Let it Snow

Odin pointed out that my pictures of Downtown Salt Lake just before Christmas don't have any snow in them. Wow! He's right. I don't know why that didn't cross my mind, except that maybe I'm getting used to the drought here. When we first came to live here ten years ago, the winters were more like they were where I grew up: Snow that buried our car completely and took hours to dig out. I don't miss it. I like not having to shovel the driveway. When it does snow, I just have to wait a couple of days for it to melt. But, like I said, it wasn't always that way here. When we managed apartments, I broke my back shoveling the yards and yards of sidewalk. On the freeway, watching everyone else drive at insane speeds, it was I, the safe driver, who spun out, ending up facing the wrong way in oncoming traffic. Of course, I've never ended up at the side of the four-lane road, my car stuck in the white stuff, waiting for a tow truck.

Snow has always been a part of my life. I grew up on skis, though I don't do it anymore. I've never had to pay as my dad has always been on the ski patrol. Now that I do have to fork over the cash, it doesn't seem worth it.
Our yard was always piled high with snow in the winter. My friends and I would jump off the roof of our two-story house into the drifts and I would dig deep tunnels down in the trampoline hole and make forts. One year the tunnel collapsed on me and I spent nearly an hour digging myself out. Scary.

Now...I could do without it. I know I shouldn't say that, what with the drought and all. But there it is.

Merry Christmas!

Downtown Salt Lake City is pretty this time of year. The family and I went to Temple Square (where the Salt Lake Mormon Temple is) on Monday night and I took a few photos. Dinky Jr. got his mug in one.

The Humor of Sarcasm

Sarcasm as humor only goes so far. It's the staple of most of the relationships I have outside of my family, though. It doesn't carry much weight at home, but at work, an outsider could have no clue that my buddies and I love each other. We're constantly giving each other the bird and calling attention to each others' faults. It's all in fun. We know that. Until, that is, you add a few pressures to the mix. My last appointment of a long, migraine-inducing schedule today was a three-minute interview show--commercial, really--geared toward seniors. It's a simple three-camera live-to-tape shoot that I direct. Actually, I do a lot more than direct. Most shows have a director, technical director, cg operator, and tape operator. I do it all for this thing. It's nothing that will ever go on my resume but it makes money for the station so we keep doing it. It's one of the reason's I am known as the resident "Turd Polisher." We'll frequently have many starts and stops because the client being interviewed is so scared, or looks like a chipmunk. And today was no exception. The problem, though, was that I wasn't my usual professional self. I forgot to "black" the record tape all the way and when we finally finished the first good take, there was nothing to watch on the playback. So I blacked the tape. For your information, it takes more than three minutes to black three minutes' worth of tape. First of all you have to walk over to the tape machine and rewind it to the point at which you want to start recording. Then the machine starts a five-second preroll which takes a few seconds to set up and five seconds to roll. Then you have your three minutes. But you can't stop there. You need to lay some pad. Liking to be safe rather than sorry, as the adage goes, I like to give it a good chunk of pad. All told, it took about six minutes to get the job done. When I got back on the headset, and gave the standby, at least two members of the crew let fly with absurdities like, "how long does it take to black three minutes of tape?" and, "Don't you know how to do an assemble edit?" (I won't go into the the terminology here.) They were so persistent and insistent that my sense of humor vanished. Rather than letting go with expletives (I knew there were clients within earshot) I immediately shut down my emotions and issued commands in curt, daggerlike thrusts: "Standby. Ready camera one. One's up. Cue him. Two minutes." When it became apparent to the others how pissed I was, no one else ventured to say anything except twice, when I heard, in very hushed tones, "I love you . . . ." I didn't respond.
We finished the second take. I started playing it back. The video was great. The talent was talking. There was no sound. I had forgotten to route the audio back into the machine after blacking the tape. This time the cussing escaped before I could stop it, albiet it was whispered. After that there were other screw ups by the talent and the client, but they were all my fault, because if I hadn't screwed up before, they would have had the chance to now.
Finally, I was able to play back a whole take, audio and everything. I almost started bawling.
As for the crew. . . we're still friends.

Wedding Bells

I'm officially a wedding videographer. This is the first one I've done and I couldn't have asked for a better couple to practice on. They're both very laid back and accomodating. Whatever I choose to do is ok with them--so far, at least. The trick now is to find time to edit it.

There were a couple of funny moments. It was very cold--20 degrees, I think--when the bride appeared outside for her pictures just after the wedding, and someone noticed that her shoes weren't traditional. She hiked up her wedding dress to reveal a pair of pink sneakers and long underwear. Later, when she threw the bouquet, she put a little too much oomph into it and launched it into the light fixture about 15 feet above our heads. If it turns out, it might show up on America's Funniest Home Videos. She got a new bouquet and threw it.

Long Time

It's been awhile. I've kept a journal for most of my life and it seems like every other entry begins that way: It's been a long time, I should catch up.

I got my own production company going. It's called Runaway Productions. I've got the professional equipment and the business license and even some cards. So now it's full speed ahead. Except that it's not. A friend of mine who's known as a cameraman got the same camera after I did and he's getting jobs all over the place. I've yet to bill for one project. I handed one of my cards to M ar|< Eat*n, the former pro baseke+ball player, and he laughed at them. "Did you make these yourself?" he asked. Then he pointed to the line at the bottom that says, "over 17 years broadcast television experience," and sneered, "Oh, look at that, 17 years experience." I wasn't sure what he was getting at. I wanted to tell the 7-foot-four-inch jerk to get down on his knees so I could kick his ass. But I didn't want to cause a scene by hurting him right there in the studio.

On the home front, Princess Rufflebutt is getting so grown up. She's about 18 months old now. The other day she saw one of her brothers lift up the toilet seat and pee. The next thing we knew, she was standing with her diaper off next to the toilet, the rim up to her neck, trying to take a leak too.

In other toilet-related news, my wife told me a while ago that she found my four-year-old bathing right there in the bowl. He's very small for his age--not even in the running percentile-wise--and I guess it was a good fit.

Have a good one.

Movies

My new favorite movies are, in order, "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" and "Shaun of the Dead." Wonderful. Just wonderful.

Video Student

It's been a while. Sorry I've neglected all of my friends in the blogosphere. I've been cramming, trying to learn all this video and graphic editing software I have now. I've tried the user manuals that came with the programs but they're useless, having been written by someone who obviously hasn't talked directly to another actual human being for years. I can't afford the "Total Training" discs, priced to put an independent startup like myself out of business. So I've been struggling. It helps that I have 17-plus years of linear editing experience, and that I'm a computer geek by nature. Slowy, surely, the knowledge is coming. I want to be ready for my first project, whatever that may be, but, note to the universe, don't let that stop the projects from coming in. I'll be able to handle them.

This is all pretty exciting. Now if I can just start paying for it.

Music and Video

Got the new Tears for Fears disc, "Everybody Loves a Happy Ending." There's a debate raging about it at the station. There are several of us who are consummate Beatles fans and for some of the guys, the extensive "references" to the fab four's music throughout the disc. Personally, I love it. I think it's a great homage, almost a new way to approach Lennon, McCartney and the others. But the other guys think it's too much of a ripoff, of blundering through sacred ground. I must admit that the orchestral wind-up on "Who Killed Tangerine" sounds almost as if it were actually sampled from "A Day in the Life." But the music is so good, I don't mind. Orzabal's lyrical prowess approaches genius. So get it, dang it!

I have my edit system all set up, the software all registered and paid for. Now I need a camera. In case anyone can help, I'm looking for a good price on a Panasonic AG-DVX100A. I was just in a hot auction fight on ebay over a DVX100 and I lost. Someone edged me out at the last minute and got it for a heck of a deal. All I can do is keep trying.

Quit Looking at my Cards!

Our family has discovered Go Fish. We all gather in the living room, the boys sitting across the room by the wall after attempting to sit directly behind my wife or me to see our cards. We've changed the rules a little. Instead of asking, "Do you have any fours?" we ask for the number and the suit. It makes it a little more interesting. During the course of the game, there are nearly-constant accusations of cheating. It's hilarious. Last night we were in hysterics. It went like this:

Six-year-old J: B, Do you have the A of hearts?
Eight-year-old B: Go fish. Ok J. (Dramatic Pause) do you have the A of clovers?

At this point J would start screaming, "You looked at my cards! He's cheating!"

This happened anytime any of us asked for a card he had. And you should have seen hime when he guessed correctly which cards we had. He'd dance around, singing, "I got the card I needed." Of course he wouldn't pursue the matches and lose them all the next round. We also had to watch him closely to keep him from asking for cards he already had.

I never knew go fish could be so fun.

Editing

I know, I know, I'm a slacker. Lately blogging has not been my top priority. Work is picking up and I have some added extracurricular activities now. After watching my friends who aren't professional video editors buy equipment and make gobs of money doing side projects, I figured I'd better get in the act. So I took a chance and borrowed some money and built a screaming Windows-based machine and editing software and a camera. So now I'm focusing a lot of my time to learning the software and figuring out how to make this equipment pay for itself. If anyone in the Utah/Idaho area needs a broadcast quality wedding video or anyone anywhere else who would like to send me their old home movies and pictures to be made into a fun DVD, email me. I can beat nearly any price.

