But now the snow is gone

It rained pretty much all day yesterday. As you can imagine, that much precipitation is pretty rare around here. Someone I follow on Twitter even posted this: Dear Las Vegas: please google "desert" k, thanks. Nobody listened to her, though. It kept raining.

I was walking somewhere mid-day, and when I stepped out into the rain, some cold water dripped down off the roof and onto the back of my neck. That's the thing about living someplace where you hardly ever get rain or snow, you forget to watch out for stuff like that. It was cold. It's times like that I'm glad I don't live somewhere colder. You know, like with snow and stuff. Where you have to worry about trees dumping the snow off their branches, onto your head, and down the back of your neck.

That hasn't always been the case. I've lived in some cold places. I mean COLD places. Like, you're so excited when the temperature finally hits 50 degrees sometime in May that you're out in shorts, t-shirt and sandals and thinking about going for a swim, even though the water temperature in the lake is probably still somewhere in the 30s because the ice just barely melted.

I recently saw a news headline that said they had made it illegal for truck drivers and bus drivers to text while on the road. That, combined with the cold rain water dripping down the back of my neck made me think of some of the things that happened my senior year of high school. Like the fact that one of the bus drivers would READ western novels while driving a busload of kids around on windy mountain roads. You know, because THAT's safe.

One day we were driving the 35 miles or so to school in a snow storm (with the regular bus driver, not the Louis L'amor fan). We're talking blizzard conditions. Like, the only way you could tell where the road went was by looking at the whiteness in front of you, and knowing you were on the road because there weren't any trees. It was kind of scary being that visibility was only about 30 feet anyway. That was before the windshield wipers iced up. The bus driver was faced with a dilemma. He couldn't keep going without being able to clear off the windshield, but he also couldn't stop the bus because if he did there is no way he would have been able to get it moving again. THAT's how much snow was on the road. So he called me to the front of the bus, had me crawl into the small space to his left, reach out the window into the freezing snow and wind, and bang the windshield wiper on the windshield to break the ice off. It was freeeeeeeeeeeezing (yes, that many Es). But I saved the day. We made it to school safely.

By noon, the school had decided to send us back home, so we loaded up on the bus, repeated the procedure. Arrived home safely, despite the fact that they waited until the bus was on the road before they CLOSED THE HIGHWAY. The school district sent a bus full of high school kids traveling home on a snowy mountain road that they knew was about to be closed because of the terrible weather conditions.

Sometimes I wonder how I even survived to see my college years.

Now I'm very big I'm a big important man and the only thing that's different is underneath my hat

My sister is visiting Flaming Gorge this weekend. Yesterday she updated her facebook status to say that she was about to walk to the store in town. I called her immediately upon reading that to see if she'd already gone. She said she was on her way right then, so I asked if she could look for a hat for me while she was there. I'd purchased my favorite hat at that store a few years ago, but lost it on my first trip to Joshua Tree (when I went to play ice cream man for a few days). My best guess is that it was accidentally kicked out of the vehicle in the parking lot at the music festival, but I never was able to find it, not even at the lost and found.

Losing the hat wasn't that big of a deal at the time because I figured I'd make it back to purchase a new one at some point. However, I haven't been able to visit Flaming Gorge in about two years. Now that I seem to keep applying for jobs that are further and further away, the likelihood that I'll make it back anytime soon is decreasing. I wish I had more time and money, but I don't.

My sister said she'd look around. Then she asked me to email a picture of me wearing the hat. That way she'd get it on her blackberry, and that would make it easier for her to see if she could find the right one.

I emailed her a picture. She found the hat and sent me a text with a picture of it just to make sure:



"Booyah - Who's your favorite sister?"

Looks like she is. The other three have to step it up a bit if they hope to take her crown away.

Naked as a window

Since my life is relatively boring right now, I'm going to take a trip down memory lane to one of my life's most embarrassing moments.

My family moved to the place Flieswithoutwings so lovingly refers to as "Cow Country" near the end of my junior year in high school (you can read about my arrival here). As part of my taking the new school "by storm" I immediately joined the track team. Not because I was fast, mind you, but because I knew it would afford me the opportunity to attend track meets where I could ogle girls and potentially meet up with some of my friends from my old school.

I've talked about this before, but the new town was very small, and we had to ride the bus approximately forty miles of high, winding mountain roads to get to school. The regular bus left right as school got out, but they also ran a smaller bus so that the students who were involved with extracurricular activities could stay after school without forcing their parents to make the long drive to come pick them up. It was called the home-run bus. (How's that for a lame sports analogy?)

