Economic Rec-depr-ession ... or Surviving in the Lean Times

It's depressed the dollar, yanked the yen, and pounded the pound and now it's coming after you and your once-impenetrable piggy bank. It's the looming shadow - the wolf in the darkness who breaks into your home, eats your instant noodle soup and spends hours on your couch racking up the pay-per-view bills (and ordering infomercial-based fitness programs and blenders). Of course, I'm talking about the Recession ... or the Neo-Depression ... or ... well, let's just call it the #$!%^&-ession.

Now, you may be behind TARP ... or you may think the bailout is the worst trick since Edward Bernays’s 1929 campaign to recruit women smokers (Bernay's campaign successfully tied smoking to the women's liberation movement and gave us little white "torches of liberty." He's probably more responsible than anyone else for the last eighty years of smoking-related disease and death among women).

Either way, it really doesn't matter. I mean, we can chitter, chatter, and complain all we want about the crisis and the government's (ill?) response to it ... but that's not gonna keep the wolf from shoving his money-sucking snout into your wallet (not sure how I feel about this metaphor anymore ... oh well). When it comes down to it, we can be "mad as hell" and "not gonna take it anymore," but how will that help you keep your home (or buy lunch for that matter)? Righteous indignation just ain't gonna pay them bills.

Truth is, we've got some tragically tough times ahead. And while I still feel optimistic - after all, no one ever starved with a law degree as long as they were willing to order takeout - I realize it's high time I started cutting back. I mean, that hedonistic, devil-may-care approach to finance that most of my generation has known since birth has finally broken down ... and hallelujah, it's just in time.

I mean, we all want to blame Wall Street and those fat-cat execs who have been livin' life high on the investor's dime ... but let's get a few of those fingers pointed in the right direction. After all, an absence of liquidity in the markets wouldn't really hurt most of us if we were already out of debt and putting our surplus in safe, time-tested investments. And even a deep drop in the stock market wouldn't mean as much if we protected our principal and left high-stake risk to the crew from Ocean's 11.

This crisis seems the perfect storm ... it's destructive, it's dangerous and it's likely to destroy small fishing vessels who care more for profit that personal safety; but those folks who built a shelter and have hunkered down to weather the mess have nothing to worry about. Fail or fortune, we've only ourselves to blame.

So suck in that belt, kick off those extravagances and follow these basic principles to get and keep yourself in the black (lovingly ripped off from The Richest Man in Babylon):

(1) Fatten Your Wallet: Take one-tenth of EVERYTHING you bring in and save it for the future. Pay it like clockwork ... like tithing ... like your financial success depended on it. (It does). Don't let a paycheck pass without retracting your tenth.

(2) Control Your Expenditures: Don’t buy frivolous things. Avoid the "it's on sale mentality." Frugality and fortune go hand in hand.

(3) Multiply Your Money: Once you've built up some savings, invest it wisely, safely and with a clear eye to the future. If you start saving money, it shouldn’t just sit in a mattress. After all, a high-yield savings account can double your principal in about fifteen years.

(4) Protect Your Assets: Only invest where the principal is safe. For the most part, this would discourage stock investing. Sound crazy? Just talk to someone who lost 45% of their net worth in two months.

(5) Ensure a Future Income: Keep your eye on retirement (no matter what age you are) and make sure your family will be taken care of if you pass. Buy an affordable home ... keep your belongings in good shape.

(6) Invest in Yourself: Work hard, find opportunities, get educated. Today, a college education is one of the best investments you can make; I’m not saying that it’s a requirement to be successful, but it opens the door to greater possibilities.

Of course, there are countless more bits of advice, but in the end, the key is this: Follow the prophets, get out of debt, and use your common sense. And if nothing else, try and smile each time you stop at those gas pumps. After all, these #$!@#&-essions ain't all bad.

A Little Holiday Spirit (Part I) ...

It’s been far more difficult to start off this little memoir than I thought. You see, I wanted to give a go at some homage, pay the piper and all that, but I stuck myself in a bit of trouble because homage demands “literary prowess” (whatever the hell that is). In the end, though, it finally came to me—the perfect beginning.

The ghost was bored, to begin with.

It was so simple. So clear. I had gone through a few drafts (i.e., “It was the most exciting of times, it was the dullest of times” and “Whether I shall be the hero of my own memoir or whether some other git-faced spirit will take that role remains to be seen,” and simply “Hell.” I liked that last one best, but I wasn’t sure anyone would get it), but when this popped into my head, I was done. I could add nothing more.

I mean, it’s nice—not too highhanded or over-the-top or anything like that. Pure, solid homage. After all, I gotta hand credit to the book that really put me on the map, literarily speaking, I mean. Why, if it weren’t for Monsieur Dickens (that cheeky little bastard) no one would care a two-pence or a haypenny or a hey nonny-nonny for me or the other so called “spirits” that “haunt” (can you believe this insanity? Words in quotes?! Hah!) A Christmas Carol.

