Or, if you have issues with the concept of up, how about things that are 'away from' other things?" Of course, he then proceeded to list a few things that are away from other things. "The amosphere from the ground, stars from the Earth, the celing from the floor..."

It was at that point that I decided to "be away" from Captain Literal.

I promise you, dear reader, that I will never be so painfully obvious again.

You asked for it...

Because you, the fans, have demanded it, I have decided to post "something, anything."

Ready?

Here it is.

Got it?

Good.

Don't say I don't care, because it's just not true.