I suppose that, considering the rate at which news travels when carried on the wings of those dear people that I am blessed enough to refer to as my friends and family (especially family), by now my most recent tragic adventure is common knowledge far and wide. Nevertheless, since I can hardly allow such an occurrence to go by without my documenting it, I will now proceed to revisit it and provide you all an insider's view of the events.
It was Tuesday the 25th of March. Being witnesses to the fact that March does indeed appear to be going out like a lamb and feeling that such a beautiful afternoon would be wasted by merely burying our noses in our books, Michael Ann Burgan (would that her last name were jello...just say it to yourself out loud) and I decided to go to a nearby park and play frisbee. The sun was shining, the grass was...greenifying and all the world was lovely as we played. Then, when I wasn't quite expecting it (that's what we'll go with anyway) Michael threw the frisbee to me. It was a bit out in front of me and I, realizing my physical limits, knew that were I to merely run to where the frisbee was heading, I would never reach it in time. Thus I found it prudent to leap into the air in a desperate diving attempt to lay hold on the flying disc before it reached the ground. Lamentably I was unsuccessful and the frisbee gracefully floated to the ground. I, however, being somewhat less graceful than the frisbee, landed with a fairly awkward "whump." As I sat up and began to pick grass off of my clothing I happened to glance at my right hand and found that something was awry. My ring finger seemed to be a bit out of place. Whereas one's right ring finger is usually situated parallel to the rest of the fingers in the hand, mine was currently rotated roughly 90 degrees clockwise from where it should have been, thus forcing my pinkee to bend down. Also, for some strange reason, the knuckle that usually sits at the base of this finger, appeared to have been swallowed up within the depths of my hand. None of this seemed to be quite natural so I looked up at Michael's laughter filled face and I calmly proclaimed, "So I think my finger is broken." As she came to my side she acceded to my assessment of the situation. After consulting with Mom, it was decided that I should have a professional look at it.
Luckily for us, Michael's roommates Marissa and Christie happened to be at the same park engaged in a friendly game of tennis. And so we approached them and asked, "Hey do you guys want to go for a drive?" As the situation was explained to them, Christie amiably offered to take us to the E.R. After a short stop at their apartment and the Brick Oven to drop Marissa off at work (I might add that all this time I was calm as could be and quite fascinated by this new arrangement of my hand) we arrived at the E.R. As I went through triage (I felt like I was on M*A*S*H at this point, what with triage and all) I suppose that I wasn't considered to be too serious of a case because I was told to go sit in the waiting room and I'd be called. So I returned to the waiting room and Michael, Christie and I proceeded to chat the evening away all the while watching as our fellow "sickies" were admitted one by one for treatment. After a while of this we were nearly the last people waiting. I say nearly because there was a pair of sick Elders from the MTC. Poor blokes.
At last I was taken back into that area where all the action takes place and I was immediately the hit of the E.R. I was X-rayed first of all, but after that it seemed as though there was a never ending supply of doctors, nurses, student interns and firemen who wanted to see the kid with the finger that was all, for lack of a better word, skiwhompus. Though my finger was beginning to perturb me somewhat, I was more than happy to display the fruits of my labors to all interested. Though I couldn't help but to wonder what all the other patients were doing as their doctors were checking my finger out. I can just imagine some chap bleeding out of his eye sockets who's doctor hears the commotion in my room and says this sanguine invalid, "Hang on I gotta check out the kid with the messed up finger," as he dashes out of the room. But I digress.
At last the tide of onlookers was stemmed and Dr. Hooker (I kid you not that was his name) came in and delivered the prognosis that we were all waiting for. My finger...was broken. yup. And considering the peculiar positioning of my appendage he (thankfully) deemed it necessary to numb my finger before putting it back into place. And so one of the nurses who had been particularly excited to see my finger enthusiastically volunteered to do the numbing. And so she did. I must confess that the needle and the numbing liquid was quite painful. Yes quite painful. At this point another doctor asked if I wanted my friends to come in. I said sure, and so he went to fetch them. I mention this because at the exact moment that Michael and Christie were walking in, Dr. Hooker had seized my discordant digit and was wrenching it around in every which direction in effort to align it with the others. I myself had chosen not to witness this display, but from the looks on their faces as they walked into the room, it was apparent that it was a gruesome scene. At last Dr. Hooker decided he'd had enough fiddling around with my finger and went off to order another x-ray.