One day after track practice, my friends and I were riding home on the home-run bus. There were several girls on the bus as well. Some from the track team, some from the cheerleading squad, and others who had just stayed after to work on homework or to hang out with their friends. I was wearing sweats and boxers. A bad combination it turned out.

At one point I stood up to throw something away, and my friend, "Geppetto" made a motion like he was going to yank my sweat pants down. Knowing that I had on boxers, and firmly entrenched in the belief that boxers were essentially the same thing as shorts, I told him I wouldn't be embarrassed by that. After all, everyone had seen me in shorts* before.

Considering this a challenge, Geppetto yanked on my sweats. Hard. Down came the sweat pants, and along with them, the boxers (like you didn't see that coming). The problem was, I thought the boxers were still up, so it took a few seconds before I made a movement to rectify the situation. After all, I couldn't very well let Geppetto think he'd gotten the better of me, right?

Anyway, by the time I looked down to see Little Minnow and the Boys had come up for air, Geppetto had already burst out laughing hysterically. Everyone else on the bus had turned around to see what all the commotion was about. A girl on the seat right in front of where I was standing turned around, and literally almost got a face full of my junk. Seriously, she was about six inches away**. I'll simply name her Lucky since she was the first girl to see my penis. Another girl, who we always referred to as the Floating Head, also turned around in time to see everything.

Of course, all of this happened in the span of about five seconds, and I reached down and pulled up my pants as quickly as I could once I realized exactly what had happened. I then proceeded to repeatedly punch Geppetto for his actions. He laughed the whole time and just said he probably deserved it.

Lucky and the Floating Head were beet red, but I didn't let that stop me from trying to play it off.

I said, "[Lucky], [Floating Head], you each owe me $50."

They never paid up.









*And I do have me some sexy legs (or so I've been told).

**Had the bus driver hit the brakes, I may have received my first BJ right then and there.

They don't knock upon your door, they don't ring the bell

Yesterday I received a few emails from my sister. Each one contained a picture of the first place my ex-wife and I lived when we got married. (My sister figured that I might like to see them since I'd blogged about it a couple weeks ago.)

She also sent me a follow up email to make sure I got them:

Her: I sent you some pictures of your first 'home' when I went to Cedar Springs Marina. They are cell phone pictures, so check your spam or whatever so you can get them . . . It was pretty up there, but cold.

Me: Yeah, I got those. I'll probably post them on my blog in another few days if you don't mind. Unless you think that makes for an incredibly boring post. Maybe I should anyway. Then I wouldn't get people like [names withheld] all telling me that my blog is too dirty.

Her: Then the NEXT day you could post a picture of a penis.
Just to even stuff out.

So, there you have it. Here's a picture of the trailer my ex and I lived in (it's the one on the left - the next closest house [other than the marina owner's summer residence on the right] was about five miles away):



And here are a couple pictures of the view:





I used to have to drive* up and down the long driveway after a snow storm in order to smash down the snow so it my ex-wife could make it up the hill in our car. We had to do that because it was a private road and the snow plow didn't come that far off the main highway. Luckily, my dad let us borrow his truck (with 4WD and chains) for the worst storms. Occasionally we'd see mountain lion tracks on our front porch the morning after a snow storm. That's a pretty good indication that you live in a remote place. Sometimes I miss that.




*The driving could get pretty boring, so sometimes I'd intentionally start fishtailing my car on the way up. That used to be so much fun.

Where'd you get your information from, huh? You think that you can front when revelation comes?

You often hear people talk about how they have a problem that, try as they might, they just can't seem to come up with a solution for. You know, like ending their sentences with prepositions. Sometimes it will take weeks, and still no solution, and then suddenly their answer will come to them in a dream. A revelation, if you will (or even if you won't). Well, I don't have much experience with that, but it did happen for me once in my life. I'll relate the tale to you now.

When my ex-wife and I were newlyweds, our "job" was to keep watch over a marina that closed down for the winter. After all, there's not much point to keeping a marina open when the lake it sits on completely freezes over. The marina owner let us live in a trailer that overlooked the marina for free, so long as we established a presence at the place. Basically, anytime we saw somebody out on the docks, we had to go down and talk to them, or at least let them see that we were around. That way the owner didn't have to worry as much about anything getting stolen or vandalized.

