Monster Trucks and Fancy Cats

Say what you want about living in a van, but it does lead to some pretty spectacular bedroom views. While you're stuck with that view of the neighbor's pool, or the neighbor's trash cans, or the neighbor's illicit affair that only you and your telescope know about, the view out my window can range from the Grand Canyon, to Niagara Falls, to the world famous Tuscaloosa Walmart.

In Sedona, Arizona, I don't need my van for a spectacular bedroom view. My cousin Diane and her husband, Eric, invite me to stay at their beautiful home in Sedona. Eric is an architect, and he has designed their home in an "H" shape, maximizing the effect of the picturesque mountain in their backyard.

This is the view I wake up to in the guest bedroom:


The mountain is nicknamed "Thunder Mountain," which places Diane and Eric's house on "Thunder Mountain Road." When Eric mentions this, all I can think of is the overzealous announcers at monster truck events that exaggerate every proper noun by yelling it three times.

"It's Thunder Mountain, Thunder Mountain, THUNDER MOUNTAIN ROAD!"

When it comes down to it, however, Diane and Eric live a life that evokes no images of a monster truck rally. The house Eric designed is beautifully sophisticated and the couple are avid wine drinkers.

Diane even works part-time for a nearby vineyard, where she and Eric treat me to a wine tasting. I'd never really associated Arizona with wine before, but the local winery is quite impressive, boasting rows and rows of flourishing grapevines near a quaint and peaceful brook.

Sedona is a pretty special town, so it's not surprising that the occasional resident is a bit...let's say...particular. I'm not talking about Diane or Eric, both of whom are wonderful hosts who remain very down to earth. I'm talking about their cat, Paco, who refuses to drink from a bowl.

No, Paco can not quench his thirst unless he is drinking running water, and has managed to train both of his owners to turn on the kitchen sink upon his demand various times throughout the day. Now that's a cat that knows what he wants.

Oh, and if anybody asks, Diane and Eric are very hip and with it, and neither would ever go to bed at eight o' clock on a Saturday night.

And I would never go back on a promise not to mention that in this blog just because I thought it was funny.

Giving Thanks for Not Blogging

I'll be taking a very brief break from blogging in honor of Thanksgiving weekend. Unless plans change, I'll be back with a new blog on Sunday. Until then, I suggest you check out this link.

It changed my life.

The Power of the Stache

I was all set to write a blog about my trip to Sedona , Arizona when I decided that it was time to shave my beard. I have grown a mountain man beard on this journey, but having the opportunity to visit home in Phoenix, Arizona, I decided it was the perfect time to get rid of the beard and go for the clean cut look.

Halfway through shaving, I had an epiphany.

What is stopping me from keeping an epic mustache? I asked myself.

Nothing. Nothing is stopping you, ya big stud.

I've never had a mustache before, primarily because I've always grown facial hair with the regularity of a ten-year-old Chinese girl. But as the beard shed away, it became increasingly clear that a majestic mustache was a distinct possibility.

Before I knew it, BAM.

A young Burt Reynolds.

As it turns out, the mustache is the ultimate facial accessory. Consider the various personalities I am able to embody thanks to my newly found mustache, or as I like to call it, "God's gift to the ladies."





There's the philosopher.













The troubled private investigator who sometimes feels the need to take the law into his own hands.











The seventies porn star who just woke up.

The sixties folk artist. Frankly, it's a shame this was never an album cover.






The lonely creepy guy with his own talk show on public access radio who sells discount mustache rides on ebay.












The guy who desperately tries to explain to Chris Hansen that he only showed up to the house for "a play date."






And of course, the chick magnet. Seriously, I'm now worried about my magnetic properties when it comes to the opposite sex. I'm not sure it's even legal to look this good.

There Once Was a Man in a Van

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Optimism in the Face of Reality

For some people, the cup is half full, even when it's empty.

The stocky, middle-aged man who approaches me in the Cottonwood Walmart with an excited expression on his face is the kind of guy who cries at a wedding, laughs at a funeral, and eagerly anticipates a trip to the dentist.

"You can call me Tim from Walmart," the man says with a laugh.

Tim laughs a lot these days, but it's really hard to imagine why.

Tim was born and raised in Detroit, the product of a working class family. As a young man, he served four years in the Navy, but he has spent the majority of his fifty plus years on this planet searching for his calling.

Things never really came easy for Tim. He wasn't exceptionally good in school, and so work for him has always been just that; work.

But the past few years had been good to Tim. He found himself in a steady relationship, became a father, and decided it was finally time to do something meaningful with his life. So he leveraged his low level position in the hospital he worked at to go to nursing school.

He would work during the day to go to school at night. Studying and test-taking were a chore for Tim, but he was determined, and he had a passion for becoming a nurse. When it came time to take the biggest test of his life, Tim was incredibly nervous.

"I didn't know what to expect, so when I found out I passed, I couldn't believe it. Only two people passed, and here I was, this simple guy from Detroit, and I was finally going to be a nurse. I really feel like it was my calling. It was what I was put here on the planet to do."

It may not sound like much to some, but for Tim, this was redemption. For all the times he was told he'd never amount to anything, for all the times he'd felt completely lost, this was his moment.