Once again we were left to wait. As we did so, we commented on the various strange objects in the room. Perhaps my favorite was the jaw screw that was ever so clearly marked and sat at the ready. As we waited, one doctor in particular kept poking his head in and saying the strangest things. He told us jokes that were so lame that we barely mustered the motivation to provide him a courtesy laugh and, well, generally came off as a little bit queer...in the old fashioned definition of the term that is. You know...strange. On one of his little visits (we were sitting in that room for quite some time) he said something rather disconcerting. He said that he curious to see what they did with my finger. He mentioned that they had this thing (he was very vague as to what he was referring to) that they didn't use all that often but that I was a perfect candidate for it. And with that he refused to say any more and left. We were left to wonder anxiously what it could be.
Anyway, after a while we were invited out into the hall to look at the x-rays. Again it was affirmed that my finger was broken and that I might, if things didn't go quite right, require surgery. meh. And so as we mozied on back to the room, a girl with a rather wild look in her eye rolled by in a wheel chair, looked up at my x-ray and proclaimed for all to hear, "DAAMN, HE DOESN'T HAVE A PINKIE!!" (so it appears on one of the x-rays) Needless to say we laughed quite heartily at that one.
At last a student intern came in to the room and wrapped up my hand gave me my instructions, x-rays, and prescriptions and finally, three hours after we had entered, we were allowed to leave the hospital.
Later on, as we were enjoying a form of root beer float at Katy's house, the numbing agent began to wear off and I became more acutely aware of that which had transpired within my hand that evening. Remembering that I had been given a prescription for painkillers, I decided that it would be prudent to fill it at this time. Thus we borrowed Katy's car, and since I was unable to drive with my hand in such a state, Michael graciously offered to drive me to Rite Aid. The wait being an hour and a half long before my drugs would be ready, we decided to get dinner to kill the time, neither of us having eaten a thing all night.
At last I got my drugs and we headed for home. And so, nearly 7 hours after this adventure started with a simple game of frisbee, I popped a couple of pills and slipped into the sweet oblivion of a dreamless sleep...only to be awoken 5 hours later by a searing pain that tore through my right hand.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Monday, February 25, 2008
Round 2
This afternoon, as I got back to my apartment from class, I was debating with myself whether or not I should go to work. Having been a bit under the weather as of late I was inclined to stay home and take a nap. However, with March on the near horizon and realizing the need to pay my rent before management started breathing down my neck, I resigned myself to the proposition of returning to the BYU grounds to once again to pay my daily homage to Mother Earth.
As I arrived at the shed, I could see from the look in Edwin's eye that today would be yet another day filled with menial tasks worthy of perhaps half an hour of my time, but which I would be asked to stretch out to fill two hours. But such is life and I am well capable of doing so.
The work which I was asked to do today was a bit of a heterogeneous mixture of odd jobs. I was asked to go to the entrance of the Smith Fieldhouse to pick up a cement column that had fallen down, to clean out gutters and drains for a bit, and, if there was time left over, which there was, I was to, once again, retrieve the rubbish left behind by careless students in their hurry to class.
I considered the pillar job to be that which would require the most of my blatant brawn and highly toned figure. Upon realizing that there would be quite a large crowd to witness this feat of strength that I was about to perform, I decided to do it first.
As I approached the cement pillar in question, I realized what I was up against. And quite frankly, I was dismayed. Though proud of my burly self, I am well aware of my own limits and this pillar seemed to be well outside of them. Standing nearly four feet tall (when erect) and a good 18 inches square at the base, this concrete monster defied me. It must have weighed 200-250 lbs easy. I could see it leering at me with its yellow teeth showing through a crooked smile. It was as if it was daring me to try and lift it; daring me to make a fool of myself in front of the passers by.