Hopefully I can find time to keep this going here. It's been a lot of fun. But duty calls...

Go Away, Frances!

I just wanted to say good luck, Florida. I hope Frances does an about face.

You Draw Some More

I'm really getting a kick out of this You Draw thing. My favorite artists there include E.D., Lamb, and nikki mk. They're just great. I wish I could draw like them.

You Draw

I've been dinkin' around over at You Draw. Click here to see what I've been doing.

A Blast on My Own Horn

Yesterday I edited some commercials for a well-known wireless cellphone company. I don't think I went over and above what I normally do. I just tried to get the job done as well (and as quickly) as I could. Today I got this really nice email from my boss:

Dinky,

I wanted to pass on the very positive comments which I just received about you from [the client's name] of [the cellphone company.] [The client] got my number from [the account exec] and said that he wanted to speak directly with your supervisor to compliment you on the fine work which you did for them yesterday. He said that he has now worked with you twice and is totally impressed with the job you've done for them on both occasions.

[The client] said that you are very personable, a tremendous listener, thorough and very quick and efficient. They have been very happy with the product which you have been able to provide.

While I know that this is the kind of work which you do for all of our clients, I appreciated hearing it very much directly from [the client] and wanted to be certain that you heard about it as well.


Thanks, Dinky for this effort and for all of the others which tend to go unheralded,

[The supervisor]

That was really nice of him, don't you think? I almost started bawling.

Party Time

Our station had its annual summer party today and I'm wiped out now. We went to the Olympic Oval to have our own little Olypmic Games. It sounded kind of lame at first but I sure as heckfire am glad I went. It was a kick in the pants! Our first event was curling. We had some instructors take us through the basics for about half an hour and then we had a shoot out. This was interrupted for some time, however. One of the sales associates was sweeping the ice to get the stone to go further when he went down, his face taking all the force of the fall. He cut his forehead open right at the eyebrow and a large puddle of blood formed on the ice. I think he also broke his nose, cut the inside of his lip, and nearly separated his shoulder. The paramedics were called and he went to the hospital to get stitches. I'm sure glad it wasn't me. Then we resumed our contest. Although my form was pretty good, I kept over shooting the target. While we were doing this, the U.S. Speed Skate Team as well as some Aussie Olympians were working out on the ice. They sped by us in tandem at unreal speeds.

Our next event was, of all things, dodge ball. Is that an Olympic sport? I was better at this. I helped our team advance into the semi-finals with two consecutive game-winning shots, each to the head. Apparently head shots are ok in the Olympics. After this we noticed the Skate Team was finished and a few of us went to talk to 1500 meter Olympic record holder, Derek Para. He was a very nice (and really short!) guy.

Our final event was the slap shot. We had to shoot at a target positioned in front of a hockey net. After a little coaching from my hockey-playing friends, I actually made a rather difficult shot.

After that we strapped on our harnesses and bungie-jumped on the trampoline the freestyle aerial jumpers train on.

In the end, our team won third place and each of us recieved a purple ball cap! Whoa, that's a little more than I can handle. We went back to the station to have a catered lunch and the prize give-away. The main course was a whole-roasted pig that they rolled into the room. It was smiling, wide-eyed, at everyone. The women sitting at my table were all disturbed by it. One of them, a reporter, had to change seats so she didn't have to look at it. Another one couldn't eat very much of it and got two desserts to satisfy her hunger. As far as I was concerned it wasn't great. I've been to a Tongan wedding and I used to have a Neighbor from Hawaii and they do the roasted pig thing much better. After I covered it with salt (which I had to dig out from my own stash) and spicy bbq sauce, it was tolerable. I had two helpings. I'm not going to let a little thing like lack of flavor stop me from gorging myself. After the lunch, they began drawing for prizes. The grand prize was a 21-inch tv. In the back of the prizes was a new golf bag ($199.00 retail value) with various drivers and woods in it. I have an instinct about these things. There have been three occasions in which I've known what I was going to win. Once in Idaho Falls I was at a company Christmas party. There there were about 3000 employees there. When they held up this stupid grandfather wall clock, I knew it was mine, and they called my name. Another time, at the place where I now work, there was a Chia Head in the prize stack. Something inside me said, "You're going to win that." I did. Today, I leaned over to my friend Di and told her I was going to win some of that golf stuff. I won the bag. Woo hoo, I guess. The only time I don't get the premonition is when I win something I want to win, or don't win anything at all.

I don't golf so if anyone wants to buy a new golf bag let me know.

In other news, Princess Rufflebutt's running a fever. She was sniffling a lot last night and she's really grumpy today. I've given her some Tylenol. I hope it helps.

My two oldest boys started school this week. I keep asking them what they learn but they don't say anything. Today I pressed my 1st grader and he said, "Either I didn't learn anything or I forgot it all." At least public school is free. I guess you get what you pay for.

Oh, one more thing. I stumbled on to this and laughed pretty hard.

Vacation

We just returned from our vacation about an hour ago. We left for my Parents' house in Idaho Falls on Tuesday. I needed to use my some of my vacation time. I get so much of it that I have a hard time using it. It would probably be easier if we could afford to go to Disneyland or Hawaii or somewhere, but as it is, we just don't know where to go that would be exciting. Then last week I had the brilliant idea of going to the lake I practically grew up at. About twenty minutes from my parents' place is a small manmade lake that's about thirty feet at its deepest and maybe 3/4 mile across. As a kid, my friends and I would go up there almost every day during the summer and float around on the boat dock we'd managed to unhook from the bottom, hurl ourselves from the rope swing, and dare each other to swim across the whole lake, an exhausting feat I accomplished twice. I figured my kids would enjoy it, so we packed up and left. The kids loved it. They splashed around and waded to and explored the small, wooded island. Rufflebutt had a blast, too. We went there two days in a row. The kids wanted to go today, too, but it was time to get back.

When we weren't at the lake, the kids were jumping on the trampoline. For some reason they didn't like me getting on with them. In fact they seemed terrified. I just can't understand it.

We celebrated Rufflebutt's 1st birthday while we were there, not that she noticed.

During my time away from the lake I was lazy as, well, heck. I revisited some of the reasons we don't have cable at my house. I'd be watching tv all day long. TCM is doing "Summer Under the Stars" which I could (and did) watch most of my waking hours. The first day was Edward G. Robinson day and I gained a new appreciation for his ability. I watched "Larceny, Inc." which Woody Allen remade as "Small Time Crooks" without giving any credit to the former. It was a fun little farce, but my favorite was "The Cincinatti Kid" with Steve McQueen. It's smart and intense and unappologetically ends the way real life would instead of giving us a fairy tale. It's one of my favorite films now. I also saw bullets or ballots, a typical Bogie film, which was fine, and his last film, the inane "Soylent Green", a Charlton Heston futuristic blunder (see "The Omega Man" for comparison.), a very unfortunate swan song for Robinson.

The next day I added another film to my favorites list. It was Bette Davis day. I've seen very few of her films and haven't really formed an opinion until now. I saw "All This and Heaven Too" which I enjoy in spite of some cheezy optimism, and the soap opera "The Great Lie." But the best one was "A Stolen Life", the only film she produced. It didn't have the ending I would have wanted, but its a wonderful film full of subtle twists and great performances.

Wow. Did I do anything this week? Not really, but isn't that what vacations are for?

What a Day!

The scheduler and my boss are both on vacation, so who does all the crap filter down to? You guessed it. First thing on the docket was a live production that I direct every so often. It's a three-minute commercial done interview-style and geared toward older people. It features products and services like hearing aids and assisted living, and the guy who hosts and sells the show works for a mortuary as his day job, so you can imagine how exciting the whole thing is. To top it all off, we had five shows, each of which had as the guest someone who is not used to being on tv. Imagine a deer...now think, "headlights." Great fun. That went for four hours. After that I had to field call after call about renting the sound stage and trying guess at what our rates might be. Then I edited a spot for a broadband company from footage that was shot in Georgia. That was actually fun. Tell me if you've seen the spot. I guess it has been running in other markets: A guy is talking about how slow dialup is and he crams a little kitten into one-inch pvc pipe. I don't care who you are...that's funny right there. So I got that one done and then I fixed another spot, and added a new logo to another one. Then I was on the phone again, giving people rates and our stage dimensions...I don't know how he does it. But I do know this: He can never go on vacation again!

Autograph

You probably won't believe this, but someone's signature on a piece of paper doesn't mean much to me. That's probably why I have a gazillion autographs from various famous people at home. It does, however, mean something more when the autograph is a response to something I created or did for said famous people. And most of the ones I have at home are just that. They're either copies of drawings I gave them or cd's and posters of bands that I worked with on the music show. So there's something of value to me there. I don't understand why people will buy something for hundreds or even thousands of dollars because it's signed by someone else. Ok, maybe they did something that was really cool. But, you know, I don't even understand why that should make us react the way we do. I react that way too and I don't understand that about myself. I just watched Coldplay's concert dvd and it blew me away. I haven't felt this way about a band since 1985 when I was absolutely in love with The Cure and Depeche Mode. I just want to hang out with Coldplay and be their friend and smile a lot. How corny is that? But it's there. For some reason there is a need to tell someone you admire them. It kind of completes the circle, I guess. These drawings I do don't mean very much by themselves. It's something I can do, but it's something anyone can do if they work at it. But they allow me to give something of myself, however insignifcant, to someone I admire. So here is the wonderful actor Tom Cruise's signature on a photocopy of an insignificant drawing I did in my spare time for you all to admire. Neener, and again I say, Neener.