Unfortunately, that's all it was. A moment. Because not long after realizing his dream, Tim had that dream taken from him.

"My old lady's father," he tells me, letting his smile slip ever so slightly for the first time since he approached me, "he never liked me. Me and her had an argument one night, and the next week, I find out that he reported me for domestic abuse."

Tim maintains his innocence, but I can not in good conscience say I believe him. Through the course of our conversation, "I never touched her" becomes "I only pushed her after she pushed me, and I never hit her of course."

I'm not here to judge.

What I am here to say is that, whatever mistakes Tim has made in the past, he is paying for them now.

With the claim of domestic abuse, his nursing license was revoked. Unable to secure other work in the current market, he found himself without the funds to afford rent and hopping between friend's couches. For the past two weeks, he has been living out of a green minivan outside the Cottonwood Walmart.

"There's a lot of us stuck out here," he tells me, motioning to the various vehicles parked at the very back of the massive parking lot. "But I'm okay. It's nice to have some alone time in the van. It's peaceful."

To Tim's credit, he is searching for work.

"I've got a second interview with the Wendy's over there on Monday. But, man, I tell you, even there they don't make it easy. It's like running for political office."

It's a sad statement from a man who less than a year ago was working in his dream job.

Tim never stops smiling as he says it.

I Get Blogged Up

The past 48 hours have not been the easiest of my life. They have contained more stress than sleep, more pain than pleasure, and more heartache than happiness.

Unfortunately, due to a world wide web time-space continuum (too complicated to explain, but consider Back to the Future Part III if you need a reference point) my current existence and my blog life run two weeks apart. Essentially, the experiences you read about here generally have happened a couple of weeks ago.

So sometimes I find myself writing about pleasant things like sunshine, skittles, and the cancellation of "According to Jim" when my mind is focused on unpleasant matters like the Apocalypse, Charleston Chew, and the cancellation of "Arrested Development."

In other words, I am too mentally and physically exhausted tonight to write a blog at the level of quality I'd like to maintain on this site (and yes, I am conveniently ignoring the fact that my last post had three gratuitous Hannah Montana jokes) but unable to properly explain why without compromising the world wide web time continuum.

But I didn't want to leave you, my loyal reader/person who stumbled upon this site after searching for "Chuck Norris Summer Camp for Hot Asian Cheerleaders and Teenage Vampires" on google news, without a blog two days in a row.

So I figured I'd exploit the world wide web time-space continuum (which can be better understood by researching the string theory best explained by Dr. Sam Beckett in various episodes of "Quantum Leap") by giving you a heads up on what you can expect from this blog in the coming days.

Topics to be covered in the near future include but are not limited to:

+ Tim from Walmart, a man facing far more serious issues than "not feeling up to blogging tonight."

+ A visit to Sedona, the most beautiful place in America, and home of one of John McCain's 365 houses. (He has one for every day of the year, except of course for leap years; John McCain, incidentally, is notorious for having never blogged on February 29th.)

+ My day spent lecturing high school classes in my hometown of Glendale, Arizona. Highlights of my talk include "Be cool. Stay in school," "Drugs are bad," and the ever popular "Hey Kid, can you spare a couple bucks for gas money? I'm really hurting here."

+ The Thing.

+ A day trip to Timberon, New Mexico, home of the world's tiniest apartments, friendliest people, and most cavalier oryx.

+ A ride-along with the city of Phoenix's crisis response unit, where I may or may not have caused a brush fire that destroyed the Phoenix greater metropolitan area, leading to me feeling "less than bloggish" this weekend.

That's what we in the blogging business like to to call "a cliffhanger of Stallone sized proportions."

As always, you're welcome.

Unless you're not.

Barack Obama and Hannah Montana Audition for American Idol

Have you ever been so compelled to tell a story that you feel it must be the work of divine intervention?

I woke up this morning from a dream so vivid, so unimaginably imaginative, that I immediately ran to the nearest mirror and whispered seductively into it, "I must write you."

This story will be my legacy. It will move mountains and flood oceans. Don't be shocked if, while reading the third sentence, time literally stands still.

I don't mean to oversell the story, but I now know what Moses must have felt like when God approached him with the Ten Commandments.

So without further ado, I present my masterpiece:

It was the day after Thanksgiving, also known as Black Friday, and the approaching Twilight reflected perfectly off of Miley Cyrus' Beyonce poster. Miley was in a good mood, because she knew that everyone had forgotten all about her scandalous nearly nude pictures that were posted all over myspace, facebook, and TMZ.com.

After all, she was a respectable Sarah Palin supporter who rejected the notion of global warming, supported capitalism by purchasing an i-phone and a wii fit, and always made sure to keep up with important news like the Southern California Wildfires.

She was nothing like Britney Spears and Paris Hilton. Nobody would ever see pictures of Hannah Montana nude. They might see pictures of Paris Hilton and Britney Spears with no underwear on. They might even see pictures of a naked Megan Fox making out with Jessica Alba, but she couldn't concern herself with such trivial matters as UFC 92, the recent trades by the New York Knicks, and this week's NFL betting lines.

No. She had an American Idol audition to go to. But first, she needed to call and console her best friend, Barack Obama. Obama was so busy appointing Hillary Clinton as Secretary of State that he forgot to appear as a guest judge on Dancing With the Stars.

Unfortunately, Barack was also too busy to answer his brand new Blackberry Storm because he was attending the annual Chuck Norris Summer Camp for Hot Asian Cheerleaders and Teenage Vampires.

If Barack Obama had a Quantum of Solace, he would have torn himself away from Youtube and Wikipedia long enough to answer the phone, but he was too enthralled with watching High School Musical 3 in preparation for his own American Idol audition.

"Simon Cowell is going to love this," squealed Obama, as his newfound friend, John McCain, belted out his famous rendition of Taylor Swift's "Fearless."

McCain paused to reflect, then responded thoughtfully, "Free porn, Barack Obama. Free porn."

Now if that doesn't win me the Nobel Prize in Literature, I don't know what will.

On an unrelated note, I'm trying to drive more traffic to this blog. I'd really appreciate any suggestions of keywords that might show up often in google searches.

And That Has Made All the Difference

You ever have one of those days when nothing seems to go right?

If you haven't, then you should know that everybody in your life hates you.

If you have, then maybe you can relate to my day spent driving out of Utah.

It is Halloween, and I can't think of a worse place to spend Halloween than in Utah. So the plan is to get to Page, Arizona by evening.

I start driving in the morning. Having listened to every CD I own 372.5 times by now, I spend most of the trip listening to the radio.

If you ever want to scare the crap out of yourself, scan the am radio dial while passing through a particularly rural part of America. I once tuned to a conservative Christian show where the hosts were discussing the evils of rock music and how said rock music was destroying the moral fabric of our society.

Silly, but nothing I hadn't heard before; until I listened more and realized that the evil rock music they were referencing wasn't Marilyn Manson, or Metallica, or even Elvis Presley...they were worried about Christian rock. Something about the fast tempos and aggressive beats being the work of the Devil disguised as praise for God.

So when the talk on rural Utah radio revolves around the ills of the newly released film Zack and Miri Make a Porno (or Zack and Miri depending on your location), I am hardly surprised. I am caught off guard, however, when I discover that the state of Utah has effectively banned Zack and Miri from its theatres. In appreciation of the moment, I decide that my first act upon entering Arizona will be to see this movie.

Only when I pull into the scenic small town of Page late in the evening, I discover that the only theatre in town plays just one film, and that film happens to be High School Musical 3 (or The Cast of High School Musical 3 Makes a Porno depending on your location). As much as I love musicals aimed at tweens, I decide to bite the bullet and drive a couple more hours to get to the larger town of Flagstaff.

I pull into Flagstaff at eight PM and immediately purchase a ticket for the next showing of Zack and Miri, which is at ten. I then go to the nearby Walmart to scope out my resting place for the night only to find out that the Flagstaff Walmart expressly forbids overnight parking. The nearest Walmart that allows for parking is twenty-five miles away in Cottonwood.

This means that when I get out of the movie theatre at midnight after an entire day spent driving, I must drive even more to get to a place where I know I can sleep in peace.

Two issues complicate this even further:

+ The road to Cottonwood goes through a dark, twisting canyon road that is barely wide enough for my van, making the 25 mile drive last over an hour.

+ The Walmart I found on google maps does not seem to exist.

My GPS system does not recognize Cottonwood, Arizona as a viable destination and google maps leads me to a residential street. Let me tell you, there's nothing better than being completely lost in an unfamiliar place at two in the morning.

After regrouping in Sedona and doing some intense investigative work involving fingerprinting, extensive DNA analysis, and the store locator on Walmart.com, I discover that the nearest store is still about twenty miles away.

It is at this point that I decide that I am the unluckiest, most mistreated, miserable human being on the planet. It is already dark outside, and my sense of self-pity is so thick that it starts fogging up the windows.

So when I see what looks to be the vague shape of a human being on the side of the road as I drive by, part of me assumes I am imagining things. The other part of me, however, decides to make sure. I turn around at the nearest exit and retrace my route.

It turns out that there is indeed a person standing by the freeway in the middle of nowhere. Her name is Shana. She is petite, looks to be in her mid-thirties, and is wearing dark clothes. Frankly, it is remarkable that I was able to spot her in the first place, because I can barely see her now despite actively searching for her.

Shana is a mother of two. All of her time is spent caring for her kids or working. In fact, her next shift starts in about five hours. Tonight was supposed to be that rare special night when she got to go out and have fun. These days, it takes a holiday for Shana to get a night for herself.

Except this night was anything but fun for Shana. After a few hours going to Halloween parties with her boyfriend, Shana realized that he was too drunk to be driving. When she told her boyfriend that he was not fit to be behind the wheel, an argument broke out.

Before Shana knew what was happening, she was unceremoniously dumped on the side of the road. When I find her, the road is pitch black and she is over ten miles from the nearest town and nearly twenty miles from the trailer she calls home.

As it turns out, if I hadn't bought a movie ticket too early, driven through a dark canyon road late at night, and gotten lost several times on my way to the Cottonwood Walmart, I wouldn't have been there to give Shana a much needed safe ride back to her kids.

You ever have one of those days where nothing seems to go right?

Sometimes, those are the best days of all.

Ye May Know the Truth of All Things

I was recently the victim of the nicest vandalism in recorded history.

The time: 10:30 PM, the night before Halloween.

The place: Orem, Utah; just outside a McDonald's near a Walmart.

The plan: Park close to said McDonald's to improve my wireless internet connection, allowing me to watch the end of a Phoenix Suns basketball game.

The suspects: Three college-aged Mormon kids.

As Shaquille O'Neal misses a fourth quarter free throw, I hear the suspects outside my van, chatting eagerly and reading the signatures prominently displayed on its exterior. This usually happens two or three times a day, and I generally ignore it, but the Suns are losing and I need a distraction, so I open the side door and introduce myself.

It turns out that all three van admirers are exceptionally nice. None of them go to school, but one of the guys, Tyler, works at the nearby college. The other guy, I suck with names, works in real estate and the girl, Kyla, asks me to guess her profession using the following signature as a hint:


Hmmm...Truck driver? No, too obvious. Grave digger? Still too on the nose.

"You," I respond with certainty, "are a preschool teacher."

"Oh my gosh! That's amazing. You're right."

Eat your heart out, Encyclopedia Brown.

The three of us discuss the meaning of life, the virtues of Montrose, Colorado (apparently a must-visit), and the details of my trip so far. I regale the trio with tales of my travels and, despite my tendency to use words like "regale," they listen intently. After awhile, even I get tired of hearing my own voice, so I say goodnight.

Having missed the end of the Suns game, and having no need for a good internet signal, I move the van closer to the Walmart and drift off to sleep.

I awake to more voices outside the van. Glancing at my cell phone, I notice that it is nearly two in the morning. I step out of the van groggily to find Kyla and Tyler dutifully coloring pictures along the sides of Martin "Van" Buren. They have also brought along another friend, Rena, who has written the equivalent of a book near the rear passenger's side wheel.

"Hey," says Kyla, "sorry to wake you. We wanted to add color to your van."

Though I'm not a huge fan of waking up at two in the morning to find people drawing on the van, it's pretty hard to get mad at a Mormon preschool teacher who just drew a picture of a smurf. And I must admit, the pictures are pretty cool; most of them relate to the stories that I shared with them, almost like advanced hieroglyphics telling the tale of Project Meaning.







There's the picture of my home away from home.










The Canadian Neoist creating slightly disturbing performance art.









The creepy Burning Man attendee who wrote less upbeat expressions on my van a few months before.











And, of course, the friendly Mormon interpretation of the "Vomit" graffiti.






To cap it off, Kyla and Tyler have placed a Book of Mormon, complete with personal messages, under my windshield wiper. The bookmark inside offers the following:

"What is the purpose of life?

What is the true nature of God?

Can families be together forever?

Where do we go after this life?

Answers to these and other eternally significant questions can be found by visiting

www.mormon.org"

Not only have I just plugged a website that seems to be offering direct competition to the services I am trying to provide at projectmeaning.com, but it turns out that they actually profess to have definitive answers to the questions and, you know, a whole religion to back it up.

I can't form a whole religion on my own on such short notice, but in order to stay competitive, I will now definitively answer the questions posed on the bookmark.

Saved by the Bell reruns.

Nostalgic.

Sure.

A small diner just outside Intercourse, Pennsylvania.

Answers are in no particular order.

In all seriousness, Tyler and Kyla (pictured below with Rena in the middle) wrote very considerate and measured notes in an attempt to share their perspectives with me.


Both feel that the Book of Mormon and its teachings have helped them to better understand and appreciate their purpose in life. If you ever feel compelled to read the book (and I now have a copy if you need to borrow it), the passages they recommend in particular are Alma chapter 32, 3 Nephi 11, and Moroni 10: 3-5.

In his message, Tyler singles out the Moroni portion.

"Near the end of this book is a promise (Moroni 10:4). Test out the promise and you will never regret it."

I flip to the end of the book and see that Kyla has highlighted the passage. At least, I assume Kyla did the highlighting; Tim doesn't seem like the type who would draw little hearts in the margins.

It reads:

"And when ye shall receive these things, I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall think with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost.

And by the power of the Holy Ghost ye may know the truth of all things."

The Projectmeaning.com 100th Post Clip Blog Spectacular!

This is the 100th post to this blog.

Apparently, I overestimated my laziness. I'm well over three months into this project, and I'm still going strong. Well, depending on your definition of "strong."

To celebrate this (admittedly unimportant) accomplishment, today's blog will be employing a strategy I grew up despising. As an ardent fan of television, I know that nothing is more frustrating than sitting down to watch a brand new episode of your favorite show, only to find out that the producers have phoned it in with the dreaded clip show.

You know, those retrospective episodes that claim to be new even though only a small fraction of the episode is original material. They can sell the show as new, but it's really just material you've already seen repackaged with a flimsy premise meant to disguise the obvious reality that the clip show only exists because the cast and crew wanted a week off.

Though incredibly annoying in television, I thought it might actually be helpful in a blog. (Actually, I thought it would lead to less work, but I've already ruined that with this unnecessarily long introduction.) So I now introduce the "Projectmeaning.com 100th Post Clip Blog Spectacular!"

Please try to contain your excitement.

