This is my second attempt at this blog. After typing for about 45 minutes I was ready to publish my thoughts… Some how during a spell check I lost the whole thing.. Therefore, understand that the second attempt will not be as good as the first. At least that is my excuse.
Also, I hope you do not tire of another bus trip saga. I lack the creativity of Sam and the vocabulary of Chad so feel already that my first attempt at this blog writing will be lacking in several respects. Anyway, here goes:
A few weeks ago I decided to do the fatherly thing and help Mike and Sam move back to Salt Lake. I had a vacation day to use and thought this was a good use of it. Anyway, after checking the cost of various fares, I decided to take the bus rather than fly. When I told one of my co-workers I was going on the bus he said “You will have a cultural experience.” I though, “How bad can it be?” and anyway this would give me a chance to work on my Book of Mormon reading…. For the in-laws, I don’t read anything much except stuff for work. When I tried to read the Book of Mormon last spring, on the trip with Chad and Jenn, I fell asleep before finishing the second chapter. So for the current challenge I decided that if I listened that would be close enough. Therefore five hours with the BOM would get me a long way.
Enough for background, now for the real deal… Grace dropped me off about 7:00 AM at the new terminal in SLC. I thought this is really great and went in with excitement almost forgetting to say good-by. When I got to the ticket counter I had my first hesitation. The lady behind the counter had a name tag on, but it was one of those with the name written in pencil on a piece of paper and taped on a tag that must have been used for everyone. Plenty of spare tape was evident. I questioned if she was going to steal my identity when I gave her my confirmation number from the internet, and she still wanted to see my credit card. You see, even if you buy tickets on line, you are not guaranteed a seat on the bus. There were clearly more people in the waiting area that would fit on one bus so I thought maybe there had to be some type of payoff. She did not say anything after looking at the information and gave me the boarding pass. (I later found out there was a bus headed north at about the same time and most of the people were getting on that bus.
I headed back to the waiting area and since there were limited seats, found the area that I thought was the least intrusive on others. I sat about two seats away from a man that looked quite normal for the bus station, and started getting my CD player ready to work. About that time he leaned over and asked my name. “Jim” I replied, and he started laughing. He just kept laughing and then started talking to himself too. As others looked at me I understood why that seat was empty. Not wanting to be impolite, I figured my best excuse was to find the restroom and get “ready” for the trip. At least it got me away from the laugher.
When I got back to the waiting area, I found a place on the floor for a while, then outside with the smokers, then back to the floor to wait for the bus to leave. At least I thought I was safe on the floor, not to far from the public telephones. As I was settling in against the wall for a back rest there starts this crying and yelling from a grown man. He was on the phone and everyone was watching when he slammed the receiver and went running out of the station. I decided my cultural experience was beginning. About that time the security guard started asking people to get in line for security check. There was not way he could keep track of who he checked, but it seemed like all were willingly subjecting themselves the a full body search. Well, not really. He had some type of wand that was a little bigger than Harry Potter’s sorcerer wand and he seemed to be trying to check for metal on people. He would also check carry on bags. When it was my turn he must have been tired because he did not even check either of my bags. That is good because I don’t like people handling my underwear.
We finally got on the bus and I was luck enough to find two seats that I could have to my self. I got the BOM going and was enjoying listening and watching the scenery outside that I never noticed when I drive. Every thing was cool until we reached our first stop, Provo. At that stop I started watching people. The first issue was finding places for the people getting on. One lady walked the entire length of the bus three times looking for a seat the finally asked the security guard on the bus if she could sit by him. He gave her a very gruff “NO” and she finally sat next to an older man. (She could have used tow seats her self) You ask why she did not sit by me? Well, just before she got on an oriental couple got on and because everyone else was too rude to stop sitting on two seats the lady sat next to me and her companion sat across the isle from her. I thought I had it made since she was not too big until she got out her knitting needles. Honest, they were at least two feet long and had been filed to a point sharper than a needle. I wondered how they got by the security check for knifes and weapons! Needless to say I scooted as far away as possible and tried not to make eye contact.