Ok, I guess I better back up two shakes. First off, the name’s Edward—Edward Salberry, to be precise. I know what you’re thinking, “Who the hell is Edward Salberry?” (or, if you’re a bit higher minded and moral and all that, probably like, “Who, perchance, is Edward Salberry?”). And I can’t blame you one bit. I mean, no one knows me by that name anymore. Not since Dickens anyway. Like as not, you’d recognize me as the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. But actually, just to set the record straight, that’s more of a title. It’s like knowing a knob named Bill Accain who shovels dirt at the cemetery and thinking his name was really “the Shoveller” or “the Man who Moves Dirt For Recompense” or something like that. Nice when talking with friends about a bloke, but no good if you wanna talk with the man himself. So, by all means, call me Edward. And, like I said, I am the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come … and Hannakuh Yet to Come … and Ramadan Yet to Come … and Diwali Yet to Come … and, well, let’s just say that if it’s an up-and-coming religious holiday you want haunted, I’m your spirit.

Didn’t used to be that way, though. Back in the day it was straight up Christian holidays and nothing doin’ with those heathen jobs living in their deserts and jungles and the like. Fact was, most of those pagans were already filled to the brim with kindness and charity and Christian cheer … well, in a blood-sacrifice kind of way. Mind you, I don’t recommend the cannibalism or the “human sacrifice to please Baal,” or anything like that. I’m just saying that when they weren’t chanting and chirping and gorging on their victims, they could be pretty damn civil. And did they know how to party. Wow! This one feast in Papua New Guinea before they offered up virgin triplets probably blasted the doors off any other dinner in history. Really.

But I digress.

Fact is, we’re living in an increasingly global society with political correctness and equal opportunity kicking you in the face every time you turn around. Buddy of mine once got fined half a month’s wages for failing to properly haunt this Scientologist guy into repentance and redemption and what not. Well I just have to say, bugger that. What if I got some problem haunting the man … you know, on moral grounds or something. It just ain’t right that some union can come in and make me fork out some hard earned cash because I'm not gonna do anything "repugnant to my nature" or whatever. It's a bloody mess, if you ask me.

And who do we have to thank for all that? Why, Dickens himself. I mean, he just waltzes in with his serial novels and his "realistic" characters and … well, I'll get to all that. Guess what I need to do is tell ya more about myself. I mean, sure, Dickens will play a part, but we’ll keep him in the wings more than not. Gotta head out now ... busy time of year and all that. But don't worry. More to come. More to come.

TO BE CONTINUED ...

Emotive Twenty-Somethings ...

This morning, while looking through old files on a long-forgotten flash drive, I found a poem I wrote during my senior year of college. Thinking back, it seems like I used to write a lot of silly things like this. Up 'til now I've rarely shared them with anyone ... but this one was too good to pass up. I mean, what was I thinking? How bored must I have been to even start, much less finish, something so inane? Oh, well. Nothing can keep an emotive twenty-three year old down ;)

Still, given my last entry and the upcoming fun & food-filled holiday season, this poem* may even be slightly apropo. Cheers to ya'll, and good luck keeping those upcoming New Year's Resolutions.

* WARNING: THE FOLLOWING POEM MAY CONTAIN NUDITY

“Weighed Again, Come January”

Mid-January, I stood in the shower and realized
I couldn’t see my feet without moving my head forward
(more than I care to admit).
Only with effort could I make out what lay beyond
the titan mound of all too solid flesh.

I stood stark naked as water trickled down a drain
(to be reused by others in a perverse, yet telling,
cycle of modernity), and thought how easy corpulence would
melt away
in the sweat of a rubber-padded weight room.

And so I came to the meat auction
where scores of ruddy-faced men and women
whored themselves in public spectacle. (The world of weights
revolves around breasts and biceps).
But I was not so degenerate.
Or rather, I was (am) but didn’t (don’t) have the right figure.
So, I wore baggy sweats.

An acrid smell drifted across the checkered floor
and I nearly left because I couldn’t stand to breathe in the mix of five-year old sweat and hairspray.
But looking down I saw nothing
but my Dionysian stomach and so ...

Weight machines stood in a row like a collection of
sculpted scrap metal that once may have composed the guts of a Chevy or a washing machine. The machines were foreign,
their magic made more potent by mystery
and the Alchemic ability to transform fat into figure.

I stepped to a machine as music blared inanely across the room.
“Dirty deeds done dirt cheap ... ”
And I remembered why the progression of time
is such a good idea. (Good one, God).

Others in the room moved like large, shapely specters,
seemingly unaware of the rest of the room, but secretly staring
and lusting. “Dude, throw thirty more on,”
the blue-shirted shape said;
perhaps meant to entice the girl with the butterfly tattoo.

The hour passed and gravity took its toll. I straggled home,
legs tense and arms quivering.
Even in this frozen wasteland, my body found a way to sweat. (Thanks again, God).

In the apartment, I stripped down and stepped into the shower, consumed by Promethean pain.
And as the water spilled out, I looked down and smiled weakly.

