I bet Abe was a great skier.
I celebrated my love for Abraham Lincoln, George Washington, and (of course) George Dubya swimming in a foot of fresh powder. Levi (from Evansville), Paul, Mary, and I drove up to Sundance at 8 a.m. (Take notice: the only time I’ve woke before 11 a.m. this semester.) The boys (both stellar boarders) grabbed their gear while Mary and I rented skis. I watched as five-year-olds soared down the mountain effortlessly and thought: “The snow is toast.” Then I put on skis. Needless to say, it all went downhill from here (no pun intended.) Paul had to pull me via ski poles through the lift line. Mary however, was pole-less and out of control. The three of us watched as she plowed through 10 people, knocking fifty percent of them to their knees. Most thought she was a vengeful line jumper, but changed their minds after watching her many attempts at peace with her skis. It was our turn; the four of us stood side by side on a thick red line. I crunched my eyes tightly and prayed that my butt would connect with the seat of the lift. I’m sure it would’ve worked out had my poles not tangled with my skis. After almost losing it I made the boys exercise the safety bar. We hopped off at midway. Paul and Levi tried to explain the basics of skiing. I picked up half of it and then launched forward down the hill. I was a bolt of chaos; my speed must have peaked at around forty. The last thing I recall: Levi screaming, “SNOW PLOW, SNOW PLOW!?!?!!’’ I never got the snow-plow (a.k.a. stopping) technique down. The result: My body twisted itself in ways that I cannot describe. I laid lifeless in the snow. Paul flew down the slope to my rescue. With much awkward effort I was back on two skis. I took off again and ran straight into the bank. I peeled my mess of existence off the snow once more only to crash five additional times before ever making it to the bottom. Mary stayed at the top, helplessly edging down the hummock. Paul and I headed back for another go. I glided down the hill in a more orderly fashion. After the third round Paul and I rode to the top of the mountain. He pointed at a ninety-degreeish slope, “Let’s do that one!” Ha, funny. I convinced him that the blue square could easily be more adventurous than the black diamond. So, down Old Bear Claw we went. Just give me an E for effort. At one point I braved a steep decline, no force could stop me. I felt hopeless and screamed for my life as the guardrail-less bend neared. The gap between me and the-point-of–no-return was drawing to a close; I violently chucked myself at the snow. My method kicked the-snow-plow’s trash as far as effectiveness goes. I removed the ski wedged in my back and laughed. Paul came rushing over, “Are you ok!!?” But, I couldn’t stop laughing. He caught the infection and exclaimed with amusement, “That was the best one, yet!” I never topped off that fall, thank the Lord. I walked away (just barely) from Sundance with a beautiful goose egg, vibrant sunburn, and a broken body. It was an incredible day off
It's me and the moon.
I crossed four lanes in five seconds during Salt Lake City rush hour; all for the love of piano rock. Mauren, Mary, and I had endured 45 minutes of intense heat (lost efforts to defog my windows) and insane Utah driving. It was time to claim our prize. Unfortunately, I overestimated my self-mastery of the Utah street coordinate system. We looked for a hint, such as the venue’s sign once in the general vicinity. Five left turns and twenty minutes later we found it; practically the size of my left pinky nail. Ice fell from the sky, unwelcome by those who opted out of coat wearing for the eve. The line moved quickly, in no time we were flashing I.D.’s and undergoing the-frisk-process. Breathing came to a halt; a
camera was concealed in my purse, swaddled in a black sock. “Enjoy the show.” Exhale. I headed straight for the merch. I fell in love with a white
Straylight Run baby tee.
I asked the hired hand for his opinion on the design. “What’s up with the rabbit costumes? Does it have some sort of link to the band?” (It was a bit Donnie Darko.)
“No, no. Nothing to do with us really; some artist just got a little creative.”
I laughed, “Um yeah, I’d say so.” Woah, wait...he said US. “And which bunny are you?”
“That one.” He said pointing to the warm, fuzzy drummer. SCORE!
“Well, nice to meet you.” I reached out to shake his hand. I know, I know. I’m forever branded 'dork.'
“I’m Mark.” He smiled. “And the bunny shirt is hot.”