As we traveled down the road, and I became involved with the proceeding of the BOM, I started to notice some of the people in the bus. The following is a brief summary of my observations:
The 20 or 30 or 40 something girl that I prayed would not sit next to me. (She had tried to start a conversation in the bus terminal, but I had to go to the bathroom again.) She had no front teeth, her shirt was too short and she suffered from midriff hangover. She was defiantly friendly with whoever would look her way, but it turns out she may have been the most normal.
The two guys right in front of me must have had a thing for each other. Thank goodness I could not see through the seats. It just seemed like one head with a stocking cap kept trying to get closer to the other head with a stocking cap, the whole time playing like they were asleep.
In front of them was the cowboy and his girl. Normal enough if cowboys wear black converse tennis shoes with a white hat that covers all the hair except a pony tail that was about 10 inches long.
In the very back was a hiker. Hitch hiker that is, who had a back pack bigger than me. When he carried it he would walk with his body parallel to the ground and moan the whole time he was moving.
Back and to the right was one of the gangster rappers. I was not about to point out to him the sign in the bus that said to play audio devices very quietly. I decided rap is a good back ground for listening to the BOM.
In front of him is the usual east LA dude with his hat sideways etc.
Continuing the move forward is a normal looking older man sharing a seat with another lady three times his size. Strangers to each other, since she got on in Provo they seemed to carryon regular conversations except when her cell phone would ring. Again a sign that said “turn off Cell Phones”
Then there was this old man that they had to help on at the terminal, and he may have been terminal. I don’t think he knew who he was or where he was. Maybe our city fathers bought him a ticket to get him out of town.
Then the Greyhound security guard that slept the whole way to St George. He looked mean enough, but a take over would have been finished before he woke up.
By the time I had changed my CD a couple of times we were in Parowan for the obligatory stop for lunch. Very interesting… Some of the things I discovered include that the slick paper used for sitting on in public restrooms can work for TP as well. It just takes some extra effort. Since most of the people were headed to Vegas, I decided to buy the bottle of Dr Pepper that guaranteed a chance to win $1,000,000. False advertising!!!!!
Since all the seats inside were being used, I decided to eat my Taco Bell burrito outside. First I move from the pollution zone created by all the smokers to an area closer to the bus. I am standing there contemplating if I was the only normal person on the bus when the one man that I held out hope for walked over and we started to talk. “Where are you going, etc the normal small take. I say to myself.. “A normal man” so I decide to practice my socializing skills that I encourage some of my children to work on. My second question after where are you headed was, “What are you going to do in Vegas, Gamble?’ He says.’ No first I will try to find a place to stay, then tomorrow I am going to the air show.” Is that a good show? I ask. To which he replies something about hoping they bring out the stuff from AREA 51. If I remember from that classic historical film “Independence Day” Area 51 is where all the aliens are studied. He said they brought out some stuff two years ago and he is hoping for more this time…. I am saved by the bus driver returning to the bus and me saying I need to get back on.
The rest of the way I tried to speed up the BOM but that did not work. I kept away from the knitting needles and prayed I did not have to go to the bathroom. Finally, St George and I was glad to trade places with the people waiting in back of the McDonalds to get on the bus. I though I had experienced diversity, but alas this was a new cultural experience I shall not soon forget.
Sunday, November 27, 2005
Dream on...
No one cares what your dream was about, period.
No matter how interesting you think your dream is, it really won’t intrigue most people (this, of course, excludes the Dream Doctor on the radio, from whom I had to ween Jenn last year, and of course, Martin Luther King Jr.).
Have you ever had anyone ask a follow-up question to your dream? Through anecdotal evidence, the answer is ‘no’ 98 percent of the time. But what do we do—we keep on sharing our dreams with family members, co-workers and even strangers. Why do we share our dreams with other people when we don’t really listen (or care) when someone approaches us with, “Hey, I had this weird dream last night.” Which reminds me…
I had a pretty weird dream last night:
I boarded the bus at the Park & Ride nearest our house. I know I wasn’t going to work because I was wearing Jeans and a T-shirt. It looked like a normal bus with your normal bus people: the lady holding her purse like it contains a winning lotto ticket; the guy with the headphones but no player; the guy looking around just waiting for someone to look at him so he can tell them about the “$7,000 shot I had to get for my dog and if you want a pet, you’d better start saving now because they deserve every penny.”