Well I'm not one to back down to a challenge like that, so I squatted down, somehow managed to mash my gloved fingers underneath its broad side and prepared myself to lift. As I did so I heard a voice behind me say, "You'll have to be a lot younger and stronger to be able to lift that up." Thirsting to prove the cynical observer wrong I exploded with my legs and held on desperately with my hands to lift this concrete behemoth. I raised to nearly a 45 degree angle with the ground when my grip gave out and the beast went crashing triumphantly to the ground. As it did I glanced around at the vocal bystander from a moment ago and was shocked by what, or rather who, I saw.
It was none other than the man who made Bronco Mendenhall's job one worthy of notoriety and respect. That's right, the one and only Lavell Edwards.
As I tried not to stare, and wondered wildly to myself what I should do now, he smiled and said, "That was better than I expected from a wiry kid like yourself." To which I could only reply, "Thanks coach." He smiled yet again, climbed into his Toyota 4Runner and drove away.
As I stood there in a stunned silence, a moving guy who had witnessed the whole scene, came up to me and offered to help me pick up the pillar. Distractedly I assented and we lifted the pillar back up to its original position. As I thanked the young man, I couldn't help but to reflect back on what I had just experienced. I had yet again gained approval in the eyes of one of my heroes. This would truly be a day remembered.
As I arrived at the shed, I could see from the look in Edwin's eye that today would be yet another day filled with menial tasks worthy of perhaps half an hour of my time, but which I would be asked to stretch out to fill two hours. But such is life and I am well capable of doing so.
The work which I was asked to do today was a bit of a heterogeneous mixture of odd jobs. I was asked to go to the entrance of the Smith Fieldhouse to pick up a cement column that had fallen down, to clean out gutters and drains for a bit, and, if there was time left over, which there was, I was to, once again, retrieve the rubbish left behind by careless students in their hurry to class.
I considered the pillar job to be that which would require the most of my blatant brawn and highly toned figure. Upon realizing that there would be quite a large crowd to witness this feat of strength that I was about to perform, I decided to do it first.
As I approached the cement pillar in question, I realized what I was up against. And quite frankly, I was dismayed. Though proud of my burly self, I am well aware of my own limits and this pillar seemed to be well outside of them. Standing nearly four feet tall (when erect) and a good 18 inches square at the base, this concrete monster defied me. It must have weighed 200-250 lbs easy. I could see it leering at me with its yellow teeth showing through a crooked smile. It was as if it was daring me to try and lift it; daring me to make a fool of myself in front of the passers by.
Well I'm not one to back down to a challenge like that, so I squatted down, somehow managed to mash my gloved fingers underneath its broad side and prepared myself to lift. As I did so I heard a voice behind me say, "You'll have to be a lot younger and stronger to be able to lift that up." Thirsting to prove the cynical observer wrong I exploded with my legs and held on desperately with my hands to lift this concrete behemoth. I raised to nearly a 45 degree angle with the ground when my grip gave out and the beast went crashing triumphantly to the ground. As it did I glanced around at the vocal bystander from a moment ago and was shocked by what, or rather who, I saw.
It was none other than the man who made Bronco Mendenhall's job one worthy of notoriety and respect. That's right, the one and only Lavell Edwards.
As I tried not to stare, and wondered wildly to myself what I should do now, he smiled and said, "That was better than I expected from a wiry kid like yourself." To which I could only reply, "Thanks coach." He smiled yet again, climbed into his Toyota 4Runner and drove away.
As I stood there in a stunned silence, a moving guy who had witnessed the whole scene, came up to me and offered to help me pick up the pillar. Distractedly I assented and we lifted the pillar back up to its original position. As I thanked the young man, I couldn't help but to reflect back on what I had just experienced. I had yet again gained approval in the eyes of one of my heroes. This would truly be a day remembered.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
meh
Ha I just remembered something. Back in the day I was trying to come up with a new nickname to make Heather mad with. First I thought "Heath", it being short for Heather. Then I realized that Heath, while it could be pronounced H-eh-th, was usually pronounced H-ee-th, which was also a candy bar. So I then thought of chocolate. Following the same pattern as before I shortened chocolate to "choc". I then decided that was enough and stuck with choc. It never did stick really, but I do remember a few choice incidents in which I delivered this moniker at just the right moment and Heather was instantly incensed with me. Ah the good ol' days. I suppose I probably deserved getting that bat to the face sometimes...But you can't blame a three year old kid for not knowing that the catcher was supposed to stand further away from the batter now can you?