Stuck

I know it's probably not a good thing, but Princess Rufflebutt is at the age when she cries a lot for nothing and we don't always rush to her aid. Most of the time she's just tired or bored and wants to be held. You can tell the cries when she's really in trouble and we're immediately there to help her. But the other cry, the aimless wailing and moaning, that usually goes unheeded and after a few minutes she finds something to occupy herself anyway. It was one of those cries I heard the other day coming from the kitchen. I was busy with something so I let her go on squawking the way she was. Finally I wandered into the kitchen and saw this:

Spud Days

I discovered Blogging for Books at Buzz's. I thought I'd give it a go. And by the way, this is all true.





The mud sucked at my boots, desperately tugging at my feet so that every step was a greater struggle than the last. I knew that my demeanor was different, that all the other guys were chuckling at me. I wasn't looking at the plants. I wasn't looking at anything in particular. My head hung low under the weight of one of my migraines and the added oppression of the sun roasting my bare neck. The fact that the sprinklers were on and we were all soaked to the skin didn't help either. My whole body was chafing. The furthest thing from my mind was diseased potatoes. Not that I could have recognized one if I saw it.

Two weeks earlier we new guys were given an abbreviated lesson on how to spot diseases like leafroll and PVY. I really tried at first. Mike, my boss, a skinny, scruff-bearded guy, showed us what to look for. "See how these leaves are yellow and rolled up? You've got to get rid of it." I couldn't see it but I nodded agreeably like the rest of the guys and watched as Mike dug out the plant completely and then chopped it up with his shovel. I still couldn't tell any difference between it and the other plants. And then came the first test, which I failed miserably, of course. I went up the row searching for yellow, curled leaves, but they all looked like that to me. I started to dig one up and Mike screamed, "There's nothing wrong with that plant! Keep moving!" But, I thought, I'm just following the Roguer's Rule: When in doubt, dig it out. Of course if I did that, there wouldn't be any potatoes left to harvest. I tiptoed along the row a couple more feet and heard another yell: "What the f*** is wrong with you, you f***in' idiot! Get that plant!" I looked around for a minute and then gingerly began to stab at one. "No! Sh**, Kid! How the hell did you get this job?" and he dug out the plant behind me. I got a little better after that, though I'm not sure how. It was mostly luck. Every few feet I'd pick out a plant that I thought might be a culprit and jump on it. After three correct guesses in a row, Mike left me to my six rows. Some of the other veterans kept a watch on me for awhile and they were just a hateful as Mike, but eventually they got caught up in their own work and left me alone.

I stopped for a moment to dig out a plant, although I was certain I was fooling nobody. No one was talking. It was a particularly hot afternoon and we'd been at it since 5:30 am. The sprinklers should have been a comfort in the heat, but they weren't. There are few things worse than trudging mile after mile knee-deep in mud in drenched jeans. Why did I ever agree to do this? I thought, my eyes still on the ground a few feet ahead of me.

My dad was always on my case about getting a job during the summer. I usually balked but this summer my friend, Chris, and I were fed up with having no money. There were things we wanted, a boom box, for instance, but we were destitute. In addition, Idaho Falls was about the most boring place two teenage kids could imagine. Maybe a job would be just the thing for us. So we looked in the paper. There were the usual fast food jobs but those were boring and too much work. Then we saw a chance to earn $6.00 an hour (an unheard of amount when the minimum wage was $3.25). "Hardworking
individuals needed to work 8 to 10 hour days for the summer roguing potatoes," the ad said. We talked about it for awhile. What was roguing? Was it really that hard? We had both thought about moving irrigation pipe and it couldn't be harder than that. So we applied. The address was a single-wide trailer, a couple of miles from our neighborhood. It was Mike's house. The first thing he said to me was, "What the hell are you wearing a tie for? This ain't no office job!" I felt stupid. My mother had told me to dress up so I did. But, in spite of my tie and my neatly combed hair, Chris and I both got the job. We chatted excitedly about our new fortune and had the money spent in about half an hour.

The first morning was rough. I was used to sleeping till noon and now I had to get up at 4:30 am. I drove to the place we were supposed to gather and wait for Mike. The rest of the crew was already there. Most of them were as new as me but there were a couple who'd been doing it for ten or twelve years. As far as I was concerned, this was only for a few months to get me some spending money. There was no way this would be a career. Mike arrived and we piled into the back of his pickup and rode about 45 minutes to our first job. After an hour I knew I'd made one of the biggest mistakes of my life.

I looked up and saw that we were coming to the end of the field at last. It was at least a mile long and we had gone back and forth on it, end to end, all day. I didn't have a watch but I was sure it was around 4:30. It was going to be a short day. We were finished with the field and there was not enough time to tackle another one. I made a decision right there. After two weeks on the job (it seemed more like a year), I was going to quit. I would call Mike on the phone that night and let him know I wasn't cut out for this. Chris was, though. He'd made friends with the rest of the crew and never seemed tired. He was going to make it through the whole summer.

I thought about the past two weeks. It had certainly been an experience. But I had never worked for someone so degrading before. On about the third day of being baked in the sun, I had decided to bring a hat to work. I was already singed to the point of not being able to sleep at night, so I thought it might help. The only one I could find was narrow-brimmed one my dad had. It was sort of like a fishing cap. I pulled the brim down as far as I could to keep the sun off me. In the field that day, it drew attention to me. "Where you get that ugly f***in' hat!" Mike said. And that day he watched me more carefully than ever, ridiculing me at every step.

On another day we were crop-dusted by a low-flying plane. I thought he'd avoid hitting us with the poison but he didn't. The roar from the engine reverberated off the ground, pulverizing my eardrums.

On another occasion we were on our way home when the pickup jolted upward, throwing us around under the camper shell. We looked out the window and saw one of the rear tires racing ahead of us. It bounced over a canal and shot into a field doing about thrity miles per hour. Then it reached the end of the field and shot straight up into the air. We waited for half an hour for Mike and Dave to retrieve it and "fix" the truck. The axle was broken but somehow we made it home. I think we averaged about 20 mph.

But the worst thing that had happened to me was the day there was a lull in the work. We'd just finished a field and Mike went to check on another farmer to see if he was ready for us. While we waited for him to return, a couple of the guys started to dig a large hole near the road at the end of the field. As they dug, someone else explained that there was a tradition among the crew. New guys were buried in the dirt up to their necks. I couldn't believe it. No one was going to bury me. But I was the only one they could catch. As soon as they grabbed me, I gave up. There was no point in struggling, after all. Two of the veteran roguers sat me down in the hole and held me while the rest of the guys filled it up. It wasn't long before they could let go. I was encased in dirt and I couldn't even move a finger. They said the custom was that the new guy had to get himself out. I started to struggle and the dirt gradually loosened. I tried not to show the panic. I'm not claustrophobic but I don't like people laughing at me. I finally got a hand to where I could start pushing the dirt away when Mike drove up. He got out of the truck and threw a shovelful of dirt on me for good measure. He laughed at me and I thought he might spit some of his chew on me, but he just said, "Get him out of there. We've got to be at the next field in five minutes."

I got to the end of the row at last and jabbed at a healthy plant, plucking it out and chopping it in half. On the ride home I endured the jibes from the rest of the guys in silence. "Dude, you looked dead out there. You could barely walk."

That night I plucked up what was left of my courage and called Mike.

"Hello, Mike? I'm not going to make it tomorrow."

"Why not? We need you. We've got three fields to cover tomorrow."

"I just can't do it anymore. I'm not the right guy for this. I don't even know what I'm doing out there."

Mike sounded pissed off. He told me I could come get my check on Monday.

My dad drove me over to Mike's house and I reluctantly knocked on the door. "Where the f*** were you on Friday?" He shouted.

"I told you I wasn't coming."

"No you didn't. You said your last day was today. We waited for twenty minutes. We were late for our first job and couldn't finish all of them because of you."

"Mike, I told you I wasn't going to be there."

"The f*** you did. Get the f*** out of my house." He threw my check on the ground.

Chris rubbed my failure in my face for the rest of the summer. I was a little envious when he brought home his new boom box with the three channel equalizer, but not when he showed me his shredded kegger boots, damaged from the vines. Apparently what I went through was nothing. It was spring time and the plants were still small. As they matured they covered the ground and grew waist-high. I'm glad I got out of it when I did.

Cruisin'

Well, I'm a little disappointed. Tony gave my drawing of Tom Cruise to Tom himself over the weekend. The reason I'm disappointed is that he didn't do anything on video like Robin Williams and Dustin Hoffman did. But he did autograph a copy of the drawing for me. I'll post it when I get it from Tony.