The following are blogs from some of my favorite experiences on the road. Think of it as a "Best Of" album from Britney Spears. It doesn't really need to exist, but it might be fun reliving old times anyway. The flimsy premise for this clip blog will be "What I've learned so far in my search for the meaning of life." Click on the blue text if you'd like to read the blog I'm referencing.

What I've learned so far in my search for the meaning of life:

+ No matter how bad you have it, there's always someone who wishes he had it so good.

+ If finding your soulmate were easy, there would be no need for love songs.

+ There's a reason they don't let screwdrivers through airport security.

+ Even Neoists need to pick their battles wisely.

+ Heaven and Hell can be one in the same.

+ The poor man's dime is worth more than the rich man's dollar.

+ Real Americans come in all forms.

+ Giant cops are people too... Giant people that carry guns and can put you in jail.

+ Flying saucers may be bullshit, but aliens really do exist.

+ I am not the coolest person living in a van right now.

+ True friendship means never having to apologize for crapping yourself.

+ Sometimes, being there is all that matters.

+ And, of course, never walk away from the oven while making garlic toast. I don't have a link for that one, it's just solid advice.

Chicks Dig Venn Diagrams

When you live in your van, sometimes you find yourself in weird places that you can't get out of. In the past three months, I've been stranded in the desert with a car that won't start, stalled on a highway in Oregon with a flat tire, and out of battery power on the Burning Man playa. Now, I'm stuck in Provo, Utah.

This time, it's actually not Martin "Van" Buren's fault. It's AT&T's. In order to write this blog consistently (and, of course, to keep up my myspace profile) I got that wireless plan that offers internet access virtually anywhere in the United States.

The commercial shows a guy accessing the internet on a deserted island. In reality, it doesn't work everywhere in Salt Lake City. But it's still an important cog of this project. And now the wireless card won't work.

So I head into the local AT&T store to replace the malfunctioning card only to find that the stores don't carry replacements. Instead, they mail the product to you. Seeing as my mailing address is currently "Van," this requires me to stay in town until a replacement wireless card can be sent to the local store.

So I'm stuck in Provo, Utah. Better make the most of it. Here's what I currently know about Provo:

+ It is located right next to Orem, Utah, which has a suitable Walmart to call home the next few days.

+ That Walmart is swarming with children. At eight in the morning, I head into the store to use the restroom. As I head out, a young woman to my right is carrying a baby. Another young woman to my left is carrying another baby. Straight ahead, a young couple is pushing a shopping cart with two toddlers and yet another baby. Off in the distance, a van opens and a family of eight piles out.

I am reasonably certain that Provo's chief export is baby. I am positive that it is the perfect place to open a toy store.

+ Provo is best known as the home of Brigham Young University, a private school owned by the Mormon Church. By most accounts, a pretty good school, but not the best college town if you plan to throw a kegger.

Knowing this, I call my best friend Ryan, who happens to be Mormon.

"Hey, I'm stuck in Provo."

"Wow. Really? Hey, if you're going to be stuck somewhere, Provo is the best place in the world to be stuck... Well, either there or Vegas."

I'm pretty sure my friend is the only person alive who has narrowed his two favorite destinations on the planet to Provo and Vegas.

If one were to draw a Venn Diagram on the subject, it would likely look something like this:


"So is there any place in Provo that's a must see? You know, besides BYU?"

"Besides BYU?"

"Yeah."

"No. Not really."

"But it's still the best place on the planet to be stuck?"

"Sure."

"You know you don't make sense, right?"

"You know you have the penmanship of a first grader, right?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Well, I just told you that my two favorite places in the world are Provo and Vegas. Knowing you, that'll probably result in a Venn Diagram on your blog. And we both know you're not good with computers, so you'll probably draw it out crudely and just snap a picture of your drawing. In which case, I'd like to point out that you have handwriting that could easily pass as that of a slowly developing six-year-old."

"Fair enough. Hey, is it okay if I take severe artistic liberty with our conversation in my blog, even going so far as to completely fabricate the second half of our conversation? I mean, to be honest, I'm pretty sure you don't even know what a Venn Diagram is."

"I don't see why not. After all, you're stuck in Provo. What else are you going to do with your time?"

"Thanks buddy."

"Any time. Hey, I'll talk to you later. I've gotta lay a bet on the big BYU game."

"Of course you do. Of course you do."

"Oh, and watch out for all the babies. They're like locusts out there."

And scene.

Check back tomorrow to read this blog's 100th post. You won't regret it.

You know, unless you will.

Are You an Asshole?

"Have you been to Yellowstone?" the friendly stranger asks me, calmly sipping on his latte.

"I just went through there, in fact," I reply, setting down my Yellowstone newspaper and making sure to save the progress on my blog. "It's quite the sight. You're a fan, I assume?"

"I like it there, but my brother loves it. He lives there. I'm Randy, by the way."

Randy is a short man with a bald head and a big grin. He is eager to talk about his brother, whom he's recently discovered is dying of cancer.

"He's always been a free spirit. Loves fishing, hunting, exploring the land. So he became a resident at Yellowstone. He's an amazing artist. Never been one to hold down a steady job, but he's always found a way to survive. Now he goes around collecting antlers around the park. You know those lamps that look like antlers? They sell pretty well. He makes a pretty good living doing it."

Randy has always made a good living.