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Narcolepsy
- Main Entry: nar·co·lep·sy
- Pronunciation: \ˈnär-kə-ˌlep-sē\
- Function: noun
- Inflected Form(s): plural nar·co·lep·sies
- Etymology: International Scientific Vocabulary
- Date: 1880
- : a condition characterized by brief attacks of deep sleep often occurring with cataplexy and hypnagogic hallucinations
- (www.m-w.com)
Anyway, I bring this up because lately I have been increasingly unable to stay awake in situations where such is the socially acceptable status. A few examples are during classes, watching movies and eating dinner (true story). Of late this has become increasingly uncomfortable for myself and others. Just last week I was in my Astronomy class and the girl sitting next to me nudged me to wake me up because I was breathing so loudly. She did so laughingly while I quietly apologized. And within minutes I was out cold once again. (I must put a disclaimer on my falling asleep in Astronomy. I have the class at 1:00pm on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays and it is my fifth class in a row of the day. Not only that but we attend class in the Planetarium where the seats are ever so comfortable and the powerpoint presentations, which only increase the slumberous atmosphere in the room, are broadcast onto the ceiling so we have to sit back in our chairs to see them. Then, when the professor turns off all the lights and turns on the stars, my stupor reaches near comatose.)
It seems that once I am asleep, I'm deep asleep and I immediately enter the dream stage. This can be quite adventuresome in classes such as the History of Jazz and Calculus because my mind goes crazy and creates the most interesting situations and plot lines using the things that the professors are saying. I've never thought of Calculus as a super engaging and enterprising topic, but when the subject is put into the overactive imagination of a sleepy student, the most amazing things happen. Unfortunately I'm unable to remember any specifics, but I can say that more than once I've started awake with my heart racing and wondering what will happen to that poor function when it's taken to and analyzed at its limits.
As for movies, I don't know that I've watched a movie to the end for a month or so now. A few movies that I've started and continue to be in a state of suspense over having not seen the ends to are; The Rundown, Ratatouille, Phantom of the Opera, Stardust, Nacho Libre, The Illusionist, Masters of the Universe (Good ol' Heman), and Martian Child. The problem is, everyone else has seen the ends to these movies and therefore don't want to watch them again, and I'm stuck wondering if the Rock ever finds the rich mans son and whatever becomes of the cooking rat and how, if at all, Christine escapes from the Phantom. It's frustrating.
In short it seems that every time I sit down, or even if I just stand comfortably, I fall asleep. I wish it weren't so, but such is my unenviable state at the time.
Meh. It's not so bad. At least I don't snore in class...yet.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Delusions of stardom
Tuesday January29.
As a member of the BYU grounds crew in the wintertime there isn't much to do. The grass needn't be cut, the trees aren't ready to be pruned, and any planting of flowers would result in their immediate death by freezing. When it snows we have plenty of work to go around, but when there is a dearth of such, we aren't so lucky. It is in such times that we "gardener's helpers", in effort to earn those precious few dollars upon which we depend to provide us with our basic necessities, are forced to be creative in thinking up projects to keep ourselves busy. Be it walking briskly to and fro with a snow shovel and an ice pick in hand so as to take on the appearance of being on some important errand, or merely meandering about with leather gloves on, peering searchingly into the depths of random shrubs and other such herbaceous plants as if on the search for some hidden prize, one must always be sure to maintain the "I'm busy don't bother me" demeanor so as to discourage suspicion that we aren't earning our wages.
On the day in question, at about 3:30 pm, this was my challenge. Having finished all the tasks set forth for me by my supervisor Edwin, I was faced with decision. Go home an hour early, or stick around trying to look useful while feeling that my time was being utterly wasted. Upon thinking of the number of tacos that the extra $8.30 could bring me at Del Taco on any given Tuesday, (being three for a dollar that would come to around 25 tacos. Taco Tuesday baby) I decided that my time would be better spent pursuing that ever elusive seductress; economic stability...and a full stomach. And so as I sat in the shed pondering on whcih task would be most worthy of my next hour, my eyes lighted upon the garbage-picker-upper-dealys. You know the ones where you squeeze the handle and the two pincers on the end of the stick close together giving you the look of a crab with ridiculously long arms.
