Musings Early Monday Morning

So it is currently 2:23 a.m. and something peculiar is happening. I am unable to fall asleep. I know I know, this is absolutely unheard of, but such is my unhappy lot.
I'm not terribly perturbed at this for, as a college student, I'm quite used to not getting much sleep; I'm more confused about why it is that I can't sleep. I usually have absolutely no trouble whatsoever getting myself to settle in for an evening's repose.
Just last night for instance I had decided to stay up a little bit later than usual to read over the lesson that I was to give in Priesthood today from the Joseph Smith manual. Well, I sat down on the couch, opened the book, and promptly drifted off into that blissful state of unconsciousness which we all know and love. But not tonight. Nothing will do it for me. I've tried the dictionary, both regular and usage types. I've tried listening to soft piano music. nope. I've tried imagining the back of a penny (yeah that's a trick I've used since I was a child, I'm not sure why really.) Nada.
As I can't sleep, I've decided to blog. Man I still hate that word. In saying that I'm "blogging" I feel almost reminiscent of those innocent days of childhood when I'd pick my nose in bed and wipe it on the wall. (and no I am not ashamed of that.) That is a definition better fitting of the word blog. But I digress.
As I look back I see that it has been several weeks since I've *ahem* blogged. As I look back to what has happened to me in the last little while that is worthy of my writing about it at this ungodly hour a few things come to mind.
A week ago last Thursday I was pepper sprayed, by a cop. Now before you all go writing me off as a hoodrat and a hooligan, let it be known that it was a part of my training as a security guard.
Pepper spray, when applied to one's eyes, hurts. A lot. As I cast about for a satisfactory way of describing this pain, one phrase comes to mind. Hellfire. Not hellfire and damnation...but just hellfire. Even though I was told to cover one eye and close the one that was to be sprayed, I still felt as though someone had lit a fire on my right eyelid and then poked me repeatedly just for the sheer enjoyment of my pain. Herein follows a picture of me standing in front of a fan about ten minutes after the incident . Please note the eye swollen shut, the tongue hanging out (the spray got in my mouth and, while it wasn't nearly as intense as my eye, it burned) and the snot coming out of my nose.


So after about 20 minutes I was able to hold my eye open without any fingerly aids, and after about 30 minutes I could see perfectly fine.
It wasn't for about 3 hours though that the burning on my cheek and forehead completely went away and I had a headache until the next morning.
So I imagine this recounting has caused the question to arise, was it worth it. The answer: a resounding yes that echoes through the canyons.
I mean think about it, how many people out there can say they've been pepper sprayed. And of those, how many can say they've done it voluntarily. I daresay that, while that number may reach into the thousands and perhaps millions, that is still but a fraction of the world population. I suppose that the conclusion that I'm striving to reach here is this, I'm pretty cool.
Well, as we approach the 3:00 a.m. mark I suppose I'll wrap up this little musing by inviting all who may venture to read this, Be Excellent To Each Other.

Day or Night; Rain or Snow

The last few nights, as I have been out and about, there has been something different in the air. A combination of several things has filled me with an expectant, apprehensive and euphoric mood. It's the slight crispness of the air. It's hearing my peers discuss classes they will be taking starting next week. It's thinking to myself, "I need a new pencil before school starts." It's in the birdsong that gently drifts down faintly as smoke from a chimney. It's seeing the maple trees with their leaves all tinged with brown edges. (That may be a result of a lack of water but we'll take as a sign of autumn in this instance.) It's hearing young men and women across Provo laughing and pursuing gaiety in these last few days of freedom from the oppressive hand of academic progression. It's a combination of these things, which are but a small sampling of the many that could be listed, that has induced my uncertain excitement for that which lay ahead.

I have long held that Summer is my favorite season. For during the summer it seems, if but for a small season,  that the world relaxes somewhat and that life slows down marginally from it's breakneck speed. (I realize that, as I am still in school, my perceptions of reality and somewhat skewed and that perhaps my views on this subject are probably not widely held, but I can see the world through nobody's glasses but my own and you must, therefore, bear with me here.)

