Culturama: Symphonic Fishing

The month of August brought about some fun. My friend BING! invited me to join her for an evening in Park City to attend a performance by the Utah Symphony. The featured work of the concert was Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue," and there were some other numbers by Gershwin and Copland that were played.

The weather was a little ominous, but nonetheless beautiful if you can't tell by the color of the clouds in this photo. The last time I attended a concert at this venue was a couple years ago when the Symphony opened for Tony Bennett. Both evenings had similarities: lightning flashing around us (for Tony it was a few miles behind the stage, like the sky was some sort of celestial backup dancer), light sprinkles of rain now and then, and, of course, a bucket of chicken provided by yours truly. Gotta love them outside concerts!

Me and BING!, filled with classy tunes and fried chicken.

A few weeks later, old roommate and BFF Isaac was feeling a little lonely since his wife was out of town, so he organized a little outing for himself, myself, and Darrellself to do some fishing on the Provo River, followed by mountain biking at Sundance.

I used to fish these waters a lot when I took a fly fishing course at BYU. There's some good fly fishing to be had on this river, and you don't have to drive far to find it. Unfortunately, these guys weren't catching anything. My best guess is that (a) Darrell's cast wasn't so much a cast as it was random twirling of his rod directly above his head, and (b) both Darrell and Isaac were casting where currents were too strong. We weren't near enough to any natural pools where fish would be more likely to chill out and wait for a fly to land near them. Of course, I'm one to talk. I'm the wise guy who didn't bring equipment OR a license. I was stuck meandering around and in the river with my shorts hiked up to my thighs.

After a couple hours of epic fails -- including me rescuing Darrell from a baby garter snake -- we moved on to our next activity: riding the Sundance ski lift to the top of a mountain and zooming down the trails on a couple mountain bikes. Well, "zooming" was more like "creeping" for me. This was my second time attempting the Sundance trails, and I was a little more wary this time around. It probably has to do with the fact that after my last attempt, three of my limbs and my left hip came out looking like this:
Not to mention the bruises everywhere.

It was fun being in nature nonetheless -- I really missed the beauty of Provo Canyon while I was living in DC, so even while I waited for Isaac and Darrell to go down a couple trails without me slowing them down I found myself biking leisurely along the roads surrounding the Sundance Resort.

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Culturama: Llama Fest!

Starting off the culture posts with a bang! Last weekend my friend Leanne and I hit up Llama Fest, an annual event held at the Krishna temple in Spanish Fork. I've always wanted to check this event out in years past that I've been here but never took the chance, and this year the promise of 75+ llamas in one location was too much for me to resist.

Unfortunately we were too late to catch any of the obstacle course that the llamas were subjected to, but we did manage to catch a glimpse of the award ceremony afterwards. A certain llama named Dennis swept the floor with the competition, getting a ribbon in almost every category, including first place in said obstacle course. We all felt a little jealous of that guy.

Between awards, we were treated to cultural dances from various individuals who represented several countries in South America. What's funny to me is that, after about 20 minutes of watching, I realized that the advertisement of these Latinos representing all these different countries was probably false. During the chunk of time I sat there, there was one group of adults and one group of children that alternated on the dance floor, taking turns so that one group could go backstage and change into appropriate costume for their next number! But entertaining nonetheless, especially the two little tykes who looked about age 6 and constantly looked to the other couple for guidance on what to do next.

We went on to explore the temple itself (pretty basic place, actually -- worship area upstairs where they were giving an interesting demonstration of their chanting while visiting children poked and climbed on statues of their gods, and a restaurant/gift shop downstairs) after I had led Leanne over to where the llamas were being held outside. The best part was probably feeding the llamas -- they were pretty vigorous when it came to hay. But petting the llamas was a very uncomfortable experience. Imagine a huge ball of dirty wool and then reaching out only to feel a very bony skeleton beneath. Seriously, you can feel every detail of every bone and tendon. It's really sick. Like cross-breeding a sheep with one of the Olsen twins. In any case, llamas aren't very social creatures. Like their cousin the camel, they were bred to labor.