I still couldn’t see my feet.

Will Run for Food ...

Those dark moments of life (death, divorce, destruction, disease, decomposition, etc.) often create just the right batch of ingredients for a rebirth. It's a bit like that whole Phoenix thing. We can't be reborn until we've been burnt to a charcoal-covered crisp.



See, midway through second semester of my first year of law school (a time of life universally recognized as a trip through physical and mental hell ... even if you enjoyed yourself most of the time) I looked down one day to discover that I had slowly devolved into a 285 pound mass of jelly-filled humanity. This was bad ... high cholesterol & blood pressure just added to what I now refer to as the MOST ABYSMAL PHYSICAL CONDITION OF MY LIFE.

After commiserating with some of my fellow chubbed-out first years, I decided to begin an activity that would significantly change my life: Running. Throughout my high school and undergrad years, I had avoided this most polarizing of activities like it was the smelly guy in science class. See, I related with the Morgan High Cross-Country club motto: "What most call hell, we call home." I was firmly on the "hell" side of that dichotomy.

Nevertheless, I disregarded my prior bias and began on a program aimed to get me from couch potato to half-Kenyan marathoner in sixteen weeks. Those first several weeks of running, I felt (and probably looked) like this:



But despite the back aches, the leg aches, the head aches, and the generally feeling that if I went one more step I would probably keel over along the side of the road, I kept going. And things got better. My lung capacity deepened and my legs, back, and stomach began to support my considerable girth. The highlight of that time of my running life came three months later when I set out on an idle Friday night and ran for an entire hour without stopping. I felt invincible; I felt like superman; I felt like this guy:



Even though I FELT good, however, I didn't actually look much different. Sure, I lost a few pounds (down to 250 at first and later down to 240 when I started training for a half-marathon), but my body still looked like an M&M - a lot of good stuff covered in a thick candy shell. It was only then that I began to realize the other half of my problem: Food.

Most of the seven deadly sins are relatively under control for me. Anger? Not since I beat up that kid in fourth grade (topically enough, for calling me fat) or punched a whole through our living room window screen have I let that emotion really take control. Envy? Well, I do live with Eric Vogeler, so ... yeah. And Lust? Well, I think Henry Higgins put it best when he asked "Have you ever met a man of good moral character where women are concerned?" (OK, after reading what I just wrote, I realize I might need to work on those as well). But the worst of all the game, by far, has always been Gluttony. We're a nation whose main passtime is overeating ... and I've always been proud to be an American.

But the problem with my greedy need for food is that it counteracts the majority of good that can come from a solid and consistent running program. I could run 25 miles a week and, thanks to my habit of mercilessly choking down Twinkies, end up two pounds heavier than I was the week before (this has happened ... how sad is that?).

So I'm going to cut down. Seriously ... this time it's going to happen. This life is all about learning to control our finicky, fickle bodies, no? Let that be my goal. My heart is healthy, my legs are strong and, while a flat and chiseled belly may be too much to ask for, hopefully cutting out the junk will help me move closer to that optimum 220.

A Lot Like Love ...

"We are all a little weird and life's a little weird, and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love."

I found that statement while looking through quotes some of my friends have up on Facebook (the most socially acceptable way to stalk ...). The quote reminds me a bit of a comic strip by Bill Watterson (a genius of the highest order, comic or otherwise). In one segment written several years ago, Calvin is walking along a path with Hobbes while the pair, as they are want to do, have a VERY illuminating conversation:

Calvin: What's it like to fall in love?
Hobbes: Well... say the object of your affection walks by...
Calvin: Yeah?
Hobbes: First, your heart falls into your stomach and splashes your innards. All the moisture makes you sweat profusely. This condensation shorts the circuits to your brain and you get all woozy. When your brain burns out altogether, your mouth disengages and you babble like a cretin until she leaves.
Calvin: THAT'S LOVE?!?
Hobbes: Medically speaking.
Calvin: Heck, that happened to me once, but I figured it was cooties!

It may not be Valentine's Day or Christmas or really any day that might spark the heart or quicken the pulse ... but it is raining outside. And, on a rainy day, a little love can go a long way.

Cheers to ya'll ... and much love.

"America will never forget ... "

Today, while reading through the so-called "Great Speeches" of the last one hundred years, I came across one delivered by current President George W. Bush to Congress nine days after the terrorist-driven destruction of 9/11. Among many other poignant and well-crafted lines (two points to his speech writer for coming up with "whether we bring our enemies to justice or justice to our enemies, justice will be done") was the following promise and observation.

And on behalf of the American people, I thank the world for its outpouring of support.

America will never forget the sounds of our national anthem playing at Buckingham Palace, on the streets of Paris and at Berlin's Brandenburg Gate.

We will not forget South Korean children gathering to pray outside our embassy in Seoul, or the prayers of sympathy offered at a mosque in Cairo.

We will not forget moments of silence and days of mourning in Australia and Africa and Latin America.