Upon seeing such instruments, I decided to take the environmentalist approach and save the earth from the never ending tide of litter. I therefore strode forward and picked up a grabber dealy and a bucket and headed out into the unknown.
To be perfectly honest the area into which I was headed isn't all that unknown. I've walked the entirety of our area of campus hundreds of times. Why was it then that I felt such a feeling of apprehension and uncertainty as I began this task. I was as though all my childhood dreams were about to come true. (on a side note, when I was a child my dream was to be a garbage man, so the previous statement, when considered in context, is actually quite accurate. However, this colloquialism was not intended to be taken literally, but just as a way of illustrating the unexpected sense of fascination that filled my soul. )
As I headed east along the north side of the Indoor Practice Facility, keeping a keen eye out for any unsightly debris that might be strewn across the landscape, something off in the distance caught my eye. It seemed as though a large group of men were jogging towards me. My thoughts flew back to the scene of It's a Wonderful Life where there is a run on the bank and the whole city turns out to withdraw their funds. With Zion's Bank not 50 yards behind me, I began to worry that the economy was on the fritz and we were but seconds away from losing our life savings. And then my thoughts shifted. Were we such a possession oriented people that our greatest concern was for our funds. What would happen if we were to stop caring about such things and focused on the really important things like love for you neighbor and stopping to help another.
As I was considering and lamenting the ever decaying morality of our society and the fact that much of what we do seems to be centered around how to make the next buck, I realized that the group of men that was charging towards me, wasn't a group of economically prudent beings, but rather the BYU football team. Most of whom looked me over with an eye of disgust for my appearance (I haven't washed my work sweatshirt for a couple of weeks now) and headed into the warm and friendly confines of the indoor practice field.
In a jiffy my thoughts on saving the world from its selfish endeavors were lost as I watched these giant specimens make their way into the edifice to my right.
With the sudden appearance of this crowd of spectators, I was instantly aware of my situation and how I was breaking the cardinal rule of menial labor; to never look as though you have nothing to do and are just lounging about. And so I was immediately prompted to action and caught sight of a slightly worn cardboard container that had once played host to French fries from that great American institution McDonald's. So I hastened purposefully towards the rubbish and thrust out my grabber, ready to collect it and tuck it safely away into my bucket. As I did so my focus on the trash slipped and my eyes were drawn unwillingly to rest upon the countenance of the great Bronco Mendenhall who was now jogging lightly towards me. As I looked at him, I saw his eyes shift towards my general direction. Not entirely realizing what I was doing, I drew myself up so as to display my entire 6'2" 145 lb frame in its natural grandeur. As I did so I saw that Bronco glanced at me and then changed directions. Instead of following his team into the building, he was now running directly towards me.
In an instant, floods of Rudy-like visions came to my mind. I saw myself suited up and running out onto the field of Lavell Edwards Stadium as 65,000 strong roared their approval. I saw myself in a myriad of situations in which I singlehandedly stole victory from defeat while playing the part of nearly every player on the field. First I was a defensive lineman making the game saving stop. Then I was the punter pinning the opposing team down on their own 2 yard line with a booming 70 yard punt. Next I saw myself intercepting a pass in the end zone after an acrobatically maneuvering myself in midair to put myself in front of the would-be receiver. I was the quarterback scrambling for a 15 yard gain and keeping the game winning drive alive. I was the running back, the All-American wide receiver and the center of the offensive line. In short, I was the hero.
As he approached me I felt sure that Bronco was seeing these same images in his mind, or was at least watching them through my eyes. He saw in me some raw talent; some greatness that had, as of yet, hidden itself from public view. A greatness that Bronco saw and knew that he could mold into the next legend to come out of Brigham Young University.
As he drew near I took gulp of icy cold air and listened for those words that I longed to hear.