There was one llama in particular that made us afraid. I didn't snap a shot of it in hopes that the memory escapes me one day. This little guy was about half the height of a normal llama, had eyes that were only half-open, and a lower lip that hung loose off his jaw, leaving a long trail of green saliva constantly oozing out. He kept drunkenly staring at us. He's basically the reason we left the petting area.

But after that we discovered the zebu! Read the wikipedia article for more info on these guys. They didn't really care that we were there to see them, but they stayed close enough for me to grab onto their fleshy humps on their necks. I'd never seen one of these before. It kind of made me want to buy a mini-wagon and hitch 'em up for a mini-trek to Springville.

I'm sure this experience would have been much more enlightening if I'd bothered to research why exactly this event even occurs (I assume it has to do with the fact that there's a lot of llama/alpaca ranching in Utah) and why at the Krishna temple of all places, but it was fun nonetheless and I learned a few things, like how llamas can withstand extremely cold temperatures yet are prone to heat exhaustion at about the same levels of heat as humans. In that sense, I feel like I can really relate with llamas now.

I think I'll name one of my kids Dennis.

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A Whole Lot of Writing -- with No Pictures?!

Well, I always swore I would never turn this blog into a public journal, but I've already broken that rule a couple of times, and feel it's time to admit that I might head slightly in that direction on future posts, including this one. Enjoy!

Cultural Adventure Posts
I decided I'm going to try to post something, even if it's brief, on a regular basis, regarding my experience re-immersing myself in the Salt Lake/Utah Valley culture. Mostly this is to motivate me to get off my duff and live life to its fullest, but I also think it'll be an adventure in discovering Utah again. My first tenure here was spent with too much focus on school. This time around, I've decided to be more committed to experiencing the richness this state has to offer -- the great outdoors adventures, the local art communities, the festivals, etc. Heck, even some of the campus events that I never got around to doing will be a part of this series (I sadly never went to a football game while a student here!).

I feel that too many of us that went to college in Utah and then left the state have decided to focus our memories way too much on a few bad experiences, blowing them out of proportion and forgetting the good. One of my goals in these posts is to not only rediscover what is great about life here, but to find new things to rave about this state. It's not just some place where a bunch of Mormons enjoy living in a cultural bubble -- it's an environment worth exploring!

Lord of the Muscles: Return of the Calves
Time to get back in shape. I believe I weigh more right now than I ever have, and that ain't right. After having settled somewhat in my new digs and recovered from my mountain biking accident (oh, the post is forthcoming, don't you worry), I've decided to get back into an exercise routine. This will probably take place in the evenings as I usually can't even see straight until after lunch time. In any case, I'm documenting and measuring this progress by snapping weekly photos of my left calf. When the golden calves have returned from under their fleshy curtain of solitude, you'll know I'm back in business.

Don't worry, though, I won't be posting these photos of the calves. That would just make me look like I have some odd sort of fetish! No, once I'm back in shape I'll probably just pick the best ones and make a slideshow to demonstrate my progress over time. That's what normal people do, right?

Growing Pains
First of all, wasn't that such a great show? Seriously, there are few '80s comedies that have stood the test of time, and this is one of them. It had some really witty jokes and most of the plots strayed from the cliched scenarios that were recycled throughout prime time television in those days. Oh man.

But I have decided that it's time to grow up just a little. I'm not totally changing my personality here, but let me share a few points I've been thinking about:

1. I'm seriously cutting back the time I spend on a certain video game. I've never really been as hard core about it as the stereotypical gamer is, but as I thought about embarking on the aforementioned cultural journey I realized this could be a pretty big distraction for me. I may even delete it from my hard drive to purge myself. I don't regret playing or anything, and I certainly plan on continuing very casual use of my PS3, but I just need to make sure I'm well-rounded enough that I'm not ever even tempted to start on the path of introversion via video games.
   