He is the good son. The responsible son. The reliable one. The kid who got offered a job at the age of thirteen and never looked back.

After all, a good work ethic leads to a good life. A prosperous life. A steady pay for a steady family. So Randy worked. And worked. And worked.

Before he knew it, he was running his own company. Together with his friend, an idea man with a mind for finance, Randy ran a prosperous chain of restaurants. He was the man in charge.

Randy liked being the man in charge. It suited him. Suited his personality. And it paid the bills. Fed the family.

Just one problem.

He never got to see the family he was feeding. Randy worked all the time. Late nights. Weekends. Lunch breaks.

When he wasn't working, he was tired. And cranky. His wife and children were obligations. More items on a list that needed to get done every day. After all, he was the boss. And a boss needs efficiency.

You see, Randy was an asshole.

Not my words. His.

"I took one of those aptitude tests, and when the results came in, the analysis was pretty clear. Down the line, my instincts, thoughts, and actions all pointed to one thing: I was an asshole."

He took the paper to his family and showed it to his son, who promptly nodded.

"Yeah, dad. That's pretty much you."

So what do you do when you find out you're an asshole?

"I changed," Randy says, taking another sip of his coffee.


Randy called his partner one day and told him 'I want out.' It wasn't easy and it had its financial setbacks, but Randy basically demoted himself. He now watches over seventeen Utah locations of an affordable national restaurant chain. He's still a boss, but he has significantly less responsibility.

Now he enjoys relaxing over a Starbucks coffee most days. He no longer works most nights. And weekends? Those are for enjoying his family.

"I've got four kids," he says, shaking his head. "Two of them are grown now, and I wasn't there for them like I should have been. But my ten-year-old twins? We have fun. My twenty-six-year old sees how I am with them, and every once in a while he'll look at me and go 'Hey, where was this guy when I was growing up?'

My wife looks at me now and tells me 'I don't even recognize you.'

But you know what? When you're fifty years old and you're dying of cancer, a life spent having fun in the woods... a life spent enjoying yourself and those around you? All of a sudden, my brother's decisions don't look so bad."

Words to live by.

And you should.

Because nothing beats the advice of a reformed asshole.

This is Gonna Be Huge

I am currently riding shotgun on the sixth hour of an eight hour trip to see a friend's new property and enjoy the citizens of a unique small town in New Mexico. That friend, we'll call him Steve because that's his name, is a comedic mastermind on par with yours truly. In other words, he likes fart jokes too.

To honor that (and to pass the time) I now present to you a car ride contest as an ode to "that's what she said" from "The Office." We're talking serious double entendres, people, and if we're really lucky, we might just stumble onto a triple entendre.

Steve and I will each come up with a dirty phrase that also applies to a pre-chosen aspect of life. Feel free to comment on who you believe deserves the victory, as long as that winner is not Steve. The most cunning linguist wins.

And don't forget to say "that's what she said" after each phrase.

Politics:

Steve- Obama's coming!

Logan- I don't know how we're ever going to clean this mess up.

Honorable Mention- This is the last time we'll see Dick and Bush together in the White House.

Education:

Steve- The principal's gonna give it to me after school.

Logan- Great. Now I'm going to be late for my next period.

Honorable Mention- I had chemistry with Mr. Johnson last year, but now I'm stuck with Mrs. Robinson.

Religion:

Steve- He is risen.

Logan- He is coming.

Honorable Mention- He is taking a nap...in the rectory.

Violence:

Steve- That brought him to his knees.

Logan- Now that's a blow to the face.

Honorable Mention- He's really giving him a pounding.

Sports:

Steve- Nothing can break the Trojans' defense.

Logan- He just got blasted up the middle.

Honorable Mention- Down goes Frazier! Down goes Frazier!

Okay. We're done.

Once again, thanks for coming everyone.

Why Would Walker Tell Him That?

Thanks to the tireless work that goes into this blog, we now know that the meaning of life has absolutely nothing to do with pogs, puns, cow-tipping, or the movie Gigli. Eliminating certain possibilities as the meaning of life has been life-affirming for many of you, I'm sure, but it's time to once again focus on items that I'm not yet ready to rule out as the meaning of life.

The following are aspects of life that just may hold the key to our existence:

+ The unconditional love of a cherished family pet.

+ Ragging on your friends. I've won my fantasy football league three years running, a feat which impresses absolutely nobody. However, my best friend's girlfriend joined the league last year and beat him in the playoffs. For Christmas, I bought her a custom pink shirt that said, "My boyfriend sucks at fantasy football." The look of horror on his face when she opened the gift was almost certainly existentially relevant.

+ Homemade blackberry jam made by my great uncle and aunt Ray and Lavetta.

+ Being there for someone who needs you.

+ Beer. To quote the great Homer Simpson, it is "the cause of, and solution to, all of life's problems."

+ Bad dancing. I think this ranks ahead of good dancing. If you disagree, head out with some good friends and do the robot, running man, macarena, and shopping cart all night long. If you don't enjoy yourself, I once again point you to beer.

+ Early morning Sportscenter the day after the team you root for wins a big game. If your team lost a big game, I highly recommend avoiding sports highlights at all costs.

+ 41.

+ Amusing videos on the internet. There's millions of amazing clips to choose from, but this is my personal favorite not related to David Hasselhoff.