However, the only people we ever saw was the occasional weekend ice fisherman, so as you can imagine, things got a little boring. Especially considering the fact that we only got two TV channels: The Sci-Fi channel, and whatever the owner of the marina left his satellite dish on (usually the Playboy channel). So, for our first Christmas, we bought ourselves a Super Nintendo game system and a couple of games. We spent a good portion of our day playing Super Mario World:



Some of the game's levels were more difficult than others, but there was one in particular that I just could not beat. It was a fortress, and I could get to the end of it, but the very last thing to kill off was a spinning wheel full of fire breathing rhinoceri:



Sure, it doesn't look like much. You just run under the wheel, and bounce the rhinos off their perches by jumping up and hitting them from underneath, right? Well, that worked for the first one or two, but then the floor Mario is standing on began to slowly fall apart and fall into the fire below. Try as I might, I just could not knock them off fast enough to avoid falling into the flames myself. I don't know how much time I spent trying to figure a way to beat the level the first time I encountered, but if there was a way to beat it, it was clearly beyond me. After many futile efforts, I gave up for the night and went to bed.

That's when it happened. In the wee hours of the morning, the answer came to me in a dream. To knock the last rhinos off, I would have to jump on the wheel itself, dodge fireballs while waiting for it to rotate, and then jump and knock them off once I was underneath them:



I awoke, and immediately went and turned on the game to give it a try. It worked. And there you have the story of the only time in my life that I've had a revelation in a dream. Too bad it couldn't have been for something important.

Well we knew we had the good things but those never seemed to last

Speaking of Kids in the Hall, we used to watch it all the time when I was in high school. Usually at Flieswithoutwings' house. Anyway, while I'm getting all nostalgic, here are a few more of my favorite clips (sorry, but I couldn't find the one with Rooster Boy, sausages or the squirrel toupee).

Asleep on the Job


Trappers


Painting a Chair


My Pen


Hangin’ Tough


Ok, so I put the last one on there just to see who's still paying attention.

I was wasting my youth on grinding down my teeth

I've mentioned before that I grew up in small towns, but you don't really get a sense of exactly how small until you see this aerial photograph on a postcard. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Dutch John, UT:

You know the town you live in is small when you can just circle your house on an aerial photograph and expect people to be able to use it as a map. Sure this is a pretty old picture, and there are a few more buildings there now, but you get the point.

(I've circled the house that I lived in for three and a half years. Feel free to visit, but be aware that the family that lives there now might tell you stories about me that aren't necessarily true. Also, they might not be receptive to complete strangers coming up to the door to ask about me. On second thought, don't feel free to visit. If you feel that you must, just drive by and wave).

As you might imagine, when you live in a town that small, sometimes it's hard to find things to do in order to keep yourself entertained. I mean, sure there's world class flyfishing three miles away, rock climbing, mountain biking, hiking, river rafting, along with a 91 mile long reservoir where you can swim, boat, fish, etc., and it's all within ten minutes of your house, but who wants to do that all the time?

(Just like anything else, those things become commonplace and somewhat boring when you can do them anytime. Take living in Vegas for example. Sure, strippers seem like a lot of fun, but when you're seeing them every single day it gets a little old. Then you have to start looking for something else to spice things up - like snorting cocaine off a stripper's breasts. Strippers and coke: Don't try to tell me that's not a winning combination.)

Anyway, in order to ease the boredom of living in DJ, sometimes I would end up doing stupid things. Like the time when I knocked up my girlfriend and got married. Or the time when I did this:

My mom HATES that picture. The reason? I'm hanging off the edge of Flaming Gorge Dam. She's such a Quaker. But seriously, this is something that could have resulted in me being the recipient of my very own Darwin Award. Let me show you a different angle:

Sure there was a rock ledge about twenty feet below us, but if for some reason I would have slipped, and then missed the ledge, it would have only been about a 500 foot fall. Maybe you'll believe me now when I say it's a miracle that I survived to adulthood.

I'm a fast talkin' hell raisin' son of a bitch

Immediately following my sister's graduation ceremony, my brother and I were talking about what a good job she did with her valedictorian speech. He couldn't remember what he said in his, and I couldn't remember what I said in mine, but we know that neither of them were as good as hers.

Thinking back on it though, I'm pretty sure mine went something like this:

Hey there buckaroo and buckaroo-ettes, as we sit here on this graduation day many of us have come to the realization that the days of roping miniature rocking-horse type bulls in the halls are over. It's time for the big rodeo of life. Many of us don't know what the future holds, but it's time to cowboy up, take that bitch by the horns and ride that sucker for all she's worth. We're talkin' the full 8 seconds baby. Now, go out there and git 'er done. Yeeeeee haaaaawwww!!!


At least that's what it looks like I'm saying in this picture*:

*I don't know who took this picture, I'm pretty sure it was my friend's mom, but I love how they didn't bother to try and move a few inches to the side in order to miss the back of someone's head.

You're back in your old neighborhood cigarettes taste so good

I'm back, did you miss me? Shut up, you did so.