While those few months of ease from the stress of the rest of the year are wonderful, there is a special feeling that comes with autumn. Autumn brings with it a renewed vigor for life and increased desire to improve and make one's self better than ever. There is a rejuvenated enthusiasm that seems to bring the world into sharper focus and really makes one appreciate the beauties of the world that are all around.

It is this heightened perception of the world around me that has brought into ever clearer focus the love that I have for being a sports fan.

The summer, while a wonderful time for sitting back and lazing away the endless afternoons, lacks in great measure that added spice to life that comes from following with fervent care the progress of sports. The only sport worth following through the months of June, July and August is baseball. And baseball, while truly being the great American past time, lacks the intrigue to keep one's interest peaked throughout the entire summer. The Olympics did a good job of holding off the unrest caused by the dearth in sporting news, but their short tenure led to a short-lived sports fix.

But with autumn, sport returns in full force. And leading the fray, is college football.

Anyone at all acquainted with myself or my family knows the deep and residing passion that resides in our souls for Brigham Young University Football. As today the long-awaited  season officially starts today, and as I will be fortunate enough to be present for it's inception, a full summer's worth of pent up emotion, anticipation and excitement are sure to come spilling out of me with as much fervor as my skinny self can produce. 

Much has been said throughout the news world about the high expectations for this season and great lengths have been gone to in effort to acquaint us with the team therefore I shan't delve into that  realm. But I will merely say; Ra Ra RaRaRa. Ra Ra RaRaRa. Ra Ra RaRaRa. Gooooo Cougars.

Of vampires and how books about them aren't worthwhile.

I don't get it. Maybe I'm just not romantic, maybe I'm not fully versed in the ever-changing flows of pop culture...or maybe I just don't like the taste of blood. Be that as it may, I don't understand all the hullabaloo with these vampire books everyone is raving about.

Now before you all start jumping on my case and calling for this heretic to be burned at the stake for calling a beloved pop culture icon trash, be it known that I did indeed read the first book of the series...Twilight I think it was called; and I wasn't impressed. Bad writing aside, I just didn't find the story engrossing.

Anyway, here is my explanation of the first book. (And from what I hear of the rest of the series, this is a fair indication of what the rest are all about...though I can't say for sure because I haven't read them.)

In the first three hundred and fifty pages (give or take) there is very little plot or storyline. There's some chick who runs into and falls in love with a vampire. That sounds like it could be made exciting, but sadly it wasn't. It was just three hundred odd pages of sexual tension...nothing more. (Here I must interject that when the 80 year old handsome vampire dude took the 16 year old high school girl into the woods and started taking his clothes off, pedophile-like creepiness aside, I laughed aloud. He was all glittery! HA!)

Anyway, at the 350ish page mark, the story started to pick up and the plot did indeed start to thicken. But then at the climax, when the author was just promising to end the book on a high note, she had the main character pass out and we missed all the action. It was later retold to her while she was in the hospital, but I couldn't help but to feel that it was a total cop out on the part of the author.

Anyway, this novel left me so disappointed that I refuse to read the others and plan on boycotting the movie as well.

And now, as the new book has come out, I've been informed by my "more cultured" friends that's it's pretty much a steamy harlequin-esque romance novel full of sex and intrigue. Yeah, not too disappointed about missing out on that one.

So I've decided that if ever I'm in the mood for a romancy type book, I'll stick with Adam Bede and Pride and Prejudice. Those at least employ a writing style that doesn't make me sick.

God Bless America

I realize that the fourth of July was last week, but ever since then I've been contemplating the ideals upon which this nation was founded, and I've come to realize that we the people are failing to fulfill our civic obligations.

On the fourth, at a patriotic breakfast, Uncle Mark read the Gettysburg Address to all present. Now I was quite familiar with this address having memorized it at work just a month prior, but as he was reading, the words seemed to hit home more than they ever had. Especially these ones:

"It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us -- that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion -- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain -- that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom -- and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth."

The cause of which Lincoln spoke was, of course, that of freedom. This call to action and dedication, though delivered 145 years ago, remains as true for us today as it was for them then.