Nor will we forget the citizens of 80 other nations who died with our own. Dozens of Pakistanis, more than 130 Israelis, more than 250 citizens of India, men and women from El Salvador, Iran, Mexico and Japan, and hundreds of British citizens.

America has no truer friend than Great Britain.

Now, I don't want to end up sounding like some melodramatic country song, but with the lowest global approval rating since ... well, ever ... I can't help but think that we have forgotten those sentiments. And we've lost (or are losing) many of our friends as a result.

Why, for instance, did we decide to twiddle away our previous political prowess and relatively unsullied foreign image (remember when EVERYONE wanted to be us ... except France ... and they did too, secretly, from a distance) for a turgid, dumb war in Iraq?

And why have we decided to take the lone wolf, devil may care approach to foreign policy that ends up alienating the new Russia, the new China and the old everyone else? (Granted, we are doing better with some countries, such as India, but we've dropped significantly in the eyes of many, many others).

Before going on, I must point out that yes, I am several years late and a few well-thought-out phrases short of having a really meaningful entry here. (In my own defense, though, I must say that's largely because I was out of the country during 9/11 and the ensuing two years of US foreign relations rebound while I was serving an LDS mission in Southeast Asia leading, as you might expect, to a very different perspective on this whole thing). Obviously, disregarding the downward glances of our foreign friends isn't a new trend or a hot issue - it's been going on for years. For whatever reason though (call it fate, call it destiny, call it being at work with absolutely nothing else to do), my personal apathy toward the whole mess has finally begun to fade away and I've started wondering how to get our country back to where we were eight years ago - at least as far as foreign relations are concerned.

I don't think I'm being naive (idealistic, maybe, but not naive). I'm aware that we've always had a way of grating foreign cultures and countries with our brash, uncouth ways. I mean, we've always sort of done it our own way - but at least we used to have the diplomatic sense to keep more doors open and more friendships alive. And at least we used to try and make sure that when we went into some country, we went in with a wink and a nod from our friends across the pond and around the world (as opposed to the curse and jeer that seem more the preferred greeting today).

In that speech Bush gave nearly seven years ago, he paid homage to the right idea and the right approach to foreign policy: America cannot forget the good the world has done for her. America cannot choose to go it alone anymore (and whoever the next president is, he's got to clue in on that concept pretty darn quick). Sure, we'll continue to have our difference and we can't always just "play nice" with the schoolhouse bully, but if we don't make friends with the other countries on this large global playground, we'll be little more than a bully ourselves.

I may not be the most insightful chap this side of CNN (ha ha), but I do love this country and I always pray for her continued success. God bless America (and God give her sense enough to deserve it)!

God of our fathers, known of old--
Lord of our far-flung battle line
Beneath whose awful hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine--
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget - lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies;
The captains and the kings depart:
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget - lest we forget!

Far-called, our navies melt away;
On dune and headland sinks the fire:
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget - lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe--
Such boasting as the Gentiles use
Or lesser breeds without the law--
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget - lest we forget!

- Rudyard Kipling

[title]

I got this e-mail a few months back from a co-worker at the Utah Supreme Court. Funny man. I kept it (for the love of a good guffaw) and am only now getting around to publishing it. Enjoy.


Hello [witty moniker]:

It's that time again. I realize that you are all busy with [seasonal non-religious activity], but [pop culture reference], don't you think? Our [regularly occuring, work-related outing] is just around the corner and should be great time to share our impressions of cases, practice caricatures of our favorite jurists, and [pinky and the brain reference].

With that in mind, I say we get together for an informal brown bag lunch on Friday at noon. I realize the notice is short but remember [cite to fake statute], and we took an oath to uphold the law, right? Ha ha!

As usual, feel free to attend even if case discussion is "verboten." We won't make you talk or even eat the dessert unless you are [ambiguous, possibly inappropriate joke]. Chattham house rules apply.

I hope to see you there.

Cheers,
[clever, likely self-deprecating nickname]

Balancing the Court

Finally, for all us "right-brained" lawyers out there - a bit of pictorial magic detailing the voting styles of our current Supreme Court (showing the "major" cases - as judged by the NY Times - over the past term). This pictograph begs two questions, as far as I can see:

(1) Will Kennedy ever NOT be the swing vote? I mean, really ... isn't it time for Stevens to step into the limelight a little? Just a little? (And, while we're on the topic, how 'bout Steven's bow tie? A perfect complement to Thomas's slant-lipped stare of death).

(2) Can Scalia and Ginsberg let bygones be bygones and join together on some issue of universal importance, thus rising above their political biases?

Thanks to those happy-go-lucky NY Times people from whom I lovingly stole this image.

My town ... that created all the bass sounds ...

What ever happened to the sweet, sweet hip-hop that pervaded the 90s? I know, I know ... most of you are shaking your head in disbelief - as if there could be such a thing as "sweet hip-hop" - but just read on ... you'll see what I mean.