   
2. In a recent issue of the Ensign (for any non-LDS readers I may have, this is a monthly magazine that most Mormons in the US subscribe to), a British general authority wrote an article on how the gospel refines our tastes and language. It's made me think quite a bit, as he stated that one who has really lived the gospel over a period of time avoids casual language and colloquialisms (I think he gave an example of how God would never describe a good experience as "awesome"), and that said person also really appreciates classical music from centuries past and such.
   
   It was hard to swallow at first. I felt like he was telling me I'm wrong for regularly using the term "hard core" and listening to rock music. Heck, by his definition, even the Beatles aren't refined enough. In fact, a couple of people who I consider to be among the best understanders and livers of gospel principles are some of the roughest-around-the-edges people I've ever known!
   
   But as I got to thinking more about it, I am not so sure he meant what my knee-jerk interpretation figured. I think a lot of the things he mentioned are things that naturally occur over time spent in the Church -- as in decades. And you know, I'm okay with Old Man Shark speaking a little more maturely. I don't picture myself in my 60s and 70s constantly praising my grandkids by saying "rock on!" (note the inclusion of the qualifying word "constantly"). Also, I think the seeds for that appreciation of classic arts are already planted. I own and listen to Handel's Messiah now and then and in humanities courses I've taken, I've honestly been amazed by the musical progress made by our predecessors. That being said, I don't think it's wrong for Old Man Shark to pop in some Weezer or Beatles or what have you. I know this sounds weird in a Holy Roller sort of way, but when it comes down to it I believe that a lot of rock music is of God, and I don't think "Hard Day's Night" is going to be banned from Heaven, you know? These artists have also made some excellent contributions to cultural history and I think there's a lot of inspiration in some of this music.
   
   That being said, I've decided there are things I can and perhaps should do to not seem like such a slob in some regards. For the most part I refer to my language. I don't consider myself to be someone with a dirty mouth, but in the past year or so I've been more lenient on my uses of the words "hell, "damn," etc. ... some of the "lighter" curse words which I'll use maybe once every couple of weeks just for shock value or hyperbole. I think I'd like this to come to an end... Just a little personal thing that I want to give up to show a greater commitment to being a better product of my religion. I also need to re-tighten my standards a tad on some of the media I expose myself to. Again, I'm not into porn or dirty music, in fact I still don't watch R-rated films, but sometimes I feel I let things slide that maybe I shouldn't. So, expect future writings to be just as rockin', but with better ways of communicating said rock!
   
   
3. I've gotten less snooty about the nickname. Don't get me wrong, I definitely still prefer going by "Shark" because I'm so used to it, but I've decided from here on out that I won't sneer (visibly or not) at people who decide to make use of the name on my birth certificate. Is it part of growing up? I'm not sure. I just know that I've felt like it's not worth alienating people. I don't care if someone looks down on me for having a "unique" nickname -- if they're too cool for school, that's their problem, not mine -- but there may be times I could reach out or be a friend to someone, and I'd hate it if I found out I had missed an opportunity to do so just because I had driven them away by insisting on being called something they were sincerely uncomfortable with. So, for the record, I still prefer Shark, but you can get away with calling me by my given name without incurring my wrath, though it may take some getting used to for me.
   
   
4. I want to be like Darrell. I know this seems counter-intuitive under a heading about growing up (bwah bwaaah, just kidding Darl!), but I've always admired Darrell for his financial responsibility and I think it's time I join the game. I've already been doing much better lately at saving up money, but I can still do better. A lot of this stems from recent conversations I've had about being a good provider, both spiritually and physically, for my future wife and kids. I know already from experience in dating relationships that it feels terrible when you don't think you're being what your significant other needs. I'd hate to accept the responsibility of being a husband/father and not be able to support my loved ones in a way that they can be free to lead happy lives.

Well, this is one of the most personal posts I've written in a long time. Better enjoy it, as I'm not planning on being this sober all that often (hic!). So on that little note...


EXCELSIOR!