As I watch and read the news of that which is happening across the nation, I find innumerable evidences that the causes to which many of our fellow citizens are consecrated are deeply rooted in selfishness. There is an overabundance of causes that merely promulgate contention, hate, corruption, transgression and "tolerance" to which the American people have come to accept and embrace. It is disillusioning to associate that great country founded by the grace of God by some of the greatest men this world has ever known with the one that we presently inhabit.

Something must be done and a change must be wrought.

Knowing full well that in order to effectuate change, one must begin with "the man in the mirror,"(thank you Michael Jackson) my broodings over the past week have been greatly centered on what I can do to take President Lincoln's words to heart, what I can do to more fully dedicate myself to this cause upon which our great country was founded.

In pondering this, I remembered the words of Jesus when he said, "If ye continue in my word, then are ye my disciples indeed; and ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free." (John 8:31-32)


As I've thought about this I've come to the conclusion that true freedom is a lot like true happiness in that there are countless diabolic counterfeits that feign veracity, but only end up enslaving us to a dictatorial regime of unhappiness and damnation.

If we are to be truly free, and proclaim the message of freedom to the corners of the earth, we must continue in Christ's word. Only as we strive to understand and put into practice God's law and His commandments, will we be truly following Lincoln's counsel in dedicating ourselves to the cause of freedom.

We must begin once again to live by our motto "In God We Trust." It was by His hand that this great country came to be, and it will be by following His will that "this nation...shall have a new birth of freedom."

If we are unable or unwilling to follow those dictates that descend from the Divine, we cannot hold on to the hope this nation, in it's truly free and blessed state, will long endure.

Let us all "Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation." For only in doing so, will God's grace reign in the land of the free and the home of the brave.

Break Forth Into Joy!!

_
It is with great pleasure that I announce the arrival of Spring.

*brief pause as applause and/or blank stares die down
(Do blank stares die down and if so, is a pause really necessary? Ah the great mysteries of life!)

Many of you may laugh and scorn and say, "This loon is off his rocker! It's nearly the middle of May! Spring came a month and a half ago." I, however, don't apologize for my supposed tardiness.

I'm not saying that delinquence in our dealings is acceptable, least of all in our heavily scheduled and organized society. My belated proclamation is so...belated as a result of coolly calculated timing on my part. I have refrained from making such a proclamation as long as the remaining vestiges of the cold depression brought about by the winter season that appears to have finally left Utah (deep breath) have lingered. Just last week it snowed. SNOW!! IN MAY!! But it would appear that we have once again gained favor in the eyes of the Supreme, and, as one of Michael's professors put it, "The icy death grip of winter has loosened." (Michael correct me if I've misquoted)

This much anticipated arrival brings with it great joy to my heart. There have been many short intervals during the past several months in which this balmy weather has peaked its nose out of obscurity and given us a taste for what lay ahead. (Editor's note: The author hates the verb lay and its many convoluted conjugations. If he has misused it here, he would ask that you correct him privately so that he may retain some semblance of pride. However, if dashing the dreams of the starry-eyed aspiring is your cup of tea, feel free to do so publicly .) But these brief occurrences, far from bringing hope, have merely served to dash my spirits when the frozen monster returned to continue his reign of terror. I may exaggerate, but only slightly.
Having spent a good long time in the tropical climate of Ecuador, this intense freezing was quite difficult for me to cope with. But it is gone now. The monster is destroyed, at least for a season.

We may now take out the shorts and t-shirts and bask in the wonderful glory of the sun as it has now returned to us as did the famed Prodigal! Hallelujah!