So, of course I bought it and got a few pics while I was at it. People were packing in; we found a spot near the left speaker and anxiously awaited what was to come. The Academy Is served up a high energy screamo performance. The moshing began as did the apportionment of my small group. I was pushed into the middle; I hated this part of concerts. I’m always left to fend for myself, its times like these I wished to be that of an Olga complex. Nevertheless, I made do and enjoyed the music. Prior to Armor for Sleep’s entrance, I was able to fight my way back to Mary; for yet another round of body smashing. We dominoed to the ground, twice. A few songs later I found myself laying dead center in a mosh pit. I have no idea how I got there, but a random guy dove in and carried me out. I thanked him via hug. All in all; the band sucked. Their music served little consolation for the stampede like torture plunged upon me. After the umpteenth song they closed with the only one I recognized. It was eye-level with par. This brings us to the moment we’d all been waiting for. At least the moment I’d been waiting for. (I came to the SoCo concert for the opener, Straylight Run.) I knew every song, making sure those around me were well aware. It came to a perfect end, Existentialism on Prom Night. Yeah, you would kill for this. Who wouldn’t? It was lovely. Something Corporate was ready to wrap up the evening. I worked my way to the very front and embraced the barricade for cherished life. Waves of people crashed into me, but the feel-his-sweat closeness easily drowned out pain. I recalled lyrics to a whole five songs; Cavanaugh Park, Down, I Want to Save You, Space, and the beloved Konstantine. Lights were dimmed; Andrew sat still at his upright. Given the first three notes I knew it was time for my favorite so-raw-it's-bleeding love ballad. The beauty of the sound that filled the leaking venue could lull anyone into submission. I was no exception, and stood rapt. Andrew left his piano after the third verse and sat on the edge of the stage. He began to intertwine lyrics from a local Indiana band, Mock Orange, into Konstantine's magnificence. I continued to sing along (and alone) through the new addition. My reward; an Andrew smile. There was no encore; much deserved, yet unnecessary. We drove home spent but satisfied. Luckily, rush hour had long ended. I’d lost the verve to cross four lanes in five seconds, and my motivation was a quarter way to Vegas.
Concert Pics
Mates of State
I’ve lost all hope in BYU heads. They walk around campus, fake smiling into each other’s eyes. PUH-Lease. I want to red rover right through their death grip handholds. You might think I’m bitter, or lonely? No. I’m mad at them for settling. It’s like these people are so (I’m talking 3 week courtships for some) anxious to get to the temple they don’t care who they are kneeling across from. (If you don’t believe me just look around at all of the mismatched couples on campus.) So, I used to couple-watch in the airport. While waiting for a flight I’d pick a couple and analyze their chemistry. After thorough scrutinization I would either dub them soul mates or settlers. I know the theory of a soul mate is less realistic than the existence of Santa Claus, but every once in awhile I get this feeling that the world may, in certain moments, exist solely to bring two individuals crazy love... such a delicate balance. I have yet to witness this so called crazy-love on campus. And has anyone noticed the parent-like kiss BYU heads pass?? Honestly, if my husband was going to be stuck in class for 5 hours I’d give up a hecka lot more than a peck to hold him over. 5 hours is tough!! Stop pecking, you aren’t birds. I’m not trying to thump the idea of being married in college. Honestly, I think it’s the greatest suggestion ever. But I wonder if those living the idea think it so grand? They don’t act like it, and it’s giving me little to look forward to. Where’s the passion kids!?! Maybe they save it all for Wymount, who knows?! Urban Legend: Paul witnessed a woah-kiss in front of the MOA. Crazy art kids, good for them!! Call me an advocate for P.D.A. but if you’re going to be together for an eternity at least act like you enjoy each other. And set the example for underclassmen! We are the future BYU heads, after all. Ya know what, don’t listen to me. I have Relationship A.D.D. making me a very un-creditable source.
Crazy Love
"Seaside gusts of wind, And a house in which we don’t live, And the shadow of a cherished cedar In front of a forbidden window… Perhaps there is someone in this world To whom I could send all these lines. Well then! Let the lips smile bitterly And a tremor touch the heart again." -Anna Akhmatova
BYU-tylicious?
This is hilarious... An excerpt from Brett's blog: Anyway, about an hour before the dance ended, a dance group up front started booing the DJ. Well, the DJ simply turned off the music and gave them a little lecture that went something like this: "You guys need to stop taking your anger about the bad music out on me. I'm under restrictions on what I can play and have to play appropriate music. And you, the group right in front, especially need to stop because you are the reason I have to play this bad music: to keep you from dancing dirty. So knock it off. If you don't like it leave.'' EXACTLY why I don't go to the dances here. They just aren't ready for this jelly.
“…and you’re tearing up the photos cause you want to forget.”