+ Speaking of Hasselhoff, this article rates high on the list for possible meanings of life.

+ The safety of a loved one. My aunt Dana is undergoing risky major back surgery tomorrow.

If you pray, please keep her in your prayers.

If you don't, please keep her in your thoughts.

Ron and Polly

I've always known Ron and Polly Toth as two of my mother's best friends.

They are also walking contradictions.

They met in Germany while Ron was serving in the military and Polly was teaching grade school to military children. They married each other in Switzerland less than two years after meeting, but are still happily married forty years later.

They live in Utah, yet remain loyal democrats, proudly displaying Barack Obama signs on their front lawn prior to the election.

They are huge fans of the Olympics, but didn't get to experience the Games of Salt Lake City in 2002 because they were busy selling collectible Olympic pins for a temporary business that helped them retire early.

Ron is legitimately funny despite having never met a pun he didn't like and Polly is a measured, thoughtful individual who is careful to not pass judgment, yet also happens to be a backseat driver.

They are an intelligent and cultured couple with excellent judgment who nevertheless welcomed me into their home for multiple days and nights despite the fact that the last time they saw me I was fifteen years old and spending my vacation with my mother in San Antonio.

Fifteen is not a good age. You can count the number of socially redeemable fifteen-year-olds who have existed throughout history on one hand. I was not among the exceptions, and a San Antonio vacation with my mother did not exactly capture my imagination. In other words, I was not a delight to deal with.

If I had to spend a week with the fifteen-year-old version of myself that existed in that moment in time, I'm pretty sure I would punch myself in the face. Not only did Ron and Polly not punch me in the face, but nine years later they welcomed me into their home with open arms and made an extra effort to show me the city they call home.

Ron even gave me two boxes full of unopened basketball cards he had stored in his garage for nearly a decade simply because he remembered that I collected them growing up.

The best part of this project so far has been the people I have met along the way. I'm beginning to suspect that the meaning of life has something to do with the kindness, generosity, and intellectual curiosity shared by so many individuals with vastly different backgrounds, mindsets, and experiences.

That's why I'm proud that I no longer think of Ron and Polly Toth as friends of my mother.

I'm now lucky enough to think of them as friends.

The Megalomaniac Always Gets the Girl

Park City, Utah is a popular vacation destination and second home location for well-to-do skiers and film enthusiasts. The town hosts the Sundance film festival every year and offers fantastic skiing for people who don't mind spending seven figures for below average houses.

"Now that Aspen has been taken over by the billionaires," Ron tells me, "Park City is where all of the millionaires come."

The town has a real friendly vibe, with quaint little cottages stretching across the smooth mountains. The main street provides a timeless string of jewelry stores, restaurants, and art galleries.

Among my favorite stores to browse through are the photo gallery of a world famous wildlife photographer and an art house which features intricate Native American baskets made by the family of Mary Black, a woman whose work is featured in the Smithsonian and whom has recently been labeled a "national treasure."

This information caused Ron and Polly to further admire the woman's work. It caused me to ponder just how one becomes labeled as a "national treasure." Is there such a label as "international treasure?" Are people who share the distinction "national treasure" universally offended by the ridiculous Nicholas Cage movie of the same name?

If I were ever named a "national treasure" for my work in sarcastic blogging (preferably American, but I'd take any country) I'm pretty sure I'd waste the honor with my lack of humility. After all, what's the point of being a "national treasure" if you couldn't brag about it?

I'd probably just end up using it as a pick-up line. You know, something like:

"Hey gorgeous. Have you ever been with a 'national treasure' before? No? Well, today's your lucky day."

or:

"You're so beautiful you should be declared a 'national treasure.' Then we'd have something in common."

or the classic:

"The Smithsonian just named me a 'national treasure.' Some say it was for my work as a blogger for underprivileged youth. Others say it's because of my mastery in the bedroom. I'd like to get your opinion."

Come to think of it, being declared a "national treasure" is probably not something I need to concern myself with anytime soon.

Just in case, here's a groundbreakingly artistic picture of me in Park City with a transvestite moose statue for the Smithsonian's consideration.

The Great Salt Smell

Riding in a car makes me nauseous.

Driving a car isn't a problem. Flying is easy. The tallest, fastest, loopiest roller coaster in the world doesn't faze me for a second. But stick me in the passenger's seat of a Honda Civic for an hour and I turn green.

So when Ron tells me to jump in the car for a trip to the Great Salt Lake, I am not exactly chomping at the bit. It's not that I don't want to see the lake, especially after discovering it houses a locally famous flamingo named Pink Floyd; I just am not a fan of passing out from motion sickness.

As the ride out of town progresses, and my queasiness increases, the visit to the lake seems less and less enticing. Ron is not helping the cause.

"We always take visitors to the lake," he tells me, "because it's something everybody wants to see. But it really isn't much to speak of. It's nice to say you saw the lake, but nobody ever wants to go back a second time."

"Why not?"

"Well, for one thing, it doesn't smell so great."

Ron is not alone in his assessment of the lake's unpleasant odor. When we pull up to the first public access point, the area is bare. A single boat sails on the horizon and the shore sits a mile away from the parking lot, a victim of a receding shoreline. The walk to the lake is about a mile, but Ron and I are game.