The Village

The much-anticipated film was an over all success. I really wanted to see it and I hyped the thing up quite a bit for myself, yet, as always, I was ready to rip it apart at the first sign of weakness. I want things explained only when they absolutely must be and when they are, it has to be done with a masterful touch. Don't make me feel like you're explaining it. Make the details unfold naturally so that I'm enlightened to what I did not know as if I'd discovered it myself. That was the one weakness I found. But I liked the rest of the film so much that it was easy for me to dismiss that. The actors were amazing. Bryce Howard is going to be a star and should earn some awards for her performance as should Brody and Phoenix for theirs. The veterans William Hurt and Sigourney Weaver seemed to be just laying a foundation for the riveting performances of the younger actors.

I'd like to deconstruct the story (but I won't spoil anything) because after the stunning plot twists have lost their novelty, the story itself could use a little work. It is not well-propelled; the reason for having a story at all is a little unclear to me. As for the much-talked-about questions that are supposedly raised without explanation at the end of the film, I can't begin to fathom what they might be. As I said, everything is pretty well summed up.

That said, I still liked the film very much and it's worth seeing again. It's Shyamalan's first good film since Sixth Sense. Of course, I liked Waterworld, The Postman, What Dreams May Come, and Bicentennial Man a great deal too, so you're going to have to be the judge for yourself.

Can You Feel the Love Tonight?

Mrs. Chickenshorts is not very happy with me right now. You see, I was absentmindedly singing my own twisted variation of the Elton John and Tim Rice song (up there in the title to this post) and I was overheard by my kids. It was completely innocent on my part (can't you just see the halo atop my cranium?), but now there's a disjointed chorus of little voices all over the house singing "Can you smell my butt tonight? Does it really stink?" Mrs. C just glares at me now.

Walk This Way Too

I posted that picture of Rufflebutt walking so I figure I should post a picture of me that shows how she learned to walk so well:

Walk This Way

I haven't talked about Princess Rufflebutt for awhile. She's growing up fast! She has just started walking a couple of weeks ago so I grabbed a camera and took some pictures of her yesterday and put them into this animated gif:

Water War Zone

Five years ago today, just after we bought this house, I was outside enjoying myself in the sunshine. I've said before how the 24th is a holiday around here. So there I was, minding my business, when three or four of my neighbors walked into my yard. I had just met them days before and I would have thought they were there to welcome me to the neighborhood if they hadn't been dripping wet and carrying buckets and water balloons. Suddenly I remembered that there was a tradition around these parts. Every year on Pioneer Day a huge water fight breaks out in the neighborhood. I desperately bolted around the back of the house to the other side only to realize, too late, that they had me surrounded. Once I was drenched, and had spread out my wallet and it's contents on the concrete to dry, there was nothing to do but join them and spread my misery. We succeeded in coaxing another neighbor out of her house on the pretense that she was helping us to get yet another person out of her house.

It's been like that every year since, with me not prolonging the inevitable but just plunging headlong into the fray. But last year, I decided, was my last year. I had plans in the back of my mind to avoid the whole mess by packing up the family and heading out to the park for the day. Except that I forgot. Today I was downstairs playing my guitar and minding my own business once again when I heard a knock at the door. It was those dealers of a watery death, armed with fat, bubble-shaped guns, and buckets waiting for me to come up and face the unavoidable fact of living in this neighborhood. Only this time, I didn't want to. I told my kids to tell them I wasn't coming up. They came back giggling. My 50-something, grown-up neighbor, they said, was calling me a chicken liver. I said, "Tell them I don't want to get wet." I listened as my five-year-old went to the door and said, "My Dad's a chicken." I endured this a while longer, waiting as the ten or twelve aquaterrorists filled up at my hose. At one point I was able to sneak past the opened door and go upstairs to foolishly peer at them from behind the curtain. Finally, and with one last, "Dinky, you're a chicken liver," and a, "Tell your dad he's a coward," they were gone. I breathed a sigh of relief, called the kids together, and said, "Come on. We're going to the park."

A Beautiful Novel

The kids and I just finished reading another book. This time it was North to Freedom by Anne Holm. The book has been around the house for ages and I never paid any attention to it. It belongs to my wife and she recommended it for our little book club the boys and I have had going. So the other night we went for it and I'm so glad we did.

Twelve-year-old David has spent much of his life in a concentration camp. He knows very little about the outside world and almost nothing about his parents. At the beginning of the story, he is given the opportunity to escape, which he does. The only instruction he's given, aside from how to get out of the camp and where to find some meager supplies, is to go North and try to make it to Denmark. He has no idea what is waiting for him there but it's all he has to go on so he makes the attempt. Along the way he makes some important discoveries about himself, about God, and about other people.

The novel was the perfect length but I found myself wanting more. I had become aquainted with this marvelous little boy and I wanted to spend more time with him. The lessons he taught all of us as we followed the tale will stay with me for a long time. It's nice to find a story that delineates the difference between good and evil. The book is intended for children and, as the word "Nazi" is never mentioned, the reader will most likely not equate the mysterious "them," as David refers to his enemies, to Hitler, which is just as well. As one reviewer says, "The ambiguity [tells] the lesson that evil [is] evil, regardless the political justification." The kids seemed to enjoy it, too, though not quite as much as I did. I spent most of the time in tears, hiding my face from the boys. They, on the other hand, when I had read the last sentence, said, "That was good. What's next?"

If Only I Could Write Like That

This is beautiful writing. Like when you really like something, like a flower, maybe, because it's so beautiful and smells good. . . Oh hell. I can't even write badly. I'd be no match even for this contest.

Actually, I think the runner-up should have won.

Local Boy Makes it Big--Hmmph!

Jealousy is a strange thing. This guy, Ken Jennings, didn't even exist a few weeks ago, and now I hate him. Just kidding. I'm happy for him. I really am. I've been close to the story because I do the promos for the show, which is on our station, so every week I'm reminded of how he's doing. I even know in advance of the general viewing public. I guess that makes me sort of special, eh? Nah. No one I know cares much. It is fun to watch someone from the area do so well, though. I don't even wish it was me up there. I couldn't handle the pressure. Unless every category had something to do with classic or alternative rock or Shakespeare (yes, you read it right, I'm a Shakespeare nut) I would absolutely suck. You could ask me what my name is and I'd flub it. So keep going Ken! We're rooting for you... you little jerk!

Cool by Association

Wow. I post a few pictures of my new "friends", Tears for Fears, and suddenly I have 75 hits in one day. I'm used to about 25. Apparently someone has posted a link to my site on a Tears for Fears Yahoo group. Now I'm getting emails and comments from lots of people and I can't even go to the Yahoo group because I'm not a member. All I did was meet the band and now I'm famous...well, for a minute or so at least. Here's another picture of my good buddies, Roland and Curt, in case it prolongs my good fortune.

The Magic Kingdom? Not Quite.

For those of you not from Utah or Idaho, we have our own amusement park here called Lagoon. Actually, I'm not sure who gets amused by it. I surely don't. It's a hack job of a Disneyland rip off; an immobile traveling carnival that doesn't go anywhere, only the barkers are not hardened criminal types, they're 16 to 18 year old kids whose purpose in life is to squeeze a little more cash out of people who were already robbed for parking money and the entrance fee. A family in my income bracket has to take out a loan to go to this park. Now that's amusing. One obnoxious young woman was shouting at us to pay her two bucks for her to guess our weight or age for a chance to win something worth about twenty cents. She kept on and on about it until someone behind us said, "We don't have any money," to which she replied, "Why do you come to Lagoon without any money?" I wanted to say, "We had some until you raped us at the gate!"

Then there are the rides. Every day we have to endure commercials about the new attractions like "The Spider and the Fly," "Cliffhanger," and "Samurai." The ads make them sound like they're worth the arm and a leg you'll be handing over to ride them. But take it from me, they're not. I love a great ride. I'll do anything--drop straight down sixty feet, for instance--but I guess I've been spoiled by the real parks. Since my grandparents lived in L.A., we'd go to Disneyland every year. Also, I was a child then and everything was bigger and more exciting. I want that experience everytime I go to Lagoon and I don't get it. I might be getting old, but if I have to mortgage everything I own to ride on some contraption, it better be the equivalent of a base jump!

When my mother called a couple of days ago and said she was getting our family tickets to Lagoon, the kids went nuts, of course. And that is one way in which I can enjoy Lagoon. My children are young enough that they haven't been on a real rollercoaster yet. I coaxed my eight-year-old on the Spider and, though he didn't want to go on it at first, it became his favorite ride. The kids had a lot of fun. They love Lagoon. But then, they aren't the targets of the greedy barkers and they don't understand the implications of an 8 ounce bottle of water costing six bucks. So Lagoon is 150 acres of magic to them. To me it's a vacation from which I need to take a vacation.

I Feel so Fresh...And Frolicky

Scott got me the pictures at last! There's one of Dr. Covey signing my copy of his book, and one of our soundstage after a production. They painted it to look like a jungle. It was so life-like I just had to frolick in it. There's a closer shot of me doing just that. There's also another picture of the "Rockstar" and her guitarists and one of me running camera with some of the crew during her show.

Heros

I've been putting this off because I've been waiting for the photo, but I can't wait any longer. Since I don't have my own camera, I'm always at the mercy of my friend, Scott, whose new, really expensive, digital camera always seems to be around. Unfortunately, this particular event wasn't as cool as, say, Ala*nis or Tears for Fears, so the photo's taking an inordinate amount of time to materialize in my inbox.