After sitting there for a time, the main Park and Ride manager came on the bus, walked right toward me and said, “We are short of drivers; can you take the route today?” Simply put, I was astonished. I had been riding the bus for a mere month and a half and already I was being given the responsibility of a lifetime. I would be responsible for getting people to their jobs, doctors’ appointments, university classes, and even scheduled drug deals. I looked around, astonished that no one protested. Of course I said yes!
The next thing I know, I find my way to the driver’s seat, pull out some pilot glasses (no joke) and start heading down the road. Everything is going fine and dandy for the first 5 or 6 stops until I realize my brakes aren’t working that good—I have to slam on them really hard and even then I don’t really stop for about 3 seconds. I finally decide to call in the problem and I demand that they send out another bus to me. Now, I’m normally not a bossy guy; I don’t know if it was newfound stewardship or the pilot glasses, but my bus riders needed me—their deadlines were now my deadlines. Needless to say, we were left waiting, stranded out by a bowling alley I have never seen, on a street that doesn’t exist. I wish I could tell you that I finished my route with courage and integrity, and that I rented a rickshaw or something, but alas, I woke up as we were all heading into the bowling alley for a couple of games.
Moral of the story: Do not eat three bowls of Taco Soup right before bedtime.
No matter how interesting you think your dream is, it really won’t intrigue most people (this, of course, excludes the Dream Doctor on the radio, from whom I had to ween Jenn last year, and of course, Martin Luther King Jr.).
Have you ever had anyone ask a follow-up question to your dream? Through anecdotal evidence, the answer is ‘no’ 98 percent of the time. But what do we do—we keep on sharing our dreams with family members, co-workers and even strangers. Why do we share our dreams with other people when we don’t really listen (or care) when someone approaches us with, “Hey, I had this weird dream last night.” Which reminds me…
I had a pretty weird dream last night:
I boarded the bus at the Park & Ride nearest our house. I know I wasn’t going to work because I was wearing Jeans and a T-shirt. It looked like a normal bus with your normal bus people: the lady holding her purse like it contains a winning lotto ticket; the guy with the headphones but no player; the guy looking around just waiting for someone to look at him so he can tell them about the “$7,000 shot I had to get for my dog and if you want a pet, you’d better start saving now because they deserve every penny.”
After sitting there for a time, the main Park and Ride manager came on the bus, walked right toward me and said, “We are short of drivers; can you take the route today?” Simply put, I was astonished. I had been riding the bus for a mere month and a half and already I was being given the responsibility of a lifetime. I would be responsible for getting people to their jobs, doctors’ appointments, university classes, and even scheduled drug deals. I looked around, astonished that no one protested. Of course I said yes!
The next thing I know, I find my way to the driver’s seat, pull out some pilot glasses (no joke) and start heading down the road. Everything is going fine and dandy for the first 5 or 6 stops until I realize my brakes aren’t working that good—I have to slam on them really hard and even then I don’t really stop for about 3 seconds. I finally decide to call in the problem and I demand that they send out another bus to me. Now, I’m normally not a bossy guy; I don’t know if it was newfound stewardship or the pilot glasses, but my bus riders needed me—their deadlines were now my deadlines. Needless to say, we were left waiting, stranded out by a bowling alley I have never seen, on a street that doesn’t exist. I wish I could tell you that I finished my route with courage and integrity, and that I rented a rickshaw or something, but alas, I woke up as we were all heading into the bowling alley for a couple of games.
Moral of the story: Do not eat three bowls of Taco Soup right before bedtime.