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Car Names and Arch-Nemeses

Living in Provo again has its pluses: I'm back to my old barber who I know I can trust, dollar scoop night at Baskin Robbins guarantees fresh ice cream due to the high amount of traffic it gets, and cost of living is low enough that I can finally afford having a car again without feeling like I'm going to break the bank!

I'd been doing some research online for a few weeks prior to moving and had a general idea of what I wanted: a reliable car that will last a long time and get decent gas mileage. Not much different from what most people seek, I would think. Once I landed in Salt Lake last Thursday, I knew I wanted to get mobile as fast as possible so I could move to my new place and be independent again, so with the help of my dad I managed to get a decent deal on a car the very next day!

The new ride is a 2006 Nissan Sentra SE, with only 22.5K miles on it. This little guy should last me a while. And the best part, in case you can't tell from the photo, is that it's BRIGHT YELLOW! (A daylight picture would probably show this even better, but the only time I have remembered to snap a few shots was last night in the Smith's parking lot.) I never thought I'd own a car this color, but the mechanics of it seemed to be great and I figured that, heck, you're only a young, single bachelor (hopefully) once and I might as well have a little personality in my automobile.

And I'm already seeing the benefits! I went shopping at Wal-Mart on Saturday and had to park clear on the opposite side of the parking lot, almost at McDonald's. When I stepped out and had to remember which row I parked on, it took me about 2 seconds to see this bright yellow bumper barely sticking out. Yellow FTW. *cough*

In addition to the awesomeness of its color, the spoiler on the back has proven its worth in the few days we've been together. I was driving down I-15 the other day when I thought to myself, "Man, this 4-cylinder engine is really wailing! My old Lumina would have been about ten feet off the ground at these blazing speeds!"

Now let me make one thing clear: I've decided to NOT dub this car "The" Sharkmobile. It is certainly A sharkmobile and can be referred to as such, but I wanted to give this one a different label so as to separate it more from its predecessor who, in the end, gave me more grief than I'd anticipated.

One thing you have to know about me, though, is that I'm generally opposed to most people's naming schemes for cars. Firstly, it's odd that we feel this need to properly name our vehicles at all, as if they're our children. Secondly, most people I know tend to give their cars real-people names that are generally feminine, like "Barbara" or "Pam." That's weird to me, too. A car name should represent something unique about the car itself and, if using an actual PERSON name, should not be a name you would actually expect to hear on the street anymore. Here are some good examples of car names I've grown to approve:

-"Myrtle": JKC's car in college that his grandma gave to him. It was definitely an old lady's car and it ran like a prune, getting you to where you needed to be but about ready to die at a moment's notice. We were hoping that another roommate would get an old man car-counterpart that we could name "Baxter."

-"Lola": My sister's car, named such because, during its first long drives with the CD player on shuffle, it favored Barry Manilow music more often than any other variety.

-"Kiff": Cabeza's car. The license plate letters are "KFF," leading to this natural allusion to the hilarious "Futurama" sidekick, as well as many Zap Brannigan quotes.

Bearing that in mind, I present to you my car's new title: Professor Zoom! I imagine most readers won't immediately catch that reference. The explanation is as follows:

The Flash is my favorite superhero. His costume color scheme, as pictured, is solid red with a white circle and yellow lightning bolt comprising the icon on his chest. The Flash's arch-nemesis, the Reverse Flash, also known as "Professor Zoom," has an opposite color scheme: yellow base with a black circle and red lightning bolt comprising the icon.

Now, I'm not one to promote supervillainy, but Professor Zoom is a tragic figure who had a life that handed him nothing but disappointments. Of course, this is all to OUR benefit, because the results of said life have led to a lot of great Flash storytelling and character development. So why not repay him just a little for his hardknock existence?

I even broke in the car's new attitude by trying to establish its "wicked"-cool personality right off the bat: the first songs I played on my drive home from the dealer were "Tribute" by Tenacious D and most of the new Offspring album, which is about as bada** as rock can get. The stereo system ate it up (including the subwoofer in the trunk that was included)!