To me, though, June 22 was a great day. I was a cameraman on a satellite-broadcast of a leadership seminar. The series is broadcast from all over the country--wherever the leadership expert happens to be. I saw that Mikhail Gorbachev and General Tommy Franks are soon to be presenters on the program. In this case it was one of my personal heros, Dr. Stephen Covey. I've been reading his books for years. He was very engaging with us. He smiled a lot, made us feel at ease. After the program, he started pounding the floor with a staff he'd brought, saying that in the British Parliment that's what they do to tell other's they've done a great job, so he was applauding our performance as a tv crew. I took my copy of his 7 Habits book to him and he signed, "Leave a legacy!" on the inside cover.

Wow!

This summer's movie line up looks like it's really shaping up. I just saw a trailer for the remake of my number one movie (if I had to pick a number one.) I had no idea The Manchurian Candidate was even in production. The trailer makes it look great. They had to change the story, obviously, and they don't try to hide the fact that Meryl Streep is the evil mastermind, as they did with Angela Lansbury in the original, because we've all seen it and it wouldn't work, right? So this means there's probably some huge twist ending. A better replacement for Frank Sinatra couldn't have been found. Denzel looks absoulutely terrific in the role.

Then there's the follow up to what might be my second favorite movie. I just hope the The Bourne Supremacy is as good as its prequel.

God Bless America

Happy Fourth! No big fireworks. Around here when the holiday falls on a Sunday, they do all that stuff on Saturday. We lit our meager supply in front of the house tonight. Little fountains called "Junebugs" and "Glittering Jewels" and other awe-inspiring names. They didn't inspire much awe in me, though the kids were plenty excited. Fortunately, no one on our street obeys the restrictions on fireworks so we got to see some pretty cool stuff smuggled in from Wyoming. I felt like the whole valley was sounding off, trying to be heard celebrating freedom with explosions. After our tiny display was over I went in and watched the Boston Pops fireworks show on CBS. It was amazing. They put a lot of money into that. I wish I could have been there.

In ten days we get to do this all over again. We celebrate the 24th of July with almost more zeal than we do the 4th around these parts. That's when the pioneers allegedly came into this valley and settled it. Salt Lake City doesn't have a parade for the 4th but it has a huge one for the 24th. I've only gone to it once and that was when I had to shoot it for the tv station. I got yelled at for being in front of people who'd camped all night for their seats. I'll never forget that.

I have updated my drawings page. There are no new drawings there, just a new way to display them. It's pretty simple. I'm still in preschool when it comes to html. But I'm trying.

Napoleon Who?

A few months ago my friend Matt took off from his job here at the station to work on a small independant film in Preston Idaho for a few weeks. He's done this before and we don't think much of it, but now it seems that he was working on a gold mine. The film, called Napoleon Dynamite, is taken from a short by the same director that I just watched a couple of weeks ago. It was funny but it didn't strike me as a film that might go anywhere. I just watched some clips of the feature from the electronic press kit (EPK) and it's hilarious. Matt's in the b-roll on the EPK and every scene in the movie contains a landmark that I recognize. And now I'm seeing the lead, Jon Heder--just a guy from BYU--everywhere. He was just on Letterman and the movie's getting a lot of press. I haven't seen the whole thing yet, but I'm excited about it.

For the Lack of Anything to Post Today

Here's a picture of me editing with a client:

We'd Live on Ice Cream . . . On Coney Island

This song keeps going through my head. I wonder why.

It's All Happening At the . . . Delta Center

And I'm not there, which required a huge paradigm shift on my part. Simon and Garfunkel are playing in concert as I type this and I was almost there. My friend Scott bought a pair of tickets as soon as they were available for $300. But he wasn't satisfied. Section 7 row 11, isn't good enough. So, when he found a pair of 10th row center seats available, he snapped them up. Of course he'd be able to sell the other pair, right? I mean, it's Simon and Garfunkel, for crying out loud. That's something that was never going to happen again. Never mind that the price is obscene and exclusionary and elitist. He came to me, knowing I'm a huge fan, and proceeded to ridicule me because I wouldn't buy the tickets. I don't care who it is, I'm not paying that much to see them. It's ridiculous of them to think they're that special. I'll admit they're pretty special, but not enough for me to take food out of my kids' mouths or run up my credit card bill. The memory of a great concert only lasts so long and then I'm wishing I had it on video so I could recall what was so great about it. That's not worth $300 bucks.
So he began making the rounds. He hit up everyone he knew. Finally, last thursday, he took out an ad in the paper. He hit me up once more but not for money. He wanted me to give him some edit time for the tickets. I wanted a definate number of hours and we agreed on 30--a very generous settlement on my part: That's only $10 bucks an hour. The station charges $250 for my services and I ask at least $40 when doing freelance. So I was going to the concert. However, this all hinged on the tickets not selling. Frankly, I was secretly hoping they would sell. I mean, 30 hours? Come on. I came to work yesterday and he told me how many bites he'd had: None. Zilch. Nada. So I was still going to the concert. I had the tickets in my hand today and I invited my friend Steve to go with me. Then the great and awful thing happened. Someone bought his tickets. I was glad. Glad for me and glad for him. But still...Simon and Garfunkel. If they'd only lower the price about a hundred dollars a ticket. Hmmmm.

Tears for Fears

I try to be professional at these things and usually I am. I never become a "fan", following the artists around and asking stupid questions like some little kid backstage at an N-Sync concert.
But there are times, like yesterday, when I'm so captivated by the musicians' abilities and my experiences with their music, that I have a hard time containing my excitement. Tears for Fears inspired that sentiment in me. The experience was an about-face from the one with A.M. The band didn't seem to need any "space".
I pretty much stayed in the corner, having nothing to say that I thought they would want to hear. But the other guys on the crew were chatty as always. My friend, Dick, couldn't get over the pianist's t-shirt, which had a picture of John Lennon spinning DJ-style at a double turntable, and Mike talked a lot with the drummer about the drummer's other band, of which Mike is a fan.
Everybody was quite friendly with us, and they were very accepting of the cameras, which were in their faces most of the time. Even when they cleared the room for the sound check and we all started to leave, they called to us camera guys and said, "Not you. You guys can stay and film it."

The sound check turned out to be a pretty painful experience at first. There were some problems setting up the board with all the mics and headsets needed to record the drums, bass, piano, and guitars.
It took about 45 minutes to resolve it while the 65-plus radio station listeners who were invited to the intimate performance waited in the atrium downstairs. I could see frustration on the faces of all the band members, particularly the drummer, Nick D'Virgilio (who also plays with the band, Spock's Beard), and Roland Orzabal, but it was definately tense for all of us.
The sound setup was entirely the responsibility of the radio station, not us, so all we could do was sit there and watch. But the wait was worth it when the soundcheck began.
They did parts of "Call me Mellow" and "Who Killed Tangerine" from their soon-to-be released Everybody Loves a Happy Ending. We were all digging it. Most of us are huge Beatles fans and the obvious influences of that band on this one were not lost on us.
After running through the songs and tweaking the levels a little, Nick asked about the order of the songs and, Roland said, "The same as yesterday: Mellow, Tangerine, Heaven, Everybody, and Seeds." Then he looked at us and said, "Let's do it." We brought the listeners in and seated them all around the band.

The interview was sparse, but that didn't bother me. I was there for the music. After discussing the breakup of Roland and Curt, which they were fairly open about, they kicked into the first two songs. Roland's vocals were amazing. The high notes were crisp right up into the falsetto. And Nick's backup vocals on "Tangerine" during the line, "It's not over" made me tingle.
After the show the listeners were lined up down the stairs, through the atrium and around the corner into the hall, where they waited turns for pictures and autographs. Roland and Curt were both very engaging and funny with everyone.
After 20 minutes or so when that was done and I asked them if they would be in a picture with the tv crew, Roland said, "You'd think we were famous!"
The thing that struck me the most about this experience after the last one was how accomodating they were to us.
They seemed very willing to be on camera and have access to the obvious promotional opportunity there is in having a local show about them broadcast. This is by far the best of these I've been involved with.
The pictures were taken by my friends, Scott Frederick and Bret Barton. I'm the one in the Utah Football T-Shirt.
Be sure to go out and buy the new album, "Everybody Loves a Happy Ending" when it comes out September 14th. Take it from me, it's going to be great if the three songs I heard are any indication!

Are You Ready for This?

First of all, let me clear up some confusion. The rock star I met the other day was extremely nice. She even made little old me feel comfortable around her. She had an amazing singing voice and the guitarists were nice guys as well. I chatted with one about playing the guitar, which is a hobby of mine.

I made it sound like she was a diva but she wasn't. It was her "people" I had a hard time with. Here's a photo of her with our crew:


OK. Now that that's all cleared up, I can depress you all. This blog has really turned into a downer lately. But I've got to chronicle everything that's been going on. That's what I started this thing for anyway.

There's a kid in our neighborhood--I think he's about 22 but I've known him since he was sixteen. He's a great kid, very considerate, a HUGE sports fan, and just a nice guy. About a year ago he noticed his eyes going blurry. He went to several eye doctors and no one could figure out what the problem was. It kept getting worse and finally he was given an MRI. It turns out that he has a massive tumor that covers the whole top of his brain. They're starting chemotherapy now. I haven't been up to visit him yet. I was told he was coming home but they've kept him there for over a week now. I need to go see him.