Saturday, November 12, 2005
An End to My Six Month Sabbatical
Before I get into my blog topic: A wild rumor I heard through the proverbial grapevine:
In lieu of a talent night for Christmas as we have done in the past, we will be holding a celebrity look-alike contest: Clint showing up as Carrot-Top and Nick is coming as George Carlin. Can’t wait…
Moving on…
On Wednesday night I did something for the first time in six months. It required patience, long-suffering and a little bit of motivation. No, I’m not talking about going to church. I’m talking about basketball, which I guess is going to church seeing as how we played in the cultural hall. Anyway, to commemorate my first step on the hardwood (or church carpet in this case), I kept a running diary of the event.
8:32 pm – Mutual is officially over. About five or six guys are in the cultural hall already waiting for all the kids to get out of the way. Normally I wouldn’t give it much thought but it piqued my interest in two ways. First, it reminded me of the invite I got from one of my home teachers, who is a regular for Wednesday night basketball. Second, I brought some shoes in the car that I could always change into.
8:40 pm – I make the decision to get my shoes and shorts out of the car. The shoes are vintage 2000 Nikes, gray and blue with absolutely no ankle support. The shorts are my shin-length brown cargo shorts with approximately seventeen different pockets. For what? No idea.
8:46 pm – I make myself onto the court. By now, the number of players has grown to about 13. The reason I love playing church basketball, besides seeing players look toward the stage for NBA scouts, is that there are so many different types of players. I will give a small list of some of the players involved this Wednesday:
Jean Shorts Guy: Most of us have played with this guy. He often completes his outfit with his hat backward. He will shoot the ball with little or no provocation. The only thing different about this guy is that he wore his cap facing toward, which is good I guess when the sun is in your eyes.
Walking-Endorsement Guy: Complete opposite of Jean Shorts Guy (skills, however, may be comparable). This player has $200 Nikes. Of course, he usually doesn’t wear them to the gym—walking on the street or sidewalk between his parking spot and the court may somehow hurt his $200 shoes thereby hindering his performance.
Uncle Rico Guy: You know what I mean…
Normal Guy: This guy plays basketball every once in a while. He will box out but won’t throw any elbows. He usually doesn’t wear expensive hightops and probably wouldn’t play in Vans or Birkenstocks; he’s usually wearing some kind of cross-trainer (If you couldn’t guess, this is me).
Note: Every single player will have won their Stake Basketball Championship.
8:56 pm – Obviously we’re not playing 5 on 5 due to the size of the court (smaller than Madera), so well have to shoot for teams. I’m the last guy to shoot and thanks to the 5,000 free throw shots I took my Freshman year in High School, I put it right through the net. A quick observation tells me that a lot of these guys have played together already. My team is comprised of three Normal Guys and one Normal Guy/Uncle Rico Guy. The other team has two Walking-Endorsement Guys and Two Normal Guys.
8:58 pm – My first knee carpet burn of the night.
9:06 pm – I’ve made two baskets, and both of them were from offensive rebounds. We’re up 7-3 and we’re playing to 11. I start wondering when my heart is going to explode. I feel like I swallowed a bottle of lighter fluid, ate three cans of Kidney beans and swallowed a match…all after eating Dad’s gumbo. I keep having to remind myself that the last time I ran was six months ago.
9:07 pm – I can tell that my simple box out is really frustrating a guy on the other team. He just got off his mission and he doesn’t like the fact that he can’t out-rebound the hump (aka my barrel-chested back and chest). So on this next trip down, I get a pass on the left wing, fake middle, start going baseline (I’ve got the guy beat) and then he pushes me from behind with two hands. Anyway, he turned and walked away. It was then that I realized I was playing with the fifth type of player—The-It’s-Not-Just-a-Game Guy. Needless to say, I lost a lot of respect for him.
9:15 pm – We won the game, 11-8. It wasn’t pretty but my legs stayed under me for pretty much the whole game and luckily I didn’t have to guard any sweaty guys with their shirt off. My stats for the game:
4 Field Goals
3 Steals
2 Blocks
78 Rebounds
1 near Respiratory Failure
9:18 pm – The next team steps on the court. This team is made up of one It’s-Not-Just-a-Game Guy, one Jean Shorts Guy and two Walking-Endorsement Guys (And yes, they did put on their basketball shoes after they got to the gym).