Take for instance "I Need a Hot Girl" by Hot Boyz, one particularly rousing anthem from the end of that era. Here, verbatim, are the first four lines:

'You need a hot one I got one, I take and bend
Shake it down, break it down, with me and a friend
Biggity bounce, slide, ride, work that thing to the right
Push it down, push it up, boom you dynamite' (add appropriate inflection)

And then there's "My Projects" by Coo Coo Cal:

'In my projects, my project thick
In my projects, everybody cooks bricks
In my projects, my projects thick
Don't come to my projects if you ain't wit dis clique'

Or how about the unforgettable Western/Hip-Hop crossover "Ghetto Cowboy" by Mo' Thugs from 1998:

'The names Powder P can I get a twelve gauge
Outlawed everyday on the front page
Mr. Kid, if you give me the low down
Me and Blackjack, we ready for the showdown
With two double barrels pointed at whatever
We'll stick together, I'm perdy clever'

(Perhaps the best use of the word "perdy" in any song ever. Period).

But need I quote more? For everyone in touch with their inner, sex-crazed thug, the genius of these hip-hop masterpieces is beyond reproach (My Inner-Thug Name: T. Four Piece). For the true believer, there was never a better era.

So the question is, what happened? Where are the Koopsta Knicka's, Tupac's and Krayzie Bone's of today? I know, I know ... some of those guys retired. Some overdosed on heroin. Some are serving time in maximum security prison. And some are dead urban icons rumored to be coming back in 2007, but not really actually coming back. (You know who you are).

I just don't think today's hip-hop has that same, undefinable quality ... we've seem to have moved past that time when music was able to eternally straddle the line between completely depraved and lovable 'gansta magic.' No, the hip-hop of today has definitely crossed that line. The music of today can best be described only as "Fergalicious."

Oh, well ... I guess some things will just never be the same. I'll just have to resign myself to being one of those crazy old guys who embarrasses their "hip" grandkids by rapping on the front porch with his dawg's and remembering the days when the Notorious B.I.G. reigned supreme.

Hope, Work, and the Good Life

They say that the Monday of the last full week in January (MLK Day) is traditionally the most depressing day of the year because of (1) high credit card debt from the hoildays, (2) the long, cold, darkness of winter at its dreariest, and (3) most people give up their New Year's resolutions about this time.

Tragedy, my friends, unmitigated tragedy. Ok, so I'll give you that the cold, dark disgustingness of a thick January inversion isn't liable to take many people to the land of sunshine and rainbows ... but forsaking those newly-made resolutions? What gives? Twenty-two days into the rest of our lives and already the majority are packing in the gym socks, giving up on love, and pulling out those old nicotine deathsticks.

And it makes me wonder all the more ... how many people actually keep those resolutions past Dark Monday? Are there any sticklers still straddling that Thin Blue Line (random British comedy reference) and keeping their resolutions into May? August? December?

I hope so. And, what's more, I hope I'm one of them and that this time next year finds me thin and sexy, in love ("Its not too late to find a mate in 2008"), and smoke free ;) Cheers.

Non-conformist or Just Plain Lazy?

"This is Halloween, everybody make a scene, trick or treat 'till the neighbors gonna die of fright." - From Nightmare Before Christmas

The question starts toward the end of September, usually after someone remarks just how quickly the year seems to be flying by.

Guy: (trying to make small talk with his lovely co-worker) "Yeah, can you believe it's almost October?"

Girl: (thinking Guy would make a great match for her roommate) "Oh, you're right. And after Halloween its just a blink of an eye to Christmas. I can hardly believe it."

Guy: "Yeah." (Awkward pause as Guy wonders if this is the opportune moment to "make his move" and then chickens out because ... well, come on, that's just the way it happens)

Guy (trying to salvage his dignity): "So what are you gonna be for Halloween?"

And it never lets up. From the moment those word are first uttered until they roll the last pudgy, sugar-soaked kid or slutty witch/nurse/pumpkin into bed (Why do typically nice, mild-mannered girls feel free to go wild and slutty on Halloween? And why don't they feel that free more of the time?), you will be barraged with this inquiry by friends, co-workers, and folk you never wanted to lay eyes on.

But after last year's failed attempt to portray a realistic-looking Hershey's chocolate bar, I decided I wasn't gonna play that game. So yesterday when one of my friends asked me what I was dressing up as for the law school Halloween party (which - find the logic here - is going down on October 25), I said, "Not a blessed thing."

So here I sit - dressed in my regular blue jeans, button-up shirt, top-siders and a "Wrist Strong" wrist band on my left wrist (Go Colbert Nation!) and I got to thinking. See, in reality we're a nation of conformists. With a few exceptions - notable only for how silly they appear as they try to fight the "system" and stick it to "the man" - we drink what we're given, work when we should, and do our best not to stand-out more than necessary to get a date on Friday night.

And Halloween is no exception. Even though we get to wear something bizarre, funny, or sexy that we wouldn't dream of wearing the rest of the live-long year, so does everybody else. It's an odd conundrum, but as they say in Pixar's most amazing movie The Incredibles, "When everyone's special, no one is."