Are you just totally bummed now? Wait! There's more!

Not living in Idaho has its drawbacks. I'm not up on all the news there. I guess my parents think I can pick up this stuff telepathically so they don't call, but I guess my dad and his twin brother have both been diagnosed with prostate cancer. In fact, my uncle has been undergoing radiation therapy for over five months. My dad doesn't want to go that way. He's opting to have his removed. He doesn't like the idea of having a glow-in-the-dark butt. They both act like it's nothing out of the ordinary. Of course, emotions don't flow easily from either of them.

Do you want to know what I got for father's day? Aside from all the lovely cards my boys gave me and the wonderful new shirt and tie from my wife (I love new clothes--before the washer has had a chance to take the life out of them), I got a huge, devastating migraine. It consumed the whole world for about eight hours. My body wanted to get rid of anything and everything I would put in it. I looked dead. I couldn't lie down and I couldn't sit up. It hurt to breathe. Pain relievers didn't help. Finally, my wife got me a Diet Coke and I sipped it very carefully for about twenty minutes. The headache went away after that. But it came back around midnight and I was up until 4:30am when it finally went away again. How's that for a nice gift?

Stick with Me, and we Might go Places...I Hope.

Tension filled the building when I walked in this morning. There was a lot of anticipation but no one really knew what to expect. It had been over a year since we had been involved with one of these things and now there was the added distraction of having it at our building instead of at the radio station. We had worked that out with them because they were remodeling their building and needed a place to have their little live (in this case, almost live) interview with a rock band that they frequently broadcast. What we were to get out of it was the chance to video tape it and possibly ressurect the show we had attempted a while back. The only thing was that, now that everything was arranged, it looked like the tour manager for this particular artist wasn't keen on the idea of having cameras there. When you think about it, it is kind of unusual. Here's a big rock star who decides to do a promotional radio tour and suddenly she finds out that one of the stations has a loose comraderie with a tv station and would like to televise the brief performance. So I guess I can understand. That doesn't help the disappointment I feel when I hear something like that. Couple that with the fact that everyone keeps asking me about camera angles and lighting when I would rather leave all of that to someone else. They do that because I'm the one who'll be editing it and I know what I want. Yeah, right. I don't know anything.

Anyway, the artist turned out to be very nice and cordial. It was the people surrounding her that made her seem like a diva at first. I've experienced that before. Which leads me to a very sappy thought I had earlier. I've met a lot of celebrities and many of them have been very nice, but there are the snitty little jerks who think the world revolves around them. (Let me make it clear that this particular artist is not one of those.) These people have people who reinforce that to their face. They go for anything they need, they make sure the riders--the instructions to the venues including things like, "You must have only green m&m's and a packet of white BVD men's briefs"--are lived up to, and they tell them whatever they want to here. Sometimes that can be detrimental if one of these divas is on a creative path that the public just can't get their heads around. If no one is there to help them see their error they may just end up without an audience and without the money they're used to. Then what happens to the yes men? They disappear. There's no reason to hang around anymore. That's why I often wonder why my wife hangs around me. There's no money and no fame, nothing particularly special about me. It must be something a lot deeper and I'm sure there are times when she can't figure it out, either. What I'm trying to say is, I'm sure glad she sticks with me even though there's absolutely no glory in doing so.

We weren't able to shoot the whole performance. We were told to shut off the cameras in the middle of the first song. I don't know how we'll make a show out of it. You may have noticed that I haven't mentioned the artist's name. I don't want to alienate anybody with comments that might be construed as negative. If you really need to know who it is, email me and I'll send you a clue and you can guess or whatever. I'll post some pictures as soon as I get them, too.

Where Do They Get This Stuff?

I stumbled out of bed this morning on my way to the shower when I heard my wife say, "Tell your dad what you told me." My six year old came to me in his underwear holding a silver gift bow to his crotch and said, "This is what they call a weiner wrap!"

Around the World

My friend, Tony, gave us some free passes to an early screening of Around the World in Eighty Days the other day. We don't go to the movies much so I thought it was a great chance to spend some time with the kids. After waiting in line for a while, and passing through Disney's stiff security gauntlet who prodded us looking for cell phones and recording devices, we entered into the seething madhouse. The movie was far more than I had hoped for. Jackie Chan was great, as usual, and this time he didn't have to fight (no pun intended) for screen time and laughs with Chris Tucker, always a tedious thing to watch. The kids seemed to love it. My eight year old was laughing his head off at the slapstick and repeating the one-liners in my ear. After the movie my four-year-old threw a fit because we couldn't afford, even with my HUGE 10% employee discount, any popcorn. But aside from that, I think we all had a pretty good time.

Conversation with my Six-Year-Old

Me: Do I look old?
Him: Uh, no. You kind of have a mustache but you don't look old.
Me: Am I old?
Him: How old are you?
Me: 37
Him: No. You're not old. Maybe when you're 93 you'll be old.
Me: That's good news. I won't be old until I'm 93? That's a long way off still.
Him: Well, you'll be old when you're 90.

Bummed

For our lunch hour, I went with a buddy of mine who also works in televsion to visit a high school assistant principal to pitch him on an idea. We were both pretty excited about it. The idea was to videotape the student body throughout the year and edit a year-end video that we would then sell to the students. We were sure to make a lot of money. The assistant principal sounded excited too. On the phone, he told me it was a great idea. The students already put out a video like that every year but if a couple of professionals could come in and do it, it would probably sell a lot more copies. So we went into his office and had a chat with him. Again he seemed pumped about it and he was very nice. There were a couple of kinks that had to be worked out but we felt we could get past those. He set up another appointment for us to meet with the head of the production department and he gave us a copy of the dvd that they had produced last year. We looked at it when we got back and now we're both depressed. While not airable, it's still not a bad little video. And the coverage is amazing. They had cameras out at every conceivable event. Some of it was cheesy but there's nothing we can offer them without much more work than we want to do that they can't provide for themselves. The kicker is that no one buys the little gem. I may be giving up early, but it seems like we've struck out. I've got to get my future ironed out. My current job just isn't cutting it.

I also learned today that my next door neighbor, a nice kid who's very friendly and always waves to me, was ripped off this weekend. Someone broke his car windows and stole the stereo and speakers. He's in very low spirits. I feel nearly as bad for him as I did for myself a couple of weeks ago when that happened to me. I'd sure like to catch the people who are doing this.

Another Birthday

My five-year-old turned six today. He got a lot of swag including an inflatable swimming pool with a whale slide. He seems to have enjoyed himself.

Did Anyone Else See It?

I meant to say this before today but I'm a slacker. The episode of Trading Spaces that was shot in my edit bay aired today. In fact, it is on as I type this. It's fun to see the room in which I spend most of my time on a national program.

Finally! The Photos

Here are the pictures from the day with Trading Spaces and Paige Davis:

Weather and Book Reports

It's amazing how quickly the weather changes here. Suddenly it's in the 90's. A week ago we had 50 and 60 degree temps. The heat is the roughest for me at night, when I'm trying to sleep. I bought a little fan that clips to my bookcase next to my bed but all that does is blow the heat around the room. I'd love to get central air and redo all the windows but in our financial state, that's the stuff of fantasy. At work the temperature in my editbay hovers around 58 to 60 degrees. So I get used to the chilly air and then walk into an oven at 6 pm. I got pneumonia that way in Florida, going between air-conditioned buildings and the sauna-like, blazing air of Pensacola. So I hang out in our basement a lot. It's like a cave down there, all of the curtains drawn, and much cooler.

On to other things. A few months ago, the kids and I started something that we really look forward to each night. At bed time we go down to their room and I read a few chapters from a book. They're long books, too, but we've finished quite a number of them. So far I have read all seven of the Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe books, Tom Sawyer, and a few others. We just finished a fun book called The Thief Lord, a 352 page book in the style of Dickens. The kids had fun learning about Venice and its streets of water. Last night they were busting up at the end and we were all giggling about it. I recommend this great bonding experience.

Long Day

I should be in bed, but I wanted to scratch out a few words about today before the memory of it dissolves into nothing.

It began early. At 5 am the alarm shook me awake long enough to reach over and silence the evil thing. I instantly dove back into sleep and in another instant the wretched piece of machinery was screaming again. This time my wife got up and some of the kids were awake so I couldn't get back to snoozing as eazily. We packed everybody in, got our "Sunday clothes" ready, and took off. This time I made sure the deadbolt was locked. (I must take a moment to say that I'm glad I didn't lock the car door the other day. I'm missing a stereo, but I'd have to deal with a broken window as well. So it was for the best.)

Everyone was hungry, so we stopped at Mickey D's. This put us behind schedule and stressed me out a little. We listened to the rest of the "Swiss Family Robinson" audio book. They sure had everything they needed just in the nick of time, didn't they. I got the book mostly for my kids, but I enjoyed it, too. I thought the language might be a bit overhead but they astonished me by actually listening to it. They even asked questions and speculated about why a certain event was happening.

We arrived later than we expected. When we got to my mom's house there was a note on the door that said, "We're at the church. Please join us." We spent another ten minutes coaxing the kids to change into their church clothes and then raced to the church. We weren't late. My dad's twin brother arrived at the same time we did.