"Thanks for helping to keep campus clean son," he proclaimed as he patted me on the shoulder. And with that he turned and entered the practice facility.
I stood in a state of bewildered awe. "Son," I thought to myself, "He called me son." I had gained approval in the eyes of Bronco Mendenhall.
And with that, I continued on in my work.
As a member of the BYU grounds crew in the wintertime there isn't much to do. The grass needn't be cut, the trees aren't ready to be pruned, and any planting of flowers would result in their immediate death by freezing. When it snows we have plenty of work to go around, but when there is a dearth of such, we aren't so lucky. It is in such times that we "gardener's helpers", in effort to earn those precious few dollars upon which we depend to provide us with our basic necessities, are forced to be creative in thinking up projects to keep ourselves busy. Be it walking briskly to and fro with a snow shovel and an ice pick in hand so as to take on the appearance of being on some important errand, or merely meandering about with leather gloves on, peering searchingly into the depths of random shrubs and other such herbaceous plants as if on the search for some hidden prize, one must always be sure to maintain the "I'm busy don't bother me" demeanor so as to discourage suspicion that we aren't earning our wages.
On the day in question, at about 3:30 pm, this was my challenge. Having finished all the tasks set forth for me by my supervisor Edwin, I was faced with decision. Go home an hour early, or stick around trying to look useful while feeling that my time was being utterly wasted. Upon thinking of the number of tacos that the extra $8.30 could bring me at Del Taco on any given Tuesday, (being three for a dollar that would come to around 25 tacos. Taco Tuesday baby) I decided that my time would be better spent pursuing that ever elusive seductress; economic stability...and a full stomach. And so as I sat in the shed pondering on whcih task would be most worthy of my next hour, my eyes lighted upon the garbage-picker-upper-dealys. You know the ones where you squeeze the handle and the two pincers on the end of the stick close together giving you the look of a crab with ridiculously long arms.
Upon seeing such instruments, I decided to take the environmentalist approach and save the earth from the never ending tide of litter. I therefore strode forward and picked up a grabber dealy and a bucket and headed out into the unknown.
To be perfectly honest the area into which I was headed isn't all that unknown. I've walked the entirety of our area of campus hundreds of times. Why was it then that I felt such a feeling of apprehension and uncertainty as I began this task. I was as though all my childhood dreams were about to come true. (on a side note, when I was a child my dream was to be a garbage man, so the previous statement, when considered in context, is actually quite accurate. However, this colloquialism was not intended to be taken literally, but just as a way of illustrating the unexpected sense of fascination that filled my soul. )
As I headed east along the north side of the Indoor Practice Facility, keeping a keen eye out for any unsightly debris that might be strewn across the landscape, something off in the distance caught my eye. It seemed as though a large group of men were jogging towards me. My thoughts flew back to the scene of It's a Wonderful Life where there is a run on the bank and the whole city turns out to withdraw their funds. With Zion's Bank not 50 yards behind me, I began to worry that the economy was on the fritz and we were but seconds away from losing our life savings. And then my thoughts shifted. Were we such a possession oriented people that our greatest concern was for our funds. What would happen if we were to stop caring about such things and focused on the really important things like love for you neighbor and stopping to help another.
As I was considering and lamenting the ever decaying morality of our society and the fact that much of what we do seems to be centered around how to make the next buck, I realized that the group of men that was charging towards me, wasn't a group of economically prudent beings, but rather the BYU football team. Most of whom looked me over with an eye of disgust for my appearance (I haven't washed my work sweatshirt for a couple of weeks now) and headed into the warm and friendly confines of the indoor practice field.
In a jiffy my thoughts on saving the world from its selfish endeavors were lost as I watched these giant specimens make their way into the edifice to my right.
With the sudden appearance of this crowd of spectators, I was instantly aware of my situation and how I was breaking the cardinal rule of menial labor; to never look as though you have nothing to do and are just lounging about. And so I was immediately prompted to action and caught sight of a slightly worn cardboard container that had once played host to French fries from that great American institution McDonald's. So I hastened purposefully towards the rubbish and thrust out my grabber, ready to collect it and tuck it safely away into my bucket. As I did so my focus on the trash slipped and my eyes were drawn unwillingly to rest upon the countenance of the great Bronco Mendenhall who was now jogging lightly towards me. As I looked at him, I saw his eyes shift towards my general direction. Not entirely realizing what I was doing, I drew myself up so as to display my entire 6'2" 145 lb frame in its natural grandeur. As I did so I saw that Bronco glanced at me and then changed directions. Instead of following his team into the building, he was now running directly towards me.