9:26 pm –We’re losing 8-3. Our guys are sucking wind more than a new Oreck. I’m beginning to realize that they have yet to pass to the JS Guy; and this is probably affecting the outcome. Of course this doesn’t stop our Zone Top-of-the-Key defender from practically running a box and one on him. I think he guards him so it makes him look good. It’s like me saying I studied my swimming final twice as long as my Physics exam just so I could get an A in swimming instead of a B plus in Physics.
9:27 pm – I’m posting up one of the guys at the top of the key (which is pretty much the half-court line anyway). Finally with nowhere to go, I attempt a turnaround fade-away. Now, it would be easy to assume that turn-around fade away skills might run in the family. Well, according to the errancy of the shot (airball), it looks like Dad kept that attribute to himself. I don’t even know why I tried to equal his prowess.
9:32 pm – Well, we lost 11-6. It wasn’t a very defensive minded game on our side. They did, however, keep trying to pass over the top of me, which led me to have about 6 steals. You would think they would learn after the first two or three times. I just don’t think they expected me to have a 36-inch vertical (if you count my outstretched arms).
9:35 – 9:45 pm – The team we lost to beat a team with two JS Guys. You just knew they were going to lose right off the start. Anyway, I made another free throw and started with a fresh team.
9:47 pm – About a minute and a half into the game, I went up for my 59th put-back try on an offensive rebound and came down hard on my ankle on someone else’s foot…again. I tried my best to take it like a man (whatever that means) and shuffled myself over to the stage. After walking it off a little, I felt a little better but just decided to call it a night. I didn’t want to aggravate it any more and put me out for the rest of the season, especially if BYU needed me for March. We’ll see.
10:01 pm – I get home and, whadya know, the ankle start hurting again. Jenn somehow sees that I’m in pain (no matter how hard I try to hide it), and gives me a nice foot and back rub (I think it affected my back too).
Maybe I’ll go back next Wednesday, maybe not. Maybe I’ll wait another six months, so I’ll have something to write about.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Not something funny
This is mainly for Chad. I found out I do not have his adress and I found this out right now while I was at work. This is what mary wrote on the website:
Just to let you all know, David Beck, the crew chief from 2-6, was in a bad car accident Sunday morning around 3:00 am. The car he was in rolled several times near Payson on his way back from Las Vegas and he was thrown out of the vehicle. He's in the Utah Valley Regional Hospital ICU so he cannot have visitors yet. From what his mom said, he has broken his neck, but not enough to be paralyzed, broken several ribs, punctured his lung and they found glass in his nose. I don't know when he'll be better, but we have purchased a card to give him and it is up at the crew chief desk. If you'd like to sign it please do that soon. Also, if you all could include him and his family in your prayers, thanks.
Thought you'd like to know. Later.
Just to let you all know, David Beck, the crew chief from 2-6, was in a bad car accident Sunday morning around 3:00 am. The car he was in rolled several times near Payson on his way back from Las Vegas and he was thrown out of the vehicle. He's in the Utah Valley Regional Hospital ICU so he cannot have visitors yet. From what his mom said, he has broken his neck, but not enough to be paralyzed, broken several ribs, punctured his lung and they found glass in his nose. I don't know when he'll be better, but we have purchased a card to give him and it is up at the crew chief desk. If you'd like to sign it please do that soon. Also, if you all could include him and his family in your prayers, thanks.
Thought you'd like to know. Later.
Friday, November 04, 2005
Working Downtown...or something like that.
Right after I posted my last blog entry, I realized that I completely forgot to acknowledge and celebrate Mayka’s rich Mexican heritage like I usually do. I knew she would bring it up sooner or later. First off, let me apologize. I did not intentionally fail to recognize you, Mayka. You are, in fact, the Tustison Family’s own affirmative action program. Anyway, I’m sorry, and by the way, most of my friends are Mexican…
There’s nothing like working downtown. Just like many things, it has its pluses and minuses. Many different smells litter the air with aromas of blooming flowers and rushing water, while other times the only thing you smell is the sidewalk-vomit left over from the weekend excitement or the guy on the bench that’s been reading the same 1980 Wall Street Journal every morning since I got here. There are some very unique characteristics that define a thriving metropolis like downtown San Antonio. While Trevor works in the thriving metropolis of Provo City and Mom could be confused as an extra on Sex in the City when she heads off to work, I thought I’d give you all (y’all) a very brief taste of what it’s like working downtown in the 8th largest city in the United States.
Streets & Traffic
Downtown is very accessible. The usual traffic jams are expected during the hours of rush, but Jenn and I have seemed to find the less stressful routes, especially in the morning (aka the bus). Jenn goes in to work at about noon and therefore confronts much less traffic than we would in the morning. The streets are very well maintained, with a majority of the downtown avenues paved with brick. Truthfully, I haven’t walked through the valley of the shadow of death that is the South side of downtown but I do work in the heavy commercial and tourist area, which, after 5 months, basically qualifies me as one of 50 Cent’s entourage members. What this has to do with streets, I have no idea.
Ambience
For those that don’t know, I work on the third floor which is really the 4th floor if you count the mezzanine. Pigeons constantly come to my window. They have large talons.
Today, I was in my office when my coworker and I heard a lot of raucous going on in the street. At first we thought is as some kind of parade and then I was told it was actually a Pep rally for one of the local high schools. This “parade” had the students, the band, and the baton twirlers who would even give Mom a run for her money. I waited for the Hopscotch team but they never materialized. The band was followed by the entire football team and loyal girlfriends/fiancées. At least four of them were either pregnant or carrying a stroller. See, that’s what I don’t get. It seems that every time BYU plays on national TV, the announcers have to mention that most of the BYU team is married or has kids—and that this may somehow assuage their passion for victory. What gets me is that they rarely mention that most of the guys on other teams have girlfriends and kids. And some of them probably have to divide their time between their kids’ moms. It’s kind of like if you put a guy on Maury Povich who is seriously involved with three different girls and probably has kids with them, everyone in the audience(well, mostly guys) wants to take this guy out, buy him a new wardrobe and watch And1 tapes with him all day. Now, take a polygamist with three wives, put him on Maury and suddenly everyone wants to take turns kicking this guy in the crotch. Obviously I’m not condoning polygamy in any way, I’m just saying….And yet I digress.
I thought this parade was a superb display of school pride. They marched up and down the streets, waved their school banners and yelled out their school spirit like the best of them. I even thought I heard something about San Dimas football. I was just waiting for Fellis Bueller to turn the corner and come out singing Danka Schoen (I was his dad looking out the window. That, my friends, is how exciting it can be down here).
There’s nothing like working downtown. Just like many things, it has its pluses and minuses. Many different smells litter the air with aromas of blooming flowers and rushing water, while other times the only thing you smell is the sidewalk-vomit left over from the weekend excitement or the guy on the bench that’s been reading the same 1980 Wall Street Journal every morning since I got here. There are some very unique characteristics that define a thriving metropolis like downtown San Antonio. While Trevor works in the thriving metropolis of Provo City and Mom could be confused as an extra on Sex in the City when she heads off to work, I thought I’d give you all (y’all) a very brief taste of what it’s like working downtown in the 8th largest city in the United States.
Streets & Traffic
Downtown is very accessible. The usual traffic jams are expected during the hours of rush, but Jenn and I have seemed to find the less stressful routes, especially in the morning (aka the bus). Jenn goes in to work at about noon and therefore confronts much less traffic than we would in the morning. The streets are very well maintained, with a majority of the downtown avenues paved with brick. Truthfully, I haven’t walked through the valley of the shadow of death that is the South side of downtown but I do work in the heavy commercial and tourist area, which, after 5 months, basically qualifies me as one of 50 Cent’s entourage members. What this has to do with streets, I have no idea.
Ambience
For those that don’t know, I work on the third floor which is really the 4th floor if you count the mezzanine. Pigeons constantly come to my window. They have large talons.
