There's Only One Other Person Who Can Do All That. Barbra Streisand: A Few Great Musical Numbers

CORKY! AAAAAHH CORKY!!!

Musicals don't have to suck. They aren't always tediously annoying crap. Now, that backhanded compliment may seem obvious to anyone living in Manhattan. But for those of us who grew up far from The Great White Way, it's a worthy reminder that musical theater has the ability to exceed the dregs of amateur hour.

It's my instinct to hate musical numbers. Whether in a play or a movie, or a movie about a play, they usually fall short for me. And I don't think it's because I'm too macho for musicals. It's not like I think they're gay. Unless they're actually gay. Not there's anything wrong with that. It just seems like the singing and dancing is either shoved into a scene where it just doesn't fit or there is some ironic wink to the audience. Now, even as I typed that, I thought of a million Simpson episodes, Flight of Conchords numbers and even Family Guy musical scenes that are pure awesomeness. But those are comedies. It's easy to sing and dance when you're really just joking around. But it's tough to sell a musical number when you're trying to convey any real emotion. Instead of feeling stylized and theatric, too often it feels fake and distracting.

Let me take you through the event from my childhood that is largely responsible for my resistance to enjoy musical numbers. This is a remarkably common experience amongst us Mormons. I speak of the Roadshow. I'm not sure why we as a people feel compelled to write, produce and preform squeaky clean, original plays (often with a Pioneer theme or a moral message about choosing good friends) but it's a pretty common event throughout the many Stakes of Zion. Perhaps it's because most LDS Church Houses have a stage built into the Cultural Hall (aka the basketball court). And why have a stage if you're not gonna use the thing?

It was 1990. I know that, because one of the other Ward's Roadshow that year was entitled, "Bart Simpson Gets A Mission Call" and that was the hot new show. How many times do you think they said "Cowabunga"? At the time, I was an ill-tempered, 12 year old little shit head. Well, I wasn't that all the time but throughout the events of this story, I pretty much was. So I'm sticking with that description.

Now, I hesitate to go into too much detail here, because the lady who birthed this particular creation worked her freaking guts out on it. She wrote it, and directed it and probably made most of the sets and costumes. She's a really nice person and I would feel terrible if she were to somehow find this post on the interwebs, read this rendition and had her feelings hurt. So, if you happened to find this, please realize that it is simply the two decade old, inaccurate memories of an ill-tempered little shit head. Everyone besides me had a wonderful time.

That said, my part in this play was pretty brutal. The play was an original creation about a fictionalized America where milk had been banned because pasteurization had yet to be discovered. You know, that old comedy chestnut. It was a prohibition themed vaudeville act with lots of cow puns ("Moooove over, Angus! That's utterly ridiculous!") and old songs with cow themed lyrics replacing the original words. This was a major production. Set designs, costumes, dance numbers, a cast of a few dozen people. There was a huge amount of work put into this thing. And it seemed at the time (again, the unreliable memories of a shit head) that it was a massive pain in everyone's butt. "Let's just grind through this thing and get it over with."

My part was that of Mr. Pickle. If I remember right, this whole thing was set up to be an old radio show and in the middle of the action, they paused for a word from their sponsor. That sponsor? Mr. Pickle. There was a few girls dressed as clocks that came on stage and sang a little jingle that ended with "It's tiiiiiiiiime for Mr. Pickle." I then ran through the audience from the back of the room, dressed in green tights and freaking Pickle costume and recited a pickle themed tongue twister.

I'm not sure if you can tell by my facial expression, but I did not want to do this. Not so much because it was embarrassing but because it was just dumb. It doesn't look like the clock on the right was too thrilled about the whole thing either. I especially like the two brothers at the bottom, looking at each other, as if to say, "What the f*ck are we doing here?" Or maybe they were just trying to remember their next line. I'm projecting.

We did three different performances of this play and the reception was appreciative and polite. But it wasn't a raving hit. Most jokes (and there were tons of them) were met with a kindest chuckle any cow pun could expect. I think I was a pretty good sport about it all. In fact, I don't know if I have ever complained about this moment until just now. Of course now that I have decided to complain, I've done it in front of the world, so I probably shouldn't claim to be a good sport. But again, this wasn't some traumatic nightmare by any means. It was just kinda dumb. And it built into me a justifiably skeptical attitude about musical theater.

However, in the years since, I have seen several renditions of a number of plays and have enjoyed the majority of them. I once saw BYU's music/dance/theater group preform Sweeny Todd at an outdoor amphitheater in Provo. This venue is made from stone and it looks like a haunted castle. And it's located right behind a mental institution. The perfect place for an October production of Sweeny Todd. It was great. I have cousins that very involved in the local theater scene and have always been very entertained by the many plays they have been in. Aida, Treasure Island and a few originals that were fantastic and thought provoking. But no matter how high the production value is, I always have to account for the "Pickle Factor". I end up asking myself, "Is this theatric and fun? Or just stupid?"

So, in defense of musical numbers everywhere, I present a list of excellent musical scenes from well known movies. You'll note that there are 6 examples instead of my normal 5. I just couldn't decide which one to cut. In fact I had a hard time narrowing the list to 6.

Some honorable mentions include Ferris Bueller's Twist and Shout, Joseph Gordon Levitt's "I got some!" celebration dance from 500 Days of Summer, The KKK dance scene in O Brother, Blue Shadows from Three Amigos, the closing credits of The 40 Year Old Virgin and Stone Henge.

On with the list:

Down In the Willow Garden - Raising Arizona 1987

Holly Hunter has a great voice. I would buy an album of her singing a cappella versions of old timey songs and listen to it every night as I curl up in the fetal position to sleep.

The song that Ed (short for Edwina) is singing to Nathan Jr (he's awful, damn good) is an old Bluegrass standard. This haunting and downright gruesome songs tells the point of view of a man who is about to be hanged for killing his love. Here's a full version of it. In typical Bluegrass fashion, it features lyrics that border on despair, contrasting with the peaceful, soothing tone of the music. He is a condemned man who has no hope for salvation. His sins are too great and he realizes the consequences of his actions are both unavoidable and just. But when sung to such a calm, almost maternal tune, it's clear that he accepts his fate of the gallows.

Ed's singing of this lullaby wakes HI from his dream of the lone biker of the apocalypse and the screaming mother of the child they just kidnapped. He then stares into the merciless sun of the Arizona desert and laments, "Sometimes it's a hard world for the little things."

Raising Arizona is a perfect movie. Let me say that again. It is a PERFECT movie. (Man, caps are obnoxious.) The slapstick silliness and the lightning witted dialog never fail to amuse and entertain. But those characteristics hide the fact that this is a brutal movie about desperate people trying to scratch out their own piece of happiness by any means possible and in the process they secure their own destruction. If the Coens wanted to, they could have made this into a film every bit as intense, heart wrenching and morally ambiguous as No Country For Old Men. (Of course, if they went that route, the movie would end with Smalls strangling HI with a pair of handcuffs and Nathan Arizona murdering Ed with an air powered cattle gun.) But, like the featured song, they disguise the tortured conflict of the protagonists with a pleasant, enjoyable tone.

As well as the greatest rendition of Ode to Joy in the history of time. (Skip to 1:35 for it.)

HI and Ed's attempt to overcome their own self destructive tendencies (which ain't easy to do with that sumbitch Reagan in the White House), their poverty (Guvment do take a bite!), evil influences (Keep your g*ddamn hands of my wife!), the Federal B.I. (microbes and shit), the forces of fate and justice (My friends call me Lenny. But I don't have any friends.) as well as biology and the prejudices of others is ultimately futile. It's hopeless. The moment HI takes that baby (Iiiiihhiii loohoove hiiim sooohooo muuuch!), the fate of the McDonough family is sealed.* "My race is run, beneath the sun. The scaffold waits for me."

And all they ever wanted was a young sportsman that don't know a cuss word from Shinola. You know. The salad days.

Song of the Roustabouts - Dumbo 1941

So, if I'm doing a list a of awesome musical numbers from well known movies, and I am featuring a song from Dumbo, you'd think I'd go with Pink Elephants on Parade. Which could be the finest example of an inexplicably evil looking acid trip aimed at children in the history of film. (A close second would be my next entry.) But I'm going with the Roustabouts because this song illustrates the depth of Dumbo.

You heard me. Dumbo is deep.

A few years ago I got it in my head that I needed to rewatch Dumbo, so I could snicker and laugh at the racist crows. I planned to point my finger and mock the politically incorrect lack of cultural sophistication that Disney and America in general displayed so unapologetically in 1941 from my lofty an enlightened perch of one who had grown up in the post Civil Rights Era. One who knew better than to defame a people with hackneyed caricatures of Jazz musicians and minstrel singers. After all, we in the 21st century have all these racial issues and cultural tensions figured out. Right? But my preconceived notions of a silly little cartoon that featured dated and offensive stereotypes was shot down. Not only does Dumbo have substance, the message of that substance is remarkably enlightened.

Put simply; Dumbo illustrates the plight of the African American. Just go with me on this one. And ignore his blue eyes, for a second. I don't know, maybe he's biracial.

The Roustabouts song sets this connection up pretty clearly. Casey Jr pulls into town on a cold, rainy night and it's the poor, black laborers and the elephants that have to work all night in the mud to set up the tent. Meanwhile the lazy tigers and the Ringmaster sleep through the storm. In the tradition of Negro Spirituals, the workers sing the opposite of how they feel, since they can't honestly speak their minds. "We're Happy, Happy Roustabouts!" They are exploited and abused. "Keep on working, stop that shirking! Grab that rope, you hairy ape!" And they are ultimately ignored. In the morning, the tent is pitched and the people who enjoy it are oblivious to price paid by the elephants and laborers that made it happen.