My trip was nice. I was able to con my brother into joining me, so that made it even better than if I'd gone alone. That said, what was quite possibly the highlight of the trip happened before I even got to his house when I came across a burning semi on the freeway. The trailer was full of sheep, and emergency personnel were doing their best to evacuate the trailer, but there was still at least one that had caught fire. I can assure you that you simply haven't lived until you've seen a charred sheep standing on the freeway, staring at the flames that had so recently ignited its wool. In fact, I was so busy looking at the charred sheep that I nearly ran over the off duty police officer that was directing traffic. It's probably a good thing I eventually saw him.

I spent the first night at my brother's house, and we left early the next morning to drive the rest of the way. When we finally arrived I realized that even though neither I nor my family has lived in the area for ten years, I always feel as if I've returned home when I see this view:



We fished the Green River for the rest of that afternoon and the following day. The fishing was slow but I was able to catch a few. I was hoping to have one of those 50 fish days that people often have on that river, but it was still fun to get out there. At least for me. My brother would probably tell you something different. It was one of the few times that I've actually caught more fish than him. In this case, it was quite a few more.

Here's a picture of him getting skunked:



And another:



The original plan was to fish the Green River for two days and then go back to Salt Lake City so I could spend two days with my kids. However, my ex-wife called to tell me that the kids were grounded because of their grades and that she was making them do homework all day Saturday. Plus, Shooting Star and her sisters were visiting the area, and they convinced us to stay an extra day and float the river with them.

Not all the pictures I took turned out good, but you can see why this is one of my favorite places in the world.





I did spend Saturday night and all day Sunday with my kids, so I'm not as horrible a father as I could be. I also spent some time hanging out with Flieswithoutwings and some other old friends. I didn't want to come back.

I feel it coming and I've got to get out of its way

In an attempt to avoid going absolutely insane, I am leaving for Flaming Gorge in a few minutes. My hope is that the trip ends up being cheaper than therapy.

I'll tell you the same thing I told my roommate:

Me: "The rent check's on the counter. I'm outta here."
Him: "When are you coming back?"
Me: "Maybe Sunday, maybe Monday, maybe never. We'll see."

It all depends on whether or not I encounter Ted Bundy.

Of recklessness and water

Lately I've been itching to visit Flaming Gorge. I spent 3 years of my life there, and despite the fact that I hated my parents for making me move there, it is one of my favorite places in the world (you might consider it to be my Brokeback Mountain, although in a less gay cowboy kind of way).

My friend Flieswithoutwings put it well when he described living there as "being part of a magical place and time." I've thought about what it would be like to move back there some day, perhaps after I retire, but it wouldn't be the same unless all my favorite people moved back there too.

I'd like to pay a visit to the area during Spring Break, but don't know if I can afford it. I have a million stories about the area, and Flieswithoutwings has done a good job of telling some of them in his 'Chronicles of Cow Country High' series, but here's one that I thought of the other day and thought I'd share. Besides, I doubt this one is worthy of inclusion in The Chronicles.

Flaming Gorge Reservoir is a fairly large body of water, and approaches a depth of approximately 500 feet in some places. Late one summer night we went swimming off the docks at the visitor's center on the dam (even though it wasn't legal). I decided to swim over and touch the dam. I have to say that it was unsettling by the time I got there because of the amount of water that was beneath me. I had the feeling that if I were to sink to the bottom, my body would never be found. I followed through and touched the dam, but it wasn't a task I was eager to perform again.

As with any body of water that big, there were always rumors about bodies being found by fishermen who were trolling and would think they'd hooked a large fish only to end up netting a human body (in full or in part). Usually the stories stated that the body had multiple fishing lures stuck to its skin (a sure sign of an urban legend, even though the area was far from urban).

While I doubt the authenticity of some of the stories I heard while I lived in the area, there are certainly plenty of bodies in that lake. My mom had a cousin who drowned there when his boat capsized during a storm and whose body was never found. With water so deep, you could imagine that it would be a good place to dispose of a body. In fact, it is believed that Ted Bundy dumped a few of his victims' bodies there.

One day we were talking about how it was kind of creepy that we'd swim in waters where bodies were decomposing. Not that it deterred us, but it is kind of gross when you think about it. During the conversation one of my friends proclaimed, "You know, my missing aunt used to date Ted Bundy."

Roses are red and the sky is blue, I've got my barrel at your neck so what the fuck you gonna do?

My first car was a 1977 Chevrolet Caprice Classic. It was given to me by my grandmother as a wedding present, and I couldn't have been more grateful for it. It burned about a quart of oil for every tank of gas, but it got us to the places we needed to be for nearly a year. It even survived collisions with two deer and Flaming Gorge Dam. It was probably state of the art when she first bought it though. After all, it did have electric windows and seats (pretty impressive for 1977) and a slot in the arm rest that would fit a Coke bottle (the first cup holder?).

I stopped driving it when I realized that it was going to cost me well over $1000 to get it to pass the safety and emissions inspections that were necessary to renew the registration. It stayed in my parents' storage shed until they moved a year and a half later. They told me that they weren't going to move it with them (and I don't blame them, I wouldn't have either) and that I needed to do something with it. I tried to give it to at least three different family members, but none of them wanted it. Finally I sold it to a guy who wanted to put it in a demolition derby for $50. I never even went to the derby to see how well it did.

The other day I was reading an article about the latest automobile craze to hit the southeastern U. S. It's sort of the anti-low-rider. They've been jacking old cars up and putting them on rims that are 24" or larger. These cars are called Donks, Boxes or Bubbles. According to an article in the latest issue of Maxim (and if you can't trust a fine literary work like Maxim then who can you trust?), a Donk is a 1971-1976 Chevy Caprice or Impala, a Box is a 1977-1990 Caprice, and a Bubble is a 1991-1996 Caprice.

Supposedly people are so crazy about these things that you can no longer even get a "rusted shell from the junkyard" for less than $5000 (again quoting Maxim). I guess they basically rebuild everything, and these cars end up costing about $100,000. Apparently, a lot of the people who drive them feel threatened enough to have to carry guns everywhere to thwart any attempts at car-jacking.

All I want to know is why couldn't this craze have started in northeastern Utah (or Wyoming) in the late 90s? I'd have been able to sell the car for a hundred times more than I actually did. In fact, if I had only been able to hold on to my '77 Caprice for the past ten years, I'd now be sitting on a gold mine. Talk about not being able to capitalize on one's assets. Of course, I probably also would have had to begin packing heat.

I wish I was a sentimental ornament you hung on the Christmas tree

I went and saw Pearl Jam two nights ago at the MGM Grand. I wasn't planning on going initially because I wasn't sure I'd be able to afford tickets, but then at the last minute a friend of mine ended up not being able to make the trip into town for it, so two of us bought his tickets and went. I felt better about what I paid when we got to our seats (which were rather good) and the guy next to me said that he'd paid over four times as much for his.

During the show something happened that hasn't happened to me in a while. I got chills. The first time was when they played Line in the Sand, but it happened during a few other songs as well, usually when they'd launch into a song from Ten. It must have been a result of the excitement in the air, but during one of those moments it hit me - I'm getting old. Obviously the songs they were playing mean a lot to me. They'd have to in order to invoke such a response, but I also realized there's a whole generation of people who don't give a damn about Pearl Jam.

It all got me thinking about whether music still has the same overall effect on people growing up today. There are certain albums that played a huge role in my life. Pearl Jam's Ten is one of them. Then there are certain bands that have stayed with me through the years, and album after album has had something good to offer. During this concert I realized that Pearl Jam is one of those bands. Song after song would bring back memories of a different time:

• The move to Flaming Gorge. It was a decision that I hated my parents for at the time, but turned out to be one of the defining events of my life.
• Playing Tecmo Super Bowl on the Nintendo with some of my best friends in the world.
• My honeymoon in Seattle.
• Spending our first winter together living in a small trailer on a hill overlooking the marina we were caretakers of for a few months.
• Starting college, and the friends I made while I was there, some of whom I haven't thought about in years.
• The first time my marriage almost went to shit. We dragged it out for another 5 years or so, which I consider to be a good thing considering it bought me more time with my kids.
• The move to Vegas and a new beginning for me.

I don't know that there are really any new bands that will have that effect on people. At least not as many people. I can't think of any bands that are as big now as Pearl Jam was then. I guess the Killers might come close with their first album, but they have yet to back it up with anything new. I know the bubble gum bands have been huge, but that doesn't really count considering that the kids that grew up listening to them will hear those songs in the future and actually be embarrassed that they even listened to that crap, let alone loved it.

I don't know how much longer Pearl Jam will continue putting out albums, or even if they should, but I do know that I should in some way give thanks to them for putting out music that has spoken to me through the years. It's been a hell of a ride.

For Shooting Star

I took this picture as a testament to how man has alterred the world. The mile marker speaks for itself by marring the view, but the reservoir may be less obvious. Both alter the landscape, and neither would be there without man's help.

My brother looked at me like I was a weirdo when I took this picture.

I remember responding to him with "Now that's f**king art!"

(Note to Shooting Star and Flies Without Wings (I'm boycotting the acronyms for now): Does this help with the homesickness?)