The name fits well -- the solid yellow body and black interior of my car are very reminiscent of the Reverse Flash. All that's missing is a little red, which should be fixed within the next few weeks as I am custom designing a Reverse Flash insignia to place on my rear window. All the closet nerds in Utah Valley who end up driving behind me will be eating their little hearts out.

Oh, but if your name is Barry Allen, you better watch out. I'm pretty sure my car plans on killing your fiance on your wedding day.

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Epic Shark Fail(s)

Let's face it. I gave my two weeks notice last Thursday and am mentally checked out. In the 4.5 days I have left in the office all I've got on my plate are the tail ends of two really tedious projects, each of which might take me about 20 minutes to do. What better way to take advantage of my need for distraction than by documenting some of my favorite injuries from a lifetime of klutzhood? If only there were photos to accompany these.

KNEE MEETS FACE
Senior year of high school. I'm at my friend Hillary's house late one evening, celebrating her birthday hard core by joining a small crowd of party-goers in dancing on a makeshift ballroom floor in the dining room.

In a random fit of seeking attention as a means to expel a sudden oncoming of internal energy, I place my right hand behind my neck while my left hand grips my elevated left ankle. I then begin to rhythmically convulse, bending my torso back and forth while pulling and pushing the leg my left hand has a hold of.

Why this was even once considered a good idea for a dance move is beyond me. Within moments my overzealousness got the best of me -- my own left knee met my face quickly and sharply, leaving me with a broken pair of glasses and my first bloody nose. I somehow had to drive home that night despite only barely being able to see the road.

HEAD MEETS CEILING FAN
While serving as a full-time missionary in Dallas, one of my zone leaders comes to my area overnight to see how the work is coming along. While getting ready to retire for the evening, I decide it'd be great to share with him my plan for a cross-country road trip when I get home.

Standing on my bed to adequately point at the map I had hung near the ceiling, I mentally note that the fan, which is currently on the highest speed setting, is hanging just inches from my noggin. "You'll be fine as long as you don't lean back any further," I tell myself.

THUK-THUK-THUK-THUK-THUK!!!

I fall off my bed, hit the floor, and grip my head as I writhe in pain. Zone Leader stares in disbelief.

HEAD SEEKS REMATCH WITH CEILING FAN
One or two weeks later, my OTHER zone leader makes an overnight visit to my area. Zone Leader #1 calls us to ask Zone Leader #2 a question, and we put him on speaker phone so all three of us can chat.

"Hey, did you tell him what happened around this time last week?" Zone Leader #1 chuckles over the phone.

I wisely respond, "Oh, let me reenact it! It was pretty funny!"

Standing on the bed, I explain, "Well, I was showing Zone Leader #1 some locations on my map, and then my head went like THIS --" Mentally I'm thinking that I'm not really going to stick my head in that fan again, I'm going to get just close enough to illustrate the direction it was headed.

THUK-THUK-THUK-THUK-THUK!!!!

Body plops to floor, hands grip head, teeth grit. Zone Leader #2 stares in disbelief. Realizing I'm okay, he loses it laughing. Zone Leader #1 probably rethinks my eligibility as a missionary.

WHO NEEDS SKIN ANYWAY?
A group of friends, including myself, decide to hike along a river running through Zion National Park -- much of the trail demanding us to hike in water sometimes up to our chests.

Months of preparation take place, including several safety disclaimers and lists of gear to bring along. Knowing that our feet are going to be submerged much of the hike, Darrell and I decide that regular shoes or hiking boots will only soak up water and get really heavy. We opt instead to go out and buy some hike-worthy sandals.

Of course, what footware store name is most equated with the phrase "hike-worthy"? Payless Shoes, duh! Without even bothering to look elsewhere, we head straight there and quickly find the cheapest pair of sandals money can buy -- I think each pair cost us about 12 bucks. Satisfied that our feet would be adequately protected for the twelve mile hike by a thin slice of leather topped by a few inches of cheap thread, we head to South Utah for the great outdoors.