In an instant, floods of Rudy-like visions came to my mind. I saw myself suited up and running out onto the field of Lavell Edwards Stadium as 65,000 strong roared their approval. I saw myself in a myriad of situations in which I singlehandedly stole victory from defeat while playing the part of nearly every player on the field. First I was a defensive lineman making the game saving stop. Then I was the punter pinning the opposing team down on their own 2 yard line with a booming 70 yard punt. Next I saw myself intercepting a pass in the end zone after an acrobatically maneuvering myself in midair to put myself in front of the would-be receiver. I was the quarterback scrambling for a 15 yard gain and keeping the game winning drive alive. I was the running back, the All-American wide receiver and the center of the offensive line. In short, I was the hero.
As he approached me I felt sure that Bronco was seeing these same images in his mind, or was at least watching them through my eyes. He saw in me some raw talent; some greatness that had, as of yet, hidden itself from public view. A greatness that Bronco saw and knew that he could mold into the next legend to come out of Brigham Young University.
As he drew near I took gulp of icy cold air and listened for those words that I longed to hear.
"Thanks for helping to keep campus clean son," he proclaimed as he patted me on the shoulder. And with that he turned and entered the practice facility.
I stood in a state of bewildered awe. "Son," I thought to myself, "He called me son." I had gained approval in the eyes of Bronco Mendenhall.
And with that, I continued on in my work.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
And so it begins...
So I've joined the technological age and created a blog for myself. I do not do this of my own accord or volition. It's actually just an assignment for my English 150 class. But I, with cheerful disposition, will take upon myself this ever so daunting task of informing the world of the various happenings in my life.
And so it is that in this, my first official post, I decry the existence of the word "blog" and its use in reference to scholarly efforts such as this one. I feel that we, as a people, should abandon the use of this word. It is demeaning. It sounds like something stuck to the end of a quarter that you've just pulled out of your nose. This connotation therefore establishes, at least in my mind, a minuscule value to mine and others' words.
As we all know, the word blog is an abbreviated form of the term "web log". Have we become such an amazingly lethargic society that we can't bring ourselves to pronounce just one extra syllable in describing our efforts to document our lives? Blogs (shudder) have become the modern form of journal keeping in many instances. Are we willing to have these attempts to inform our progeny about the events that shaped and molded our lives described by a word that brings to mind a muculent substance? I say that we should not stand for this. As a matter of principle this should not be.
It being 12:33 in the morning, I will now rest my argument. One fundamental question still stands. What can be used to replace the word blog in our vocabularies. I don't claim to have all the answers and therefore appeal to the masses to help me in my quest to find an adequate replacement noun and verb, and mainstream it into our society.
And so it is that in this, my first official post, I decry the existence of the word "blog" and its use in reference to scholarly efforts such as this one. I feel that we, as a people, should abandon the use of this word. It is demeaning. It sounds like something stuck to the end of a quarter that you've just pulled out of your nose. This connotation therefore establishes, at least in my mind, a minuscule value to mine and others' words.
As we all know, the word blog is an abbreviated form of the term "web log". Have we become such an amazingly lethargic society that we can't bring ourselves to pronounce just one extra syllable in describing our efforts to document our lives? Blogs (shudder) have become the modern form of journal keeping in many instances. Are we willing to have these attempts to inform our progeny about the events that shaped and molded our lives described by a word that brings to mind a muculent substance? I say that we should not stand for this. As a matter of principle this should not be.
It being 12:33 in the morning, I will now rest my argument. One fundamental question still stands. What can be used to replace the word blog in our vocabularies. I don't claim to have all the answers and therefore appeal to the masses to help me in my quest to find an adequate replacement noun and verb, and mainstream it into our society.
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