Does that mean that the non-costume wearers are really the non-conformists come Halloween? (I mean, we're fighting the "system" by NOT being falsely unique). Or does that mean the non-wearers are just lazy?

Perhaps we'll never know; but at least we'll have candy corn. And that's something to bring every lazy Halloween hater, posing non-conformist, or excitable "princess" together.

"All We Like Raptors Have Gone Astray"

Sometimes, even though you probably shouldn't, you just can't help but laugh. A lot. And the best part? The pterodactyl and volcano in the background.

Three cheers for photo shop and a hearty thanks to Mark Davis for sending this my way.

Conversations with Alice ...

"Two roads diverged in a wood and I, I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference."

Actually, though, I didn't choose that road. Not yet, anyway. Frost may have jumped on the "I'm gonna be the most famous American poet in recent memory" boat, but I'm still undecided. Both roads lie ahead and I'm here, sitting at the crossroads, eating an apple (beef jerky perhaps?) and seriously trying to decide which one to take. Of course you'll say it's just gainful employment for a summer, how bad could it be? I mean, it's not like its the rest of my life.

But what if it is? A small, but supremely-wise hobbit was fond of saying that the road goes ever on and on. So it may be a little path now, but that same small road may soon join something grander and larger and longer until I find myself, years from now, somewhere down the line wondering what the !@^#& happened to take me there.

New York ... California ... Seattle ... Salt Lake City ... China ... I might as well throw darts at a spinning globe. Maybe then at least I'd have some explanation for my choice.

"So Matt, how'd you end up in Kyrgyzstan?"

"Well, it was a mix of hard deliberation, serious thought, a twelve-pack of Mr. Pibb and an oddly-thrown dart."

I've never liked that freakish Cheshire cat - metaphorically or literally (or even literarily). He always sits above, pawing around in a tree waiting to tease and tickle the imagination with those blasted words.

"Which one should I take," I ask.

"Well, that depends on where you want to go," he replies.

"But I don't know where I want to go," I say.

"Then it probably doesn't matter, does it," he finishes.

At the end of this whole process, I may not know why I picked the place I'm going to work, but I will know at least one thing - I sure do hate that cat.

We interrupt this regularly scheduled blog ...

Short note that should help get you through a crazy and devilish week:

They may have taken Smurfs off the air, but they can never take them out of your heart.

Stand true blue, through and through ... and Smurf yourself a grin.

Recreating ...

Think back to the most amazing moment(s) of your life. Picture every detail; ponder every picture; and feel. That's probably the most important part ... just feel what it was like to be there. Exult that you had that chance.

Once, I stood on the top of the Great Wall of China in the middle of a long stretch winding across impressive mountain peaks north of Beijing. As I stood there, alone, early on that June morning, wind rushed up from all four sides of the watchtower creating a vortex of sorts. All around for miles I could see little to spoil this one, true connection with nature and the accompanying sensory explosion.

Once, I sat listening to a dramatization of Dumas' poetic "The Count of Monte Cristo." As the actors, especially the one playing the formidable Dante, delved deeper into one of the most impressive studies of revenge ever imagined, I joined them - more than I had joined any performance before or since. What they did through their cantering stagecraft to create this vision, I don't know; but I was enraptured and could not help being sucked full tilt into their world.

Once, on a frosty, clear night in December, I sat in an open field with the only woman who has ever found true space in my heart (thus far), and gazed for hours at the twinkling heavens.

Eternity is built on such as this - commonplace moments possessed of unexpected and unwatched for vitality and sweetness. Little do we know their power until we are left foresaken and grasping ... trying desperately to recreate past masterpieces.

I don't know why I wrote this (and I'm the only one who reads them anyway). Perhaps I'm just looking for something I was, or something I did, or something wonderful the once happened to me and hoping (but really without much hope) that I can recreate this perfected past. But, then again, who really has time for recreating on a Saturday night?

Responsible life decisions ...

Hands down, up, or in the middle of a high-five, the worst icebreaker question of all is "Where do you see yourself in ______ (insert arbitrary number) years?" Think about it. No really ... first, who really cares where you see yourself in ______ (still arbitrary) years? Even I've got a healthy apathy in that department (and I've been neck deep in conversations about judging soil and rotten milk). Second, assuming the questioner is in earnest, how in the bloody name of Agatha Christie are you supposed to know? Remember five years ago if you can - back then, did you see yourself here? Or even close? I know I didn't see myself single, chubby, or in law school (a triple threat, my friends). Five years ago I was still on the path to being a happily married medical researcher out to cure cancer and the common cold - and my mother is still weeping the change.

As far as I can tell, the whole question must have started in the seventies with the advent of networking. (And I'll bet the first guy to ask the question was some brash, starched-shirt wearing schmuck named Bob. Or, maybe, Bobette). Bob must have been one of those incredibly annoying "networkers" - the kind of guy that goes to a party to "work" a room, "make contacts," and "carouse" with "loose" women.