Once we get close, I realize that Ron was not joking about the smell. Things that smell better than the Great Salt Lake include but are not limited to:

+ the Paris subway after a rainy afternoon.

+ a frightened skunk that just rolled in a dead badger.

+ Hulk Hogan's unwashed jockstrap after a fight with a grizzly bear in heat.

Please don't ask me about the research that went into this conclusion. Just know that the Great Salt Lake is not a premier vacation spot for anyone who does not care for the smell of rotten eggs on a sunny afternoon.

Other than that, it's a pretty nice lake.

What do the Grand Canyon, the Mormon Tabernacle, and Lindsay Lohan Have in Common?

Downtown Salt Lake City is bought and paid for by the Mormon Church. Well, not all of it, but a great deal of the interior part of the city is covered by places of worship, church offices, and a disproportionate amount of religious statues.

That said, I must say I like what they've done with the place.

Salt Lake City is an interesting area, with older rundown buildings blending seamlessly with a new modern vibe. Ron and Polly, two of my mother's best friends and my tour guides for the town, drive me past the football stadium where the Utah Utes play football, by three or four hundred statues (seriously, if you value your legacy, do something important in Utah), and down to Temple Square.

Temple Square is the headquarters for the LDS Church and an incredibly popular tourist destination. According to Wikipedia (or as I like to call it, "the lazy man's Lexis-Nexis"), Temple Square attracts around five million tourists per year, narrowly edging out such ballyhooed attractions as Yellowstone National Park, the Grand Canyon, and Lindsay Lohan's bedroom.

The ten acre lot is swarming with conveniently attractive tour guides eager to share the history of the Church, but Ron and Polly choose to keep the experience relatively secular. Many of the buildings are architecturally stunning, with stained glass windows that would make Rome envious, but my favorite building is the Salt Lake Tabernacle.

The Tabernacle is the home of the world-renowned Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Polly mentions that the choir will be giving a performance on Sunday morning and seems slightly irked when I mention that the performance lines up rather unfortunately parallel to the first set of football games. Ron, on the other hand, seems to find this to be a valid assertion.

The tabernacle is known world-wide (or at least now by people who read this blog) for it's virtually perfect acoustics. To demonstrate the power of said acoustics, one of the conveniently attractive tour guides stands at the front of the gigantic building, speaks to us in the back without the aid of a microphone, and proceeds to tear a piece of paper down the middle.

Not only can I hear the paper tear, but it sounds like the rip is being brought to me by Dolby Digital surround sound.

"Wow," I comment to Ron. "This would be a really bad place to go to church if you happened to have gas."

Polly gives me a look like I just mentioned football again.

It is at this point that I realize that talking about farts in a perfectly acoustic religious establishment is not a whole lot better than actually carrying out the deed. Still, the conveniently attractive tour guides don't seem to mind; I'm pretty sure they're banned from frowning.

Michael Phelps Once Listed Me As His Greatest Influence

After unnecessarily traveling out of the way to stay at the Logan Walmart, I head down to Salt Lake City. Two of my mother's closest friends, Ron and Polly, happen to live there and, having already met up with them on my way through Calgary, I eagerly anticipate having a place to sleep inside.

Ron and Polly are big fans of the Olympics. They have amassed quite the collection of Olympic pins and were able to turn that hobby into a profitable business when the Winter Olympics came to Utah in 2002. As is such, they decide to show me around the Salt Lake Olympic Park when I get into town.. I will delve more into my stay with Ron and Polly, and all of the interesting exploits we had in SLC (let's just say minds were blown, records were broken, and midgets were tossed) in future blogs. Today, I'd like to focus on my brief but overwhelmingly successful Olympic career.

As a 6'5" man of generous proportions, bobsledding has always been a passion of mine. Before the Salt Lake City games, I would psyche myself up by tossing Cool Runnings in the vhs player and scooting myself across the tile floor in a motion reminiscent of an unkempt canine. It paid off with a silver medal and a six figure endorsement with Big Rob's Big and Tall Store on third and main. This picture sure brought back memories.






Though bobsledding was my first passion, I am best known for my work in another sport. Time magazine once called me the "Michael Jordan of curling," only to later temper that claim by clarifying that they were referencing Jordan's baseball days and that curling was "no more a sport than chimney sweeping, and even less likely to get you laid; at least chimney sweepers scored with Mary Poppins." I found that to be a thoroughly unprofessional article. Still, I did win a gold medal back when I went by the pseudonym "Lars Vaagberg," and no magazine can ever take that away from me. You know, unless they fact check.Finally, some of you may remember me from my illustrious skiing career. Before it was cut tragically short by a nasty fall (see the picture to the left) I was generally considered to be "Bode Miller with less discipline." For the one person reading this that got that reference, you're welcome. Make sure not to miss the "Unnecessarily Obscure Comedy Show" when it comes through your town; I'll be opening for Dennis Miller.

For those of you who doubt my tales of Olympic stardom, all I can say is I feel sorry that you have to go through life with such a cynical viewpoint. For those who believe, I could really use a wikipedia page to commemorate my unprecedented achievements and ensure that the Lars "Don't Call Me Logan" Vaagberg Era doesn't fade into obscurity.