Dumbo is then violently taken away from his mother after she acted upon her maternal instinct to protect her son. She is chained and imprisoned. By the way, if you haven't seen Dumbo since you were a kid, you'll be amazed at how brutal that scene is. Walt Disney rips your freaking guts out with that scene. Dumbo is then dehumanized (deelephantized?) because of the physical features that make him different, his big ears. Or his blackness. (Still with me?) "Elephants don't have feelings. They're made of rubber." The gawking perpetrators of this cruelty (appropriately portrayed as clowns) paint his face and humiliate him in front of a laughing crowd night after night.

But with the help of his friends, Timothy and the crows (the leader of whom is unfortunately named Jim), Dumbo realizes that the object of his scorn is also what makes him special. "The very thing keeping you down, is gonna carry you up and up and up!" His uniqueness is the key to his ultimate success. He harnesses the power of his big ears and overcomes the cruelty of the clowns, the stupidity of the crowd and the Ringmaster and the nasty jealousy of the other elephants and flies off into glory. It's like the story of Jackie Robinson told six years before he broke the color barrier.

And when he finally hits it big, Dumbo buys a house for his moms.

There's still plenty of legitimate criticism to be had for the movie. The black crows were voiced by white actors a la "Amos and Andy". And even though they are complimentary characters, I wouldn't second guess anyone who felt offended by them. But Dumbo is a fine movie that deserves a little bit of love for its handling of an issue that is still far from being resolved 70 years after it was made.

That Freaky Deaky Boat Ride Scene - Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory 1971

Gene Wilder is a freaking king! He's so good as the maniacal nice guy. Totally calm, with just a hint of crazy in his eye. But you know it's just a matter of time before he snaps.

I SAID GOOD DAY!

Here's a little secret about books and movies and cartoons aimed at entertaining kids. The overwhelming majority** of them are evil to the bone. Every single fairy tale, every single Disney movie, every single Roald Dahl book, The Wizard of Oz, the Chronicles of Narnia, Star Wars, Harry Potter not to mention the Bible all have moments of terrifying conflict. Children being eaten, witches burning people alive, flying monkeys coming from the sky and carrying you away. I mean, do you remember The Dark Crystal? That thing came straight from the depths of hell. Even Thomas the Tank has some weirdly dark villainy going on.

But don't misread this observation as some sort of condemnation. I think it's badass. Kids can handle scary. Kids like scary. They do. Even when it gives them nightmares. There's some encoded fascination we all have with a fictionalized version of horror. No little kid wants to look at crime scene photos of actual dead bodies. But we were all captivated by disturbing yet safe portrayals of evil. I was at my brother's house a week or so ago and his three year old little girl was sitting at the kitchen table completely immersed in an illustrated book of the Brother's Grimm Fairy Tales. She grabbed my attention and pointed to the picture she was studying. Pointing to a tiny skull and cross bones ring that a witch was wearing she chirped in her cartoonish little voice, "Bwian, this witch is very spooty." For some reason she pronounces her K's like T's. I'm not sure why, but it's the cutest damn thing on the planet. She was frightened yet fascinated. In thirty years, she'll still have some vague recollection of that picture. I was scared of Cylons from Battlestar Gallactica when I was a kid. Those glowing red pulses moving back and forth on their heads. Freaked me the hell out. But I still watched the show.

A Penny For Your Thoughts - Waiting For Guffman 1997

In my last post I mentioned the glory of Guffman and decided to rewatch it for the first time in a few years. In fact, watching this scene is what reminded me of the stupid Mr Pickle crap and prompted this entire post. There is no better illustration of the unfulfilled ambitions of amateur theater better than Corky St Clair's original production of "Red White and Blaine". It's shooting for Broadway and missing by about 2,000 miles. Or however far away Blaine, Missoura is from Broadway.

Corky's heartfelt and deadly sincere delivery of the nonsensical lyrics cracks me the hell up every time I hear it. "I have offered a million. I have done it for none." What? When I get married, my bride and I will dance to this song at our wedding. And I'm gonna end it with the toe pointing thing. Of course, the fact I bring up this plan on every first I have may be a reason why I remain single. Perhaps. I just need to find my own Libby Mae Brown. So I've decided to go the DQ more often. You know. Just drive in and get a coke.

Tonight, You Belong To Me - The Jerk 1979

The Jerk has an innocent absurdity to it that never fails to hit home. It's not just that Navin Johnson is an idiot. It's that he's an idiot who is good down to his core. And Navin deserves a woman just as good. And Marie is that woman. Even if she can't throw knives very well. This song is dripping with sweetness. But the characters singing it are so pure, I can't help but buy into it. And just when my heart is melting into butter, Marie pulls out a Cornet and defuses the sentimentality. And I giggle like a drunken baby.

Tiny Dancer - Almost Famous 2000

Almost Famous is somewhat of an anomaly for me. Kate Hudson is pretty unbearable. Yet she's the perfect Penny Lane. I'm skeptical of Zooey Deschanel. Mostly because of that stupid cotton commercial she did a year ago. But here she portrays a great "cool, older sister". And as a general rule, I can't stand Cameron Crowe's movies. Say Anything is beyond overrated. Jerry Maguire needs to burn in hell for eternity. Vanilla Sky? Let's just say if a movie ends with a character we've never seen before explaining the entire plot straight to the audience, it's a poorly made film. Show me, don't tell me. Especially when the twist ending is, "It was all a dream!" I would tell Tom Cruise to kiss my nutsack for wasting two hours of my life, but he just might take me up on that offer. (I've been told I have a handsome nutsack.***)

But Almost Famous is gold. With only a few exceptions, (what the hell is Jimmy Fallon doing in this movie?) Almost Famous hits every note with a perfect balance of restrained emotion. In fact, if I were to encapsulate my own personality with a single movie, I just might have to choose Almost Famous to do it. Easily one of my top 5 favorite movies of all time.

The featured scene has become quite famous in the decade since this movie was released. There's a good reason this musical moment has resonated so well. Sometimes, great music really is the answer to all of life's problems. Sometimes, it's the only answer. At least it's the answer for as long as the song plays.

At this moment of the story, everything is going wrong. The band hates each other, the grind of the road is taking its toll, the kid was due home weeks ago, the groupies are feeling neglected, the agent is getting pushed to the side and their idiot lead singer just crashed some teenagers party. They are all pissed off and exhausted. But then the right song comes on the radio and breaks the silent tension. One by one they join in and sing along. By the second chorus, they are united, singing with an enthusiasm that defies their circumstance. Right here, right now, this moment is perfect. That's the power of a great song. As cheesy as I just made that sound, it's true. And that's the value of effective film making, or any kind of expression. It makes the cheesy things in life that are true feel true. Even for us ill-tempered shit heads.

But Jerry Maguire still sucks.

* Don't be fooled by that happy ending. It was just a dream. A hope for the future. But HI and Ed still remained childless. They lost.

** This doesn't include Dora The Explorer, Blues Clues, or any of that pinko, "educational", PBS crap. If there isn't some sort of satanic, homicidal villain, kids shouldn't waste their time.

***Smooth as eggs.

Were You Sure To Forget Your Acquaintances?

And never bring them to mind? Or something like that.

No one actually knows the words to that song. Or why the hell we feel compelled to sing it at New Years. Much less the title of that song. It's Auld A Laud Syng, or something. I don't speak Gaelic. Why is it that no one knows this? Because no one cares. Sure, I could spend five minutes on Wikipedia and learn whatever bull crap significance that song has. But I refuse to. I like not caring about that song. It's the perfect little ditty for crowds of drunk people to stumble through. When large numbers of inebriated people sing any song, it ends up sounding like they don't know the lyrics. So it makes sense we commit to a song that no one on Earth knows the words to. It could be Row Row Row Your Boat and a chorus of folks drunk off their asses would still just loudly throw a bunch of nonsensical noises together to something that resembles a melody and then triumphantly declare the last line.

"Row row row ya boe! Genly dow a steeee! Merriee meh meh. LIFE IS BUT A DREAM!"

I say it's a fine tradition. So we should all go out of our way to not to know the lyrics, much less the title to the New Year Song.

So it's it January 1st. A day to declare that we will diagnose aspects of our lifestyle and personality that needs improvement and make the appropriate changes. Join that gym! Don't swear so much! Balance that check book! Stop smelling strangers' hair on the bus! Hey, I'll give that last one up when I'm good and ready. Baby steps.

Though I am a cynical dick, I actually do feel a sense of momentum to improve myself this time of year. And even though that momentum comes from something as arbitrary as your car odometer passing a hundred thousand miles, I'll take any momentum I can get. However, a lifetime of unfulfilled good intentions has also beat into me a justified skepticism when it comes to the process of getting my shit together. Honestly, even the phrase "goal setting" kind of irritates me. Because more often than not, I know I'm just forecasting my own failure.

Here's a piece of advice. Never write down your goals. Ever. Yeah, Tony Robbins will tell you otherwise but he's just a giant toothed, douchey con man. Look, I realize that by documenting your aspirations it gives that objective some weight. So let it be written, so let it be done. (To be clear, I' quoting Metallica. Not Yul Brynner.) But we've all had that moment in early April when you decide to clean up the cluttered trash on your desktop and you find a three and half month old piece of notebook paper with a list of goals. You briefly read down them and chuckle inside knowing that by Martin Luther King day every one of those good intentions went right out the window. And even though it's kind of funny, the reason it's funny is because you knew full well when you made that list that this moment was going to happen. You have become your own punchline. So save yourself the aggravation and just keep your ambitions in the unspecific, ever fluctuating cloud that is your mind where they can be amended and or forgotten as any results of your progress dictate.

Denial. It's the secret to happiness.

But that doesn't mean we shouldn't make public New Years Resolutions. We should just make ones that are totally trivial. That way, any failure is guilt free. And so in that spirit, I now present:

Brian's List of Trivial and Guilt Free New Year's Resolutions That I Will Probably Forget All About In a Week But It Was a Stupid Goal To Begin With, So Who Really Gives Two Craps?

Trivial and Guilt Free Resolution #1: Drink More Ginger Ale.

I love Ginger Ale. It may be the most refreshing soda out there. Just sweet enough to please the pallet but dry enough to refresh. And yet I never buy it. Ever. Whether it's a twelve pack at the grocery store, a 44 at the gas station or a single can from a vending machine, I never spend money on this treat. Although, I almost always drink it when I'm on an airplane. I'm not sure why. But twenty minutes into any flight I'm on, when the flight attendant chirps out, "Cocktail? Soda?" I almost always order myself a Ginger. And I enjoy the hell out of it. So I here by declare that I will remedy this shortcoming. No long will Ginger Ale be consumed exclusively poured over that round ice machine ice in a short, wide mouthed plastic cup sitting on my pull-down tray on the aisle seat. Nope. Ginger Ale is now at the top of my beverage rotation.

Trivial and Guilt Free Resolution #2: Stop Saying "Bro". In All Of Its Variations.

This one is about five years overdue. To be clear, I don't think I say this very much. But making this a public goal of mine is my passive aggressive way of telling everyone else to knock it the hell off.

By "all of its variations" I include any hackneyed phrase that includes the word "man" as well. That list includes but is not limited to the following; Bro, Bra, Broham, Broseph, Bromance, Bromantic Comedy, Man Crush, Man Purse, Man Boobs, Man Whore, Man Date and while we're at it, let's throw in Booyah. (If this resolution gains the kind of momentum that I'm hoping for, it will effectively end the broadcasting career of Stuart Scott. I am fine with that.)

See, the problem with all of these phrases isn't simply that they are all an extension of the worn out comedic stylings of Tim Allen circa 1992. They are. And that is definitely a problem. But the real issue I have is that they are never said without tinge of irony. "Broseph is clearly a stupid thing to call someone, but I'm saying it with a self congratulatory wink, so it doesn't really count. By saying it, I'm really making fun of the people who say it. But we all know I'm not one of those people. Even though I just said it."

Look, I'm sarcastic to the bone. The whole premise of this stupid post is based on sarcasm. So I can't decide in my second sarcastic entry on my sarcastic list to decry sarcasm. I'm just in favor of slightly more original sarcasm. This has been thoroughly played out. It's time for us all to just walk away from it. Can we agree to that? Great. Let's move on.

Trivial and Guilt Free Resolution #3: Stop Using Facebook Updates To Cram My Political Point Of View Up The Ass Of Every Casual Acquaintance Who Accepted My Friend Request.

Again, I don't think I do this very often. But I hope my public declaration catches on. It's not that I don't enjoy a good political discussion. I love having my own beliefs challenged by honest debate. It usually strengthens my beliefs but I am certainly open to being convinced by a thoughtful counterpoint. But either way it's a constructive experience. However, Facebook is not the forum for this. Not because it's rude or polarizing. If anything, I think we withhold our opinions too much. But gay marriage, health care reform, abortion, global warming and the existence of God are issues that deserve a real conversation. And you just can't do that with a two sentence long bumper sticker that the Facebook status is limited to. You might get seven like minded people to "like" your status. But odds are good you annoyed the hell out of fifty other people. I'm not saying you shouldn't be vocal in your convictions but how many of your 420 friends did you persuade to your point of view? The answer is zero. I promise you. That's not because your beliefs aren't valid or sincere. It's because "Obama is an idiot." is not a thought provoking starting point for a reasonable discussion.

So use Facebook for what's it's good for. And that is an online equivalent of a conversation you have with someone in an elevator. When you step into an elevator and see a coworker that you are friendly with, you acknowledge them with a brief conversation. It may be small talk about the weather, or mild complaining about your day. But either way, it must be concise and trivial enough to be concluded within about thirty seconds. So keep it the status updates interesting and opinionated, but make it something that can be resolved in a couple of two sentence comments. We'll all be better for it.

Trivial and Guilt Free Resolution #4: Change the Channel Every Time the Stupid Capital One Commercial With the Vikings Comes On.

This commercial. It's the way the main viking guy says "Venture Card" in a false baritone. Like chewing on aluminum foil. This resolution will take some commitment today, since Capital One is the primary sponsor to every College Football Bowl Game. Which means these things are on incessantly. But it must be done.

Look, there's just no damn reason on earth that a Viking would have an English accent. None. If anything they should sound like the Swedish Chef. It would be funnier and at least slightly accurate. And it's not that I care about fact checking a stupid commercial. But why English? They might as well have Mexican accents. Or Italian. I guess English accents somehow just sound historic to Americans. Like how everyone in Gladiator had English accents. It sounds Shakespearian. Proper.

However, I can't complain about a commercial being annoying, without being annoying myself. So I choose passive resistance. Instead of grousing about these stupid things, I will simply change the channel when they come on. I think Gandhi would be proud.

Trivial and Guilt Free Resolution #5: Stop Using Every Other Sentence I Say In A Daily Conversation By Quoting Some Movie Or TV Show.

Sadly, this is in no way meant for other people. I am the sole subject of this resolution and anyone who knows me marginally well will happily agree that this needs to happen. I am an unapologetic product of pop culture. That's not such a bad thing. You are too. But an unfortunate side effect of this condition is that I express my alleged individuality by repeating clever lines from Arrested Development, The Simpsons and The Big Lebowski*. And I do it constantly. I can't even control it anymore. It's like I'm a TV/Movie playlist set on shuffle.

There are two primary reasons why this needs to end. First, I am destroying that which I love. I'm taking something that was once brilliant and making it irritating.

The second reason is that by overusing a particular conversational tactic, I am eliminating its effectiveness. It's like the F word. I'm not going to tell you to never say it. Because sometimes there just isn't any other word that will do. But when you drop it into every sentence fifteen times, not only do you become a vulgar dirt ball, you forfeit any impact that the word could have possessed. And so when the time is right to express extreme anger, or whatever, you have defused the most powerful word at your disposal.

A perfectly placed movie reference dropped at a party is a beautiful thing. It's a secret code that instantly filters out the unsophisticated and endears you to those that have the ears to hear. But it is a technique that must be used sparingly. Lest you kill it through overuse.

Years ago in College there was a particular girl that sat in front of me in class who had a good combination of cute and cool. She caught my eye. And if I weren't a pussy, I would have approached her in some charming, debonair manner. But it has been well documented throughout this blog that I am indeed a huge pussy. So the direct and assertive approach was not an option. Through a variety reconnaissance techniques (I stealthily listened to her conversations with her friend sitting next to her in class. Brilliant. I know.) I learned that she was a fan of the movie Waiting For Guffman. I learned this because she once said "It's been a crappy day. I'm just going to go home and bite my pillow." Taking this intel, I devised a strategy for attack. I waited a few days to respond with my own Guffman line. But it had to appear organic and independent of her Guffman line so as to avoid seeming obvious and needy. Also I didn't want to reveal myself as an eavesdropping creep. So the next week, I raised my hand to comment about the reading. It was an English class, so pretty much all comments were some variety of fluffy bull crap. I made a brief point and then seemed to trail off. " ahh . . . you know. . . It's a Zen thing. Like how many babies fit in the tire. You know. That old joke." (Couldn't find a clip.) The Professor did his best to respect my nonsense and then changed the subject. But she immediately turned around, flipping her hair into her face and excitedly whispered, "I LOVE that movie!". That night we made out like bipolar jack rabbits the way that only horny, celibate Mormons can. And I owe that hook up entirely to Corky St Claire and a well placed movie reference.

So it's time to recapture that magic by exercising some much needed restraint. I'm dialing back the volume of quotes. Seriously. I am.

*And Spinal Tap and Raising Arizona and Seinfeld and Flight of the Conchords and Extras and Pulp Fiction and Best In Show and Curb Your Enthusiasm and 30 Rock and O Brother and Sunny and Aziz Ansari's stand up. Note how The Cleveland Show is not on that list.

Thanks, Paul

If you happened to watch last week's Saturday Night Live (and really, who the hell does that any more?) then you would have caught Paul McCartney fulfilling the desire of the my previous post. Well, not quite. But it was as close to the real thing that we could ever expect in the modern world of two remaining Beatles. Paul sang "A Day In the Life" and and for the most part knocked it out of the park. He then combined it with the chorus of "Give Peace a Chance"* creating a fitting tribute to his friend that was murdered 30 years previous.

It was a great television moment. And I would like to embed a copy of it for your enjoyment. But the tone deaf a-holes at NBC have decided to not allow me to freely publicize their product. For some reason, they won't stream that performance. So no one gets to watch it ever again. Brilliant decision.

So you'll just have to imagine it. Instead, here is a clip from the episode that is actually pretty damn funny. Paul Rudd shaking his hips to a tiny harmonica solo makes me giggle every time. It's a comedy staple.



*As big of a Lennon fan as I am, I just can't bring myself to like "Give Peace a Chance." It's just too damn stupid of a solution. Good political songs should diagnose, not prescribe. For example, take every single protest song Dylan ever wrote. "Give Peace a Chance" is a catchy jingle and all, but trying to change the world with a song is as effective as putting a band-aid on a tumor. My cynicism aside, it was still a nice gesture by Paul.

The Way It Should Have Been

Alright. So I slack off for two months and then drop a long one on you. This little number will take some time getting through if you go in for the full audio visual experience. If you're a Beatles fan, please enjoy. And if you're not . . . what the hell's your problem?

Next week, December 8th, marks the 30th anniversary of John Lennon's murder. Between now and then, we will all be subjected to several news stories recapping the life and death of one John Winston Lennon. That news story will give a bland voiced over synopsis of his cultural significance, while we see a collage of familiar images. These will include the obligatory clip of Ed Sullivan in 64, a the Abbey Road album cover, the bed-in with Yoko and perhaps the photo of him in the New York shirt. It will then show news coverage of the crowd crying outside the Dakota and the doctor confirming his death at the hospital. The voice over will include phrases like, "Anti war activist" and "Spokesman for a generation" and will end with a clip of him sitting at the white piano as a few bars of Imagine play.

It'll be a nice story that will make you feel nostalgic, even if Lennon has been dead for your entire lifetime. But, since this annual pre-Christmas tradition will no doubt be laid on extra thick this year (the big 3-0!), this news story will lose its appeal after the fifth time you see it. By the 10:00 news Wednesday evening, you will have had your fill with Yoko Ono's face and will welcome the return of our regularly scheduled faux news minutia of Dancing With The Stars results, the Miami Heat and whatever the bullshit is that makes the Kardashians relevant.

I have no friggin clue what the hell that is, by the way.

Now, anyone who knows me even a little bit, will be happy to acknowledge that I'm a big fan of the Beatles. In fact, I can be borderline obnoxious when it comes to this subject. If you think about it, it's pretty easy to be a Beatles fan. I mean it's about the safest opinion you can possibly have when it comes to any aspect of pop culture appreciation. Who is really going to argue the importance of Sgt Pepper? You can not like it. You can say it's overrated. But no reasonably informed connoisseur of Rock and Roll can deny its bone shattering impact. It's like defiantly declaring that Michael Jordan was the greatest basketball player. Well, duh. We all know that. And this reality makes it kind of boring to be a Beatles fan. There's nothing really bold about it. But that's just fine. People don't love great music to prove to the world how sophisticated and original they are. (Well, you do if you're a smug, contrarian jaggoff.) No, we love great music because it resonates with our soul. Because it both reflects and defines who we are as a culture and as individuals. Because it floods us with memories both personal and collective. And damn it, great music just makes us feel good.

And make no mistake about it, the Beatles made great music.

Let me present you with a glorious and impossible thought. What if Dr Sam Becket leaped back in time to the first week of December, 1980 into the body of the doorman at the Dakota apartments in Manhattan. (Don't pretend like you don't get the Quantum Leap reference. You loved that show every bit as much as me. Admit it.) Al would explain to Sam that his mission is to wait for Mark David Chapman to get John Lennon's autograph the morning of the 8th and then blow his crazy ass head off at point blank range. Done and done. It would be a short episode. Sam then would leap into the body of a circus performer having marital problems in 1958. (But Sam can't walk on a tight rope! What will he ever do?)

The point is, Lennon lives! What would have happened? Well, probably not much for the next couple of years. It's not like the Beatles were planning on touring the summer of 81 or anything. But John would have done the talk show circuit, plugging Double Fantasy (an uneven album but it has half dozen or so songs that are fantastic). He would have done a few tour dates and then taken another few years off to watch Sean grow up. In 1985 he would divorce Yoko's crazy ass and marry Connie Chung. (John likes them sideways.) Then in 1987 he would release a terrible record. It would be called something like "Electric Kettle Fish" and he would appear on the cover wearing a skinny tie and Ray-bans. Sadly, most of the musical greats from the 60's and 70's produced some awful music in the 80's. Touch Of Gray, ring a bell? Kokomo? Say, Say, Say?

Damn it, Paul. You should know better.

But here's where it gets interesting. In 1993, John bumps into George at a Tai Chi class in Malibu and for the first time in 20 years, they really hit it off. They've both been sober for a decade. They have each enjoyed the validation that comes from their solo success. They've raised their families. They're each happy. Balanced. But a little bored. The Whilbury's has run its course for George. And even though John just did a voice-over for a Disney movie, he's feeling the itch. Upon reminiscing about the good times (and they are both surprised at just how many good times they remember) they feel the ambition to remind the world just exactly who the greatest band of all time really is. So they decide to take the next step.

John calls Ringo. They never lost touch. George calls Paul. The four agree to meet together under top secret security at Paul's villa near Tucson, Arizona. And for the first time since 1969, they pick up their instruments and jam.

They start with a couple of standards. Some Carl Perkins. A Chuck Berry number. Maybelline. They run through Kansas City and Hound Dog. And it feels good. It feels right. Nothing at all like the Let It Be sessions. They are just four buddies playing the songs they were raised on. Then, as a gesture of respect and affection to his old pal, John plays the intro to Paul's song Helter Skelter.

Paul chimes in with the lyrics and nearly rips his throat out when he screams "AND I SEE YOU AGAIN!!!". Spontaneous brilliance is rediscovered as John and George take turns shredding the sounds of the Apocalypse and Ringo remembers the happiness that comes with having blisters on his fingers. After an eight minute musical orgasm, the four of them pause in silence for a few moments, reflecting on the magic they each just witnessed. George breaks the silence in a Liverpudlian drawl. "You know, I don't remember asking U2 to steal that song back."

At that moment, they decide to exorcise all past demons, bury any remaining hatchets and give the free world what it had lusting after for the last 25 plus years.* The Beatles decide to reunite and tour. They immediately sit down and start working on set lists. Dates, cities, venues? Those details will work themselves out later. Right now, they want to channel this energy into finding and perfecting the right songs to play for their long suffering fan base.

Six weeks later, at Madison Square Garden, the curtain raises on the first Beatles Concert since Candlestick Park in 1966. I now present what I'm pretty sure is my own invention. The hypothetical concert. Behold! The Beatles 1993 North American Tour.

The stage is dark. Sounds of an orchestra tuning up is heard. A few fans in the crowd recognize this sound and burst with anticipation. Then a flash of light ignites as the band launches into Sgt Pepper.

There's no jumbo-tron in the background displaying the album cover. They aren't wearing the brightly colored costumes. It's just a rock band wearing jeans and T shirts playing guitars. It seems as though they were influenced by Jimi's cover at Monterey. It's got more edge than the album version. The song morphs into A Little Help From My Friends as Ringo bobs his head back in forth behind his drum kit, singing the lyrics. John and Paul share a mic as they harmonize the counterpoint. "Does it worry you to be alone?" The song ends with the kind of endless applause that only decades of musical blue balls can produce. A few minutes pass until they realize the only way they can get the crowd to stop is to begin the next song.



John steps to the center of the stage, clicks a few pedals on the floor and blasts the opening power chords of Revolution accompanied by Paul's spine crushing scream. John's vocals are nearly drowned out by the crowds' singing. By the third verse, he just let's the audience sing on their own. 20,000 people scream in perfect unison, "But if you go carrying pictures of Chairman Mao, You ain't gonna make it with anyone anyhow!!"

Once the audience relaxes a bit, the band members begin some banter. They acknowledge that it's been a long time coming and how good it is to be back. They say something about playing in New York and mention their first flight into JFK back in 64. And before they can even mention the words "Ed Sullivan" Ringo hits the toms beginning a spirited yet brief rendition of "She Loves You".



George makes a joke about screaming girls. John suggests they mix it up a bit. He then straps on an accordion (you heard me) and begins the melotron intro to Strawberry Fields.



Standing there with his shoulder length hair, round glasses with an accordion strapped to his chest, John's thin metallic voice leads the congregation. "Let me take you down, cause I'm going to . . ." A pair of cellists and a horn section appear out of the darkness, capturing that George Martin brand of studio magic from all those years ago. George's 12 string Rickenbacker weaves a warm dream over Paul and Ringo relentless rhythm. After the refrain fades out and the applause loses momentum, John says while looking across the stage to his counterpart, "You know I could never bury you, Paul." The crowd laughs hysterically, even though it wasn't that funny.



The horn section then erupts into the intro of Got To Get You Into My Life as Paul steps to the mic and belts out three minutes of unapologetic happiness. At the end when Paul begins riffing on the chorus, John spontaneously joins him in a conversational ad lib.

John then sits down at a grand piano as George takes center stage. Ringo says, "I think it's time we hear from the quiet one." George hides his annoyance at that reference as John pounds out the minor chords of While My Guitar Gently Weeps.



Standing alone in the spotlight for an extended guitar solo, George's slide work puts Clapton shame.


Staying at the piano, John savagely bangs the opening rif of Hey Bulldog. As Paul slaps the funk right of his lefty bass, he joins John with feisty barking and growling. John plays along. "Quiet boy!"

Ringo then addresses the crowd. "You know the Beatles have been known for a lot of things over the years. But, really in the end we're a simple Rock and Roll band that just wants to kick your ass."



He then hits the bass pedal beginning an ear bleeding rendition of "Everybody's Got Something To Hide, Except For Me and My Monkey." They crowd loses it. They aren't just playing the obvious songs. They're giving us the B sides. This is a concert for the true blue fans.

The stage lights darken. A spotlight appears on the piano as Paul sits down. He then plays the immortal chord progression of Let It Be.



John compliments the piano with a Billy Preston style church organ floating above the ground. The cellists and horn section take turns adding their layers. After George's sublime solo, all instruments halt as Paul sings the final verse with just Ringo's drums backing him up. Then the chorus comes back and on the down beat everything returns, like a sonic wave washing you out to sea. The strings, the horn line, John's organ and George's guitar dancing with Paul's vocals. The crowd is stunned.



Let It Be begins the acoustic set. Once the applause begins to fade, George takes the spotlight alone with a ukulele and plays Something in its entirety by himself.



George heads backstage as the stage lights come back on to reveal John and Paul sitting on stools, side by side with acoustic guitars in hand. Ringo is front and center with a snare, a high hat and brushes. And they begin a stripped down unplugged version of Help. (You'll have to imagine this one.)



Remaining with the same setup, they follow up Help with a similar rendition of I'm Looking Through You.

George returns with a Sitar, to the joy of the crowd. Ringo steps to a pair of conga drums and the four of them play a simplified version of Love You To.

George then plays the opening riff of In My Life of the Sitar, accompanied by Paul on the double bass. Ringo returns to the snare and they play the Rubber Soul classic.



George replaces the harpsichord solo with his sitar and John's voice cracks with emotion on the last verse.

John then sits back at the piano. Ringo returns to his drum kit and George picks up an acoustic guitar and begins strumming a G chord. The piano joins him playing A Day In the Life.



Ringo's fills and Paul's bass line punctuate John's unsettling lyrics perfectly. The horn line and strings again appear out of the darkness as the crowd falls down the rabbit hole. Paul wakes us all up by dragging a comb across his head. Upon having a smoke we all go into a dream as John's voice swims around the arena. We return to his surreal newspaper article and fall right back into the same rabbit hole until it the door is slammed shut with the final E chord.

The crowd is stunned. They intuitively wait for a few reverent moments before erupting in applause. The Pepper magic was just created right in front of their eyes. It's like seeing a unicorn in the wild. It is beyond belief.

Paul then steps to the mic and asks, "Does anyone remember this one? One, two, three FOUR!"



John and George lay on the distortion and really blow the doors off this song. George puts a little wa pedal into his solo. This isn't a teeny boppers diddy. It's the anthem of a sexual predator. At the end John jokes, "Paul, I think it's about time you stop looking at those 17 year old girls. If you know what I mean."

Paul laughs it off and sits down at the piano.



Smelling the finale, the crowd soaks in every note. 20,000 people swaying in unison, singing with their eyes closed savoring every second. After the false start, the chorus swells and the round begins. NA NA NA NA NE NA NA! The horn line joins in the fourth repeat. Paul begins riffing. "Well you know you can make it, Ju Jude you're not gonna break it!". On the tenth cycle the whole band cuts out except Ringo beat, the house lights turn on and each individual in the audience communes with the music. People hold their hands in the air and shake their head as if they caught the spirit at a Pentacostal service. Paul directs the crowd. "Just the ladies! Now the fellas! Okay, are we ready to bring it home?" The band joins back in with the full horn line and string section as Paul does a spot on Little Richard. "Wow woo! Na Na Na!"

Finally they fade out. The four of them stand together on stage and give a bow. John says, "We're gonna take a quick break and be back for an encore in just bit."

The crowd chants "We want more!" in the dark for the next ten minutes.

The band triumphantly returns to the stage. Without a word jump right into Twist and Shout.



Paul says something about John sounding a lot like that Ferris Bueller kid. He then dons an acoustic guitar and stands in front of the string section and makes every 45 year old woman in the crowd swoon.



Once the applause fades, Ringo quips, "For some reason I really want to eat some scrambled eggs." John then addresses the crowd and tells them what a pleasure it has been to play the old songs all over again. He thanks the audience and Paul begins Golden Slumbers from behind the piano.



Upon Carry That Weight, Paul joins the rest of the band with an electric guitar at the front of the stage. All four sing together, "Are you gonna be in my dreams, tonight?". John, Paul and George then give way as Ringo begins The End with his drum solo. He owns the spotlight as his unsung talent shines undeniably. The guitarists then launch into a three way duel, outdoing each other's licks for several minutes. Paul sneaks back to the piano with his guitar slung around his back as it all stops, leaving his happy bouncing keys.

The four Beatles and entire audience then sing together, "And in the end, the love you make is equal to the love you make." The string section then carries the band, their instruments and their harmonies off into the air as the greatest concert in the history of time comes to a triumphant end.

Yup. That the way it should have been. But some dip shit shot John Lennon in the back. I blame JD Salinger. So instead of this cultural achievement for the ages, we get a bunch of lazy, rehashed news stories every December 8th.

What a crock.

*In my years, I have seen Paul McCartney live. And I have seen Ringo Starr and his All Star Band. Let me just say, the opposite of synergy was in full effect. Paul and eight guys I don't know are not the Beatles. Even though Paul was a driving creative force behind the band and they were playing the songs I love, it was a McCartney show. Not a Beatles show. And we'll just leave poor Ringo alone. But let me say this. I paid more than a 150 bucks for McCartney tickets. For Ringo? 15 bones. He couldn't even demand a twenty. But I probably enjoyed Ringo just as much. He played almost as many Beatles songs and Jack Bruce played bass for him. So they mixed in some Cream. Good show.

Color Commentators Are Bleeding Useless

Well, we're three weeks into the College Football season and every BYU fan is ready to jump off a cliff. Myself included. Wipe that smirk off your face, Ute Fans. I predict Air Force rolls you up in a few weeks. Maybe. Who the hell knows. To be honest, I'm too emotionally broken to talk any trash. If you'll excuse me, I'm just going to curl up into the fetal position and quietly hum "It's a Small World" to myself in a vain attempt to hold back the tears of despair.

Two Quarterbacks?!!! Rotating every other series?!?!?!?! Bronco, you are an arrogant fool.

So instead of rehashing an already exhausted subject of BYU's quarterback folly, or the inability of any of their receivers to catch a pass that hits them in the hands, or the inability of any member of their defense to tackle a Florida State running back, or the . . . . hell, I'll just stop there. Instead of that bull crap, I instead choose to illustrate a mild irritant that has accompanied the last two nightmare weeks of my football loving life. I speak of the intolerable nonsense spewing from the mouth of every single College Football Color Commentator. The blathering noise that just compounds my futile anger. It's bad enough watching your beloved team suck it up on a Saturday afternoon. It's so much worse having to do that while listening to Todd Christiansen push self congratulatory excrement from his verbose, leperous mouth and pass it off as insight.

"Did I ever mention that I played for the Raiders?"

Why exactly are they called Color Commentators, anyway? Is it because their witty anecdotes add color to the otherwise drab and monochromatic play by play? Is it due to their propensity to draw yellow lines all over the screen while a key third down is in progress? Is it because many of them are black? Maybe it's one of those old timey terms that just never got updated. Like NAACP. Or the United Negro College Fund. As a squeamishly polite white person, I felt uncomfortable even typing that. It just doesn't sound right to refer to Reggy Miller as the color guy on an NBA broadcast. Of course I know this isn't the reason for the title. If it were it would be Commentators of Color. And that would just be nutty.

Now, I am willing to give the color guys a bit of a break. It's a tough job. At least they find a way to make it a tough job. Their purpose is to restate the obvious events that everyone just witnessed with their own eyes. So leaping to ridiculous conclusions and exaggerating either the success or failure of the players on the field is really just an inevitable outcome of trying to sound interesting. But that's where they all fail. I don't care what sport they are covering. Mark Jackson, Tim McCarver, Booner, Bill Walton. They should all make zero effort to sound interesting. A good Color Commentator isn't an interesting one. It's an invisible one. I'm tuning in to watch the players on the filed. Not to listen to your bull crap, Blayne Fouler. So can it. Provide a counterpoint to the play by play guy so as to create a conversational rhythm. That's your job. That's it. When you try to do more, you make it difficult for me to ignore you. And that's all I want to do.

Take Troy Ainkman as an example. I hate the damn Cowboys with all the energy of my being. And I really hated the Cowboys of the 90's. But I actually like Ainkman as commentator quite a bit. He's so freaking boring, I can tune his voice out like it was a dog whistle. The same cannot be said for Lee Corso. Instead of white noise, I am forced to roll my eyes at all the stupid crap he insists on saying. This is especially true when it's a national broadcast of a local team. Before the opening kickoff it becomes clear that the color guy doesn't know a fraction of what I, a typical fan, know about my beloved team. Don't mispronounce Manumaleuna and tell me about Riley Nelson's year at Utah State. Just blend in with the furniture.

So in an effort to provide a solution to this dilemma, the following is a list of ten things that should never be heard in a football broadcast:

1. Any word uttered by a Sideline Reporter: Color Commentators are irritating but Sideline Reporters are intolerable. Look, I like Erin Andrews in an orange sweater as much as the next guy. But that doesn't mean I'm interested in hearing her bull crap story about the assistant coach's wife during a key play. And just to be clear, they're all key plays. Just because she's an attractive woman, doesn't mean I'm fixated on whatever tangential nonsense she may be blathering about. There's a football game going on here. There's no need to manufacture interest with a bunch of warm fuzzy, human interest stories about Tim Tebow's parents. Just show the game. And since when was there a shortage of hot chicks to film at a college football game anyway? Between the student section and the cheerleaders, I think we have the random eye candy covered without having to invent an entire career. I'm pretty sure Title IX doesn't extend to the broadcast team. I think. But you can never really be sure on that stuff. Litigious business, that Title IX. You know what? I take it all back. Female sideline reporters provide an invaluable insight whose absence would leave any broadcast hopelessly incomplete.

2. "Scamper": Chipmunks scamper. Puppies scamper. My three year old niece scampers. And she's downright adorable when she does it. But a 240 pound fullback does not scamper. An 80 yard touchdown run can in no way be accurately described as a scamper.

3. "Razzle Dazzle": As a general rule, I'm against trick plays in football. I like teams that just pound it. I'm all for misdirection and play action. But end-arounds and half back passes just bug me. As does the inescapable urge commentators have to blurt out the term in question. It conjures up an image involving sequined costumes and theatric magic shows performed to the music of Abba. Which actually sounds pretty damn cool. Don't judge me. Imagine GOB preforming illusions to "Fernando". That's pure entertainment, right there. But this term needs to be retired in the football realm. Especially when it doesn't really apply. Razzle Dazzle is a stripper name. Not an accurate description of a quarterback draw.

4. "Blue Zone": I love you Bronco but that's just stupid as hell. And Greg Wrubell, you don't need to step in line. Red Zone is a universally accepted football term. So say it! Is Utah in your head that much? Sadly, I fear the answer is yes. But it's still just dumber than dirt. Do the London Monarchs of NFL Europe refuse to call a stunting linebacker a blitz due to the German bombing raids on England in World War II? I'm pretty sure they're happy to just call it a blitz. You can call the inside of the 20 yard line the Red Zone, just like everybody else. Blue Zone doesn't make you sound clever, Bronco. It makes you sound petty and weak.

5. "Indisputable Video Evidence": I, like every football fan, have a love hate relationship with instant replay. When it's not in place, then it seems that our team will consistently get dry humped by game changing screw ups made by bumbling incompetents that are wearing ill fitting white knickerbockers. When it is in place, then nineteen times a game we are forced to watch the same replay over and over while screaming the obvious verdict at the TV. It's lose lose. But without question the most intolerable aspect of instant replay is the asinine conversation between the two announcers to which we the viewers are unavoidably subjected. And no matter the scenario, no matter the play in question, that conversation is the exact same every bleeding time. Suddenly I am tuned into an episode of Law and Order and am being educated on the intricacies of the burden of proof. "Now, the review booth upstairs need indisputable video evidence to overturn the ruling on the field. I gotta say, it looks like the knee was down but since the call was a fumble, it'll be hard to overturn. Bla Bla Bling Bling Bla."

Look, instant replay works too well to ever get rid of it just because Kirk Herbstreet can't think of anything original to say. So here's the solution; mic the refs. This way we hear them deliberate. I want to hear their conversation. Make the whole process transparent. That or just cut to commercial. Show the replay from two different angles and then try to sell us some beer. If the ref announced the ruling while I was in can, so be it. At least I won't be forced to hear an announcer backtrack when his predicted verdict was dead wrong.

6. "Penetration": Yeah . . . . There's just got to be a better word to describe a D line getting into the backfield. Especially since it's almost always specifically described as "good penetration". Football has enough homo erotic overtones as it is.

7. "Pitch and Catch or Dinking and Dunking": In an effort to make their job appear to be more difficult than it is, commentators go to some extreme lengths to avoid using normal conversational verbs to describe the action on the field. Instead, they feel compelled to use a really lame thesaurus to spice up their diction. When you are reading a text, the specific words chosen by the author come under an unavoidable scrutiny. The words on the page are the only subject at hand. There are no visual images or sounds to enhance or detract from the experience of reading those words. And so writers need a variety of verbs to propel the events in question. You just can't write the word "pass" fifteen times in a single paragraph to describe a 60 yard touch down drive. It's monotonous. But there is no reason in the world you can't say the word "pass" as much as you feel the need. No ham-fisted synonyms required. If we are hearing a description of events that we are simultaneously witnessing, the value of each individual word is drastically decreased. So using the same word a million times in a row doesn't matter at all. You might as well be saying "the". It sounds right. It fits. There is no need to complicate the obvious. Again, the commentators job is the be easily ignored. And you just can't tune out a term so stupid as "He's just dinkin and dunkin his way down the field."

8. "Pick Six": One advantage that baseball has over football is the variety of cool slang terms for the events of the game. Slammies, taters, knocks, going yard. Those are just plain cool. But unofficial football terms suck. Pick six? I'm not sure why I hate this but I absolutely do. The thing is, it's a massive enough event in a football game that it deserves its own nickname. But a good one. "Interception returned for a touchdown", just doesn't roll of the old tongue. So I say we start calling them Power Pills. You know? From Pac Man? The ghosts turn blue and you get to eat them? The hunter becomes the hunted? It's perfect!

Alright, that's pretty lame. Maybe we should just choose something totally arbitrary like a Meatball Sub. "Champ Baily read the quarterback's eyes perfectly, broke on the ball and BAM! Meatball Sub." I like that one. Or maybe call it a Donkey Punch. Things were going quite well for the offense, until everything suddenly and drastically changed. Didn't see it coming.

9. "Young Man": Look, I get that these are student athletes, living in dorm rooms and taking Sociology 101. But don't describe a 6'5" 280 pound defensive end as a "young man". Even if he is 20 years old. It's inescapably patronizing. Even more so than "kid" or "fella". "Young man" assumes paternal authority on the part of the commentator. Be as complimentary as you want Lou Holtz, but that "young man" could beat you to tears while your family watched in horror. I would avoid any verbal head pats. Not because these athletes should be feared. But because it makes you sound like a condescending ass.

10. "Two Quarterback System": AAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!!!! (Banging head against brick wall repeatedly.) AAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHH!!!!!!! (Stabs self in eyeball with screwdriver.) NOOOOOO!!!! (Burns effigy of Robert Anae.) WWWWHHHHYYYYYYYYYY???!!! (Finally runs out of energy and cries himself to sleep.)

You know after all of this, I think the real solution for me is to watch the game on mute and play soothing ocean sounds on my iPod. Maybe some Enya. That way when the true freshman Jake Heapes throws another five yard pass into the ground, I can counter with some breathing exercises and relaxation techniques.

"I am safe in my cave. I am going deeper into my cave. And there I will find my power animal."

Slide.

I've Always Wanted to Ride In A Helicopter . . .

The inside of Pandora's Box Slot Canyon near Torry, Utah.
None of these photos are mine. I got them from this site.

There is an ancient Buddhist tale that goes something like this:

While walking through the woods a young man was suddenly attacked by a tiger. He frantically ran in fear for his life until he was confronted with a massive cliff. Trapped between a hungry tiger and a deep precipice, he began climbing down a series of vines that had grown up the side of the cliff in a desperate attempt to escape certain death. As he dangled hundreds of feet from the ground, he heard the roar of a second tiger below, patiently waiting for him to drop. At this point, the young man knew for certain that he was going to die. It was unavoidable. As he struggled to hold on to the last few moments of his existence, he saw a wild strawberry growing from the vine he was clutching. He picked the strawberry. He gently inhaled its fragrance. He popped it in his mouth and slowly savored its bursting flavor. That strawberry was the sweetest most delicious thing he had ever experienced in his life.

Now, I actually have no idea if that story is indeed ancient. Or Buddhist. Somehow attaching those descriptions gives it more credibility. I heard it on an episode of King of the Hill. That's about the extent of my knowledge of Eastern Philosophy. The point is, confronting one's own mortality on an elemental level deepens the appreciation and enjoyment of the simple and often routine joys of life. Why do I choose to relate this somewhat heavy allegory on a blog that is mired in trivial nonsense? Because last Sunday I had the ever loving crap scared out of me and I've been eating sweet strawberries ever since.

Sunday morning, my buddy Matt and I ventured into a slot canyon near Capitol Reef National Park called Pandora's Box. A fitting name for the canyon from hell. Long story short, it was too narrow for me to fit through. We were able to escape the canyon but became stranded on a mesa surrounded by cliffs with no foreseeable way to return to civilization. At 6:30 Sunday evening, with little water and only about an hour of daylight, Matt finished the rest of the canyon solo, a very dangerous thing to do (just ask Aron Ralston*). He then hiked eight miles back to a bike we had previously stashed, then road an additional 3 miles back to our car. He called Search and Rescue and at 10:30 the next morning my dumb ass was air lifted to safety. Matt's courage and heroism can not be overstated. I keep offering to kiss him on the lips but he won't let me.

Over the last two and half years I have taken up the sport of canyoneering. I have completed 27 different technical slot canyons throughout Utah and have done several of those 27 canyons multiple times. I have taken workshops in anchor construction, read several books on the subject and have consistently exercised what I consider to be good judgment and an abundance of caution in my various adventures. I know my strengths as a canyoneer and my weaknesses. My biggest strength and my biggest weakness is the same thing. My size. I'm a big dude. Being 6'5" and on the plus side of 250 can really come in handy when you are boosting people out of potholes and acting as a meat anchor. But it can really hold you back when you are navigating a tiny crack hundreds of feet into the earth. Being well aware of that limitation, I have been very selective of the canyons I choose to do. Pandora's Box has long been a destination that has both tempted and frightened me. It is a really tight canyon. But not the tightest. It'll be challenging, but I figured I should be able to squeeze my way down through it.

One of the web sites I often use for descriptions, directions, maps and GPS way points provided a warning for large frame canyoneers. It said that big fellas will have to work a lot harder to get through the canyon. Instead of being able to slither through the bottom of the slot, I would have to put my feet on one side of the canyon, my butt on another and chimney up the slot and then inch my way over the narrow obstacle. I am fine with a hard working day. That's all part of the experience. So on the Friday of Labor Day weekend, my ambition got the better of me and I suggested to my buddy Matt that we hit Pandora that coming Sunday.

We drove down to Capitol Reef (a totally underrated and neglected destination in Utah by the way), we camped near the trail head and got an early start to what was going to be the longest day of my life. We hiked up and around on top of a mesa, ascending about a thousand vertical feet. We then bush whacked over open dessert to the entrance of the Pandora Slot.
I was pretty disappointed to see a complete absence of any giant, sexy, blue lizard people riding dragons and sticking their spinal chords into dino horses. Total letdown. I was looking forward to blowing up their massive tree house and murdering their children to gain access to the precious unobtainium. I am, after all the offspring of evil, imperialist, American settlers that hate the beauty of nature, and only understands greed and violence.

Holy balls! Avatar was stupid.

Anywho, as we descended into the canyon, we reached a few rappels and a couple of tight stretches of slot. We were making good time and enjoying the glorious combination of claustrophobic trenches and endless vistas that only a good slot canyon provides. Here are a few more photos. Again, these aren't mine. I don't know who these people are. But feel free to check out this entire photo series from the previous link.




About an hour into the slot, I realized that I had foolishly brought a pair of sunglasses with me. I never do this. The canyon is too dark to need them and anything taken into a canyon will get crushed. In a moment of misguided inspiration, I decided to unscrew a Nalgene bottle full of water and put the glasses inside of it. That way, they would be crush proof and they wouldn't rattle around. I am problem solving genius! However, I didn't screw the cap on all the way and when I put the bottle back in my pack and I lost one of the three liters of water I had taken with me as it spilled out onto the sand. All in an effort to save an eight dollar pair of gas station sunglasses that I didn't care about.

Hell.

This was bad. If we hadn't already committed to the canyon with a couple of rappels, I would have turned around right there. But we were in it, with no going back. There was no water anywhere in this canyon and once we exited, we still had eight miles to hike before we returned to civilization. I could do it on two liters, no problem. But his meant that I would have to budget my water. It's now something that I'll have to think about. And I prefer for basic survival not to be an issue when I'm just trying to have a good time.

As we proceeded down the canyon it got tighter and tighter. We kept expecting the end to be near, only to turn a corner and be slapped in the face with yet another squeeze. There were moments where Matt would have to kneel on the ground and I would have to walk on his back to get up and over a tight obstacle. Matt would then lie on his side in the dirt and I would pull his dead weight below that same obstacle. Team work is essential for the type of problem solving that is required to safely make your way through these places.


Upon reaching what we thought had to be the final section before the rappel out of the canyon, the walls opened up. I remember noticing two washes on either side, intersecting the slot canyon. They looked like a way to scramble up and out of the canyon, if escaped proved necessary. Looking at that dark crevice, I swore under my breath (or possibly very loudly) sucked in my belly and began yet another birthing experience. This squeeze ended with a very tight crack that opened up into what appeared to be a ten foot drop. This is an obstacle that I cannot climb up and over. I would have to squeeze my way through this tiny orifice and then prepare for a reasonably long drop into a pool of stagnant water like the rancid turd that I felt like.

That last sentence was probably more graphic than it needed to be. Sorry.

I tried going feet first. No way. Feet first, sideways. No way. Head first (I have no idea how I was expecting to land safely that way). No friggen way. At this point we were both beat. We were sick of this canyon. It had scraped the ever loving hell out of our knees, hands and backs and we were just done. That 8 mile hike out loomed over my head and I cried mercy. I suggested we backtrack to the wash that was just behind us, hike up it to the top of the mesa and navigate our way back to the car. I had been beaten by Pandora. And I didn't care. I just wanted to get the hell out of there.

The east wash looked pretty easy to scramble up. But the west wash was pretty hairy. East was more in the direction of our car, so we slowly scrambled up the rock slide and out of the canyon. I was very relieved to see flat ground on top of the wash. Thinking we were on the home stretch, we found a shady rock, relaxed, ate some food and looked at the map. We'd have to walk about a mile and half due south and then turn west for about another mile and connect back to our original trail. From there we would have about an hour and half of easy downhill walking on a well defined trail the get back to our car. We'll make it back before sundown and have time to grab a shower and eat a pizza. Not a bad day.

After about a half hour break, we decide to get going. Let's find our vector and get some distance behind us. However we were presented with a serious problem. There was a ravine directly south of us obstructing our way. We walked up and down it looking for a way through or around but we couldn't see and clear solution. More unnerving was the possibility that there were five more crevasses just like it waiting behind this one. These were intersecting slot canyons that were too skinny to appear on our map. We didn't have the water or the energy to be able to risk crossing one of these ravines, only to get more stuck. We were on an island with no clear way out.

Earlier that day, I had texted my brother that we were going to be in this canyon. I estimated that the latest we would exit would be about ten o'clock, assuming we had no serious problems. Alan was actually in Capitol Reef as well, camping with his family. So we had hope that if this turned into a long term situation, rescue should be coming but it would only be coming through the Pandora slot. If we were to separate ourselves from our only known location, any rescue team could pass us right by. So after considering our options and saying several silent prayers, Matt suggested that he record my location via GPS, solo the rest of the canyon, hike back to the bike, ride to the car and call in search and rescue. He is a triathlon running beanpole and should have very little trouble squeezing out of our trap. I got the impression that he really didn't want to do this. But after considering our options, I flat out asked him to be the hero. Matt complied.

He lightened his load, keeping only the gear needed. He gave me a long sleeved shirt he had, a flint for starting a fire and a little of his water. Considering the amount of physically demanding work he had ahead of him, it was beyond generous.

Matt left at six thirty. I figured he would be back to the car by midnight to one in the morning. So I nestled in and tried my best to kill time.

It was a moonless night in the desert. The air was cool but comfortable. I was in an isolated enough of a location that I felt safe from any nocturnal wild life. No polar bears or tigers were going to come chasing me down. So I could relax. I tied my bandanna around my face, train robber style to conserve the moisture from my breath and to prevent my inclination to spit. I hate that phloemy, sticky tongue you get when you're thirsty and instinctively try to scrape it clean and spit it out. But a gross feeling mouth was the least of my worries.

There was an abundance of sun baked, dead wood around that was just aching to be burned. But in my infinite wisdom, I had taken the flint with the assumption that I knew how to start a fire with it. Matt even asked me if I knew how to use it. “Oh, yeah. That's not a problem.” I had started a fire with one of those back in Scouts. But I forgot that I had used steel wool to catch the spark. So I found myself alone in the darkened wilderness sparking the hell out of that flint wondering exactly how Bear Grylls lights up a fire so easily on the Discovery Channel. The answer is, you shave off the magnesium on the other side of the flint and the spark catches immediately. Sparks falling on dry pine needles result in nothing.

The lack of fire certainly didn't keep me warm, but the effort in trying to start one did. I would strike the flint for about fifteen minutes at a time and take an hour break. Again, the air was just chilly enough to keep me from sleeping. A fire would have made me comfortable enough to doze off. But it wasn't necessary. Instead I did the six year old kid in a night shirt trick and tucked my knees up into my shirt, pulled in my arms and dipped my head into my cocoon and warm myself with my breath. This was a very comfortable position and I was able to get some limited sleep until my butt just got too sore from sitting on the rock.

All the while I kept trying to occupy my mind with time killing distractions. Name every team in the NFL. NBA. MLB. Okay. Too easy. What about the NHL? Now, name every state going from west to east. Now, east to west. Every country in Europe. Don't forget Lichtenstein. Name every school in the different conferences in college football. The Big East tripped me up. I had forgotten that Louisville joined them a few years ago. But that conference sucks, so who cares? Count backwards from a thousand by 7. Now do it by 13. I was pretty much Seymour Skinner trapped under a pile of newspapers. “I kept my sanity by bouncing a nearby ball. I made a game of it. Seeing how many times I could bounce the ball in a day, then trying to break that record.”. All the while I was running from the reality that I was significantly dehydrated with only a quarter of a liter of water remaining.

I was certain that I would only need to last through the night. " In fact, if Matt gets back by midnight, the rescue chopper just might show up by one or two. No. I can't hope for that. That'll make the night even longer. Besides, there's no way they're going to try and land a helicopter here at night. The sun comes up at seven o'clock. So that's my goal. Eight, nine maybe ten o'clock at the latest. They have a GPS way point of my exact location and even though I am totally isolated, I am only a few miles from the highway. So I can be thirsty for a night. No problem. The second I drink the water I have left, I'm on a countdown. I will not touch that water."

I would tell myself that at two o'clock, I'll take just a sip and not swallow it. When two came around I would convince myself that I didn't need it. So I would extend my objective to 4 o'clock, thus exercising control over my needs. Hell. I'm an unmarried 32 year old Mormon. I have a lifetime of practice at that. I may want it but I don't need it.

By the way, the human body totally sucks. There I was dying of dehydration and I had to take a massive pee. You call that evolution? Come on kidneys! How's about you do a little reverse engineering. I finally broke down and took a leak. But in an act of foreshadowed desperation, I decided to not let any kind of precious bodily fluids go to waste. You know. In case I needed them later. So I peed in an empty Nalgene bottle. The same one that spilled the water earlier that day. I wanted to punish that bottle for screwing me over, so it must now face the wrath of my frothy, warm, nearly orange pee. Take that. Of course this also meant that I chose the leaky bottle to hold my urine. I'm not sure if my act of vengeance was really that well thought out.

I took my camera out and considered making a little video explaining my circumstances. But I refused to let that thought linger. That last will and testament kind of crap is for people who are about the die. That's not me. This situation sucks but it's far from the end. Just sit and be patient.

As my mind faded between half sleep and consciousness, I would hear phantom helicopter noises. I kept having involuntary flashes of every helicopter image I had absorbed through a lifetime of watching TV and movies. I would have visions of the opening titles of MASH and Magnum PI. The Airworlf theme song would loop itself in my brain. I kept imagining the Ride of the Valkyries scene from Apocalypse Now. I would hear the beginning of the song Goodnight Saigon by Billy Joel. “We met as soul mates, on Paris Island. We left as inmates from an asylum.” I would even think of references that had nothing to do with helicopters but featured the word "chopper".

"Whose motorcycle is this?"
"It's a chopper, baby."
"Whose chopper is this?"
"Zed's."
"Whose Zed?"
"Zed's dead, baby. Zed's dead."

My brain was like a looped episode of Family Guy. Random pop culture references that were more annoying than amusing.

Sunrise came at seven o'clock. This is oddly the coldest time of the day. The sun had been absent now for eleven hours, so the air has cooled significantly. And even though the dawn light is peering over the desert, it was simply light without heat. There was just enough of a breeze to shatter any warmth my skin would feel. I finally let myself shiver, knowing that I was probably just an hour away from being warmed back up.

"I can see the morning light. I can see the morning light! It's not because I'm an early riser, I just didn't get to sleep last night."

I can't make it through a post without a Dylan reference. I know. I'm a douche.

I found a rock on which to sun myself, where I would be nice and visible when Frank Lapidus from Lost flew to my rescue. I closed my eyes in the morning sun and fought back the nightmare that had lingered in my mind all night long. What if Matt got hurt on the way out of the canyon? What if the rope got stuck on the first rappel? What if he landed wrong and broke his leg on that drop that I couldn't squeeze through? My night has been pretty crappy but his would be agonizing. Not only would that mean that no rescue was coming for me, it meant that it was my job to rescue him.

I think I've watched too many episodes of "I Shouldn't Be Alive".

No. He's fine. He's a smart, experienced canyoneer that just ran an Iron Man triathlon last month. He was miserable hiking out. But he was totally safe. You just have to be patient.

As I was fighting these urges to panic, a crow landed next to me on the rock. I broke out into laughter. “Get the hell away from me. My life will not end like a Far Side cartoon.”

"Hey! Look at me! I'm a Cowboy. Howdy. Howdy. Howdy!"

I shewed it away. But that damn buzzard stayed in the area. You filthy sky rat. You're gonna bet against me?

Eight o'clock came and went. As did nine o'clock. There had now been two hours of daylight. I was a two minute helicopter ride from the highway and they knew my exact location. The later it got, the less likely they were coming. And if they weren't coming, then I would have to make a decision.

When ten o'clock the previous night came and went and Alan never heard from me, he must have called Search and Rescue. That team would know how dangerous this canyon was and would send a team down first thing in the morning. An experienced team that knows Pandora well could get to the point where we got stuck in about five hours. But, they would have no way of knowing that we had climbed up and out. They could go right past me with no way of reversing the canyon. So I decided that at ten o'clock in the morning, I would hike back down the wash and into the slot canyon and wait. I would still be able to see any helicopters flying by and would be found by a team going down through the canyon. If by four o'clock in the afternoon, there was no helicopter or rescue team, I would climb up the sketchy looking wash on the other side of Pandora Canyon and hope the same rocky terrain wouldn't trap me like it had the in other direction. I would have enough daylight to traverse the open desert and hopefully find the trail back to the car.

It was doable. I was tired but I wasn't weak. I was, however, significantly dehydrated. I had taken my contact lenses out of my eyes a few hours earlier because I had no tears and they felt like shards of glass. I am severely near sighted and wouldn't be able to climb down safely without at least one good eye. I cleaned the contact off with my scratchy cat tongue the best I could and stuck it in my left eye. It might as well have been a thumb tack. But I blinked and swore away the pain until my eyeball submitted.

As I stood up, I began cramping severely. Both legs and my back seized up. Realizing that I had to prepare myself for the possibility of a physically demanding day, I needed to make the best of the resources I had at hand. I looked over to my left and saw that bottle of pee staring me down.

“Just plug your nose and pound it. Worst case scenario, you spit it out. Your muscles will fail you without some kind of liquid. You have only had a liter and half of water in the last 30 plus hours (counting back to the drive down to Capital Reef) and you have spent those thirty hours sweaty your nuts off in a hot, dry desert at a reasonably high elevation. Your life and Matt's life may very well depend on you trekking through open desert for miles. Not to mention the sketchy down climb that's standing between you and the canyon floor. You can supposedly drink your pee twice before it becomes dangerous.** You have to have fluid.”

So I plugged my nose and pounded it. I drank about a half liter of pee. It had cooled off and actually didn't taste too horribly. This could be because my body was desperate for any kind of liquid that any sense of disgust was silenced. Or it could be that my pee naturally tastes like mountain spring water. Either way, I immediately felt better.

I took several branches from my unused pile of firewood and spelled out “SOS” with an arrow pointing to the wash that I was about to hike back down into. I gathered my gear and began a very slow and deliberate climb down a boulder field. The last thing in the world I needed was a turned ankle.

When I got to the bottom, I peered into the dark slot canyon. If Matt did hurt himself, there's a good chance it was on that drop that stopped me the day before. I screamed his name into the slot. Nothing. That was either really good, or really bad. And for some reason, this was the point where I felt my first sense of mortal terror. This was the first time I truly considered the possibility that I wouldn't make it out of this canyon alive.

My mind flashed back to the night my little brother died from cancer, eleven years ago. I begged God to spare my parents from having to lose another child. Especially in such a stupid, preventable manner. I thought about my nephew and nieces and how much I loved making them laugh and how complete they made me feel by simply being happy to see me. I thought about my brother Alan and his wife Kristen, and the senseless tragedy of him being the only brother left in our family. I even briefly imagined my own funeral. Just for a second. And I gotta say, in that flash of a moment I felt deeply sad but also overwhelmingly blessed. I was flooded with the realization of just how many people knew and loved me. That I was a truly wealthy man when it came to the assets of good friends and family. My life has certainly been disappointing in some aspects but at this moment of soul searching confrontation, I didn't feel regret or despair. All I could feel was the strength coming from the undeniable value of the hundreds of people that are close, integral aspects of my life. More than ever, I wanted to live.

This gave me resolve.

I was going to relax here in the sand and wait until four o'clock. " I'm okay. If no one comes by then, it's time to take control of my situation. But until then, I'm gonna get a some sleep."

My body finally relented and I fell hard into a deep, exhausted sleep. Just when I floated away, I heard another phantom chopper blade. But this time it was loud. I jumped up to see a helicopter at the top of the slot. But there's no way for them to see me. I frantically raced back up the wash trying to make a visual contact, hoping like hell they see me. I could hear it circling where I spent the night. It then buzzed the washed where I was running up the boulder field. I saw a guy hanging out the side. He gave me a thumbs up.

Matt's alive and I'm gonna be okay.

The chopper landed and two Search and Rescue guys came hiking down the hill. “You okay?”

“I'm really thirsty but other than that I'm fine.”

As I was running up that damned wash, oblivious to my cramping legs I realized that breath reeked of pee. Son of a bitch! I drank my pee a half hour before rescue came! I mean that's just comical. So I started scraping my tongue with my teeth and spitting. After all, I wouldn't want my pee breath to embarrass me in front of the Search and Rescue guys. By the way, I just realized that a potential nick name for me after all this may become Pee Breath. I'm shutting that down right now. That is not an option, people. Is that clear?

They met me half way with a bottle of water and I sucked that thing down. I was quite embarrassed that I put myself in the spot to need rescue but at this moment I was way too grateful to care. I climbed into the helicopter and we lifted off. I had never flown in a helicopter before and let me tell you, it was awesome. We flew really low over the slot canyon that had tried to kill me and over the terrain Matt and I considered crossing the day before. We were right to stay where were. We wouldn't have made it far. In fact, other than entering the canyon in the first place, I'm confident that every decision we made was the best one given the information we had at the time.

I was also incredibly impressed with how cool the Search and Rescue guys were. They were legitimately thrilled to see that I was okay. There wasn't any “What the hell are you thinking?” kind of attitude. I was a little nervous that they'd stick an IV in my arm and admit me to the hospital in some sort of insurance ass covering effort. But when I got back to the road, they just loaded me with bottled water, asked me to write up a brief statement and sent me on my way. They couldn't have been more professional and friendly.

So here's what happened. Matt had gotten back to the car at about 1:30. He immediately called 911 and got into contact with Search and Rescue. The problem however was that the rescue helicopter they typically use had already been sent to Zion in another rescue effort. What can I say? Labor Day weekend. It's a busy time for theses guys. So they called all over the state all night trying to find another rescue chopper. They finally found one but it was in Salt Lake and it had to be flown down over night. This was the reason for the delay in the morning.

Matt had also left several voice mails with my brother Alan, updating him on the rescue status. It turns out that Alan was camping with his family out of cell coverage. He never got my text telling him that we're going into Pandora and should be out by 10:00. When we met up with Alan later that morning, he had no idea anything had happened. In addition, the text I sent didn't specify anything about sending for help if he hadn't heard from us. I don't know, maybe I figured that acknowledging the possibility of disaster right before we started would be bad luck. Either way, I was a moron.

Al, his wife and his kids were visiting an old pioneer school house in the National Park when we met back up. His three year old daughter Annie was sitting at a Little House On The Prairie style school desk doodling on a chalk slate when I walked into the room. Surprised to see me, she came running over. I couldn't hold back the impulse to pick her up and squeeze and kiss her with every ounce of love I possessed. Don't worry. I had washed the pee smell out of my mouth by then. (I hope.) I put her down and began describing the previous night's events to Al. Annie pinched my knees to get my attention. When I looked down at her she said in her chirpy three year old voice, “Bwian, I'm going to run and you try to catch me, okay?”

It was one of the happiest moments of my life. I was overwhelmed with a intense gratitude for life that I have never felt before. Less than an hour before I was contemplating my own funeral and now here I was being invited to play with the happiest little girl on earth.

Strawberries never tasted so sweet.

*This scene was filmed in Leprechaun Canyon. It's just south of Hanksville. How do I know this? Because a few friends and I tried to do this canyon last spring when they were filming this movie. They shut us out, so we had to wait a day. Why do I tell you this? Because there is no crystal clear pool of spring water below Leprechaun. Any water there would be putrid, stagnant poo water that smells worse than death. It kind of bugs me that Danny Boyle felt the need to exaggerate the beauty of this place. Why not add some CGI palm trees and Jar Jar Binks while you're at it? It's called gilding the Lilly, dick. Don't do it. It's perfect the way it is.

** I'm pretty sure most people have heard this but I must admit, I have no idea if it is true. Come to think of it, pee could be worse than sea water and dehydrate you quicker than no liquid at all. But I do know I felt much better after downing it. Either it really did help or I had one nasty placebo working for me.