Today, I was in my office when my coworker and I heard a lot of raucous going on in the street. At first we thought is as some kind of parade and then I was told it was actually a Pep rally for one of the local high schools. This “parade” had the students, the band, and the baton twirlers who would even give Mom a run for her money. I waited for the Hopscotch team but they never materialized. The band was followed by the entire football team and loyal girlfriends/fiancées. At least four of them were either pregnant or carrying a stroller. See, that’s what I don’t get. It seems that every time BYU plays on national TV, the announcers have to mention that most of the BYU team is married or has kids—and that this may somehow assuage their passion for victory. What gets me is that they rarely mention that most of the guys on other teams have girlfriends and kids. And some of them probably have to divide their time between their kids’ moms. It’s kind of like if you put a guy on Maury Povich who is seriously involved with three different girls and probably has kids with them, everyone in the audience(well, mostly guys) wants to take this guy out, buy him a new wardrobe and watch And1 tapes with him all day. Now, take a polygamist with three wives, put him on Maury and suddenly everyone wants to take turns kicking this guy in the crotch. Obviously I’m not condoning polygamy in any way, I’m just saying….And yet I digress.
I thought this parade was a superb display of school pride. They marched up and down the streets, waved their school banners and yelled out their school spirit like the best of them. I even thought I heard something about San Dimas football. I was just waiting for Fellis Bueller to turn the corner and come out singing Danka Schoen (I was his dad looking out the window. That, my friends, is how exciting it can be down here).
And by the way, this homecoming/prep rally was almost better than Madera High’s rally. I remember having prep rallies in the morning during third period. They would announce it for almost two weeks straight but everyone (including the teachers) always forgot. Usually, they would have to ring the fire alarm to make everyone actually leave their classroom to go to the stadium. And then you would sit down by yourself, even though you were always pretending to look around for your friends who were “supposed to be here anytime and that’s why I’m saving these seats.” The rally itself usually consisted of some famous school personality, like the vice principal, welcoming everyone there. I think one year they tried to sing the alma mater but the neighbors filed attempted murder charges. After that the football players would do some stunt which always brought boos from most of the crowd, with their smiling cheerleaders at their side. These were the same cheerleaders that went to our water polo game one time and started cheering “GO BLUE, GO WHITE, GO BLUE AND WHITE” whilst both teams had blue and white caps (did I just use ‘whilst’). After the rally, you would always look up like you’re trying to find your make-believe friends and then pull the Trevor face (you know, the one where he gets upset, conveying the message that you just ruined his life. Not to be confused with the This-Pizza-Is-Way-Too-Hot-But-I-Decided-to-Take-a-Bite-Even-Though-it-Just-Got-Out-of-the-Oven Face.) Of course, if you went back to that Homecoming Pep Rally during High School, you would pause to look around and find out that everyone else has that look on their face, followed by the same face I pulled when I found out that Utah brought back Ostertag (the face where you knew that it was all inevitable). I’ll get over it though. He can always team up with Antoine “(the original) Big Dog” Carr and possibly expand his flooring business, NBA (Nothing But Awesome) Flooring. (By the way, I think I just broke the record for the number of parenthesis in a blog).
Well, this has turned into a very random blog entry. Where was I?
(to be continued...)
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
When I boarded for the first time last week, I noticed I was the only person wearing a tie. Then I noticed I was the only one in a dress shirt. Finally I noticed I was the only white person on the bus. Was I back in Honduras? Of course not—I was a full partaker of San Antonio’s well-oiled machine that we call VIA Public Transport. That’s right, I now ride the bus to work.
Things have been going pretty smoothly since I started riding over a week ago. However, three issues have come to my attention during the last week:
Needless to say, I’m a little hesitant to inform my friends and co-workers of my newfound mode of transport—I’m sure they’ll tell me that they knew someone who was run over by a bus, caught fire, and got mugged—all at the same time. I know what you’re saying: “There’s no way anyone will mess with a guy with a frame like yours.” You’re right—I could probably handle two or three guys but after that, fatigue kicks in; even I have limits.