He must have been pretty darn stuck to let this wonder fly ... probably in the middle of a drink with Ed, that one guy who's so buggered self-serving that he even makes people like Bob look good.

"And I told her that I didn't care how many times she made out with Bono, it still couldn't be as awesome as shaking hands with the President . . . or walking on the moon."

"Ed," Bob probably asked nonchalantly as he grabbed another drink, "so, um, where exactly do you see yourself in ____ (yeah, you know) years?"

"Well, that's a good question Bob. I guess that I . . . Bob? Bob? Hey, where'd he go?"

But by then, Bob was across the room getting to know Sara, a rather excitable and friendly rock groupie. On second thought, maybe . . . no, that question still sucks rocks.

The Perfect Day

I wouldn't think of making this up or sensationalizing. Everything below accurately captures how it felt to be alive on Saturday June 23, 2007.

The sun hadn't risen when I popped out of my chalet at the South Pacific Resort. An order of hashbrowns and banana waffles and I was off along the Western coast to Tekek, the hub of Pulao Tioman (also known as Bali Hai - my special island). Refreshing winds lazed across the beach as monkeys played in the palms, dropping coconuts onto the sand below (just like in the cartoons) and the walk was cool and calming.

I turned off the main road past the village Mosque and into the thickets of the island's interior. And what an interior - trees a hundred feet tall lined the slopes as the stone covered trail led deeper into the foilage. All around, birds sang and branches cracked as monitor lizards, monkeys and small deer ran from the massive orang putai (white man) trekking about. I can't say the trek was easy, exactly. By the time I got to the top of the hill (four kilometers later), sweat covered every stitch of clothing I had on. That's probably why the breeze from the ocean that met me as I crossed the ridge felt so nice. And the view stretched out resplendently - mountain ridges and valleys melting into the welcoming Juara bay below.

I checked into the secluded, beach-side Rainbow Chalets and immediately set about to some serious relaxation (oh so welcome after the six-mile hike). Lazing on a beach cot with a good book and plenty of water took up most of the late morning and into the early afternoon when I went exploring the rocky point near the resort. A lunch of pineapple fried rice, roti telur and a refreshing coconut juice gave me enough energy for the long hours of swimming in the crystal clear waters that spread out from the beach. As I reclined in the ocean waves and played with some of the local children who came for a respite from the hot sun, crabs scuttled across the rocks and fish jumped in and out of the surf.

By this time I was already exulting in this God given gift of a day. Juara was nearly deserted and the travelers that were there seemed content to work on their tans from the comfort of their own chalets, granting free reign. It was like the whole beach, nay, the whole island belonged to me and me alone. As the sun set, I walked back to my chalet, changed for the evening, and traipsed over to a nearby restaurant serving banana milkshakes and the Bushman - a local concoction beyond description.

A storm moved in while I was eating and lightening split the sky. After finishing the food, I crossed through the downpour and put on my swimsuit again - this time to go play in the rain. The tide moved out, leaving dead coral across the beach, and the falling water felt crisp, cool and wonderful. My senses crazed in the moment: the smell of rain on sand, the touch of the cool water, the sound of the ocean waves and surrounding storm, the sight of flashing lights against the darkness, and the taste of the dinner so lately eaten. The wonder of being alive.

I walked across the bay and left even the small signs of civilization that were there, coming to a stretch of beach entirely deserted. Knowing no one was around, there was only one thing I could do - I took off my swimsuit and walked naked across the beach (nothing sexual here - it just felt right). Soon after, the storm ceased and the moon and stars began to shine down. I stopped, sat in the sand, and sang softly to the sea. On my way back (clothed again) I felt filled with energy, and began running across the sand. A couple of miles dodging coral and breathing in the sea air passed quickly and as I got back to my chalet the rains fell again, washing off the sweat and refreshing my muscles.

The prayer I said that night was filled with gratitude at the wonders of the world - and for the chance I had to live another perfect day in it.

Two Men on a Bus

Canadian (in a heavy Montreal accent): Hey, you know where this bus is headed?

American: Central Station.

(pause. both look at the passing scenery.)

American: You been in Malacca long?

Canadian: No, just two days. I'm going to Kuala Lumpur now and then back to Taiwan.

American: You live in Taiwan?

Canadian: For about seven years now. I live there with my girlfriend and her three kids.

American: Huh ... so what brings you here?

Canadian: I take photographs for a French Canadian travel magazine. It doesn't pay much - enough to keep me traveling. Where are you from?

American: The States. Utah originally, but I'm living in California for the summer.

Canadian: I love Utah. You've got Moab. Bryce. Arches. I used to go mountain biking in Moab. Great times.

American: What got you into all this traveling?

Canadian: Well, I ran away from home when I was 16. I couldn't stand my dad and one day I just started hitchhiking across Canada. It took me about two months. In the end, I loved it so much that I just kept going.

American: Hitchhiking, huh, how was that?