Wrap your head around this

I've noticed that there seems to be a new phrase that is popular among the educated community. Well let me rephrase that. Among the professors that I and several of my acquaintances and friends have as our instructors, there is a new expression that seemingly all of them endeavor to covertly drop into their lengthy lectures. (I can't really speak for the whole community since I'm not a resident thereof. I'm not even a comely passerby looking in on this exclusively gated community. I'm more of the stray dog that has countless diseases all of which contribute to making his skin all crunchy and giving him the appearance that that same skin is about to fall off of his bones. I am this mangy cur who, because the community members feel a shadow of pity for my unenviable state, is thrown a small half eaten tuna sandwich when they drive down to the other side of the tracks to show their children what blessed lives they lead. But academic hubris is another topic for another day so I'll leave it at that.)
Anyway, the phrase that they are so quick to slip into their drawn out discourses is "wrap your head around." For example my calculus teacher might say something like, "The intermediate value theorem states the following: If y=f(x) is continuous on [a,b], and N is a number between f(a) and f(b), then there is at least one c ∈ [a,b] such that f(c) = N. Now I doubt many of you understood that, so I'll try to help you wrap your heads around it." Not only does she say this, but she says it with a derisive smile that clearly tells those of us paying attention, "Ha! I'm smarter than you so I guess I'll see what I can do to impart my bounteous knowledge to you dung brains." Now it's not so much the contempt in her voice that bothers me nor is it the fact that she's smarter than me. Rather, the phrase "wrap your head around" irks me somewhat for several reasons.
First of all, often, such as in the case mentioned above, the material being presented isn't all that difficult to understand and is actually quite logical, but when the presenter mentions that we'll have to wrap our heads around it to understand it, it sounds as though the process of comprehension will be a wearisome and interminable process akin to converting your present hard skull into a more flexible and thus wrappable material through some mysterious alchemical process. This has the effect of discouraging the discourageable and faint of heart, frenzying the perfectionist, and sending to sleep the apathetic. All of which are undesirable outcomes and should thus be avoided where possible.
Secondly I object to this phrase's use in the classroom due to the distraction factor. I've come to realize that I have an active imagination. Such being the case when someone speaks very descriptively or with much imagery I sometimes get distracted and, in the case of "wrap your head around," I begin to think of different situations in which people's heads are being wrapped around a great many objects. (My favorites are tennis rackets, tall beer mugs with the face going into the open end of the mug and then the rest of the head wrapping around from there, and swiss cheese with the head oozing through the holes in the cheese. heh heh) And then, by the time I've returned from my journey along the tangent, I realize I've missed several crucial bits of information and am completely lost in the lecture. I try to get myself up to speed with the instruction being provided, but this is usually a futile effort and I'm left to go back and learn those concepts on my own time. It is a waste of time and quite frustrating to say the least.
While these may seem to be fairly insignificant and harmless consequences of the use of this phrase, it is the existence of such small seemingly inconsequential actions by professors that threaten the education of the student. What I see going on here is something much darker and more sinister than my personal distraction. This is a Sam's-professor-wide conspiracy (again I can only speak of that which I know, though I expect the conspiracy to be at least BYU if not state or nation wide) to prevent the up and coming generation from receiving a good education for fear of revolution...or perhaps it just comes back to their enjoying being smarter than us, which leads us back to academic hubris once again. (huh. maybe that's what I'm talking about after all.)
Why, you may ask, do I suspect this? Well, it's because all, I repeat all, of my professors use this phrase and the time period marking the beginning of their usage thereof seems to coincide. This may not seem strange or unnatural, but this semester I am taking a wide variety of classes in effort to finish up my generals and I've found professors from the English, Math, Music, Physics, and Religion departments who all use this phrase. Now it is well known that there is usually very little inter-department, let alone inter-college, communication. So how is it that this phrase has spread over the whole campus in such a short time? The most logical answer is this: all the Deans of College, and perhaps department chairpersons, got together and decided upon a new distraction that would fly under the radar and not be noticed by the general public, while still achieving the desired result. (personally I see this meeting as taking place up in the mountains somewhere with everyone surrounding a fire while wearing black hoods and chanting under their breath. ooo, and before they get started they have a wicked cool secret handshake that they do while standing on their heads. yeah that'd be awesome.) And then these leaders take the new plan back to their departmental meetings and call for immediate implementation.
These "educators," convinced of their own brilliance, thought that no one would be the wiser and that they'd be uninhibited in their dastardly ways. But unfortunately for them, I'm on to their little ploy and I'll not be taken in. I will receive the education for which I am paying and when the time comes I might even instigate the revolution which they fear.
That is, unless they distract me first.

be it known that I typed this whole thing with nothing but my left hand

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.