I actually wrote this quite awhile ago, but there is a present-day follow up included in the end... So I have this shoebox and it’s filled with all the things I’d like to forget. My question is this: What does one do with such a box. It doesn’t belong in Utahopia, definitely not. However, if I were to ship it back to from whence it came I would have to waste five dollars of my precious college savings on an object that I despise. Another alternative: Burn the sucker. Torch it and watch it go. The flaw here is the law of conservation; although this dreadful piece of Matter (haha did anyone else get that?) would be burnt to stubble it would still exist and take up precious Utahopia space. Also this would cause some effort on my part and pocket (the price of matches is steep these days), not to the mention risk of violating a city ordinance or two. So my final option is to throw the thing on the top shelf in the back of my closet. Very little effort, minimal cost. It IS existing as a flawed object in a perfect place, but a dark, dusty corner of perfection is almost as demeaning as a sunny spot of landfill. There is only one problem with this arrangement (which happens to be the current position of the shoebox). Each and every time my friends and I decide to go tunnel singing in our perfect bubble I run to grab my D.T. issued blanket (think homeless-style) which just so happens to cohabitate with the awful shoebox on the cluttered top shelf of my closet. And every time I hurriedly grab the blanket (as not to be late for my very important date) my hand grazes that brown and gray shoebox. And I remember all the things I want to forget (what can I say; I’m an elephant… when prompted). I stop what I’m doing, sit on my bed and hate the entire male gender. And I contemplate a bonfire or perhaps packaging paper complete with stamps and bubble wrap (wait…no bubble wrap. He’s sooo not worth it) but I only leave with a slightly less than perfect feeling in a perfect place. (And I know that the fact that I took time to write this shows effort, but if the effort is to make you feel bad for making me feel bad then it’s justifiable. P.S. I hate you.) The follow up: Since... my roommate and I dedicated an eve to the destroying of our shoe boxes (highly liberating). Pieces of glass are embedded in the DT grass five stories down; remnants of the snow globe that "committed suicide." All the scented letters and photographs from years past have moved on to bigger and better things...the dumpster, serving their new purpose as confetti. The book of poems was thrown into the D.I. box...might as well give the less fortunate a chance at French Love. The necklace stayed behind...all that’s left. I threw it in the D.I. box as well but they didn't accept it (I wouldn’t either if I were them). So it remains there...but I've never stopped to notice.
Who needs the stars anyway?
Jilly forgot her cell phone. Despite our love for Jill Catts none of us dared to turn back around for another 5 block walk. My own legs weary, my cheeks numbingly cold, caused me to volunteer the Mazda. We made our way, all 6 of us, to the NC Boys’ house. We played the music loud, rolled the windows down, and I know, in that moment, we were all subconsciously grateful for Jill’s forgetfulness…One more minute of fun, one more minute of being nineteen and carefree. In our blithe Blake and Taylor noticed the Mazda’s supreme feature, the sunroof. Blake instantaneously pressed the black button. I watched in horror as a moonlit sky half-filled my car. Jenny shared my dreadful view, for she knew the story behind the sunroof. “NO!!!! Stop!!!” she yelled. Blake was greatly confused by her intense request. He asked why. Her eyes danced from Blake to me; my cue. “Well, it’s broken. Once you open it, you will never be able to close it again.” He apologized and hit the neighboring twin button. “Look Gerthie, it closed.” Taylor laughed, “See, with the priesthood you can do things impossible!” It was weird for him to weave our religion into such an apparently trivial matter…weird enough for Jenny to throw a nervous glance in my direction. The boys emptied out of the car, we had reached our destination, and Jilly had her phone. The sunroof was closed but that didn’t keep Jenny and me from examining it. Of course, no one else had noticed. Why would they? They don’t know the story. And for some reason I grew very glad that I had told Jenny, for I had someone to share the burdens of my past with. She saw it all just as I did, not only the priesthood could close a dead sunroof but also the hand of a young boy who wanted to show a girl just how very sorry he was. Too bad she never got it... not until now. You were my Libo.
Ender and Valentine
The quiet things that no one ever knows: My sleepless mind tried its best to understand why my mother would call three times and text twice before the clock hit 8. When I realized that three times warrants an emergency of the sort, I called back with slurred morning speech and sleep filled eyes. My mother’s voice was urgent. She needed a tow-truck, which equals “What is our Triple A membership number.” Sometimes I feel like I’m the parent…oh well. So I tried my best to voice it over. I asked what had happen. Apparently my wonderful brother went psycho on her Mazda, and left it for dead under a bypass. I asked a rhetorical question (this is the 5th car he has wrecked, including my dad’s truck), why would he do that? Apparently, he was on some pretty hard drugs. Ones they don’t teach you about in health class. (I didn’t fully comprehend, at Christmas my brother had cleaned up.) By now, my mom was sobbing into the receiver and I was wide awake. She summarized my brother’s dramatic monologue, “He said you were my favorite. And Dad’s favorite. And he said he hated you and he can’t be perfect like you.”(She always tells me more than I’d like to hear.) My heart broke. I wanted to scream at him, but I knew if I called profanities would be aplenty. I hate profanities. :( So, now it’s 8 something and I have a battery acid taste in my mouth. Sleep is only a nice thought. Just give me one more day, Matthew, and then I’ll come rescue you. Moral of the story: Don’t do drugs; you’ll make your little sister cry.