Anyway, onto some random notes:
Just for the fun of it, I looked up all your wish lists on the Amazon.com website. Some interesting finds:
Trevor’s: Proclaimers (500 miles) + Little Women = One-way ticket to the GLAAD convention. Actually, I shouldn’t make fun of Trevor too much—he might turn around and hit me with his purse. And don’t get confused with the FOUR different Trevor Tustisons. Note: they are all the same person. He just wanted to make sure you saw his name. Trevor, we see you.
Kim’s: Chocolate from the Cake-Mix doctor. This sounds as exciting as having Charlie Weis sit on your shoulders while you’re trying to do the splits. Is it just me or does the lady look like someone photoshopped her head on someone else’s shoulders. (Kim, if you make any chocolate for me, please disregard this part of the blog.)
Jenn threw her back out on Saturday—I had to go retrieve it out the window at the bottom of the stairs. No, but seriously. She sneezed and conveniently we both had to miss stake conference. As much as I wanted to go by myself, I just couldn’t bring myself to leave the apartment with Jenn in her state of tremendous physical and emotional pain. She’ll deny all of that now, but she was on lots of drugs and pain medications so she probably doesn’t remember…
Halloween, just like Valentines Day, the prom and companionship inventory, is way overrated. As we sit here in our apartment at 10 pm, we have yet to have one visitor for trick or treating. I think all the kids that live here were bussed over to the rich neighborhoods. They also could have been scared off by the gunshots...
I just finished reading Trevor’s Book of the Month recommendation: 100 People Who are Screwing Up America. I’m adding one more to the list: the guy who came up with the Sonic commercials. Can we not comission some governmental committee and call them something like The Committee on Commercial Quality. There should be fines and public censuring, even public floggings. I feel very strongly about this.
Is it just me or has anyone else noticed the inordinate amount of celebrations in college and pro football. I’ve seen things this year I have never seen before. I saw some defensive line guy bat down a ball a couple of weeks ago. This guy didn’t just throw a fist in the air, or hi-five a fellow teammate. No, he proceeded to run about 20 yards up the field, flex his muscles and cross himself. Now don’t get me wrong. I think celebration just as good as the next guy—it gets you pumped up, your team pumped up and allows a chance for little known players to have some spotlight. But to tell you the truth, I wouldn’t be surprised if some players started doing the worm or the robot after making an open-field tackle. I think it’s a disturbing trend in our sports culture. Something that was fairly routine a decade ago has now become a quasi-halftime show…every two minutes. Which brings me to an idea I just had…
They need to have a commercial where a football player catches a ball for 10 yards or so and then proceeds to do all kinds of celebrations in the middle of the field. Then you have some skinny dude from the stands come down, tackle the player really hard. Then you have a caption on the screen with someone narrating, “Act like you’ve been there before, we do.” “Harrison Investments, Est. 1893.” Hey, it could work.
Is it just me or has anyone else noticed the inordinate amount of celebrations in college and pro football. I’ve seen things this year I have never seen before. I saw some defensive line guy bat down a ball a couple of weeks ago. This guy didn’t just throw a fist in the air, or hi-five a fellow teammate. No, he proceeded to run about 20 yards up the field, flex his muscles and cross himself. Now don’t get me wrong. I think celebration just as good as the next guy—it gets you pumped up, your team pumped up and allows a chance for little known players to have some spotlight. But to tell you the truth, I wouldn’t be surprised if some players started doing the worm or the robot after making an open-field tackle. I think it’s a disturbing trend in our sports culture. Something that was fairly routine a decade ago has now become a quasi-halftime show…every two minutes. Which brings me to an idea I just had…
They need to have a commercial where a football player catches a ball for 10 yards or so and then proceeds to do all kinds of celebrations in the middle of the field. Then you have some skinny dude from the stands come down, tackle the player really hard. Then you have a caption on the screen with someone narrating, “Act like you’ve been there before, we do.” “Harrison Investments, Est. 1893.” Hey, it could work.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)