The hike is awesome. Beautiful. We even think we're going to die from flash floods a few times when it starts raining in our particular part of the canyons. By the end of the arduous journey, the cold water combined with exhaustion have made my feet entirely numb. Since I can't feel any pain, I naturally assume that my feet are doing alright.

Getting back to camp and pulling out some shoes and socks to throw on, however, reveals the truth of the situation: the straps running across a the top of my feet, where callouses don't reside, have slowly been cutting into my skin, grinding away a large area of the top few layers bit by bit over the 12-mile trek. Removing the sandals reveals a bloody mess, and after some makeshift wound-dressing to now-thawed little tootsies, I find myself unable to walk without wincing in very real pain. For about a week after finishing the hike I walk like an arthritic old mule and even solicit piggy back rides from roommates. Some of the scabs are so deep that they literally take about 8 months to completely heal.

Darrell's feet? Totally fine. It turns out that he didn't tighten the straps on his sandals all that much, so there wasn't such a tight, constant abrasion. Darrell also hates tightening a tie all the way up to his neck and wearing pants where the crotch doesn't sag at least five inches below the point where his legs converge. I'm pretty sure that Darrell would wear absolutely nothing but a Snuggie everywhere he went if it were socially acceptable.

On the upside, the remaining scars remind me of the great charity of two of my roommates. Upon returning home, without me even asking, Mitch cleaned and dressed my hideous wounds (and re-dressed them at least twice in the days that followed), and Isaac ignored the throngs of women who were constantly chasing him for at least an hour as he ran around the ward looking for some medicine to prevent infection. These memories honestly warm my heart.

I'M LIKE A BIRD
On another hiking venture about a year later, Darrell decides to take us to Henefer, UT (pictured to the right) to explore the vast expanse of rock and dryness surrounding his hometown.

Nearing the last two miles of a maybe-six mile tour, the first few members of the group, including Darrell and myself, reach a six foot drop off a great fallen tree we've been walking along. Darrell and a couple others gingerly climb down hand over foot to be safe. I, on the other hand, decide that the dirt beneath the tree looks soft enough to me, and six feet really isn't that far of a drop anyway, so I take a few steps and leap off and fall until...

... my foot lands on a fallen branch, causing my ankle to roll worse than it ever has in a million lifetimes. For the only time I can remember in my adult life, I scream in pain and lie in the dirt, nursing the wound while the rest of the group catches up to us and stairs at this pathetic ball of a man rolling around on the ground. Luckily the hike is mostly over, and the hardest part is behind us, although the last half mile or so involves walking across a sea of endless rocks and boulders, which I challenge anyone with a sprained ankle to do at a pace faster than that of a drunken three-toed sloth.

Later on, a crescent bruise will form under the ball of my ankle, and I won't be able to run comfortably for at least 6 months. I think I even use crutches for the only time in Shark history for a brief period.

IDIOCY, PLAIN AND SIMPLE
Last year I decide to run from my house in Alexandria, VA all the way to the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, DC -- a roundtrip totalling about 10.5 miles. Of course, up until this run I've only trained for 5 or 6 miles. Forget that I decide to make this run once I'm already out the front door, so I don't have any water with me.

I return a VERY dehydrated, queasy man who can barely walk, and it takes me about three months for my running injuries to heal enough that a light jog is even feasible.
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And that, my friends, is just the tip of the iceberg.

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Gah!!!

If you happen to be visiting this page from a link on Sonja's blog, I apologize for any confusion. "Mark Gillins" is dead. The Shark ate him.

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Dreams: "Penny! I Love Ya!"

Most of the members in my local church congregation are stranded on the island from "Lost." We got stuck there because for a time the island had stopped moving and seemed to be just a normal, tropical landmark, so it was opened up for tourism and small towns were built to accommodate the traffic and provide some night life. When the island decided to start going nutso again, it happened to be a day that most of my congregation was doing some sightseeing, trapping us.