The service was nice. A lot of very nice things were said about my Grandfather. I still can't believe he's gone. It's going to take some time for that to sink in. My brothers and I sang a hymn. We were also, along with our California cousins, the pall bearers. I, being ten years older than the next oldest bearer, let the other guys do most of the work. My back, with it's missing disk, and my hernia wouldn't hear of anything else.

We drove the two miles to the cemetery, and carried the casket to the plot next to my Grandmother's. After the graveside service we went back to the church and had dinner. I'd like to say that I got to know some of my relatives, but I mostly just hid from them. I'm no good at small talk and I just didn't konw what to say. I'm afraid they take it as arrogance or dislike. That couldn't be further from the truth, especially with my mom's brother's family. I admire them so much. They're all so well-manered and nice, but I don't know how to talk to them. I'm sure they think I feel I'm above them, too good for them. Oh well.

My four-year-old sat next to me across from my dad and his twin. My boy leaned over to me and said, "There are two grandpas." It's fun to see how each of my kids responds to seeing their grandpa's carbon copy. They call him Uncle Grandpa and often confuse the two.

After the dinner, we let the boys get some of their wiggles out on the trampoline. My parents' house is on a big lot next to a wheat field. There's a lot of space out there and I think that's why my children like it so much.

We blew yet another $35.00 on gasoline and headed back. I was afraid to go in the house, almost certain that I find everything gone. But it was all still there and I let out my breath.

People ask me how the funeral was and I tell them it was nice, but nothing compares to the brief time I spent with him just before he died. That was all the funeral service I needed.

Emotional Week

My range of emotions is complete.

This morning my boy, the neighbor kid I take to school, and I all got in the car to go. I reached down to turn on the stereo and grabbed a handful of wires. The stereo was gone. I can't describe how impotent I feel. To want smash someone's face in but to not have a target because they left no calling card is an enormous frustration. I feel violated, to say the least. I'm doing my best to not take it out on everyone around me. I yelled at the kids to get in the car because they were fighting over the seat. It came out pretty harsh and they were silent all the way to the school. I waved to my boy and he gave me a half-hearted wave in return.

The stereo was a nice one that I won at a company party. It's the only possession I own that's worth stealing. Part of what's killing me about this whole thing is how stupid I am. I should have taken the detachable face plate off. I should have locked the car. I guess I just think more of people than I should. I expect them to treat my property like I would treat theirs. I keep looking down at the dash for the clock or to turn on the stereo and the feeling rush back.

So I can add rage to my list.

Passing

As far as I was concerned, he went quietly.

My mother called me a week ago last Saturday and said that my grandpa had had a stroke and a heart attack that day and that he really looked like he didn't have many days left. The doctor had given him anywhere from three days to six months. My grandpa. The tall, bulky, gruff man we traveled to Los Angeles every summer to visit. After all the false alarms during the last few years since my grandma died, it looked like this might actually be it.

I thought about when I should go up to Idaho to see him. Given his history, I was sure I'd have a lot of time to make that decision, but still, the way my mom and dad were describing him didn't sound good. Work was a problem. I had a full schedule, at least one of the projects a live broadcast that couldn't be rescheduled. I called my mom again and she told me he was asking about me, whether I'd come to see him before he went, and whether I'd sing at the funeral. This settled it for me. I'd take Friday off and go up that weekend. My Uncle, who lives in California, couldn't make it until then either.

We packed up and made the three-hour drive on Saturday, a week after I'd first learned of his condition. I expected to find a house full of guests at my mom's place and have to make other sleeping arrangements, but, luckily, we missed everyone.

I went in to talk to Grandpa. He was in the other master bedroom, the one vacated by my parents when I was a kid after they had built the "grand master bedroom" over the garage. The home-hospice provided by Medicare had put him in a hospital bed. He really was in bad shape. He seemed to have trouble breathing and was aided by an oxygen tank that sat in the living room connected by a long tube. I just stood there for awhile. He looked so out of it. When he spoke to my mom, the voice was faint and raspy, vulnerable. With effort, he turned his head to look at me and said, "How have you been, ____," calling me by brother's name. I figured that was a sign of him being incoherent until he added, "If that is _____. I can't see very well." Then I could tell that he was actually very alert and his mind was working well. I told him who I was. I didn't want to be in there. He and I never really saw eye to eye. I lived with him and my grandma for a summer in L.A. when I was a teenager and we had our struggles. I learned to love him and realize that he loved me but I never really overcame the wedge between us. But that began to change when he pulled me close, still surprisingly strong, and embraced me. We didn't exchange any words. The hug said everything.

Later the nurse came and began to do something in his room. She came out and asked my dad and I if we'd help her. She was trying to change his bedding. He seemed to be in a lot of pain every time she touched him. I helped to roll him over so we could get the soiled pads out from under him. He hadn't eaten for five days but he was still so heavy it was quite a struggle. I was bombarded with emotions as I helped. Here was this man, still so substantial, yet so helpless. I felt closer to him in that moment than I ever have. I felt like he needed me and I wanted to be there to do whatever I could.

The next day, my uncle and two of his kids arrived. The last time I saw them was when my grandmother died a few years ago. Before that I think it was about twenty years. When I learned they were there, I went into the room and saw my uncle, a stout, good-looking man, holding my grandpa's hand. I blundered into the room, sticking my hand out and saying "how've you been!" and not realizing that I was interrupting an intimate moment. He was gracious and we talked for a second and then he resumed his nearly one-sided conversation with his dad. Grandpa was obviously glad to see him there. A week before he had asked if he was coming to see him and my mom told him he was coming on Sunday. He didn't say another word about it, just hung on and waited patiently. After they talked for awhile, my mom gave Grandpa some pain medication which put him to sleep. We visited with my uncle and his family for a while and then they left. Grandpa lay there gasping for air, his mouth wide open, for a few hours. We hung around watching tv, the kids jumping on the trampoline outside. Then my mom asked me to go to my brother's house to see his new apartment. When we got there, he was waiting for us outside. I rolled the window down and he said that my sister had just called. "Grandpa's dead." I heard a sharp intake of breath from my mother which startled me. She'd been so strong through all of this, so ready for him to go and be done with his pain and his loneliness for his wife, that is shocked me to see her react this way. She instantly gave the pickup gas and made a sharp U-turn and we were on our way back. "I knew I shouldn't have left," she kept saying. "Something kept telling me that he was going but I still left. I wanted to be there when he died."

We got back in less than five minutes. He was so changed. His face was completely flushed. He still had his mouth opened as if struggling for air, but there was no movement. Nothing can prepare you for that moment when you realize someone is gone. We'd all been expecting it. It was inevitable. But it hadn't been fact yet. Now he was truly gone. No more Grandpa. No more disagreements. No more looking into his eyes and seeing the love.

The hospice nurse was called and she drove over and confirmed the obvious. Then, half an hour later, my cousin and her mortician-husband came over. Another cousin I haven't seen for ages. I really enjoyed talking to her. I found myself wishing that it didn't take a death to get our family together. My dad and I helped get Grandpa on the gurney. The move was awkward and he was heavy. It wasn't very smooth, as my cousin put it, but he'd seen worse. That's the first time I've ever done that.

So he's gone. We're back in Utah but we're going to turn around and go back on Wednesday for the funeral. It's the end of an era. It's hard to believe.

It's Summertime and the Livin' is . . . well, it's ok.

I can't even remember what it was like to be freezing every day and night and it was only a couple of months ago. Every year passes by so quickly and yet I seem to live only in the moment, not remembering much about the gone-by moments.

I'm sick...again. Last night as I lay there in bed, not breathing, sort of sleeping, I was sure I would call in sick this morning. My throat was blazing and head expanding. When I did get to sleep, Princess Rufflebutt, whose bottom was in my face, let one go that would rival my work buddies and I woke up. But this morning I didn't feel so bad. Things aren't completely cleared up but I don't feel nearly as terrible as I did in the middle of the night. So I went to work after all.

Shortcuts

Why does Katie Couric fight with her guests for air time? I'm watching the Today Show and she's interviewing Glen Close and Patrick Stewart and, like almost all of her interviews, it's a painful tug of war between Katie and the people who've flown into New York to plug their movie. Katie has three hours each morning to get her face and voice on TV. I don't know why she must vie for time. She's praised for her interviewing skills time and time again and I can't understand it. I love the interviews where she gets shut down, and this one was one of those. Glen Close was in the middle of answering a question and Katie started answering for her. This is a common occurance in a Couric interview, but this time, Ms. Close continued, raising her voice, and Katie had to shut up. But she would not be undone. She insisted on ruining an intelligent conversation about King Richard the Lionheart and film making by ending the interview with her seventh-graders words about how hot the actors were. Is that an incentive for her daughter to get her homework done or something?

Yesterday I made an attempt to cut some distance off my ride home by turning off my regular route and hoping the path I took would cut to the South at some point. I rode about a mile, still not out of my way if I could get access to the South. The air was filled with the putrid stench of decomposing fauna from the "clean green landfill" to my right. To my left was a fenced-off wild-life preserve. I've been riding this eight miles for a while now and I never knew that existed. There were good ol' boys in there trucks there but I couldn't find a hole in the fence to get through myself. I would have thrown my bike over but there were a bunch of a "keep out" and "no trespassing" signs. I can't say no to a sign. I kept riding until I came to a dead end. Actually, the road kept going but the land is apparently owned by someone who doesn't like people so I had to turn around. There's so much beautiful land around here and very little of it is accessible. There's an entire mountain range, the Oquirrhs, near my house that's owned by Kennecott Copper. At any rate, my "shortcut" added about half an hour and a mile to my ride. I'm glad I had my knee brace.