Canadian: Fantastic. A lot of people will say, "no, you can't hitchhike anymore. Maybe twenty or thirty years ago, but not now." But they are wrong. If you smile and shave and look presentable, people will pick you up. I even hitched around the Western United States for several months through California, Nevada, Arizona ... Utah. It's not dangerous at all and I love meeting new people. What are you doing here?

American: I'm doing an internship in KL at a law firm. I used to live hear about four years back and figured it was time to come again. Once Asia gets in your system, there's no way to get it out.

Canadian: You said it.

(More time goes by and the two talk about a stolen motorbike, trips to China and the future of that country's growth, photography, and religious policies in Malaysia. If you're still looking for a point ... stop. The only point is that not all Canadians end sentences with 'eh.' And that is cultural understanding.)

One Nation Under ... Dressed?

Malacca lies two hours south of Kuala Lumpur on the West Coast of Malaysia. Between the Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries, it became one of the most active port cities in Southeast Asia controlled by various imperial powers (most notably, the Portuguese). Blessed with an incredibly rich blend of history and culture, the Malaccan people crown this Asian treasure. It's a highlight no matter what reasons you have for coming to the country (and a great way to start a post). And now, into the heart of today's issue.

Last Saturday when I arrived at my hostel - run by a rag-tag collection of Islamic natives- the manager(who was really more like a mother than a proprietor) immediately began asking me about myself. Typical questions like "What was I doing with my life? What brought me to Malaysia? What was life like back in England?"

And that made me pause. England? Forsooth ...

"Actually, I'm from America," I said with a democratic twinkle in my eye.

"Oh, you just looked so nice and proper that I thought you must be from England. They always wear nice clothes and comb their hair and everything," she replied nonchalantly. "Americans don't usually look that nice."

And that got me thinking. I was in a nicer polo and I did have some exceptionally well-cared for hair that afternoon (for me, anyway).

Could it be true? Was I really part of a nation of shaggy citizens soiling the world with their fashion sins? And more importantly, could I bedevil the local citizens about my origins merely by combing my hair?

Amidst claims of dumbing down and fattening up, it seems logical that the next step would be for Americans to begin lowering our fashion standards and start slumming around. Even if that were the case, though, as travelers we don't exactly have a corner on the market. Honestly, have you seen English backpackers? That old-school British charm simply doesn't accompany them en route. In fact, it really doesn't matter what country they're from, backpackers just exude slumminess (and that's probably ok).

Back in the states, however, things do seem to be getting a bit sloppier. For a lot of people, dressing up just isn't at the top of the docket. Kind of sad, really. I mean, Form should never entirely be at the mercy of Function (though the Form devotees bowing to the Gucci gods are just as bad). Otherwise, sweats and baggy shorts would kick the inseams off khakis and we'd all grow a little bit flabbier for want of proper motivation. Though our language may be on the downward slope (TMWFI), our looks shouldn't be destined to follow.

Comfort and ease are nice, but respect is optimum. I started running because health and wellness are among the first steps towards gaining real self-respect. Taking care of our appearance is another. A clean shirt and a washed face are just that much easier to love.

In reality, I'm not worried that we're going to be outclassed on the hostel circuit by Brits or anyone else anytime soon. But we could all probably stand a little bit more attention to our appearance no matter where we are (in an "I care about myself" way, not an "If you think I'm sexy and you want my body" way). I don't think clothes always make the man, but they do seem to show a lot about who he is.

The Mystic Law of the Universe

Everything about the highlands was peaceful ... the temperature, the people, the food - even the storms were downright friendly. The Camerons are about a five hour bus ride outside of Kuala Lumpur on the most curvy, sea-sickening road I've ever encountered (including East Malaysia - and that's saying something). Still, the views were amazing ... and how many people can say they've been naked in a rainstorm in the heart of the jungle?

But the best part came yesterday when I met Buddhist apologist extraordinaire, Mr. Jeffrey Teoh. Within 10 seconds of our chance encounter near a waterfall, I was already knee-deep in the mysteries of Life, the Universe, and Everything.

"We are all Buddhas," Jeffrey explained, "but in mortal form. We can only become eternal when we are chanting."

Curious, I asked exactly what we should be chanting (though quite adept at "Pie Jesu Domine," I'm always looking to further my repertoire). He told me. I looked befuddled. He repeated and I continued, in my own silly way, to look befuddled. He wrote it down for me.

And this, in full, is what it said - "Nam-Myo-Ho-Ren-Ge-Kyo."

"This is the essence," Jeffrey said, "it's the same as chanting all 84,000 normal sutras that the rest of the Buddhists chant. But this, this is The Mystic Law of the Universe."

I asked him what the words meant and he said something about lotus flowers and water cycles or whatever. But the key is what he said as I was getting ready to leave.

"Chant this and any problem you have, any difficulty you encounter, will be automatically corrected. The more you chant, the better your life will become."

How can that not be awesome? So there it is, my friends, the answer to your next excrutiating law school final exam is simple - chant. Chant long. Chant hard. And, you've got a moment, put in a few chants for me.