Determined to get off the island, I decide to make a swim for it. Every once in a while I can spot a mountain range just a couple miles offshore, and decide that I'll head for that, despite the warnings from other people that I shouldn't. While a party is happening on the beach, I warm myself up by swimming in the air about 7 feet off the ground, heading toward the water, and then finally plunge in and go for it. I'm about a mile out when I realize that my arms and legs are giving out on me (in real life I'm not a very strong swimmer). Luckily I haven't even left the large channel that I had decided to start from (because walking on land to the furthest point out certainly is just plain illogical), and soon I find Cabeza, old roommate Warren, current roommate Darren, and friend Amanda coming out to rescue me, and they dutifully pull me to the shore that I had been moving parallel to and carry me back to the rest of the castaways.

Emotionally drained from a failed escape attempt, I plop down in a seat with the congregation, who has set up folding chairs on the beach, facing away from the water, to have some church meetings. An announcement is made by one of the leaders that a small group of packages has mysteriously arrived at the island, and each one is addressed to a different person there. Another leader holds up a large box over his head and I can see that it's addressed to me, but suddenly someone a few rows back stakes a claim on it! Not one to be had, I stand on my chair and furiously yell "HEY! THAT'S MINE!" over and over, repeating myself because I keep getting drowned out by the applause of the surrounding congregation, who is very excited for this fellow to be receiving a box of goods.

After three or four attempts, I'm finally heard and the impostor sheepishly gives me the box. As I begin to slowly open it, I wonder who would have sent it to me. Looking for a name, I find "Marcos" scribbled on the side of the box. I begin to sob as I express gratitude for Marcos, a real-life member of my congregation, who was so thoughtful to send this along.

Opening the box, I find that it contains several clothing items, most of which belong to me, including a set of military fatigues and my blue and white beanie that an old college roommate had crocheted for me (see picture). It feels good to have something of my own again.

Later on, Amanda and I keep going to an abandoned saloon to drink the non-alcoholic beverages, but every time I try to jump over the bar to play bartender, the bottle of whatever I'm going to drink falls out of my hands and shatters. One of these times, the beverage is a gourmet lime soda. The only other drinks immediately available are bottles of Jarritos, which neither of us is really in the mood for.

The rest of my experience involves exploring a nearby restroom, making plans to dig out a new living area/cave (including an uncomfortable bed made of sand), and watching three cartoonish-looking animals try to save each other from plunging off the side of a cliff to their demise.

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Dreams: In Brightest Day, in Blackest Night...

Soaring above green fields peppered with orange-and-yellow-leafed trees, I'm very content at the notion of having super powers. After a few minutes of the normal loop-de-loops and corkscrews, I land outside a small house. Glancing at my hand, I notice the source of my flying power: a small ring! It appears to be made of sturdy black string, with a green gem set in.

Entering the house, I find Cabeza, who is just getting out of bed. I flash my ring at him and explain that it's just like Green Lantern, except that my ring only lets me fly, not conjure objects built of solid energy. Cabeza then excitedly pulls out an identical ring, slips it on his own finger, and aims his fist at the wall. After a moment of concentration, a 4-inch, green circle pulsates where he's pointing. "Gasp! Your ring holds the second half of the Green Lantern powers!" I exclaim excitedly.

In the corniest moment of dream history, we put our fists together so that the jades are in contact with each other, a la the Wonder Twins, but instead of reciting a dorky encantation to activate our powers, the rings begin lighting green sparks and emitting electric bursts that suround our hands, even after separating once again. Not really sure what this has accomplished, I begin goofing off with my abilities, easily levitating off the ground in a diagonal direction, keeping my body erect while widening my eyes and puffing out my cheeks to get a reaction out of my brother, who dutifully laughs, because I am, after all, a comedic genius.

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Why Do I Lunge Out at You?

This song is dedicated to everyone but Abe, Darwin, and myself today. Enjoy!

*Note that my web hosting provider has had some server lag issues today, so try hitting refresh and give it a minute if it doesn't show up or play at first.

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