On That Note

A couple of days ago I was asked to sing at the funeral of a neighbor whom I had never met. The leader of our local church unit (we call him the Bishop) knows I can sing and asked me if I would do so on Saturday. I'd be accompanied by our neighborhood prodigy, an 18 year old violinist who's played with the symphony and is now on a break from the Cincinatti Music Academy. I said sure. I never got together with the violinist but I figured that we're both good enough at improvising a song and we both know the hymn (It was "A Poor, Wayfaring Man of Grief.") well enough that we'd squeak by. Besides, I'm just lazy. Well, it was a mistake. It turns out that the Bishop never told her I was singing and she figured she'd just play an instrumental arrangement of the hymn that she had. She found out otherwise on our way there and we quickly figured out a simple plan: She'd play an introduction then I would sing melody while she played the alto line for three verses. There was no way I was singing all seven.

It was a simple graveside service. There was a prayer and then we performed our little extempore number. I guess it was ok. No one said a word about it. But then, the thing wasn't about us. The family was an odd collection people, few of whom seemed to be actually related to the deceased. It lasted about fiteen minutes and then the whole family took out cigarettes and lit up while the violinist, her father, and I waited by the car, the sun beating down on us, while the Bishop and his wife talked to the family for another half an hour. I was glad to get home.

They Say It's Your Birthday

Well this has turned out to be a very nice birthday. I was bummed at first because I knew (and I was right) that my coworkers would forget to take me out to lunch like they do every year. Every year we take the scheduler, the photog, and the stage managers to lunch on their birthdays, and every year mine is forgotten. Of course they always appologize and then they take me out the next day--in this case it will be Monday--but it still saddens me a little. I've even gotten to where I broadcast the date to everyone the day before, but somehow it's still overlooked. I know I'm a baby. So this morning I brought some soup with me, which was a good thing because without it I would have had no lunch.

But then things started looking up. All of you nice folks out there (you, too, Mom) started sending me wonderful birthday greetings, Pat, a lifer at the TV station who's the only one who never forgets, brought me his customary Hostess Cupcakes, and, when I went to Hollywood Video to rent a movie for tonight, the guy who rang it up said, unprompted by me, "Oh, happy birthday! The video is on us tonight." I musn't forget my wonderful wife who knows I'm sensitive about my birthday. She was very kind and bought me a nice blackberry pie (I hate cake). So this is great. Thanks everyone.

It's my Birthday and I'll Bitch if I want to.

I'm grumpy. I think I have an ulcer again. I hate going to the doctor. The only consolation to all of this is right now I have a beautiful little baby sitting in my lap who seems to love me. All of a sudden I'm a little more cheerful.

Space Trading

I usually don't gel with theater people. It's nothing personal, we're just polar opposites. By definition, they're generally very outgoing and vocal and I'm reticent and shy, reluctant to open up much at all around other people. Confident people don't bother me. It's actually easier because they can fill in the gaps in conversation caused by my natural silence. But it rubs me the wrong way when the outgoing nature of thespians comes not from confidence but an innate desire to make their presence known, to outshine everyone else in the room. This was certainly not the case with the particular thespian I worked with yesterday. Paige Davis from Trading Spaces on TLC was in my editbay shooting a show that will air next month and she was terrific. She made it a point to learn all of our names and she never lost her energy and fun nature even though the room was insanely hot and we worked until about 8 in the evening. At one point, when we were all becoming a little ragged with the long hours, she was still joking and acting pretty silly and she said, "How come none of you have as much fun as I do?" And her good-naturedness was completely genuine. We got pictures and I'll post those tomorrow. I didn't know the rest of the crew either. We spent a lot of time in close quarters and we had to get to know each other. We're all from different parts of the country and that was the topic of conversation most of the time. Needless to say, I really enjoyed myself. If Paige happens to stumble onto this site, break a leg on Broadway in ten weeks! Congrats.

Stray

My eyes are inflating like emergency life rafts. They get like this whenever I'm around long-haired cats but I can't resist them, especially affectionate ones. I arrived home yesterday just as my family was pulling out on their way to soccer practice. My wife motioned me over and I got in the van. Then she informed me that there was a cat in the house. My family is not used to having animals around the house so when this long-haired tabby wandered into the house they reacted the same way they do every time a bird makes it's way in: Like a tiny, militant country defending itself against invasion. I guess the boys got out their horns and whistles and drums and whatever else they could find and attempted to chase the poor feline (which, it would later become apparent, was incredibly friendly and docile) out the door. All they succeeded in doing was frightening at least seven of it's nine lives out of it and chasing it into the tiny space under the stairs. There it stayed until two hours later when we returned. I led point into the house and called, "Here kitty" and it came right to me. The instant it was in my arms it began to purr luxuriously. But as soon as it saw my family it stopped and struggled to get away. I let it out and assumed it would go home.

Last night I dreamt that we had a cat. In my dream it was crying for food and water but for some reason I wouldn't give it any. I finally did and it became very delighted. I woke up to my alarm and heard a steady mewling from outside. My wife said it had been doing that all night. My eyes were already itching from the night before but, as I said, I couldn't resist. I went outside and there it was, on the front porch, crying for food. There's something so satisfying about a small creature expressing affection, responding to your touch. I have one around but my eyes couldn't take it and my family would probably scare it to death.

Old Man

It's birthday time at our house. My three-year-old is now my four-year-old. This morning I woke him up before I had to go to work and said, "Happy Birthday! Happy Birthday." He had stayed up late last night and was very grumpy so his response was, "I know! I know!" and he didn't even want to come open his presents. So I didn't get to see his reaction. I hear that when they went to the store to pick up his Incredible Hulk birthday cake, he was still mad and he stepped on it. Now there's a crater in it. It's his day and he can do whatever he wants to his own cake, I guess.
Apparently he had a good time later, though. He got a golf set and has been hitting the links. He also got a toy power drill and, in his words, has been "screwing" everything in the house. My wife hopes he doesn't mention that around the neighbors but I think it would be a hoot.

I've never had much money. When I was growing up we couldn't afford anything. My friends all thought I was lying when I told them it would do no good to ask my parents for money for the movies or candy. And that hasn't changed for me all that much. So I have a problem spending money. I had pretty much decided that I was going to get that amp I wrote about but when I went to checkout at the Musician's Friend website, the total price scared the pee out of me and I cancelled it. Then on Saturday I went to Guitar Center and looked around. I couldn't find the amp there but I started playing around with a Crate amp that was half the price of the other. It was smaller but I got to thinking, I'm not planning on being a rock star or even performing. There are other things I need to buy that will make money but this won't. What I didn't realize was that there were smaller amps that sound great and have a lot of features and are a lot more affordable. So I bought it.

I've also decided to get the mini strat for my boy. He seems so excited about it and promises he'll practice. I understand what you all have been saying about the accoustic, but those are harder to play than an electric and I don't want him getting more frustrated than he normally would. So I'm going to go for it.

Should I or Shouldn't I?

I'm waffling quite a bit on whether to buy an amplifier that I saw in the Musician's Friend catalog. It's a great deal, but it's still a lot of money. I felt a lot better when my wife said it could be a combined Father's Day/birthday present. So I think that's ok. But there's another dilemma to be resolved. We both think it's important to get our kids involved in music, not necessarily so they can do it for a living, but because, just as there are positive effects from playing sports, learning an instrument teaches a lot of valuable lessons. We tried piano lessons but, like me when I was a kid, they became disinterested very fast. While we were looking through the catalog, we came across a Fender "mini-strat" electric guitar that's just their size. They claim that they will practice intently if we get it for them. They really want it. I've explained about the sore and blistered fingers that initially come with frequent practice and the fact that they'll have to share and they still assure me that they'll practice everyday. Of course, my oldest, the future lawyer, left open a loophole should he need it: "The only days I won't practice are the days I feel sick." This worries me because he was born with a congenital, mysterious ailment that strikes whenever he has to clean his room or do the dishes or any other task he doesn't like. We've tried everything but nothing seems to help. It would be great to get this guitar for them, but not if it's just going to sit around collecting dust.

365

"Hi, Blog."
"Oh. Hi."
"What's the matter? You seem kind of down."
"I've noticed you've been coming around more often lately."
"Oh. Yeah. I'm sorry about neglecting you for so long. I've been really busy lately, and I got sick a couple of weeks ago. . . "
"I know, Dinky. You don't have to explain."
"Well, I just wanted to say happy birthday. I'm sorry that it doesn't seem to be a good day for you."
"Huh?"
"It's your birthday today. It was a year ago that I started this whole thing."
"Really? I didn't know."
"Hmm. Ok. Well, why don't we go out and celebrate."
"Well, I'm kind of stuck here right now."
"Oh. Yeah. How awkward."
"It's ok. Some friends are throwing me a party on the web. In fact, I'd better be going."
"Really? Ok, then. Uh, have fun."