Pen-Pal
His letters are always laced with inside jokes, and drawings of fat men who I’ll supposedly marry or crazy-haired old ladies. We don’t write about music or love; very different from our normal conversation. Nevertheless, even the mundane everyday things seem significantly important. Most notably, in these letters we have an opportunity to discuss the religion that I love, the one he’s giving a pair of years of life to. For this he is my hero. I miss my argumentative friend (You can’t say things like that to missionaries, only words of encouragement.) I hadn’t realized that Dano by my own definition had morphed into my best friend. It must have happened in-between Red vs. Blue episodes or late night conversations on breaking molds or perhaps the reciting of Brand New lyrics…oh number 11. I have only one regret in regard to my first semester of life. I gave silent treatment to someone who will probably never deserve it. It prevented a real goodbye…or at least postponed it for two years. Even still, he calls me HIS hero; an endlessly amazing compliment. Even still, I was to be granted the James Dean poster!!!!! “I was gonna let you borrow my James Dean poster for 2 years, but then you got mad at me and we didn’t talk…but I was gonna do that so we’d be sure to meet up in 2 years!” I had won the James Dean poster…sad day.
Commercials...to be continued
Wooing the consumer…it’s an ever-growing enterprise. Even entertaining in small portions. But there aren’t too many Daryn-Mr.Tate masterpieces satisfying the seven o’clock Sunday spots. So here’s my take on your-favorite-sitcom-interrupters. Today’s
Commy (no association with those crazy Russians)
Award...
Most Fowl: The Lysol Disinfectant. A mother sends her 2 little darlings on their way clad with brown paper bags and backpacks. She scans the debris looking for the best way to clean up her muddle. How crazy can you get with PBandJ but apparently she couldn’t keep it on the bread. So she grabs a Scotchbrite and starts scrubbing away…it magically turns into a raw chicken leg. How she doesn’t notice this I DO NOT KNOW. And she doesn’t stop with the post-lunch making mess, no no. She gives the refrigerator, counter tops, and cabinets the official mom scrub down…all with salmonella’s haven of a tool. Any way…they got the point across. But I didn’t eat chicken for a week…poultry, it’s always the scapegoat I’m surprised the likes of Tyson foods aren’t laying the smack down.
We now take this moment to hear a word from our sponsors…
Skipping Birthdays
I put down the lid on my Physical Science book and leaped onto my featherbed. Just as I was about to envision dancing sugar plums I realized that I had failed to set my alarm. So, I grabbed my cell phone and started plugging in the dreadful hour of 9 a.m. I double checked the date (just in case). It’s funny what memories a simple 12 and 4 mixed with a few backslashes can impose on you. I thought of how the clock was striking 3 in the old Vern and silently wished that the silent treaty was gone…just for one night. Half tempted to text him a Happy Birthday; I settled for a Dashboard song, some things will always be so impossible. This isn’t the first time I thought about his birthday or how he forgot mine. I woke up early this morning and called every friend I had left in the state of Indiana, begging them to do what one who is 1600 miles away could not…decorate his locker. This is a childish tradition that continues to stir up guilt inside of me (I skipped the act last year because of a similar silent treaty). Unfortunately (or perhaps it WAS fortunate), no one was available and I left it at that. After all, we haven’t spoken in 3 months; it would be ridiculous to go out of my way for him. But nevertheless, he has been my best (yet worst) buddy since the 10th grade. (And if you are thinking: Woo, 3-year-old-friendship, like that’s worth a penny, realize…) It’s not that he’s been my best friend for the past 3 years; it’s that he will be my best friend for the next 62. Even if we don’t speak but once from now til then. Unwritten rules override silent treaties…Happy Birthday Matt Rice.
It's like a four day apocalypse
Desolate, barren, bleak, abandoned, deserted, vacant…T-Hall at the moment. I’m one of only two 5th floor girls “left behind” for the holidays. Sad day, sad day. Now I know why people get so depressed around the Holidays, they just want to get home to their families! I’ll have to wait yet another year for G-Ma’s scrumptulicious Stove Top. In the mean time I get to roam the corridors aimlessly looking for civilization, I swear I get more and more like the Hulk every day. Well…I haven’t inherited his fearless quality yet, that’s for sure. I went to wash my face and I SWEAR I heard the a-a-a-a-a-a inhuman noise coming from the bathtub. I mean DT bathtubs are scary enough as is but when you throw in sound effects from the Grudge...lets just say I didn’t bother to double rinse. So now that I’ve turned my music waaaay up and wrapped two blankets around myself I think it’s safe to try and get some sleep. But I’m so leaving the medusa lamp on tonight…its amber glow is somewhat comforting. Song of the Day: Can’t Touch This by M.C. Hammer
