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: